tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89949071331649714922024-03-05T04:33:56.756-05:00Scrambled, Open FaceHeather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-84649898022456879322014-09-24T14:55:00.000-04:002014-09-24T14:55:19.658-04:00Expanding and Evolving: The Exchange
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have been so stressed out this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Financially in trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overcommitted time-wise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling guilt for not spending enough time
with family and non-derby friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heart
broken as I witness steep decline in both dogs’ health and am faced with hard,
looming choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to sell my
house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to keep up with the
demands of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is just a
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do it mostly alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t ask for help as often as I actually need it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I do, I feel guilty for that,
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in my lifetime I wrote
the script where I need to be awesome and not need anyone but myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is just not feasible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all need help.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every now and then, I have a taste of closeness with
someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I do, I am reminded of
how much I miss that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss emotional
connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss physical touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I get a small sample, I want more, more,
more and it consumes me a little, my desire for partnership.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank goodness for derby, where it is regular practice not
just to hit and be hit, but also to grope and be groped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that sounds weird, but it is the most social
and physical contact I get during the average week and who knows where I would
be without it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I have to remind
myself in regular life that it is not OK to walk up to someone and grab their
butt or boob as a greeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is not
OK to hip check or Johnny crash coworkers or family members as a sign of
affection or admiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in derby,
it is, and I know this awesome, weird world makes me a better person.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I feel lonely and yearn for more than what I have, something
happens to remind me that I am too busy to keep close company in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I keep myself too busy as a way to avoid
loneliness?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or as a way to be unavailable
for a deeper relationship with someone?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
of course I still just want Ron Clark back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which I will not get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But would
it be fair to have a thing with anyone who is not Ron?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe fair doesn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe what matters is what I can handle and
what the hypothetical someone else, willingly and knowingly entering into my
life, can handle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In spite of loneliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In spite of feeling overwhelmed and having too much to do and not enough
help to do it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of consistently
being the not-quite-pretty-enough but convenient-enough friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of wanting to be seen and really
loved wholly, the way Ron could see and love me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of all of it, I do sometimes feel loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, I feel loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not one thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No resounding moment I can tell you
about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just feel like I have a lot of
people who do care and support me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friends
from long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Acquaintances that have become friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coworkers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My derby family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sweet little
niece, now on Skype since they moved to South Carolina, singing back to me the
song I’ve been singing to her since she was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own slow-growing respect
for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spirit of Ron, which is
with me always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of this love is
immense and ever expanding and evolving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just need to allow myself to feel and recognize it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I haven’t blogged much this year out of fear that all it
would be is complaints and venting frustration and whiny pleas for
sympathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been a downcast year
for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course I have been through
and survived worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know and can
appreciate that, but still, it has not been pleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to keep my focus on what I do have
instead of what I don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in this
moment when I can feel the love, I wanted to blog to acknowledge that there really
is a lot of it in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have so
much love to give and I enjoy giving it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I also enjoy receiving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks to all who have been a part of the exchange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You make a difference.</span></div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-23160102018715797172014-07-08T10:18:00.001-04:002014-07-08T10:18:24.483-04:00Good Enough
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">An insignificant mass</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of infinite sadness</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hurtling through space</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At super warp speed</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Will never reach its destination</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because the destination keeps moving</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Out of reach;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">An unholy miracle of quantum physics</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With inestimable possibilities</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For unending disappointment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s never good enough.</span></div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-58903085701144357822014-01-16T21:08:00.000-05:002014-01-16T21:08:16.633-05:00Dishing Personal<div class="yiv1864776339MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1389457138809_31949" style="background-color: white; padding: 0px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1389457138809_31948"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In 72 hours, I will be standing before <a href="http://www.pro-rock.com/" target="_blank">Clutch</a><span style="font-size: small;"> at a sold out show at </span><a href="http://www.themachineshop.info/" target="_blank">The Machine Shop</a><span style="font-size: small;"> in Flint, MI. I suspect this may be the most badass venue I will ever set foot in and I do so with great enthusiasm. After a decade of seeing Clutch once a year since 1997, I have now gone just over five years without catching a live performance. The last time I caught a Clutch show was New Year’s Eve 2008. I missed their next MI show in September 2009 in order to attend the first live performance from the band Ron was in, Numpt, at Rubbles. For some reason, I have been missing them ever since. But not this weekend. This weekend, I’m back in the crowd-surfing pit action. Yesssssss!!!!</span></span></span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1389457138809_31957"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It does not seem like it has been five years since that New Year’s, which, consequently, was one of the best ever, thanks to Clutch and the friends I celebrated with. It seems like it has been so much longer. I squeezed in a whole lifetime of a relationship with Ron Clark in just over three short years. I was with him through his illness and at the time of his death, even throwing together a quickie wedding to seal the deal when that became important to us. So much happened in such a very short amount of time. And I have now been a widow for just over 20 months. All of that since I last saw Clutch.</span></span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1389457138809_31962"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Recapping, because it kinda blows my mind, since my last Clutch show: I was “officially” dumped by my then-boyfriend of almost 10 years, met Ron and instantly fell in love, had an intense long distance courtship, moved him into my house, learned he had terminal cancer, took care of him during his illness, got married, became a widow, joined a roller derby team, and, for the first time in my life, became self-sufficiently happy being a single, independent woman. Is it no wonder that it seems like more than five years would have to have spanned for all of that to have taken place? It’s a whole lotta life to cram in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What else involves fives in the near future? My birthday this year. Turning 35. I am definitely feeling my age. Yet also kinda not, as I live this fabulously free and fun single life that is not at all where I envisioned myself, but is everything I want at this moment. An older coworker recently reflected that her 30’s were her favorite years. I have to agree. I don’t think my life has ever been any better than it has been since turning 30 and meeting Ron, even though that includes the terrible tragedy of losing him. The blessing from losing him is that I have figured out who I am and what makes me happy on my own, not in relation to anyone else. And I have learned I can accomplish a lot on my own. And I have gained this incredible derby family that I could never have imagined having before and who I cannot imagine not having in my life going forward. Yes, my 30’s have been far more tragic than what most experience and I am sad about that. I am sad about not having Ron at my side physically, though I never doubt he is by my side. But I am also grateful to have experienced so much and developed such an understanding of mortality, the fragility of life, and the beauty of each moment we are gifted. Have no doubts about it; each moment is definitely a gift and not a </span>guarantee.<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Friends, I admit I have been avoiding this next topic a little bit, which is part of why I feel like I need to speak to it. Otherwise, I am living my life in secret and everyone who knows me knows I do not keep myself a secret. Even though I know it is normal and important to explore new relationships, I still feel some twinge of guilt in doing so. Ron never verbally gave me the go-ahead to fall in love again (though he did give rather explicit and hilarious permission to have plenty of roller derby girl-on-girl bedroom action, which has not happened . . . yet). Anyway, after a year and a half without kissing anyone, I made out with a boy after our last home bout of 2013. It was just for fun at our after party and he and I both understood it was going nowhere after this one random encounter; right place, right time. He approached me and, of course, because I cannot just keep my mouth shut and let things happen, I had to tell him that I was a widow and hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time. “It’s still happening,” he said. And it did. And it was really fun. I had a few weird feelings, as it was my first-ever bar hook-up adventure, but they were only mildly weird and I knew Ron wouldn’t really mind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So there was that. And that really did not feel like a big deal, other than excitement that I could still feel cute and fun. Then there has also been this unique thing that started with a long time, brother-from-another-mother, close friend of mine. The dynamic between us just shifted rather suddenly. And he felt like a safe way for me to approach getting back into the world of physical closeness with others after two years without that type of contact. Even with this, I did not feel guilt. Ron loved this friend, too, and I honestly believe he would be/is just laughing his ass off that it happened, it really was so unexpected. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But because this friend and I care so much about one another, a whole world of texting and emailing and phone calls opened up. And it turned into having someone who cared about me on a day-to-day basis. Someone I cared about on a day to day basis. Support. Smiles. Honest affection and love. Compliments. Flirting. It was all so fun. Yet I knew it was going to end. There is actual love between us, which simultaneously confounds and compliments the situation, but it is not boyfriend/girlfriend love and it is not soul-mate/life-partner love. And that seemed ok at first. I felt pretty good about just having an open, undefined relationship with my out-of-town friendly friend. I am not looking to replace Ron (I know I never will). I am not even looking for anything long term or serious. With derby, work, the house, friends, family, travel, and the dogs - I have no time to have a serious relationship. I am just trying some things out, to see how they fit and how they feel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">During the course of this scenario, my friendly friend and I have been defining what it is and what it is not between us. At some point I realized that the benefit of the arrangement, for me, was based on filling an emotional void. I liked having someone who checked in with me daily and cared about how I was doing. I liked feeling cute again. I liked someone encouraging and supporting me with derby. I liked asking someone for advice about house stuff. I liked feeling a closer connection to this one person than I do to all the other phenomenal people in my life. Knowing that it is nothing serious made me feel nervous about becoming emotionally dependent on the fun and positive communication. Until I am in a real relationship with another person, I don’t want to depend on anyone in particular to give me those warm-fuzzy feelings. Better that they come from friends, family, teammates, coworkers, animals, and others I encounter in my community at random times than for me to start to anticipate them coming from one person . . . which inevitably leads to disappointment when that need is no longer being met. This seemed particularly important to recognize when we were lining it up for me to be disappointed with such a very good, long-term friend. I don’t want to wind up feeling poorly about him or our friendship. I felt like I needed to call it off. So I did. And he let me. And we remain friends and who knows what will happen down the road. Everything remains full of love and possibility and the sense of adventure. I’m still smiling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Calling it off does not come without sadness, though. I am missing the communication. I want to text him and tell him I made a mistake and that we should just proceed as we had been, but I know that is probably not healthy for either of us in the long run. It is a loss not to have him in my daily life after enjoying frequent communication for the past several weeks. But, it is not anywhere near the loss I have already experienced in my 30’s, so I know I can cope with it and be OK. I am just feeling sad. And admittedly drinking a bit more than usual to get through it, though I know that will not go on for ever. I will mend. Things will be awesome on my own again, as they were before. And I still have this awesome friend in my life. And we will just continue to define who we are as time goes on. I am totally winning here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even though my heart hurts, I don’t have any regrets about the experience. It has been fun. And more importantly it helped me realize that I am open to new experiences and other people being a part of my life. And it helped me see that I have a desire to be loved again and to express love for someone else (a HUGE step for me). I know this love will not be the same as the love I experienced with Ron, as each love is unique and he and I certainly shared something truly special. But, as a wise friend (also a <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-perils-of-pseudo-crushing.html" target="_blank">pseudocrush</a>) once told me, “<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 16.309091567993164px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The human ability to love and be loved is infinite. It's one of the few things we can add to without taking away from something else.</span>” I am not looking for anyone. But I am open to love and I think I now have a greater awareness to recognize these feelings in myself and in others when the time is right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">About the potential guilt factor . . . Ron may not have given me “permission” to find another love. But I know he would not want me to be lonely and devoid of love and intimacy for the rest of my life. Even his family (which always surprises me) consistently advocates for me to find someone and to be happy. Though I have the twinge of wishing I were some kind of superhero widow who could die alone after sharing only three years with her true love, I think I have to admit that this notion (while once my lifeblood) is 1) unrealistic, and 2) not me. I am coming to accept that I will have a full, well-rounded, truly happy life. I have a lot of love to give. And I will keep giving it to Ron. But I would also like to bestow some of it upon the living and receive love back in return. I think Ron would be OK with that. I feel gratitude for getting to this place where I can see this now.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1389457138809_31979"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Five years since my last Clutch show. So. Much. Life. What will the next five years bring? Lots more love and gratitude for everything and everyone in my life, this much I know.</span></span></div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-38710551071484580552013-11-08T19:45:00.000-05:002013-11-08T19:45:14.502-05:00549 Days<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been a widow for a year and a half. 18 months.
549 days. <o:p></o:p></div>
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How many things alarm me about this? Too many to count. I start to worry about how well I am
adjusting. Is it possible that I am fine
after losing the living version of Ron Clark?
I worry about how the scales will eventually start to shift as time goes
on and how I will reach a point when I have lived longer since his passing than
I did during our too-short three years and two months together. Even now, I have lived as long after his
passing as I did with him after his cancer diagnosis. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Right after he first died, I could not imagine ever being OK
again. I did not believe anyone who told
me I would be. ‘Your heart will be light
again.’ Lie. ‘You will love again.’ Lie.
‘You will feel happiness again.’ Lie. ‘Time heals everything.’ Lie.
‘You have so much to live for.’
Lie. But now . . . I start to
notice that my heart often is light and I am frequently happy. Sure I did a lot of grief work to get here,
but I do think time has helped to distance me from the sadness. It is a healing balm. I lived through it. I lived in spite of it. I am still living. I do not take living for granted. Each day is a gift. I do feel that now, whereas right after his
death, each day felt like an insult or a burden. Perspective has shifted and this is a good
thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, as I go forward, I reflect on so many of the gifts Ron
Clark blessed me with. In addition to my
newfound appreciation for each day, I am learning acceptance and tolerance,
both of myself and others.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the coolest things about Ron was how accepting he was
of everyone, faults and all. He was not
blind to people’s faults. He saw them
and joked about them, but never from a place of malice or contempt. He lovingly accepted people in their totality. I could put him in a room with strangers and
they would become instant friends. He
just had this awesome, magnetic personality.
He had charm. A friend of mine,
in talking with me about Ron shortly after his passing, pointed out how part of
the attraction people (myself included) felt toward Ron was his confidence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ron had a lot of faults.
He was the first to tell you about them.
He was overweight and unhealthy in his eating and exercise habits. He did not attend to his medical issues. He had a lot of debt and was sought after by
numerous collection agencies. He did not
finish things, making it almost all the way through a music education program and
then almost all the way through a culinary program, starting sewing and
crocheting projects and abandoning them, getting obsessively interested in
learning something new and then giving it up entirely a short time later. He avoided confrontation and would quit jobs
by just not showing up for assigned shifts.
I don’t say any of this to be disrespectful to Ron. Obviously, he is not here to defend
himself. But, I don’t think he would
defend himself. These were his faults
and he knew them, just like he could see other people’s faults. He loved himself in an all-encompassing way,
faults included, the same way he loved others.
He accepted imperfections.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ron knew I had faults.
There were the quirky, fun ones I told him about and there were the ones
I was too ashamed to say that he just witnessed firsthand. He knew about me seriously binging eating after
a stressful day, making judgmental comments regarding people I genuinely care
about, and having serious rage episodes during which I would spew spiteful,
hateful things out of my mouth, often misdirected at the wrong person
(sometimes at him). He could see that I
was anxious, socially awkward, and perfectionistic. He knew that one little thing going
differently than planned would send me into a tailspin of despair and
hopelessness. He knew I was
uncomfortable when everything was going too smoothly and would distort some
stupid thing just so that we could have a fight now and then. Still, Ron loved me totally, all faults
included. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a hard time loving myself along with my faults. I don’t love my faults. I hate them.
I want to change them. I beat
myself up over them. I criticize. I berate.
I am far meaner to myself than I could ever be to anyone else. But, the thing about this is, not having
acceptance for myself seems to translate into not having acceptance for
others. Please know this is something I
am working on, because it really makes me sound like an asshole to admit that
people often don’t meet my expectations for them and then I wind up feeling mad
and/or hurt and/or disappointed in them.
I am impatient with others. I
want people to be more efficient.
Smarter. To make
healthier/better/wiser (all subjective) decisions for themselves. I want people to be better to one another and
to me. I want people to make
improvements. I love them, but . . .
(fill in the blank with ‘I wish they didn’t do this thing’ or ‘I wish they
would be a little more whatever’). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the thing I am becoming aware of is that what we all
found so comforting and attractive in Ron was his self-confidence for all that
he was and his vast acceptance of himself and others. I am grateful for this awareness as I begin
to try to harness acceptance in my own life.
I realize that I need to be more forgiving of myself and of other
people. I need to accept the good, bad,
and ugly of all of us. The more I can
accept who I am, the more I will also be able to accept (and not want to help,
save, change) others. The more I can
accept all of us, myself included, the more whole of a person I will be. Ron was a fucking rockstar of
acceptance. I don’t know how or where he
developed this skill, but from talking with folks who were in his inner circle
a lot longer than I was, it sounds like it was always there. I don’t know many people who have the skill
of acceptance as down pat as Ron did.
Maybe he was just a blessed, gifted individual. Whatever it was, I am glad I knew him, glad
he modeled this for me, glad to have become aware of the capacity for it in
myself, and glad to have the inspiration to try to tap into it a bit more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
None of us are perfect.
We cannot expect this of ourselves.
We cannot expect this of others.
Loving one another, not in spite of our faults, but including and even because
of them is key. Ron Clark genuinely
loved all of the things about me that I hated.
He did. He just saw them as part
of who I am. He knew the same to be true
of his faults; they were just a part of him.
He loved it all. And he radiated
that confidence and love. He was a beacon of charm that everyone wanted to be near. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss him so much, but my gratitude for Ron’s existence in
my life, what he taught me, and what he is still teaching me is limitless. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks for teaching me love and acceptance,
Ron. I love you always.<o:p></o:p></div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-39593896627092497472013-09-23T16:54:00.000-04:002013-09-23T16:54:33.604-04:00The Perils of Pseudo-Crushing<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mostly, I do very well in my single, widowed-woman life. I keep busy with work, roller derby, taking care of my dogs and house, visiting family and friends, and the occasional travel, party, camping trip, concert, or music festival. I still miss Ron, but it has shifted and is different than before, more tolerable and less sharp; more of a dull ache that is always there, just more pronounced at certain times, like arthritis just before a rain storm. There is not much downtime in my life, but when there is, I general welcome it and rejoice in the space.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, I get lonely intermittently. The top things that spur on some loneliness/feeling sorry for myself are:</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1)</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sunday mornings – wish I had Ron to go to brunch or share breakfast and coffee on the porch</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2)</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Weddings, birthday parties, family gatherings – any big social event to which he previously would have accompanied me</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3)</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When it is cold and I want someone to cuddle with on the couch</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4)</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I am injured or sick – I want someone to be concerned for me and to take care of me</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5)</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When someone or something has me super upset (mad, frustrated, sad) – I want Ron to tell me I am OK and it will be alright </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I try to self-soothe. I try to be a grown-up. I have found I take pretty good care of myself – better than I ever guessed I would have. I still talk to Ron, especially in bed at night. It is one of my favorite times – falling asleep – because it is here I feel the most connected to him. I also still write him, though much less frequently and less desperately than before. Every now and then when I am communicating with him, I am struck by a thought or a feeling that is so clearly not my own that I am sure it must be him. But this is a rare occurrence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mostly, I remain a girl in the land of the living, in love with a dude who resides where the dead go. However, I don’t know how to say this: the inkling that I may find myself in a relationship with another living human being has crossed my mind. Even though I know it is highly likely that I will love again. Even though I know Ron would ultimately want me to be happy. Even though I know most folks would support me and want this for me. Even with all of that, I still feel like a jerk. I have always been loyal. Naively, I wanted to believe that what I had with Ron was enough to fill the rest of my life and I would never have affection for anyone else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But carrying on a relationship with someone who cannot interact with you (save those few, rare “maybe it’s him (but maybe it’s just me) occurrences) is really hard. I am not a statue. I am not indestructible. I am not made of stone or metal. I am a person. I have a deeply feeling heart. I have a pulse. I have an imagination. Not being able to actually have an exchange in the land of the living leaves me lonely.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I pick people with whom it would never work out and then develop pseudo-crushes on<span style="color: #3b6933;"> </span>them. Pseudo because they are not real. A friend declared one an infauxuation, which is the perfect term. They are crushes based on little actual significance or merit. They are crushes on people I most likely couldn’t stand if I ever had an actual, real-life interaction with them. They are crushes on people from far away, in relationships, or who even don’t know I exist. For the most part, no one knows about them. And I am sure it is healthy, in a way, this experimenting with feeling something in my heart for someone else with a still-beating heart. This is normal. I am 34. Statistically, I am going to love again. Realistically, I am going to be in a relationship again . . . with someone who has the confidence to leave room for how I feel about Ron, of course. But, for now, an infauxuation allows space for trying the feeling on and my selections have been made (on a subconscious level) for people with whom there is zero chance of it working out, thus I can feel safe pseudo-crushing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What bothers me the second most about these infauxuations (second to the fact that I feel them at all and cannot just be content becoming a widow-nun-derby-girl or something) is what they become for me in my head. As I play out scenarios and think about the pseudo-crushees, I realize what I want and need most is to be liked/loved by someone else. And then I get mad. Really pissed. Because that is just ridiculous. I want to be<span style="color: #3b6933;"> </span>content with liking/loving myself. That I want someone else to tell me I am hilarious, brilliant, insightful, awesome, pretty enough, kind enough, creative, whatever – that just blows me away. I mean, I thought I was past all this. I have been thoroughly liked and loved. I have been told by the human who mattered most to me that I was all of those things. Why should I need anyone else to tell me this? I reread Ron’s amazing little love notes to me and I am satiated while I read them. And then I want more. I want new notes, from Ron . . . or someone else. (Again, I feel criminal saying I want notes from someone else. Ouch.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, this is my problem. This is what bothers me. Why does it take someone else? Aren’t I enough for me? And I wonder from anyone reading – are you/would you be enough for you? If you answer yes quickly, I challenge you to look deep within. If the answer is still yes, tell me why/how you got there. </span></div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-54337781947770864542013-05-07T23:29:00.000-04:002013-05-08T08:24:57.958-04:00What Am I Doing?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
What am I doing?
Seriously. What?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That has been my question all day. Maybe for the past couple days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find myself in some realm of dissociated self. I narrate things from inside my head (usually
a habit I reserve for very drunk nights at the bar) talking about myself in the
third person. I recognize this shit. It is “Survival Mechanisms 101.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a mental health clinician, I know things. Or I am supposed to know them. I know how grief cycles back around and comes
in waves. I know how it can be triggered
by special dates and anniversaries. I
figured I would give myself the one year death anniversary off from work and
without solid plans so I could just feel however I needed to feel. I knew it would be hard. I had no idea how hard. At work today, I honestly felt like I needed
to go home. I felt crazy. Crazier than the calls I was taking (and, no,
crazy is not the politically correct way to talk about my line of work, but this is my blog and it does not have to be politically correct). It was all I could do not to shatter
something, beat my fist against the second story window, scream, sob, or gouge
my arm with a paperclip. I wanted to
leave early, but that didn't happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least I have tomorrow.
Thank God I have tomorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did not anticipate it being this bad. This is the part where knowing things, as a
clinician, is not at all the same as experiencing them. It’s the part where sometimes our clients
really are telling us the truth when they say that if we have not gone through
the experience, we cannot even begin to know.
And of course everyone’s experience is different, so we cannot begin to
know their experience even if we have gone through a similar one
ourselves. The point being, you have to
take a person’s word for it when they are telling you how they feel and telling
you that you cannot possibly know. They
are probably right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find that it is all kicked up fresh. All this grief. For the past week or so . . . well, really
since Ron’s birthday, I have been time warping back to a year ago. What were Ron and I doing a year ago? How did I not realize his life was coming to
an end? I mean, I knew he was terminal,
but I never put it together that he was really dying, like, right then. Even on this night a year ago, even after the
hospice nurse had come out to the house and listened to his heart and told him
it was slowing down and that he maybe had a few days left . . . even then, when
I asked him if he thought he was dying and he told me ‘no’ I believed him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time warping back.
<a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/05/rons-last-moments.html" target="_blank">Ron's Last Moments</a>. Rereading
that post just now was incredible – so glad I wrote it while it was all new in
my memory bank. I have honored some of
those final days. Dustin and Carrie and
I repeated the last dog walk Ron took, this time pushing Evy Jo in a baby
stroller instead of Ron in the wheelchair along the <st1:place><st1:placename>Kalamazoo</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:city>Battle
Creek</st1:city>. I weeded
out his vegetable beds last night, just as I did a year ago while he watched
and talked to me for as long as his body would tolerate sitting up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But tonight. What to
do tonight? I have so much anxiety. There is not a concrete thing to occupy
me. A year ago, after Ron told his
hospice nurse that he wasn't dying, I got him out of bed and to the bathroom
and out to the porch for what would be his last ever cigarette. I brought him the foods he requested – Chef Boyardee
raviolis and rainbow sherbet to go along with the plethora of Lik-M-Aid and
Little Debbie snack cakes he had at bed side – and he picked out shows for us
to watch on Netflix. I remember numbly
sitting through Mike Rowe on <i>Dirty Jobs</i> (season 5, episode 6: Spider Pharm) as
he learned to milk poisonous spider venom.
I couldn't concentrate on the show.
My mind was racing, juxtaposed thoughts about what the nurse said and
what Ron said. Who was right? He had always fought with the medical
professionals about his life expectancy and, up until that night, he won. I also remember that we watched the third to
last ever episode of <i>House, M.D.</i> I would
watch the final two episodes without him.
One of the things that really killed Ron when he was dying was knowing
he would not get to see how a tv series ended or a movie in production about a
comic book storyline he was really
into. I hate seeing how these things end
now, even when I pretend he is seeing with my eyes and watching with me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, since I left work, I have not been able to figure out
what to do with myself. I skipped roller
derby practice because I just don’t have it in me tonight. I don’t want to see or talk to anyone. I can’t seem to do anything except cry and
everyone knows there’s no crying in derby.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Along those same lines, if you are texting or emailing or
calling me and I am not responding, that is why. I just don’t feel like communicating directly
with anyone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, I can blog, and actually find this
therapeutic. I can post to
Facebook. I can take pictures and share
them. Somehow, words and photos are my
way of processing. Sharing them is my
way of expressing where I am at. Your
responses are the support I need without having to actually have that direct
contact. In some ways, I say it is a
messed up world we live in where rather than have real human interaction, we
can hide behind our light-up screens and keyboards. In other ways, I say thank goodness for
technology that allows those of us who are emotionally/socially crippled or
wounded to reach out, express, emote, and receive support. In my head, I come up with sociology and
psychology theses to be written about this socially networked world we live in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But again, this is just more detaching, me going off on a
tangent about our technologically advanced, socially crippled society. Refocus.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep telling myself Ron would want me to do “whatever I
need to do to heal my heart.” Those are
his words, actually. I didn't want to
write heal, because yes, I admit it, parts of me are still not ready to
heal. I wanted to write “whatever I need
to do to feel and experience this anniversary time however I need to.” I imagine this means a lot of dark stuff for
me to do and go through. But the Ron
voice in my head wants me to heal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trouble is, I don’t know what to do to make that
happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went for my dog walk like usual. I saw my neighbor Margaret out watering her
roses so we stopped and I talked to her for the first time in months. She has been on my mind for many weeks now
and I have been meaning to call her, but just haven’t gotten around to it. I told her tomorrow marks the one year death anniversary,
which I acknowledged means that for her in two weeks it will be one year since
she lost her husband Earl to cancer. I
held her hand for about a solid two minutes.
It was cool from holding the garden hose and her skin was soft and paper
thin. It seemed like the only real thing
that I encountered in my whole day of narration – this tangible hand belonging
to my kind neighbor, one of at least three of us widows on my road. Her hand grounded me for a moment. Margaret has been such a beacon of strength
and hope and grace through her widowhood, but tonight she seemed down. She said she was tired. We both agreed that we have been doing well,
up until now. This anniversary thing
seems to drag us down. Neither of us can
believe it has been a year already.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cannot believe it has been a year. I cannot.
So much has happened and yet it seems like I was just with Ron, just
talking to him yesterday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a way, I was. I am
always talking to Ron. I talk to him aloud. I still reach over and touch where he would
sit in the passenger seat when I see or hear or think about something
particularly beautiful. I write to
him. And, not always, but sometimes when
I am getting ready to fall asleep, I keep my eyes open in the dark and whisper
to him like he is next to me. I can
almost create the feeling that he is really there. Last night, in particular, it seemed so
real. I could feel him rubbing my sore back
while I drifted off and I told him not stop until I was completely out. He didn't.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I am that completely deranged person who is carrying on
a relationship with a ghost. I don’t
care. I still have so much love in my
life because of Ron. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet . . . he really is gone. His family and I often talk about how the
phone is the worst. Not being able to
just call him up when we want to. Not
being able to hear his voice. Today,
when I walked downtown on my lunch hour to get some food, I wanted to call him
and burst into tears at how hard a time I was having holding it together at my
job. He was always the greatest support
and when I would call him with stuff like this.
He knew just what to say to make me feel better. Now, I can’t call him. How real is that shit? It is really real and it really sucks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year ago on this night, hours before Ron lost
consciousness, we started watching <i>Darjeeling Limited</i>. I think tonight I will try watching it for
the first time since then. Because I don’t
know what else to do right now . . .</div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-33637706067636658782013-04-28T17:02:00.000-04:002013-04-28T17:02:07.019-04:00Random Updates and Ron's Birthday<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over two months since I last blogged. So much has happened. The OCD part of me feels this compelling need
to recap it all. The “Let It Be” part of
me feels like that is crazy and I should just move on with today’s
business. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A compromise - some highlights, in brief:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>My
sister came to visit and we got some good quality time together</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>I
was approached by a derby sister who needed a place to live and because I have
the extra space and we get along, I agreed to let her crash here temporarily</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>The
one year wedding anniversary came and went on <st1:date day="9" month="3" year="2013">3/9/13</st1:date> – complicating factors meant that I could not spend
it the way I had pictured and it ended up being a lot harder and sadder than I
had imagined</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>I
refinanced my house so that it is just in my name (and has lower interest)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>I
was in my first roller derby bout . . .
and my second . . . and (last night) my third</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>I
realized I am not able to live with someone else, at least not at this time in
my life – I still have so much grieving and personal work to do and I find that
I am not doing it when I am sharing my living space, so I had to ask my derby friend
to move out - she gracefully has agreed and we will still be friends, so it all
works out</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>My
little brother became a Ph.D yesterday – Dr. Dustin M. Hoffman</div>
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I feel like I am growing.
Leaps and bounds. I learn more
and more about myself and my place in the world each day. I am increasingly filled with calm and
confidence. Not that I think I am the
best or anything like that. Just that I
am starting to learn who I am and I am increasingly comfortable in my own
skin. Just as in derby I am told and finding
it to be true that my body can do things I did not think it was capable of, in
life I am finding that I have a reserve of strength, determination, and will
that I never realized existed. </div>
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Most of the time, like 97% of the time now, I am full of Ron’s
love. I have stopped doubting and
questioning like I was in the first months after he passed away. That was such a crazy space to inhabit . . .
the really wicked, self-destructive space that is called my head. So, 3% of the time I still go there. The rest of the time I just know I was loved and
am loved, and that I did love and keep loving, and that love is so huge. It just is.
It is giant. It is full. It fills my life. In the realm of loving and being loved, I
feel like I lack nothing. </div>
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Today is Ron’s birthday.
He would be 31 years old. I
cannot help but time warp to last year.
To what I was doing each hour of the day to pull off his big birthday
party. To the people who came from near
and far to celebrate with us. To Ron
needing me to help him . . . the way his arms felt around my neck while my body
shuffled the weight of him in and out of his wheelchair . . . and his joy at
the party . . . and his exhaustion after.
What an amazing day it was. I
keep looking out the window and expecting to see the pink flamingos that
littered the lawn. Instead I see his
memorial tree and the daffodils I planted around it.</div>
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Sharing again some memories from his party last year, here
is the <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/05/recap-on-rons-birthday-party.html" target="_blank">blog post</a>. You can click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.3430170227742.232047.1074938042&type=1&l=9aa1fe0ac5" target="_blank">here</a> for
a link to all the pictures. Here is one of my favorites:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobEkQu-PNr0WkET_qn7zvMYa2-Xp9p9FCUHMbJYu6SCAQR4dLOZ3XYGUAnFuyMg_9gQFeYwE1xbhyDl4js4cv2NFl9x8owJW0Gjo3_MBLb9a8EO8zRFUJH7P5mO6V-K-IeoI8D9nwenpc/s1600/59.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobEkQu-PNr0WkET_qn7zvMYa2-Xp9p9FCUHMbJYu6SCAQR4dLOZ3XYGUAnFuyMg_9gQFeYwE1xbhyDl4js4cv2NFl9x8owJW0Gjo3_MBLb9a8EO8zRFUJH7P5mO6V-K-IeoI8D9nwenpc/s320/59.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ron with some of his guests</div>
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Yesterday, I was busy all day with a home bout for the
Battle Creek Cereal Killers. The weather
was gorgeous and I filled my time helping to prepare the arena. Ron’s brother, Doug, and sister, Heather,
came down to watch the bout. Friends
Kara and Dan also came to watch, and so did my cousin Stacey and her kids. The Killers won, for the first time since I
have been playing with them, and it was so much fun. </div>
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After a quick stop at the bout after party, we came home and
decorated biodegradable <a href="http://www.skylanterns.com/" target="_blank">Sky Lanterns</a> to send up as birthday wishes for
Ron. Borrowing from a card that a lifelong
friend mailed to me, I wished Ron a happy 30 earthly years and 1 heavenly year. Dustin, Carrie, and Evy Jo came to join us
with their dog Sadie. And one of my
Cereal Killer friends, Brooke, also joined.
We hiked through pricker vines, daffodils, and a small wooded area to
the field next to my house – six adults, one infant, and three dogs. At <st1:time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</st1:time>,
as the stars vanished into the clouds and the wind picked up, we lit and sent
off six lanterns. One got caught in a
tree, but the rest took to the sky, slowly ascending at first and then catching
wind and racing higher and farther. With
each one, I yelled “Happy birthday, Ron,” and on the last one, we sang Happy
Birthday to him. The earth smelled like
spring. The wind was not too cool and
had a hint of moisture to it. Three of
us tipped back beers and four of us smoked.
I felt like Ron was all around us, standing in the circle of humans and
animals, weaving the love of interconnectedness.</div>
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Speaking of interconnectedness, I created an event on
Facebook for others to share in the <st1:time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</st1:time>
festivities, or just to think of Ron on this special day. I continue to be touched by the posts I am
reading and photos being shared. Not all
of them are going to the event page, but here it is, for anyone not on Facebook
who wants to follow along (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/457519367659409/" target="_blank">hopefully this link works</a>). It is amazing
how one person can bring people together, even people he never met who are
just inspired by the stories we share of him.</div>
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My friend Cathy Franklin recently shared this with me: </div>
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“I think in sharing in whatever
small way I have with you through the illness and loss of Ron, I have learned
so much more about life, so much more about loss, and about people. Ron
has left a legacy, changed lives, perspectives, people, brought some together,
seen others walk away, taught many to dig deep, helped many to see their resilience,
find new normals, and the list goes on. I can only imagine
how much you miss him, and if I could do anything to bring him back for you I
would, but we both know that is not possible. BUT, we do know however
unfair his death was; the loss for you and his family and friends, it was not
in vain. Ron has taught the world many lessons by just being who he was.”</div>
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Spot on! Thanks, Cathy!<span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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After a delicious breakfast at Frona’s this morning, Heather
and Doug headed back to <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>. I am alone in my house, which has been rare
these days. As the events of this
weekend quiet down and I am more still with myself and my thoughts, I am so
sad. I am crying. I miss Ron so much. I am grateful for the love he’s shown me. I am grateful for the friends, family, and
animals that I have in my life. I am
also grateful for derby and that Ron encouraged me to pursue it, because I am
pretty sure it has saved my life. It is a good life. I like it. Often now, I actually feel happy, which I thought I would never do after Ron left this world. But I
would give it all up to have Ron alive again.
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As I write that last statement, I judge it. I think about how it sounds. I wonder who it hurts. I think about taking it out. But it is true. So I leave it. I would give it all up to have Ron alive
again. </div>
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Until we meet again, Ron Clark, happy birthday. You are vastly loved by so many.</div>
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Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-27928357066520230192013-02-10T18:19:00.001-05:002013-02-10T18:19:59.233-05:00Thirty Four, Three Fourths, And A Baby<br />
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Thirty three - that year of my life is behind me. I am glad to see it go because it brought so
much pain and sadness. Yet I am also sad
to see it go because it was the last year of my life with Ron alive in it. </div>
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I reflected back on last year’s birthday. I reread the post <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/02/turning-double-tres.html" target="_blank">Turning Double Tres</a> and
recalled how sad it was – his hospital bed and oxygen being delivered on that
day, his hospice nurse sharing with me shortly after that I needed to take my
leave from work as early as the next week because she did not think he had much
longer to live. My whole future with Ron
was literally dying in front of my eyes and it broke my heart as I entered a
new year of my life.</div>
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Naïvely, this year, I did not expect I would have as rough a
time on my birthday as I did. I have
been doing so well, missing Ron, but reveling in the memories and feeling gratitude
for him and for things that bring me joy in my life. I was surprised when I woke up at <st1:time hour="2" minute="0">2am</st1:time> on my birthday and began bawling because he
was not in bed with me. Sobbing
uncontrollably because it was the first year he was not there to wish me happy
birthday. I have had some fierce middle
of the night insomnia all week. Just
stressed and overwhelmed with so many things in my life. Plus facing another first without Ron, I was
overcome again with my grief renewed. Grief
is a sneaky little bastard, creeping up on me just when I think I am
recovered. I know it can do that and
this is to be expected. I was just
caught off guard.</div>
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There were some lovely moments on my birthday. Of course cards and texts and phone calls and
emails and Facebook well-wishers. My
coworkers brought in some sweet treats to share in staff meeting. I had lunch with coworkers and mine was paid
for. Ron’s siblings and nephew sent me
flowers with a balloon at work. But I
could not help crying, crying, crying, so many times throughout the day. Everything seemed so sad. No Ron.
No Ron. No Ron. My heart beat with that certain knowledge
that he would not be at home to embrace me when I arrived. He would not be there to tell me how glad he
was that I was born. Life is just
different when you don’t have that one person who cares about you more than
anyone else and thinks they could live or die based on your existence. I confess that I miss it. I confess that it feels a little bit like I
don’t really matter. Not in any big way
or to anyone in particular. I know that
sounds immature and whiney but trust me when I say it is just not the
same. I don’t matter to anyone the way I
mattered to Ron or that he mattered to me.
Not having that just changes things.</div>
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I was distracted. I
drove home for work, which takes about 40 minutes in <st1:time hour="17" minute="0">5 o’clock</st1:time> traffic, and got all the way to the door before
I realized I forgot my bag and house keys back in my cubicle. I checked all the doors and windows for
possible entrance to my house without luck before piling the dogs in the car
and driving another hour and some change, round trip, to retrieve the bag and
keys. </div>
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I was late to roller derby practice and at one point had
been considering just not going, since it really didn’t feel like it was my
day. But a derby sister talked me into
showing up because we had plans to go out after to celebrate my birthday. I was glad I went. It was a really fun practice. I wore striped tights with a new skort I got
for myself as a birthday treat and Ron’s ‘Fuck Cancer’ shirt, both in honor of
Ron’s nine month death anniversary, as well as for my teammate whose father has
cancer. After practice, we went out for
drinks and food as the snow fell heavily outside. I felt special that these new derby friends
cared enough to come out and celebrate with me.
It was good to take my mind off from feeling sad. For a little while, I felt happier. I had an adventurous drive home in the snow,
sliding everywhere, but not worried because it was <st1:time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</st1:time>
and there was no traffic. I went to bed
happy, knowing I had the following day off work.</div>
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But the day after I turned 34 was also the ¾ of a year
anniversary of Ron’s death. Nine
months. So, I again woke feeling sad and
crying. I was able to feel a bit better
by reading all my Facebook birthday wishes and then shoveling out my driveway
for an hour and a half in the sunshine, which was physically intensive and had
me sweating buckets and full of endorphins.
From there, my day got crazy with errands, including starting the process
for refinancing my house. I have been
feeling so stressed out lately, taking on way too much and trying to help everyone
when sometimes I still need help myself.
I know that underlying all of my stress is the simple sadness of losing
Ron. The grief. It sits there, in the passenger seat, taking
up energy and depressing me. As it
should. In fact, I welcome feeling it, I
just wish I had more time to devote to the experience these days. Instead, I am always on the run, going so
fast, never settling down, without enough time even to take care of household
chores (today marks three weeks since getting groceries or cleaning the
bathroom and there are no signs I will get to either in the foreseeable future),
let alone to feel what I am really feeling.
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I stopped at a friend’s for a birthday lunch and
cupcakes. I was glad she made them
because it was the only birthday cake I had this year. Thanks, Gretchen, for knowing I needed some
candles to blow out and for singing to me.
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While at Gretchen’s, I learned my sister-in-law was admitted
to the labor and delivery unit at Bronson because, a week past her due date, her
blood pressure was a little high and the embryonic fluid was a little low. So, I went to the hospital to see the
parents-to-be and then to their house to get their dog, who I am now watching
while they stay at the hospital. </div>
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Saturday, it was back to <st1:city>Kalamazoo</st1:city>
with the three dogs in my car to meet my parents, get their puppy settled, and
take them up to the hospital to see Carrie before her C-Section. We went out to lunch and got Carrie and
Dustin flowers and a balloon. We also spent
a few minutes paused so I could open my presents and then we went back to the
hospital where we were able to meet baby Evelyn Josephine. </div>
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Nine months and one day from the day Ron died, Evy Jo was
born and I became an aunt for the first time.
She is absolutely beautiful and I am so happy for her mom and dad. Now, I am just hoping for a speedy recovery
for Carrie so that she can take care of her darling daughter. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMT-lZCzaf4NRBJf3LbtzWxn0nxv7dURyvVzmQHY_thyphenhyphenKfihxNWFikjMWOl3OwTjpPBznmuFyDbTbugosq10ylp4Ic7IN0mxmeGfw8Mm8B3afDUUJRAxaIRaFLFwQM7PjVuk5_YyiJw7A/s1600/baby+time+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMT-lZCzaf4NRBJf3LbtzWxn0nxv7dURyvVzmQHY_thyphenhyphenKfihxNWFikjMWOl3OwTjpPBznmuFyDbTbugosq10ylp4Ic7IN0mxmeGfw8Mm8B3afDUUJRAxaIRaFLFwQM7PjVuk5_YyiJw7A/s320/baby+time+015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I wish Ron could be here to meet her because I know how much
he liked to hold babies. I like to think
he can see her and watch over her . . . and all of us who continue to remember
and love him. He is so deeply missed
every day. </div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-62995611528383771262013-01-28T19:40:00.000-05:002013-01-28T19:40:26.460-05:00Grief In The Passenger Seat<br />
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January is ebbing away and I have not written a post all
month. I try to think of what to
say. People ask me how I am doing. Really.
As in, “How are you doing, really?”
I answer that I am doing well, all things considered. And I think I am. But am I, <i>really</i>? It’s the “really” that makes me wonder. </div>
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I am busy. I am so
darn busy that I probably don’t know how I <i>really</i>
am. I can say that I don’t have time for
loneliness or resentment or self-pity or hopelessness. This is good.
I also don’t have much time for processing through my grief, unless I
make time and force myself to slow down long enough to feel something. I worry about whether this is healthy. Am I running away from pain? Or am I running toward something positive - a
future I can envision living in? I still
don’t think about the future much.
Thinking about it without Ron is still depressing. So, I just do what I have to do for each day
and each day is busy enough that I keep moving forward.</div>
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My grief has shifted.
More often now, I find myself smiling at the memories rather than
crying. I know people said this day
would come. I wasn't sure I believed
them, but it seems they were right. A
memory of Ron will wash over me, seemingly unrelated to anything else going on
in the moment, and I wonder where it came from and revel in its hilarity and
joy. Ron making a silly face. Ron making out with me hardcore and the way
it made my tummy flip-flop. Ron doing
housework or yard work with his sleeves rolled up. Ron singing along to his iPod while cooking. Ron playing WoW or Magic or Elder Scrolls or
Pokemon or some even nerdier computer game.
Ron intently watching documentaries.
Ron smiling at me from across the table of a restaurant. Ron drinking a Slurpee. Ron drinking a beer. Ron sleeping with his thick eye lashes curled
out away from shut eyes. Ron holding
hands with me while we walked dogs in matching strides. Ron being afraid of something I wanted him to
try - for example, swimming in <st1:place>Lake Michigan</st1:place> in the
middle of the summer night while drunk with a lightening storm coming in and
wind causing huge waves and undercurrent and seven anxious dogs barking on the
beach while five humans went in wearing our undergarments. Ron would only go waist deep, concerned about
the undertow. I teased him at the time,
but now I look back and smile at this memory and his ability to hold his own
and only do what he was comfortable with.
Any of these memories make me feel overjoyed. </div>
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My grief counselor told me months ago that for awhile after
his death, my grief would be driving my metaphorical car around. It would be steering and making
decisions. I would be passive, unsure
what to do. She suggested that eventually
grief would get out of the driver’s seat and move to the passenger seat. Then it would be right there next to me,
still navigating at times, but letting me steer and drive my own life, make my
own choices. She said grief would
eventually move to the backseat, only visible if I looked in the rearview mirror or purposely
turned around. Still in my car, just not
in the forefront anymore. </div>
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I admit that I bucked against the idea at first. I didn't want my grief to stop driving
because my grief felt like my only connection to Ron. But I have found other ways to feel
connected. Even moving on and becoming a
person I think he would be proud of is a way to maintain that connection. Keeping his memory alive by saying his name
and telling people about him is a way to stay connected. Not being ashamed or embarrassed of being a
widow is a way to stay connected. In my
real life car, I am still known to reach over and touch where his leg would be
or throw a dazzling smile in that direction or to put my hand where I used to
hold his. A driver communicating with a
dead boy – wonder what the other drivers think if they see me do this. I still talk to him, write him, ask him
things, and listen for responses. All of
these, and more, are ways I stay connected to Ron. </div>
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There are moments when the grief will sneak up and hit
me. I will hear a song playing on my
cubicle neighbor’s radio or on the overhead speakers in a store and it will
make me start bawling. I will see or
hear something truly beautiful or utterly comical that I want to share with Ron
and feel deep sorrow that I cannot share it with him. I will be telling someone a story and find
that there are parts I cannot say without my voice cracking and eyes welling
over. The worst is when I am upset and I
only want to talk to him about what is troubling me. Lately, I have been crying on my commute home
and crying myself to sleep. This is
nothing new, except that it went away for a little bit and now it is back. Although it sounds all sad and weepy and
pathetic, I welcome these outlets. It
shows me that I am still feeling. I am
comfortable with feeling sadness at this loss.</div>
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There are also moments in my life now when I feel intense
happiness. I never believed this would
be possible again, but it is. I like my
life. I like my independence and
solitude. I like roller derby A
LOT. I love my dogs. I love my family. I love my friends. I even like my house. I still don’t like my job very much, but hey
. . . you can’t win them all. The point
is, overall, I am pretty happy with my life, other than the fact that Ron Clark
is not a living part of it. There are
moments when it feels like sacrilege to feel so happy. </div>
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Ron planned well when he got me the fresh meat package for roller
derby. He knew I needed something like
this to fill my soul and give me drive and a sense of purpose. I don’t think I would be recovering from my
grief or moving forward in my life alone this well if it weren't for
derby. I don’t know how he knew this was
what I needed, but he did. He was very
wise. I continue to be grateful for him
every single day. In my book, he is a
saint.</div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-46481930467572658732012-12-31T14:00:00.001-05:002012-12-31T14:00:35.012-05:00Goodbye 2012, You Jerk <br />
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Dear 2012, </div>
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You really have been a shithead of a year. I think we can safely say you have been the
worst year I've experienced, if for no other reason because Ron died in you, on
<st1:date day="8" month="5" year="2012">5/8/12</st1:date>, and he was the love
of my life. I don’t think any other
crappy year can top that . . . the loss of my partner, my soul mate, the one
who made me whole. No matter what these
other years dish out, you truly take the cake as being my shittiest.</div>
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I am eagerly looking forward to bidding you farewell. I wish I could do it good and proper. I wish I could kick your ass while I was at
it. I want to scream in your face and
tell you how much you suck. I want to
pound on your chest and kick you in the gut until you are doubled over and
writhing in pain, much like how I would crumple and curl into fetal position on
the floor in random rooms of my home for so many months after Ron died, whenever
I was hit with the totality of the loss.
However, you are just a year. And
how can one fight a year? You are not a
tangible thing. You have no face for me
to smash. No shins for me to kick. This makes me even madder at you.</div>
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But I cannot pretend that nothing good happened in you,
2012. The worst event of my life
transpired, it is true, but there were a lot of precious and wonderful moments
and events that cannot be ignored. As
crazy as it seems to have so much anger and hatred toward you, I can’t part
without acknowledging the nicer stuff, too.</div>
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2012, I am grateful for the 128 days I got to spend with my
darling Ron Clark. It was not the best
of times, as he lost more and more function and I had to leave work to take
care of him. It was not like we were
having a party when just helping him with basic functions took up a huge amount
of our days. But it was time we had
together. He was still alive. I could look at him, kiss him, talk to
him. We fell asleep together telling
each other that we loved one another. I
even treasured taking care of him and helping him in every way that he needed
it. I really wish he would have spent
more days alive in you, but the way he went was the way he wanted - quickly, peacefully,
in our home, and with no drama. I am
glad that it worked out that way and that I was at his side when he stopped
breathing. There are so many worse ways
it could have gone and I am glad it went the way it did and glad for getting to
spend so much time with him while I was off work. Sick Ron is not the Ron I remember when I
think about him, but admittedly it is the Ron I got to know the closest. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got married in you, 2012.
I know I said I never would do it.
I have been in very long relationships and never wanted to take it to
that step. I just didn't see the point –
I can be committed and love someone without the “wife” and “husband” words coming
into play. But I confessed to my little
sister a few months after (re)meeting Ron in early 2009 that if I ever were to
marry someone, it would be him. I knew
he was the one. I loved him at first
sight. All of that mushy stuff. And I have been told Ron was saying the same
thing to his confidants. And we were
telling each other we wanted to get married ridiculously early on in the
relationship, but there were all these other things in the way to get through
first. Then he got diagnosed and we were
so busy fighting cancer. In early spring
2011, Ron asked me, “seriously, Heather” to marry him. I was driving west and he was in the
passenger seat of my car. We had just
seen a movie with a happy ending and he was choked up. I knew why; it was the same reason I
was. The movie ended with footage of the
man and the woman hanging clothes out on the line with all of their animals in
the yard of their country house and their children playing nearby. It was an ending he and I both knew we would
never be granted, but so desperately wanted.
A simple, peaceful, long domestic life together. I think he saw marriage as a way to make that
unattainable dream closer to real. I
answered yes. And then I attempted to start
planning a wedding . . . while also working full time at a stressful job, taking
care of him and the house and the dogs, going with him to his appointments, and
planning a bucket-list U.P. vacation for him, all while trying to take as little
time off from work as possible so that I would have some paid time off saved up
for when he really needed me. It was simply
way too much. I began having nightmares
and intense anxiety. Ultimately, I told
Ron I just couldn't plan it, so maybe we shouldn't pursue it. Ron, sick and weak from chemotherapy, said he
would plan it. A few days later, he
acknowledged he couldn't do it, either.
So, we postponed wedding plans and truthfully, I didn't think it would
ever happen. But, 2012, you brought so
many people into our lives, including the wonderful folks from Hospice Care of
Southwest Michigan. Several of them
talked about other clients who had small ceremonies in their homes, officiated
by the hospice chaplain, as a means to get married. As soon as Ron heard this, he became focused
on making it happen. So, while I was off
work and with just a few weeks of planning, we made it happen. On <st1:date day="9" month="3" year="2012">3/9/12</st1:date>,
I <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/03/youre-invited.html" target="_blank">married</a> my best friend in our home with just eight people in attendance,
including the chaplain. 2012, you
brought me the worst, but you also brought me the best. That day is so special in my memory, both
because it made me so happy, but also because of the immense happiness it brought
to Ron. I will always remember the contented
glow he had around him. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
2012, you also played host to Ron’s 30<sup>th</sup> <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/05/recap-on-rons-birthday-party.html" target="_blank">birthday</a> on <st1:date day="28" month="4" year="2012">4/28/12</st1:date>. It was a milestone that he greatly feared he
would not make it to. We celebrated with
a huge party and he said he had the best birthday ever. I am glad to have that day and the outpouring
of support we received to reflect back on.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, one strong theme of goodness from you, 2012, was
the steady communication from friends and family that Ron and I experienced
during his illness. We had so much
support. My coworkers arranged for Food
Fairies, which transformed into a cleaning fairy when we no longer could handle
so much food. Ron’s family and friends
came down to visit at least once a week.
My brother and sister-in-law who live in <st1:city>Kalamazoo</st1:city>
came over to spend time with us and to help with whatever was needed. My friends and more distant family checked in
and offered words of support. Both Ron
and I experienced a blending of our friends, as some of my friends genuinely
loved Ron almost as completely as I do and some of his friends have become
close to me in what I hope will become lifelong friendships. And of course we became a part of one another’s
families; this was already in place before, but strengthened in 2012. Everywhere we turned, people helped us out,
including our hospice team and volunteers, some of the staff at the <st1:place><st1:placename>West</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Michigan</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Cancer</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
and the phenomenal team at Borgess Interventional Radiology that took extra steps
to celebrate special occasions and had Ron looking forward to every one of his
at least weekly visits there. I feel so
blessed to have had complete strangers offering help – companies that donated
their services, friends who asked church congregations or family members who didn't know us to assist us, and even the check we received from Giving
Anonymously (which I am sure came from someone we knew, but I don’t know who). Financially, we were taken care of out of
sheer kindness from others. 2012, you
forced me to become more humble, to admit that I couldn't do it all alone, and
to ask for and accept help. Those are
BIG BIG issues for me and you forced me to face them. You also gave me so much to be grateful for
in a time of so much sadness and loss.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent many months during you, 2012, wanting to be dead and
thinking about ways to make this happen.
Even as I was back to work and screening suicidal clients, I listened to
them and actually found myself considering the methods they suggested. I know this is really sick and I could see
that, even when I was in the situation. I
had a lot of self-awareness. I just saw
no hope. I saw a life I didn't want
extending out before me for way too long of a time for me to accept. I did not want to be alive without Ron (there
are some moments when I still feel this way).
There was nothing anyone could have said or done to make me feel
differently. And probably anyone who
wanted to say anything to try to help me, I pushed away. Losing Ron has been such a blow to my heart,
my soul, my psyche, my sense of self, my future, my everything. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, something has shifted in me. 2012, you brought me closer to something I
had been admiring for four years now. I
started going to roller derby practices.
Roller derby is a sport I love, but not one I ever really thought I
would do. I am not an athlete. Ron Clark was the one who bought me all the
gear in a fresh meat package and so strongly encouraged me to pursue it. He wanted me to join a team while he was
still alive so he could see me skate. Really,
I happen to know from conversations early on in our relationship that he has
wanted to date a cute derby girl since well before I met him. But, for the same reasons I couldn't plan a
wedding, I couldn't do derby and take care of him during his illness. So, we started talking about me doing derby
after he died, as a way to pick myself up and give myself a new hobby while
paying tribute to him and his wishes for me.
Of course, when he died, I didn't feel like doing anything. None of the hobbies he and I talked about me
pursuing sounded good anymore. Nothing I
used to enjoy sounded appealing. And
certainly the idea of starting something new was overwhelming. I really have to thank my friend Jen O for
also being interested and being an accountabilibuddy to make me show up for a
Battle Creek Cereal Killers practice one night.
Even though her schedule has not allowed her to pursue it, I saw derby
and thought, ‘yeah, maybe I could do this.’
And so I have been. I go to as
many practices as I am able to (there are three per week). I still am not completely comfortable on my
skates and my body doesn’t always do what I tell it to and sometimes I feel
like I am an imposter, but I am learning and getting better every time I
skate. Yesterday, after just under three
months of practicing, I passed the skating part of my derby evaluations. I am ecstatic. This is something I was not sure I could
do. It will allow me to get more
involved in practice drills with my team so I can learn to give and take hits. And it brings me closer to being able to
participate in a bout, which is my ultimate dream and was Ron’s dream for
me. <st1:city>Derby</st1:city>
is changing the way I see myself. It
gives me something to work hard for. It
gives me something to throw my time and energy into. It gives me hope. It gives me a way to feel like I am still
making Ron proud. I just wish I could
have showed him this side of me while he was alive; I think he would have loved
me even more. 2012, thank you for
getting me more closely involved in roller derby and especially for letting me
pass my eval just before the year’s end.
It is a truly triumphant close to what has overall been a wildly craptastic
year.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am in such a different place right now than I was when
2012 began. At the start of the year, I
saw myself only in relation to Ron. To
being his caregiver. To being his
partner. To responsibly and efficiently
getting all of our needs met, including coordinating visits with his friends
while not having much time to spend with my own. I didn't see it then, but his cancer had
taken away my self-identity. Cancer just
kind of takes over everything. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Ron died, I became his widow. I was absorbed in my grief. I regressed back to some pretty unhealthy
ways of behaving and thinking. I felt
insane. Crazy. Like high school all over again. Unstable.
Inconsolable. Dark. Deeply depressed. Smoking.
Thinking of ways to not exist anymore.
Parts of me resurfaced that I had not seen in years – parts I was sure I
had outgrown. Grief has a way of
bringing out the worst in you, I guess, though there were also moments when I
think it brought out the best, too. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you draw to a close, 2012, I find myself not totally absorbed
in grief or in taking care of someone.
So what am I? I am in the process
of becoming, I think. I am becoming
myself. I am figuring out who that is
and what that looks like. I am still in
love with Ron and still miss him terribly.
There are still occasional moments when I don’t want to go on. But, by and large, I am filling my life up
with things I like. I have hope for
something in my future. I am getting
very used to being alone and have come to really like it. I can see myself staying single for many
years, if not the rest of my life, and just being glad for the amazing love story
I did have with Ron during our short time together. I have the memories, his words, our photos .
. . it might not be ideal, but it has to be enough. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goodbye, 2012. I can’t
say I would ever want to repeat the experience of living through you again. I honestly feel like I barely survived –
there were so many moments I came close to not.
But I also cannot say I wouldn't want to have you at all, since you have
brought me so many good moments. Let’s
just be glad our time together is done and usher in 2013. I always prefer odd numbers. Here’s to hoping 2013 is a year of more
self-growth and becoming whatever it is that I am. Here’s to hoping there will be less sorrow in
my life and also less sorrow experienced by those I care about who have also faced
tragedy, serious illness, trauma, violence, and/or significant loss during
2012. You were a year of mixed
experiences, from some of the very worst to some of the very best. Unfortunately for you, the loss I experienced
was unimaginably enormous. It far
outweighs the good stuff, so I am glad to be rid of you, 2012. Bring on 2013!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In always too much honesty,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heather Belle </div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-35926588313144663272012-12-10T22:27:00.000-05:002012-12-10T22:54:11.623-05:00An Anniversary - Take Two<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said December was full of anniversaries and firsts. I did not lie. That means more frequent blogging for a
little bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This evening marks the anniversary of the night before Ron
was diagnosed with cancer two years ago.
Two years ago, we were sleeping in our bed not knowing what was wrong
with him. Two years ago, we were like
any other normal couple with everyday financial worries and what we hoped were just mild health concerns. Please, friends, love the ones you are with. Love them so much and so fiercely. We never know how long we have or where we will find ourselves in a few years or months or even weeks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am missing Ron so fucking hard this evening. He was my biggest crush and greatest love. No matter how busy I make myself or how full
I can make my life, there is no substitute for his presence. I wish I could somehow wind back the clock to
go to a time before all of this started.
I just want more time with him.
In a way, with my memories, I can have it, replaying and replaying what
little time we did share. And yet I
question whether I am living in the past when I do this and what good that does
me now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder if he is with me or not. I wonder where he is. I wonder what he gets to do. I wonder how he feels. I wonder if he ever misses me and if so, how
it is different for the dead to miss the living from the way it hurts so bad
for the living to miss the dead. I
wonder if he heard the new Mike Doughty album or if he has already seen the
Hobbit movie. I like to think he has
access to whatever he wants nowadays . . . and that he doesn't even have to
pilfer it from the internets. A friend
recently texted me about how when we get to where he is, he will cook us great
fattening feasts and then we will all smoke cigarettes afterward because nothing
can be bad for you when you are in heaven.
I liked this thought so much that I wrote to Ron about it immediately.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel at a loss for words this evening, so instead I give
you three significant couple-self-portraits we took.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
This is the first picture Ron and I ever took together. We were at the Shepherd Maple
Syrup Festival and it was raining on us as we attempted to go to the carnival.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3f80tlMQfm338DAje9j_U7o5VJt3QPkaxRL9vcsbTXQKu0kxNxD1zeo31hoxeGLnhgcSYa-0ksAugQt2jDresnLqCzjjn0x0xitee7VN0XZSKk0OxIVUAjiBXife7aZJVavP8N4eA8NRB/s1600/Springtime+030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3f80tlMQfm338DAje9j_U7o5VJt3QPkaxRL9vcsbTXQKu0kxNxD1zeo31hoxeGLnhgcSYa-0ksAugQt2jDresnLqCzjjn0x0xitee7VN0XZSKk0OxIVUAjiBXife7aZJVavP8N4eA8NRB/s320/Springtime+030.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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4/24/09</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
This is one of the last pictures of us from before Ron was diagnosed, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
just before we left for <st1:city>Ann Arbor</st1:city>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI0bKafpphD3I4t7v1_OrHu1tHWSpTAGXbeHKmWq2B-7ICHF9MDeXWfrqIiAlPBJOkzWYQoANRlYgvsRIdwpwqc6cVyCECRiTyjBYbN1wv6PAGDZx3JBDGuq0a6bfBCUG321AnEyrvQ41/s1600/holidays+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI0bKafpphD3I4t7v1_OrHu1tHWSpTAGXbeHKmWq2B-7ICHF9MDeXWfrqIiAlPBJOkzWYQoANRlYgvsRIdwpwqc6cVyCECRiTyjBYbN1wv6PAGDZx3JBDGuq0a6bfBCUG321AnEyrvQ41/s320/holidays+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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12/11/10</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I think this is the last picture of Ron and me together,
taken with a disposable camera just days after he turned 30 and a less than a week before he died. I have not shown it to anyone until posting it now, though I developed the film about a month ago. I love it and hate it at the same time. It is like getting hit by a truck, seeing how happy we were. I knew he was dying yet I didn't see it coming.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBv2zHduTaDEoxjfIFv_9L3y3z3Ax0cHJPbve4XPtWxZWb-do-bhoZwIo5y697rzQVUtPEKaVCULgXg7gKZTy426uhAkp0EJXq2R_BvnfeiAGvAVbAvycFBpYGeEFiLm8T-wxs9uZoifTg/s1600/R1-02939-0024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBv2zHduTaDEoxjfIFv_9L3y3z3Ax0cHJPbve4XPtWxZWb-do-bhoZwIo5y697rzQVUtPEKaVCULgXg7gKZTy426uhAkp0EJXq2R_BvnfeiAGvAVbAvycFBpYGeEFiLm8T-wxs9uZoifTg/s320/R1-02939-0024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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5/2/12</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year ago, I started writing this blog. It began with <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2011/12/anniversary.html" target="_blank">An Anniversary</a>. I had been thinking I would end it now, a
full year from starting. But I realize I
am not done yet. There is still some
therapeutic value yet to be had. So, for
now, I will continue. </div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-86212427261146312142012-12-08T11:30:00.001-05:002012-12-08T11:30:11.469-05:00Seven Months<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is yet another anniversary. Each month has at least one, though some
months have more. December in particular
has many. The 8<sup>th</sup> of the
month is always a marker for how long Ron has been gone from this earth. Today makes seven months since he stopped
breathing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the hour I am writing this, seven months ago, we were
waiting for Ron’s family to arrive from <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>
to say their goodbyes to his body before the funeral home came to get him from
the house. The sun was shining and birds
were singing. Spring was
everywhere. Ron lay so peacefully in his
hospital bed in the living room. It
looked like he was sleeping. I kept
going over to kiss and touch him. I had
never understood why people kiss dead bodies until it happened to me. Then the urge was so strong that I had
to. Last looks. Last smells.
Last kisses, even as the body grows cooler and more stiff. It is this innate thing I felt compelled to
do. I knew he wasn't in that body
anymore, but I also knew it was a body I would never see again. A body that I loved, missing a being inside
that I had loved even more.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must pause here to express gratitude to Ron’s sister. A short while after they arrived that day,
she asked me if I had removed Ron’s wedding band from his finger. I had not even thought of it and immediately
went to do so. His finger was already
stiff and it was a little hard to get it off.
Since he was being cremated, I do not know what would have happened if
he had gone to the funeral home wearing it.
Would they have returned it to me?
Or does it go somewhere else?
Some lost and found inventory of jewelry from people who died wearing
it? I am so glad she told me to get
it. I had given it to him during our
wedding just two months earlier. I now
wear it every single day around my neck.
I am not sure whether I will ever stop wearing it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first several days after he died, I wore it on the pinky
finger of my left hand. It was just a
little too small to fit comfortably on my ring finger, but it was also a little
too big for my pinky finger. It would
slide off if I didn’t have my finger ever so slightly curved at all times. I had many near misfortunes with this, as it
came off in the sink, the shower, working around the house, in bed, and even,
once, while walking the dogs down the road.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is going to sound impossible, but I must share the
walking down the road incident. It was
the evening of the next day after Ron had died. A friend was coming out to bring me dinner and
I was stealing a quick walk with the dogs to decrease their energy level and
clear my mind. I was swinging my arms to
help quicken my pace and must have forgotten to keep my left pinky
crooked. The ring came off and started
actually rolling in ahead of us down my country road. In front of us, there were two dead animals –
road kill – a possum and a raccoon with just a couple feet separating
them. There was a disgusting looking
turkey vulture eating the raccoon. We
were still many feet away, but the vulture had not yet moved and now Ron’s ring
was rolling right toward the animals. I
felt panic rise in my throat. I imagined
the big bird seeing the shiny ring and picking it up in its beak and flying
away. (Bear with me, I was in a little
bit of a crazy place. My 30 year old husband
had just died, which is a worse-case-scenario inviting into my head many other
worse-case-scenarios.) The ring stopped
just before it would have rolled between the two dead animals, though from the
angle I was at, it looked like it was in the middle of them. I started making noise and waving my arms and
me and the dogs ran toward the vulture, who reluctantly flapped his wings and
flew over to the ditch on the other side of the road where he sat, eyeing us
angrily. I picked up the ring and looked
at the freshly deceased animals. I
wondered about their deaths, if they were more painful than Ron’s, feeling
certain that they would have been. I put
the ring back on my finger, which was already cramping from staying bent all
the time. We finished our walk and I
finished that week with all the memorial service planning it entailed. It seems like a blur when I try to look back
on it. I cannot remember what I said or
did. But that moment with the ring
rolling and the vulture was so surreal.
It was like slow motion and remains vivid in my memory. Fortunately, I figured out that I could just
wear the ring around the necklace my friend made me for our wedding. This is a much more secure plan and works far
better for me since I don’t like to wear rings anyway. No more near run-ins with vultures carrying
it away or with it almost going down the sink drain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, how will I commemorate this seven month
anniversary? What will I do today?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need to go get packed and finish cleaning the house up for
my dog sitter friend and maybe eat a little something, because today I am
headed up to <st1:city>Grand Rapids</st1:city> for the <a href="http://grandraggidyrollergirls.com/" target="_blank">Grand Raggidy Roller Girls</a> fifth annual Beer Brawl.
The Beer Brawl is basically a glorified scrimmage between players on
their own team who are guest coached by brewmasters from local
microbreweries. This year’s is
especially exciting for me because before the Beer Brawl begins, my team, the
<a href="http://www.cerealkillersderby.org/" target="_blank">Battle Creek Cereal Killers</a>, is taking on <st1:city>GRRG</st1:city>’s Rapid Assault team. So, I get to root for
my girls and take some stats for my team and just generally feel more connected
to all of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the bouts, I will likely go to the derby after party. After that I will be staying over with some
friends at my brother-from-another-mother’s house before he leaves for many
months to do some traveling. I anticipate
this is going to be a really fun night and I am looking forward to it. Is it sacrilege that I am not home crying my
eyes out about Ron being gone for seven months?
No, not at all. Ron would
definitely be thrilled that I am going out and have plans. There is always time for crying later and I
still do plenty of it. So if tonight
pans out to be lots of fun, that is great!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, Ron and I went to the annual Beer Brawl three years
ago, on <st1:date day="12" month="12" year="2009">12/12/09</st1:date>. In honor of him and our love for derby, I
share with you a few pictures from that night.
Even though he is not with me tonight in person, I know he will be there
in spirit, smiling at all the fun I am having and so proud of the steps I have
taken toward becoming a real derby girl myself.
</div>
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Ron Clark, I love you so much. Thank you for encouraging me to do the derby. Every time I pull on those skates, I think of
you and utter a little prayer of gratitude.</div>
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Pre-bout beer and eats at Founders Brewing Company</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAU6f8W2vhkyO_hx9WUxUJNLIlcIwokZQ-dmc3rtBT9T65UchDwBcjU6e-zkuyFvCr-kYu2eUnE7nzdT6hHkq0YD3wQNKoSmOvXSsmpTipBK9US1gjqLZH7PZ4CEWeJJn7PNMBq3GzIER/s1600/weekend+wonders+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAU6f8W2vhkyO_hx9WUxUJNLIlcIwokZQ-dmc3rtBT9T65UchDwBcjU6e-zkuyFvCr-kYu2eUnE7nzdT6hHkq0YD3wQNKoSmOvXSsmpTipBK9US1gjqLZH7PZ4CEWeJJn7PNMBq3GzIER/s320/weekend+wonders+001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ron loves a big meaty sandwich</div>
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Watching from the floor - Dan, Julie, and Ron</div>
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Jammers - Costa Lotta Chaos and Jackie Daniels</div>
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Floor seats put you right in the action - can't get any closer without being in it</div>
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New Holland's team won, which was cool, because that </div>
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gentleman on the left is our friend, Fred</div>
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Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-31323290506535778782012-12-05T22:08:00.000-05:002012-12-05T22:08:38.868-05:00Holidays and Babies<br />
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I started this post over a week ago. Have toyed with posting or not posting. Decided to post, so here we go . . . </div>
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Thanksgiving happened. It was my first one without
Ron. We generally went to our respective families’ Thanksgiving dinners
separately, so it is not like I missed him being at the actual dinner; he hadn't been there before. However, I did miss his enthusiasm for a holiday all
about eating great food. His planning and conspiring about delicious
eats. Watching him prep his contributions for his family’s meal. His assistance to me and my family as we
prepared ours. I have a whole series of texts with him from last
Thanksgiving in which he is teaching me, via phone, how to make garlic mashed
potatoes, Ron Clark style (which is the best way ever, duh).</div>
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His presence was missed in general with so much time spent
in <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>, as it always is for me
when I go to our hometown without him. I spent time with his family and
some of his friends. I am always so
acutely aware when I am with them that he was and is my main link to these
people. Now, I maintain and carry on these relationships even though he
is gone. His absence is constantly felt whenever I do things we did
together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember my mother crying at
the table during our Thanksgiving dinner the first year after my maternal
grandmother passed away from cancer. She
died in November and yet my mother still went through preparing the big meal in
the same month she lost her mother. I do not know how she went through
those motions (cooking, eating, and hosting) when the loss was so fresh. If
I were in her shoes, I would have been inclined to just cancel it. Yet,
we carry on because we know life doesn't stop just because someone we love is
gone. Life just keeps coming, bringing one holiday after the next, one
sunrise after another, just as we put one foot in front of the other and inch
our way forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wondered if my mother could
remember her own broken heart at that first Thanksgiving without her
mother. Or the way it felt for her to have a Thanksgiving years later,
with both parents gone. I wondered if anyone could really sense the deep
void I experienced at having a Thanksgiving without Ron. No one really talked
to me about it or asked me how I was doing with regard to being without Ron. Maybe they thought that to ask would be too
hard for me. I think people just never know what to say. Everyone experiences a loss differently. You may think you know what you would want if
you were the person grieving, but until you have been through a major loss, you
don’t really know. For myself, I can say
that it is helpful to have others recognize and acknowledge the truth because
this lets me know that it is a safe and accepting place for me to express my feelings. This Thanksgiving was treated like just
another holiday – not the significant first that it was for me . . . one of
many firsts that I will keep having until I get through this first year of life
after Ron’s death. It was hard and it has me dreading Christmas, though I
have since talked to my family about my concerns and they have all encouraged
me to be more open and let me know it is OK to be sad.</div>
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Adding to my sadness, my parents’ dog, Duffy, died the week
before Thanksgiving from an aggressive mouth cancer. So, he was missing from
their home and I was missing him. On top of that, my mom really struggled
with the void his death left in their household, so she and my brother went out
and got a new puppy the day before Thanksgiving. New puppies are cute and
everyone feels happy and makes a fuss over them when they are around.
Experiencing grief felt wrong in my parent’s house over this holiday weekend, filled
with sweet puppy breath and hilarity. When I needed to cry, I retreated
to the room I sleep in when visiting them. I found my solace on Facebook
and email and want to say thanks to all of you who continue to be there for me
during these difficult months. <o:p></o:p></div>
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During the holiday weekend, we
also had a baby shower for my brother and sister-in-law. It was well
attended, with relatives from both sides driving long distances and close
friends of Dustin and Carrie’s (and Ron’s) coming to shower them with
gifts. I was overwhelmed with so many people being at my parents’ house
at once, but happy to see the love and support Dustin and Carrie
received. I did my best to be a dutiful sister and to be helpful and
cheerful. I even had fun, smoking a cigar and having a beer with the guys
outside during the shower games – an honorary pseudo-dude.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Being at their baby shower
brought up memories of being at my friend Jessica’s baby shower in March
2009. I went to her shower on the day that would be the first time Ron
and I intentionally hung out together . . . you could call it a date, but it wasn't really a date. Ron and I had been talking online a little bit
since (re)meeting one another a few weeks earlier. I knew I would be in <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>
specifically for the shower that day, so I suggested he and I meet at our
mutual friends’ house for game night. I have blogged about that dorky
<a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/03/in-beginning-there-were-dorks.html" target="_blank">early encounter</a>, so I won’t go into it in detail, though to think about it
still makes my stomach flip flop and my face blush. Suffice to say it was
a bittersweet memory to have during Dustin and Carrie’s shower, followed up by
all of us going over to our friends’ place for game night, just like Ron and I
did those years ago. Another first, game night without Ron. My
heart breaks with each of these firsts. Yet, sitting there feeling the
love I have for the friends I shared with Ron, spending time laughing them, I
also felt my heart swell. I know this is
what he would want – for these connections to remain in tact.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Baby showers.
Babies. I never wanted either. I still don’t. However, there
is something that pulls at me with each new pregnancy announcement I
hear. I feel this mixture of sadness and anger. Of course I also
feel so happy for my friends who are expecting or new parents or new parents
who are expecting again. Certainly I am overjoyed for Dustin and Carrie
and admittedly a little excited about becoming the most kickass roller-derbying
aunt this baby could ever have. But I would be lying if I didn't admit
that it bothers me a little, all these babies coming into the world when Ron
had to leave it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It is something Ron and I
never got to have. Granted, we had shared our thoughts on having children
early in the relationship and decided we were perfect for each other because I didn't want them (still have not developed a maternal bone in my body) and Ron didn't ever want to risk passing on his genetic condition, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Von_Hippel%E2%80%93Lindau_disease" target="_blank">Von Hippel-Lindau (VHL)</a>. We talked about maybe someday adopting. That was an idea
we, both of us being considerate givers, could agree on. </div>
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I know Ron really and truly loved kids and was great with
them from his years of working at <st1:place><st1:placetype>Camp</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Gordonwood</st1:placename></st1:place>. He would have
been an excellent father. I even caught it a few months ago while
listening to his voice on a video he made of me. It is a video that will
never be made public, on account of what an inebriated state I am in due to
being at Wheatland Festival and letting myself imbibe. In the video, Ron jokes that he will show it
to our children someday. It is a statement he quickly retracts, knowing
that we weren't going to have any. But I think it is one of those
Freudian slips that shows what his secret thoughts were. He really did
want kids. I believe if he wouldn't have had VHL, he would have been sure
to find a partner who wanted them, too (whether he could have convinced me or
found someone else). Even with VHL, people do make the choice to have
children; Ron knew this. The odds of passing it on are 50% according to
most research. I don’t know if it is a risk Ron would have ever
taken. </div>
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The truly unfair thing is, Ron never had much time to mull
it over, just like I never had time for the idea of kids to grow on me.
We never got to that point in our relationship. That is what pisses me
off and makes it hard with all these babies (at my age, it seems like everyone
I know is getting married and/or having babies on a near regular basis) being
born. I never got to get to that place
with the love of my life where we both wanted to have them. I won’t know
if we ever would have gotten to that place. It was all cut short too soon
to find out. It is not fair and that makes me mad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It also makes me sad. A
couple times, after Ron had been diagnosed, I joked about wanting him to “knock
me up.” I joked about wanting to have his VHL-cancer-chemotherapy baby
that we were both sure would have come out a mutant (or maybe a superhero?)
with all the drugs he was on. I was never serious about it, yet we joke
about things we are subconsciously thinking, right? I mean, on some
level, I thought it, or I wouldn't have said it. There was a part of me that meant it.
Certainly of anyone with whom I have had a relationship, Ron is the only one I
could see myself co-parenting with. Of course I am happy for my friends
who are having babies, but that happiness is tinged with my own longing,
sadness, and regret that things for Ron and I didn't work out differently and didn't allow us the same opportunities as those around us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In July, while getting ready
for work one morning, I was overcome with the need to see Ron again. To
be able to look into his eyes, comb his hair, see something of him reflected in
something living. I gripped the bathroom sink while sobs racked my entire
body and then I sunk to the floor, defeated. ‘Why, why why,’ I thought, ‘had
we not created a being together?’ Something that would have his
features. A place where his soul could still be reflected, at least a
tiny bit, in the eyes or in the smirk or in the talents or features. In
that moment, I hated myself for not being like most of my peers and wanting
babies from the get-go and talking him into it, in spite of the VHL stuff, when
we first realized we were each other’s “the one.” Possibly despicably, I
even seriously wished for a moment that we had tried to get pregnant while he
was sick. Obviously, this would be a foolish reason to have a baby and I
suspect the poor creature would have been messed up for life to know its origin
story (“Mommy made you so she wouldn't miss Daddy so much”), so it is good that
it didn't happen. But on this particular day in July, I would have given
anything to have a piece of Ron still in the living, breathing world. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It probably didn't help that I
was reading Stephanie Ericsson’s book <i>Companion
Through the Darkness</i>, in which she describes having her husband die while
she is pregnant with their only child. Part of what she writes about how the
responsibility to the baby growing inside her and love for their child influences
her grief. At the time I was reading this, I was teetering pretty heavily
on the side of not wanting to live - having a Ron Clark baby seemed like it
would have tethered me to the side of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother still believes I
will have a child some day. A daughter. She has had visions. She
says my daughter will have curly hair. I am 99% sure this will never come
to pass. I am a few months shy of 34 years old. Ron has been gone
for almost seven months and the thought of moving on and loving again still
fills me with such intense nausea that I taste bile on the back of my tongue whenever
I think about it. By the time I ever do get ready to love again, if that
day even comes to pass, I will be too old to be making babies. It’s
probably for the better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I will just stick to what I
know – devoting my love to the memory and spirit of Ron, my friends, and my
family. I will stay involved with my new passion (roller derby) and my
old hobbies (photography, horses, writing) and my Ron Projects. I will
learn to be a good aunt and to dote on the new baby coming around the time of
my birthday in February. I don’t need my own spawn to reflect back to me
the love I had for Ron . . . it is mirrored in everything I do. I just
miss him so much . . . but no other being, whether carrying his genes or not,
could fill the void of his absence in my life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1354749176215_509">
To those of you making all these babies (and
getting married and having other great life growth events as a couple), please know
that I am happy for you. If my reactions don’t always seem up to par, accept
that it is just hard for me, even as happy as I am for you. It slaps me in
the face with all the big moments Ron and I didn’t get to have. I promise
you that I am genuinely happy for you – I am just at the same time learning to
cope with the mixture of feelings that comes for me with hearing about anyone
else’s good news. Don’t try to shield me from it, though. I have to be able to live with the fact that
just because my happily ever after story ended prematurely, others’ futures
will go on. I need to become better able to deal with it and I am
confident that some day I will be. Thanks for sharing your life with me
and bearing with me while I fumble forward in this new life of mine. Slowly,
it does get easier, but the hurt never completely goes away.</div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-30461355451824975282012-11-04T20:53:00.000-05:002012-11-04T20:53:28.131-05:00Fake It Until You Make It...And All That Crap<br />
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I’m not sure what this post is to be about. I have not started a post this aimlessly
before. To do so seems . . . frightening
. . . pointless . . . rambling. But, I
have been really quiet the past couple weeks about where I am at in this grief
process. Quiet makes people more
comfortable. Makes me easier to talk
to. Yet it is not real. My body can feel how incongruent it is. Inauthentic.
This is not me. I am honest to a
fault. When I stop being honest, I stop
being me. When I stop being me, I don’t
know who I am. I walk around feeling
nauseated and I can’t quite pinpoint the source. I just keep swallowing back the bitter taste
in the back of my mouth and wondering what I ate. But it isn’t anything I ate. It is the holding back of what is. The swallowing of my sincerity. So, tonight, I write. I write without plan, but not without purpose.
The purpose is, letting it out so I can
stop feeling like I might puke at any moment.</div>
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I have been trying to be a good robot. I have been consciously trying to complain
less. I have been trying to put a
positive spin on things more. I have been
reaching out to others, starting and rekindling friendships, arranging lunches,
and writing letters and emails, with more effort than I have put into a social
life than ever before. I try to remember
what is going on in people’s lives and to ask about it. This is something that came more naturally
before, but has taken real effort since Ron’s cancer. It is hard for me to care about anything . .
. about myself or about anyone else . . . but I am trying. </div>
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I think my efforts are working. I am feeling more liked. I am feeling like if I wanted to do something
or be social, I would have people to call.
Most of the time, I don’t feel like even talking on the phone, let alone
going out to actually see someone, but if I wanted to, I could. This feels good.</div>
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Yet, when I am sobbing and completely depressed, I don’t
feel like I have anyone to call. I don’t
want to disappoint anyone. I don’t want
to show anyone how little progress forward I have actually made. I don’t want people to know how truly, deeply
sad I still am. I know this is
silly. I know people who read this will
reach out and tell me I can always call them when I feel bad. But I also know that I won’t. I am deeply embedded in this new cycle where
I want to appear like I am doing better, in part because I feel like if I
pretend to do better, maybe I really will do better. Fake it until you make it, and all that crap.</div>
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All of this takes so much energy. I am exhausted. My job has become a major source of stress
that I do not know if I can deal with. Three
people from my 10 person team have left since August and more are on their way
out. There are new hires, and they are wonderful
additions, but it is hard to have so many new people all at once. It means more responsibility on those left
behind, at least until all the new folks are trained and up and running. But some of the replacements have not yet
been hired, let alone trained and proficient at what we do. There is a long gap between someone leaving
and that happening. The gap is going to
be very large for a long time to come, since we do not have an easy job to
learn. I have more on my plate at work
than I can accomplish, yet I cannot complain about it, for there is no one else
who can share the burden. And it will
just get worse, at least for several more months. Pair that with overwhelming duties and
decisions to make about my home. And
stir in the grief and emotional struggles I am facing. It is not a good mix. I am not sure what to do about it. I am not supposed to be making major
decisions so soon after such a major loss, yet I feel faced with the need to
figure things out or lose myself very quickly.</div>
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One night this week, I forgot the book in which I write to
Ron. I left it at work. I couldn’t write him. The next night, I had the final session of my
grief support group, in which I let some of my stress and anger and sadness
out. I was worn out after that and was
staying at Dustin & Carrie’s that night and I just got too tired to
write. The next night, I also put off
writing. I did the same yesterday,
Saturday, even though I had all day and all night to write. I found chores to do instead. I created a list of chores I did not
accomplish in a day and probably would not accomplish in a week, even if I
weren’t working full time. I told myself
I could write when the chores were done.
I did not write. This morning I wrote
to Ron. I caught him up on what had
happened in the 110 hours that lapsed between entries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is not that Ron would mind the lapse, if some version of
spirit Ron has any inkling that I am writing to him. He would not mind, especially if I were out
living life to the fullest and having fun.
He would never want me to feel obligated. Still, something feels weird in my taking
this long pause in writing to him. It
did not feel like it was a conscious or healthy decision on my part. It felt like I was procrastinating. Avoiding.
Why?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the past, my Ron Projects have given me some
comfort. I have several going that are
going to take a long time. One of them
is converting his blog into a book.
Recently, when working on this, I have been filled with a sense of joy
and peace. I read Ron’s voice in his
writing and it is like he is still with me.
I feel so grateful for his outlook on things. So grateful he shared that with everyone. Even more grateful that I was lucky enough to
have him share more with me than he did with anyone else. Luckiest.
Girl. Ever. That is how I usually feel when working on
any of the Ron Projects.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I attempted to work on the blog project. I could not even get the first entry I had to
work on completed. I wanted to find a
picture that I knew he snapped of this sunrise he was mentioning in the
blog. I had to look on his old Netbook
to find it. This led to me looking at
lots of pictures he took. The world
through Ron’s eyes. My desire to share
it all. Looking at the things he found
interesting or funny. Marveling at how almost
every picture he ever took of me is somehow unflattering and hilarious, wondering
to myself, ‘if this is how he saw me, how could he possibly have loved me?’ yet
knowing that he did, in fact, love me.
Still, I did all this looking and realized I did not have the energy to
shift from the emotional state this left me in to my logical, technological brain
to transfer files from computer to computer.
I just didn’t have it in me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I thought I would just read his blog for a bit instead
as a way to feel close to him. I read
and I did feel close. I could remember
exactly the moments he described. I felt
pride as he praised my egg-scrambling abilities. I felt gratitude as he talked about my
brother picking him and his groceries up when his <st1:city>Toyota</st1:city>’s
water pump died. I felt a strange,
wistful nostalgia for those trips when I would take him to <st1:city>Ann
Arbor</st1:city> and advocate for him and spend the whole day
going from appointment to appointment at <st1:place><st1:placetype>University</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Michigan</st1:placename></st1:place>. Yet none of these feelings made me feel
better today, like they have in the past.
They just made me feel worse.
More alone. Left with the
realization that this is all I have. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was loved once. Wholly. Hugely.
Unabashedly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I loved once.
Fiercely. Totally. Joyfully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am still in love. I
do not know if I can still be loved by someone who no longer walks the
earth. I like to think so, but I don’t
know. How can we ever know? And whether I am or am not, I am alone in
this life. I am alone in my house. I am alone with the decisions I have to make
about work and whether to invest in repairs that are needed at my home and
whether to refinance to get the title just in my name and whether to try to
sell it again. I am alone when I go to
sleep and when I wake up. Whether I sing
in the shower or sob silently. Whether I
put effort into getting dressed or throw on whatever article of clothing my
hand first touches. There is no one who
sees me for me anymore. I don’t even see
myself. I look in the mirror and I truly
have <i>no idea</i> who the person is
looking back at me. I don’t see myself
in my eyes or my chin or even my hair. I
am a ghost of a person who was once loved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know there are many other people who are alone. I don’t mean to whine or act like this is
something totally unique to me. But
there is a difference in being single and in being widowed. I cannot explain it except to say this
aloneness is more than just being alone.
It is the feeling of being left behind.
Abandoned, even when the person leaving you didn’t want to leave
you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized, tonight, after writing to catch Ron back up on
my life and after reading what he has left written for all of us, that I have
been avoiding these activities because they are as much a way to stay connected
to him as they are proof of his absence.
Proof of the fact that I cannot ask him what he thinks about something
or share a joke with him or converse about a beautiful moment one of us
experienced. There are no more two-way
conversations. There is me writing to
him. There is me reading what he already
wrote. That is all there is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been making fires this week in the woodstove. I still enjoy the cozy effect, but the process
of making the fire - chopping and hauling wood up to the house, skillfully
setting-up the kindling, blowing to get the coals hot, tending it every half
hour or so – the process is so much more tedious now that I am making it just
for me rather than making it for Ron, to keep his precious, small body warm
against the cold, dark nights that we fought against in those two winters that we
battled his illness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By tomorrow, I will have put my functioning work face back
on. I won’t be talking about this stuff
with anyone. You won’t even know it is
inside me. I don’t even know it is
inside me most of the time. Lately, I
run from one thing to the next and I perform as well under pressure as I ever
have (or at least pretty close, I would say).
I avoid and I procrastinate about getting really real because I am so
stressed out that I have no room to feel the things buried in my heart and my
psyche. But if I am honest, I am still hurting
terribly. I am still as shocked today as
I was the first day when I realized Ron was gone. This does not become less baffling to
me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A world without Ron Clark is a sad world indeed. I miss his laughter. I miss his hugs. I miss his insight. I miss his humor. I miss his cooking. I miss his compassion. I miss his optimism. I miss his stubbornness. I miss his desire to learn and try every new
hobby. I even miss his messes . . . I
would give anything to come home from work to find an array of eating and drinking
utensils and dirty socks and various scraps of paper with strange pass codes
written on them and candy wrappers and technological devices surrounding the
love of my life in a little nest wherever he had sprawled out for the day. Anything . . . I would give anything.</div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-3423347854771112792012-10-22T16:07:00.000-04:002012-10-22T19:07:23.178-04:00Slowing Down<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past couple weeks, I have been hurtling forward with
tremendous speed. I am keeping super
busy, between work and after-work activities, and moments of being social. Hurtling.
I have not had much time to think or feel. Hurtling.
This also means I have not had much time to grieve. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a way, going fast has been easier. I just write a quick note to Ron at the end
of the day and spend a few moments reading my daily meditations out of Martha
Whitmore Hickman’s book, <i>Healing After
Loss</i>. Those are the must-do’s in my
grief process, no matter how busy I get.
But, if I am honest, this is not enough.
There is so much more beneath the surface. I am able to skip over it for a time, if I go
fast enough. I have just been going from
one thing to the next without slowing down to pay attention to those deeper
feelings. However, just because I ignore
them does not mean they are not there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, the <st1:place><st1:placename>West</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Michigan</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Cancer</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>
held a memorial service to honor the lives of their patients who have recently
died. At first, I was not planning to
attend at all. I have already found ways
to remember Ron and have attended other services, both formal and
informal. Then, I started to think that
maybe I should go, just to have another opportunity for emotional release in a
safe space designed for that purpose. I
found out that Vic Downing, the hospice chaplain who performed me and Ron’s
wedding ceremony, was leading the service.
That sealed the deal; I was for sure going. I invited Ron’s family and they decided to attend,
too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the service looming on my agenda for Sunday, I hurtled through
last week as usual. Work. Yoga.
Roller derby practice. Partner
loss support group. Lunches with
girlfriends. Staying over at Dustin and
Carrie’s on Thursday so that I can attend the support group (logistics – so grateful
they let me and the dogs crash there once a week). They even hosted us an additional night last
week because I came home after yoga Wednesday to discover I had no power, which
in my country farmhouse also means no water and is a bit of a tricky situation
live in if I haven’t been stocking up to prepare for a possible outage (I hadn’t
been).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point during the week, I screwed my back up. This is a long standing issue for me, as I
have one leg in which the bones (determined by full leg x-rays) measure a whole
inch longer than the other. The
slightest thing can throw my sacroiliac joint out of whack and then I
experience pain in my sciatic nerve.
Very painful. Still, I came in to
work and limped around, knowing it was not the worst it had ever been, figuring
it would just go away on its own. I did
not take into account that I would not have time to rest it over the weekend,
since I had stuff planned all day both Saturday and Sunday. I did not take into account that I know very
well that I need to stay off it when it gets inflamed in order to recover. I just took some anti-inflammatory pills and
hurtled on some more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left the work week feeling frustrated and unappreciated
and misunderstood. I am not alone in
feeling this way. Things have been very
hard on my team lately. As much as I
think we are trying to pull together and make the most of many changes, we are
all also getting a little (or a lot) burnt out.
It was hard for me to let go of these feelings Friday night and even
into Saturday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Saturday morning I had a guy come out to give me some
estimates on some work I need to have done on my house. Always hard to hear about all the things that
are screwed up – I often feel like I am living in the Money Pit. After he left, I walked the dogs and did some
chores. Then I went to a double header
roller derby bout at the Kellogg Arena in <st1:city>Battle Creek</st1:city>. The team I have been practicing with, the
Battle Creek Cereal Killers, were in the first bout and it was awesome to see
these gals in action. I am still just
learning, having only skated in two practices so far. I see them and wonder if I will ever be able
to do what they do – so nimble on their feet, so tough when they take a hit or
fall to the concrete. I want to be like
them so very badly. I volunteered to be a
non-skating official (<st1:stockticker>NSO</st1:stockticker>) and got assigned
to stand on one end of the track, holding a white board and writing down
penalties that the refs would call out as they skated past me. Truth be told, I kind of sucked at it. Refs yelling things out the side of their
mouths with their whistles half in are hard to understand. So, I botched some stuff up, but it was
really no big deal. I was glad to be a
part of the night and it makes me excited to think I could someday be a part of
the action.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After six hours on my feet, I drove home, leg/hip/back
bothering me something fierce. And I was
exhausted. Not from the physical aspect
of it (all I really did was stand there), but maybe from being in pain and
certainly from the emotional energy that comes from being around people I don’t
know and trying to pretend I am confident and less socially awkward than I
actually am. (Side note: I am told by a Cereal Killer that derby will
give me confidence and decrease my shyness.
I am so hoping she is right.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once home, I spent some time reading a new book, <i>Loving Grief</i> by Paul Bennett, and
writing to Ron and eating some rice and just generally winding down for the
day. I remembered that I needed to bring
a picture for the Wall of Remembrance at the <st1:place><st1:placename>Cancer</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> for the service on
Sunday. I began looking through my
pictures of Ron. I decided on this one,
taken in June 2009 from his first trip to South Haven.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhq-J6iApyQYPRJ-QxkuNZNGXo9IWBnphcT0aSEksI2QGVGMNCkMQfH5pIL1trKv9q234nFA_Ay-9CDo5Kpf_T4V-amLUWTLV26qlANh4eb3dNOx6ATcG5drWkNuS8c7_OFc0UFvj60fP/s1600/SUMMER,+yo!+045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhq-J6iApyQYPRJ-QxkuNZNGXo9IWBnphcT0aSEksI2QGVGMNCkMQfH5pIL1trKv9q234nFA_Ay-9CDo5Kpf_T4V-amLUWTLV26qlANh4eb3dNOx6ATcG5drWkNuS8c7_OFc0UFvj60fP/s320/SUMMER,+yo!+045.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something then clicked in me.
I shifted from hurtling to hurting.
I saw this picture of healthy, whole Ron. I realized he will not be coming back. All of the things I want to tell him that I
write to him, I will never be able to tell him in person, or even over the
phone. I saw this picture of the person
I fell completely in love with. The
person I am still crazily in love with.
I realized that in the back of my mind, as I’ve been hurtling forward, I’ve
been thinking that one of these days I will walk through the door and he will
be there, waiting for me in the kitchen like he used to. Thinking that I will see him again. That I can tell him about it all. That he will be proud of me for getting re-involved
in the land of the living. That I can
tell him about volunteering as a <st1:stockticker>NSO</st1:stockticker> and the
fight that broke out during the last jam of the first bout and he will be like,
“Holy shit, tell me more about it.” It suddenly
(again) hit me that none of this is going to happen. That the person in the photograph is really gone. Of course I know this, logically. I was there when he stopped breathing. I saw them wheel him out of my house. I have his ashes in a turtle pot on the
mantle by my wood stove. I sleep in the
bed alone every night. Of course I know
he is gone. But, do I really know
it? Really? Having just finished reading Joan Didion’s <i>The Year of Magical Thinking</i>, I know
that this crazy back-of-the-mind thought that he will return is part of the
process. I am still not fully accepting
this loss. And how can I? It is so profound. I can wax philosophical about it and I can
try to get myself functional again, but at the core of my being I am completely
changed. A huge part of me has been
ripped away prematurely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to sleep crying and I woke up crying. I pulled myself together and went to the <st1:place><st1:placename>Cancer</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I hung Ron’s picture on the Wall of Remembrance. The staff person who helped me hang it
remarked, “I like his eyes.” “Me, too,” I
responded, my face breaking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, those eyes . . . just look at them, people. Are they not the kindest, most compassionate,
most forgiving (yet not without a playful mischievous streak) eyes you have
ever beheld? Oh, how I loved to be seen
by those eyes. How I loved to have Ron
look at me. We would sometimes lie in
bed for hours, just talking and staring into each other’s eyes. I have never had anyone take me in the way
Ron did with his eyes. In them, I felt
like I was worth something. I was
whole. I was loved. And I loved back. That all I have to stare into now are
photographs, well, it just breaks my heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ron’s family arrived on time to the service, seven people
who drove/rode four hours round trip to be there. Vic talked about having a stone in your
pocket, carrying this ever present weight of grief. I flashed on the fact that I literally do
walk around with a stone in my pocket, most days anyways. Ron gave it to me in August 2011 when we were
visiting <st1:place><st1:placename>Tahquamenon</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Falls</st1:placetype></st1:place>. It is tiger’s eye and heart shaped. I rub it when I am anxious. It reminds me of him and our love and that wonderful
vacation that fulfilled a last wish of his.
Vic also read a poem by Pablo Neruda, a Chilean poet who died in September
1973 after being diagnosed with cancer. Because
he wrote in Spanish, there are several slight variations in the English translation,
but the one Vic read went something like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
LXXXIX</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I die I want your hands on my eyes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands<br />
to pass their freshness over me once more.<br />
I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.<br />
I want your ears still to hear the wind.<br />
I want you to sniff the sea’s aroma that we loved together<br />
and for you to go on walking the sand where we walked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want what I love to continue to live,<br />
and you whom I loved and sang above everything else<br />
to continue to flourish, full-flowered:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
so that you can reach everything that my love directs to
you,<br />
so that my shadow can travel along in your hair,<br />
so that everything can learn the reason for my song.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vic told us to imagine it was our loved one saying this to
us. Between this poem and the Beatles
covers (Yesterday, Let It Be, Blackbird, etc.) that a volunteer from hospice
with a wonderful voice was signing while playing acoustic guitar, I was
overcome. I cried and cried. There was a time to speak about your loved
one, even just to say his name. I could
not form words. I could barely catch my
breath between the sobs I was trying to hold in. I listened to the people who stood and talked
about losing their best friend and love of their life for 30 years, 38 years,
60 years, so on. It may be selfish, but
my thought was, ‘All I got was three years.
It’s not fair.’ It was all I got. Three years.
Yet it was also so much that I got from spending those years with Ron.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me and Ron’s family all went out to eat after the
service. It was a great, sunny afternoon
for a lunch outside at <st1:city>Bell</st1:city>’s. Everything went so smoothly. Ron’s four year old nephew, <st1:place>Milo</st1:place>,
even behaved himself. I know Ron would
have been impressed and pleased with everyone coming together and getting along
and having a day of absolutely no drama and just close togetherness. I wish he could have been there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a few more things to do in <st1:city>Kalamazoo</st1:city>
after the family headed back to <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>. I got home right after the sun slipped behind
the field in my backyard. As usual,
there were just not enough hours in the day, especially now that I have filled
all my days up. I went to sleep with
significant pain in my back. I woke up today
the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning, in pain and with my grief fresh, I did
something very uncharacteristic. I
called in to work. I have not done this,
to take care of myself, in well over a year.
I know I had to take time off to take care of Ron, including, when I
think about what was going on a year ago, last October when he was hospitalized
due to bleeding so much out of his stomach that he needed a blood
transfusion. But I have not called in,
other than to be an hour or two late, for myself in a long time. Certainly not since I returned to work in
June. Normally the guilt I experience at
doing this outweighs whatever benefit I could possibly derive. Today, though, I just needed it. I needed to take care of my back. I needed to take care of my emotional
state. I needed to stop hurtling and
stop performing and stop functioning and just take time out to be how I am. I am sure that tomorrow when I get to work
and hear how rough it was, I will feel bad.
But for right now, right in this moment in this day, I am glad I took a
time out. I am glad I hit the pause
button. I am glad I am allowing myself
to feel and miss Ron and experience this monumental loss. Sometimes, I need to slow down. My back has a way of forcing this reminder
upon me. It may be sad to be with my
feelings, but sometimes being sad is what I need.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the future, I realize I need to work on the balance. I need to find a way to move forward, but not
at breakneck speed. No more
hurtling. I need to follow my Turtle’s
example of slow and steady, moving forward one foot in front of the other, one
step at a time. Racing just winds up
depleting me. So, being mindful of the
lesson learned, I need to consciously build in some time for self-care,
reflection, grief, and for my beloved Ron Projects into my new, busy
schedule. It’s okay to be moving forward
from where I was, but it is not a race.
Healing cannot be done at a rapid pace.
Going forward, it will be one day at a time, taking time to notice where
I am and how I feel. This needs to be
the way. Anyone who sees me racing can
feel free to remind me to s l o w d o w n .</div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-7004087456779721792012-10-08T20:40:00.000-04:002012-10-08T20:40:30.453-04:00Five Months/Less Bitching, Please<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night I went to sleep and this morning I awoke with a
clear and present thought on my mind: it has been five months. Five
months since I last fell asleep in the same room with the love of my
life. Five months since I audibly heard him tell me he loves me.
Five months since I held him in my arms, kissed his sweet face, smelled his
soft hair, and whispered in his ear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all remains so fresh in my mind that it seems like it was
just yesterday and no time has passed. Yet, it also feels so long
ago. How many memorial services/moments have I held for you, Ron, in a
variety of ways/settings? How many times have I talked about you, wrote
about you, wrote to you, or shared your story? How many things do I do
daily in your memory and in your honor? Multiplied over the past five
months, how much have you been honored by me, by your friends, and by your
family? These cumulative moments and events, as well as all the changes
that happen in the world and in our lives, make it also feel like it has been
eons. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning when I left for work before the sun came out,
there was frost on the car and grass. Five months ago when my brother,
sister-in-law, and I took the dogs outside in the morning after Ron died, there
was a warm breeze and beautiful birds singing in the sunshine. Seasons forever
changing. His body died during his favorite season, a time of rebirth and
growth. Five months later, during my favorite season, everything that was
springing to life when he died is now dying and going dormant. This feels
so flip-flopped in my heart. Ron is not here to see it. How many
things happen to me in my life that I want to tell him about or experience with
him? His absence is always painful to me, even when life itself gets
easier to live.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the last five months, there have been three days during
which I did not cry. They were not magic or special days. Just days
when the tears didn’t come, for whatever reason. The rest of the days,
today being no exception, at some point or another, my heart is overcome with
the longing and grief and sadness I feel. It wells over. The
feeling is expansive. My chest caves and my face gives way and the tears
flow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One particular thing I am struck by today is the amount of
complaining and whining most people, myself included, do about our daily
lives. For as much of a necessary social support Facebook has become in
my now isolated life, I am sick of reading posts that are nothing more than
grumbling about the day-to-day challenges we all face. I also face the
same litany of complaints when talking to certain people and, again, I am
guilty of coming up with a list of gripes of my own. I should clarify
here that I am not talking about people who are up against big emotions or
life-altering situations. I know firsthand how important being able to
talk about the big stuff was for me. I am talking about those of us who
choose to complain about everyday little things, like having to do dishes, pay
bills, vacuum, do laundry, put gas in the car when it’s expensive, study, work,
exercise, clean up after a messy child or pet, etc. This is not an
exhaustive list and I think you get the gist. This is not to say that we
should inherently find these activities fun or exciting – we may or may not.
They may truly feel like a huge bummer in one’s day. But they are
necessary parts of living. They are things we all have to do in order to
get by. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To complain about it does not change the necessity of doing
these things. Does it even help us at all to “vent” about our woes?
Sometimes I think that is what I am doing, venting, which seems like it should
be somehow therapeutic, but I am not sure it really helps me. And how
does it impact others, who hear or read us complaining? If we find that
it is not really helping us all that much and may, in fact, be creating a
negative or irritating environment for others, should we continue to engage in
this behavior? It is, like all behaviors, a choice. It may be a
habit we have gotten ourselves into. Maybe it is one that is even
reinforced by others who can sympathize or commiserate with us. But, in
the long run, if this behavior is not helping anyone, perhaps it is time to
stop and find a new way to approach or cope with these things. Can you
imagine a world with less negative, grumpy, bitchy posts on Facebook? A
world in which coworkers did not complain to one another about the routine
facets of the job that earns them a paycheck? A world in which we didn’t criticize
each other? A world in which we found
things to do rather than protest about being bored? A world in which we accepted all the little
chores as a part of life and just moved forward with them rather than fighting
against them?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The reason this hits home for me today is that Ron
complained so very little. Before he was sick, he sometimes made
complaints that were funny, written or said to insight laughter from others (of
course he still did this after he was diagnosed, too). During his illness,
even though he had far more to complain about than any of the rest of us, he
did not complain . . . at least not very often, certainly not about the
mundane, and only rarely about his sad situation. The physical pain,
emotional hurt and fear at facing death, and frustration with losing function and
friends and having to depend on others . . . these are all things Ron could
have rightfully complained daily about. But, to those readers who knew
him, I ask you, how often did you really hear him complain? I lived with
him. I was witness to all of these issues. I can tell you he did
not complain about much, right down to the very end. And the stuff he did
complain about was completely understandable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It also strikes me that Ron no longer gets to participate in
these stupid, day-to-day activities. I know he would have rather been
still here - “stuck with” laundry, “burdened by” bills, “saddled with” cleaning
- than deceased. His life was cut far too short. He got ripped out
of this world too fast. He was not allowed to continue to share in the
human experience – in the good, bad, ugly, boring, or beautiful that it is.
It is over for him here on earth. And he loved this life. He loved
living. He did not want to die. I cannot emphasize that enough from
my talks with him over the long months that he knew he was terminally ill. He did not want to be done . . . he just was
given no choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, I get to thinking: if Ron cannot participate in this
life, who am I to complain about it? Any humdrum chores I have can be
accomplished, likely more efficiently, if I am not taking time out to object
about having to do them. It is time to move forward with less of this
angry weight on my heart. It is time to approach things with a more
positive outlook. It is time to stop acting like a victim of this life
and start living it like I want to be in it. Living it like Ron did -
with enthusiasm and fullness and humor and love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I am making a conscious effort to shift my perspective and
how I talk about things. Maybe you can find it in your heart to do the
same. Until more people adopt this approach, though, I am seriously
considering blocking the frequent complainers from my newsfeed. The sad
thing is, in doing this, I lose access to the joyful moments they may
share. I wish Mark Zuckerberg could devise a feature that would allow you
to just turn off the Facebook bitching and not lose the rest, but since this
does not exist, I instead ask you to do some soul searching the next time you
feel compelled to complain about some small detail. Will it help you to
spread your negativity to others? Would Ron have bitched about
this? (He was dying of cancer and barely bitched about that, so it is
doubtful.) Can this thing be accomplished with no complaints? What
will really make me feel better (dropping my laundry off, hiring a cleaning
person, approaching the studying with gratitude that I am able to learn new
things, taking joy and pride in my exercise efforts, dividing up big chores so
they seem more manageable, rewarding myself in some way for completing a task I
don’t like, taking a gamble and just not doing this thing that everyone else does
to see what happens if I don’t, etc) and can I do that instead? How will
I feel about myself if I make and follow a choice to do things differently? Most importantly, what if the alternative to
doing this silly little thing was not to exist?
Would I want that? If the answer
is ever yes, than it is time to seriously consider whether this chore or
activity has room to exist in your life.
But if the answer is no, then let’s just take the good and take the bad
and take them both and then we’ll have (as the old tv theme song goes) the
facts of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five months later, Ron remains an inspiration to me. I
still feel him influencing me to live my life with more humility, gratitude,
and compassion. Today, one way in which
I honor Ron’s memory is to move forward with less bitching. We have this day. Let us be glad in it and all that comes with it . . . for a day will come when we don't have any more days.<o:p></o:p></div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-86340214724377318942012-10-06T14:17:00.001-04:002012-10-06T14:17:47.388-04:00Still Here<br />
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I have a confession to make.
Life is getting easier to live. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This is not to say I don’t think about checking out on a
daily basis or have the constant, passive death wish that I be allowed to join
Ron as quickly as possible. I still have
those thoughts and I still feel like I would welcome a fatal accident or
illness. But, on the whole, I really am
doing better. At least right now . . . I
do realize these things ebb and flow and I could experience a backslide. For now, though, I can report, I am doing OK.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was feeling really hurt and lonely and even angry. I have not had as much support as I
expected. Ron and I had so much support
through his illness and much of that has tapered off drastically since his
death. I felt betrayed. I thought people cared about both of us. I did not expect it to wane so quickly or by
such volume. As an example, when Ron was
alive, anywhere between 100-400 people would read a blog post. Since he died, I have 20-90 people who read the
blog regularly. I still feel blessed to
have those 20-90 people who care enough to follow along. I value you, whoever you are; you make me
feel supported. Yet, it is hard not to
personalize the fact that a whole bunch of other folks no longer care to read
anymore. Maybe there are a lot of
practical reasons my readership is down.
Maybe this messy, depressing, after-the-loss stuff is too hard for some
to stick with. Maybe they really were
only reading to see how Ron was doing. Whatever
the reason, the numbers are a tangible way to express what I feel in my regular
life. When Ron was alive, people
wondered how they could help us. I am so
grateful for that help. Now that he is
gone, only a handful ask how they can help me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it is that the way to help me is much less clear than
the help that was needed before. And I
don’t ask for it well. I am not good at
asking for help, no matter what it is, and this kind of help is less
tangible. There is no way to help other than
just being there with me during this process.
There are no words that can fix it.
There is nothing that can be done to make it better. Just having someone who cares enough to stick
by me, to still talk to me, to think about me and let me know you are thinking
of me . . . that is the help that I need.
It is simple, but apparently very challenging (or is it me? do I make it challenging?) to help me. Just be with me. That is the main thing.</div>
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Every action I take, I consider what Ron would think of
it. Even my thoughts . . . how would he
think or feel about what I am thinking.
I realize this is a bit insane. Feeling
like someone is in my head. Wondering if
he would/does like me still knowing the whole of me, even more than he could
know me when he was alive and only knew the thoughts that I spoke to out
loud. It would be unnerving and
maddening and anxiety provoking, except for two things. 1) Ron loved and accepted me so
unconditionally, and was effective in making me <i>feel</i> that love, that I believe he would still be doing the same
thing now. 2) Wanting to be a person Ron
would be proud of makes me a better human in general, especially when I apply
his values of love and acceptance toward other humans. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Another way people can help me is by talking about Ron. I hate that for me he is constantly on my
mind, present in everything I do and think, but other people no longer speak
about him. Like he is forgotten. Like he did not exist. Like what we had was not real. I need to hear about him and I need to speak
about him. People can help by offering
space where Ron can live on in words and memory. I am saying this here because, in talking
with my sister, she said she was never sure if she should bring him up or if it
would be too painful. I think she was
kind of surprised to hear that I wanted her to talk about him. She mentioned maybe other people also should hear
that this is what I need. So, please, do
talk about Ron often and with as much detail as you can. Do ask me about him. I am so eager to tell our story and what I
know of him. I like sharing about him. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather than waiting around for people to somehow magically know
how to help me and reach out, since that was making me feel disappointed,
rejected, and angry, I have reinvented my life to be super, mega busy. The busiest it has ever been. I don’t know if it will be good in the long
run, but, for now, it is helping me stay alive.
I am working full time and now I have a regularly scheduled activity
every night of the week. This way, I am
not sitting around feeling sorry for myself that the phone no longer rings and
I don’t have a partner in my life. That
was a bit pathetic anyway. Too passive. Time to move forward. I have started going to yoga again. I am attending the grief group and
therapy. And, as of last week, I am now going
to roller derby practice.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat in on the <a href="http://www.cerealkillersderby.org/" target="_blank">Battle Creek Cereal Killers</a>’ practice last
week. This week, I am taking my skates,
helmet, and pads Ron got for me. If
nothing else, it will be good exercise.
But hopefully, if I can still skate and stay up, I will be fulfilling Ron’s
dream for me that I become a roller girl who skates in the bouts. I am a little nervous. Can I do it?
What if I can’t even skate? What
if I break something? What if I am too
old or timid? Having watched, I think I
can do what they are doing. I think I
can, I think I can, I think I can. I
have not told too many people what I am up to (until now, for the 20-90 who will
read this). I treasure having this secret
joy, nurturing my alter ego, knowing that maybe, just maybe, I could turn out
to be the incredible badass I have always wanted to be. I smile as I write this. I like the two versions of me. Hardworking, rule-abiding, detail-oriented,
eager-to-please, compassionate to others far more than to myself, mental health
professional Heather by day – tough, skating, hip-checking, body-slamming,
roller girl by night. Yeah. I think I can live with that. It makes it easier to breathe, knowing what I
am in the process of becoming. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it is a process.
Not just derby, but all of it. I
am really working so hard. I am reading
so much about grief and loss and hope and the human condition. I am reading Christian and Buddhist and
secular texts about life and death. I am
learning and learning and learning. I am
applying what I learn. I am meditating
daily. I am still writing to Ron. I do see that, being so busy all of the time,
I need to create balance in my life so I still have time for my reading and
learning and grieving and feeling and writing and Ron Projects. It is going to be tricky. But I think I can do it.</div>
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</div>
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I continue to honor what I had with Ron by staying in touch
with the people I met through him who nurture me and who are not afraid or
bothered to talk about him. I spent a
weekend in <st1:state>Ohio</st1:state> visiting his
friends. I got to hear stories about him
and got to visit some of his favorite places from his time there. I am planning a visit to <st1:city>Pittsburgh</st1:city>
with a friend of mine, who became a friend of Ron’s, to go to the <a href="http://www.neighborsinthestrip.com/thestrip/thestrip.html" target="_blank">Strip District</a> and eat at the places he loved and see the working class city he adored living
in. I continue to live my life with Ron
in it, even if he is gone. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVgjFBszVcoDiWsHQqT72YsTUfSYHQUOueNnOCl1IImIKMWLpFyB96aK-T6nkjxsc_6d7IX_KNKZsBcncExW-Wtqwzodzno5STnjSSagL2RFmiqYLMbcJCAHsKTKt5L7LNWhmdIdiLSwp/s1600/Ohio+053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVgjFBszVcoDiWsHQqT72YsTUfSYHQUOueNnOCl1IImIKMWLpFyB96aK-T6nkjxsc_6d7IX_KNKZsBcncExW-Wtqwzodzno5STnjSSagL2RFmiqYLMbcJCAHsKTKt5L7LNWhmdIdiLSwp/s320/Ohio+053.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ron's most loved greasy spoon in Ashland, OH</div>
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I feel like I am a ship and he is my masthead. I don’t know if this is insane or what, but
it is how I get by. He had such an
influence on me. I can’t just be done
with him because he stopped breathing. I
need to go forth and do all of the things he didn't get to do and see the
places he wanted to show me and include the things he wanted me to have in my
life when he was gone.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know Ron wanted me to be as happy as possible for as long
as I am living without him. He knew this wouldn't be easy. He and I both wondered
if I would make it. But, if I am alive,
I know he would not want me to be miserable.
I am trying to fill my life with events and moments, large and small, that
make me happy. Last night, I enjoyed
walking around Art Hop with my brother.
Last Friday, I enjoyed dinner with my sister-in-law. During the week, I enjoy lunches with
friends. On some weekends, I enjoy being
social with my friends (and Ron’s).
Other weekends, I truly value the quiet and solitude of living in the
country, hanging laundry on the clothesline, mowing the yard, and reading in
the hammock. Last weekend, I walked the
dogs five miles along a river; they are a daily joy, even when they feel like a
chore. There is fullness to this busy
life. I need to achieve the balance
between busy and restorative time, but that is something I have always been
working on and something most of us will be working on for the rest of our
lifetime.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Nothing earth shattering in this post. Just a little update, for those still reading
along. I am going to get out there and
enjoy this day. I am planning on
spending time with my brother-from-another-mother and am looking forward to a
drive through the changing trees to whatever we end up doing (camping? the lake?
drunken walk through <st1:city>Grand Rapids</st1:city>? it has yet to be determined, and I like the spontaneity
of that). In closing, I share with you
this picture I took a few hours ago of the last heart-shaped leaf still
clinging to Ron’s memorial redbud tree.
It fell while I was writing this post.
I am not sure I have the exact leaf, but I went out and collected one
from the ground (I didn't have the heart to pluck the last one while it was
still attached) and am pressing it, maybe to frame or write a poem on or . .
. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToBe_SrUy8eXvNar1P8Ff9enmnXXAVOoCud50quRpgWdaJRT8HWX3DDYBV8Oe-xiwSw9a5aBLb6sfOzCLTR8zXXxnHc-_vL82ggQs3Ijx8RusIbad8e1TNUIRcMnyiG3pIA_OMJYW-J23/s1600/art+hop+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToBe_SrUy8eXvNar1P8Ff9enmnXXAVOoCud50quRpgWdaJRT8HWX3DDYBV8Oe-xiwSw9a5aBLb6sfOzCLTR8zXXxnHc-_vL82ggQs3Ijx8RusIbad8e1TNUIRcMnyiG3pIA_OMJYW-J23/s320/art+hop+008.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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last heart</div>
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Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-45061022287247388052012-09-25T22:22:00.000-04:002012-09-25T22:22:33.731-04:00Truck Stop Love (no, not talking about the band)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every thought, every move, every moment . . . it is all
about him. I find ways to incorporate
him into everything I do. I still write
to him daily. I visit his friends. I create art about him. I talk to him, mostly in my head, but sometimes
aloud, as I did this past weekend on my otherwise lonely drive home from his
college town in <st1:state>Ohio</st1:state>. I had a whole conversation with a person who
is not alive. And he made me laugh so
hard that my tears were temporarily stopped.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is exhausting, though.
This grief. This energy. This anger at the injustice of it all. This love I maintain in this seemingly one-sided
relationship. I find myself so very
tired. Add in the energy I lose during
the week at my job and I am one very overwhelmed person. I find myself with little time, patience, or
stamina to talk to my friends or family.
I usually answer when the phone rings, because that seems like it will
take less energy than having to listen to a message and call them back. But I know I am not myself on the phone. I feel badly about that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am reading.
Lots. I am learning. Lots.
I am still doing grief counseling and therapy. I will start attending a support group this
week for partner loss. I am trying to
correspond with people who write me or email me instead of calling (honestly,
that is easier than talking in a lot of ways), but . . . like everything else,
I am so busy that my responses are quite delayed. There are a lot of moments when I feel like I
am in over my head, having bitten off far more than I can chew in trying to
work and maintain the house and care for the dogs and maintain social
relationships and on top of all that normal day-to-day stuff (which I struggled
to do even before cancer took Ron from me) I am grieving so hard. </div>
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Have I mentioned I am exhausted?</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to blog more, but simply have not had the time. Tonight, I told myself I am allowed. I am allowed to just write a disjointed blog
post and not reread it into the wee hours.
I am allowed to occasionally throw some shit up here. Because I need to. I need to say his name. I need to talk about him. I need to share memories. I need to sometimes put it all out
there. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first night I was alone in the house after Ron died, I
used his toothbrush. I cannot explain
this behavior, which sounds a bit disgusting to the hygienic side of me. I used his toothbrush and I have not stopped
using it. Four and a half months later
and I am still using it. I don’t think
it is time to switch yet. The bristles
are still holding strong. Yet I have
become acutely aware that I will have to move on to another one at some
point. And I don’t want to. The way I keep searching for him in
everything, this is just one more thing.
Another way to have him be a part of my daily rituals. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, I threw away some of his condiments in the
fridge. I would never have used
them. Ever. Ranch dressing. Chocolate and strawberry ice cream
toppings. I kept them because they were
his. I am reading Joan Didion’s <i>The Year of Magical Thinking</i> and I
realize that keeping them is magical thinking.
At first, I told myself I was keeping them in case a house guest came
over and wanted them for some really random reason (note: this would require me
to keep food on hand for said houseguest, unless they just wanted to eat
condiments straight out of the bottle). What
I was really doing was keeping them because . . . well, what if Ron came back
and wanted them? What if he walked
through the door and was like, “Heather, where is my hot cocoa? Where is my ranch? Where is my shrimp cocktail sauce? Where is my frappuccino mix?” I slowly allow myself to get rid of these
things, on trash night, but only after the labels have expired. Because even if he did come in, I wouldn’t
want him to eat expired stuff. So this
makes sense, right?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I use his deodorant. Old Spice.
Sometimes I spray the dogs’ collars or the couch cushions or even just
the air with the terrible Polo Sport he used to keep in his car and used to mask
cigarette odor when he would first drive down here. Even though it was and is terrible, I loved
it because it was his. The smell mingled
with all the others and became associated with him. Now, I bury my head in the sweaters and
shirts he had the longest, or inside the brim of a cap, searching for a
lingering trace of his body smell. I
have so much fear that I will forget what he smelled like. Not the cigarettes or cologne or deodorant or
detergent . . . just him. His skin. His hair.
Smell is a very hard thing to preserve.
Everything in our household eventually blends together and starts to
smell the same. Mine and his together
make a new smell. Losing his original scent,
the scent that could only be made by his body, feels like losing a part of him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first four months after he was gone, I smoked. Not all the time and not very much and not
even regular cigarettes, but pretty much every day. Cloves.
It started because he left a pack in the car and I felt a need to finish
them off. Ron would have wanted it. We used to share one on the drives into the
hospital. He would want me to smoke that
pack in his honor. And then I bought
another pack. And another. Because why not? I could smoke every day of my life and still
not have smoked all the cigarettes Ron wanted to be able to smoke. But, when the weather became colder and I was
smoking with the windows almost all the way up on the way to work, I realized I
need to give this habit up or face owning a smoker’s car. It has been two weeks now and I am missing it
so much. Not because I was addicted or
anything like that. Just because I liked
to do it. (Holy crap! Rereading that, I realize it was the same
line of logic he used to give me about why he wouldn’t quit. “I’m not addicted. I just like it.”) It was a way to be connected to Ron. I sometimes felt like I was channeling him
when I would be smoking and driving and listening to music from his iPod. I think I have given it up . . . but maybe
not. </div>
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As I drop weight, more slowly now than at first, I need a
belt with every pair of pants I own (and I am too cheap to run out and buy new
pants when I will likely just gain it back at some point). Naturally, I started using one of his
belts. I am so grateful to his siblings
for talking me into keeping a few that day when I was giving away everything
for no apparent reason. I usually wear
this cotton belt of his. On days when
the air is damp, I can sometimes smell Petticoat Junction (AKA “The Coat” in
Ron speak) wafting from the belt.</div>
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Petticoat is the truck stop restaurant where Ron was working
part time when we started dating. The
Coat did not last long into our relationship, because he could only work there
on nights and weekends since he was also working full time doing IT support
during the regular work week. Nights and
weekends was when we could talk to and/or see each other. When we both wanted to spend more time
together than he wanted to spend earning a pay check at a beloved <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>
greasy spoon, Ron simply stopped showing up there. It was not the most graceful exit, but I seem
to recall that he felt it would be the least confrontational . . . or something
like that. Based on experiences we had
with other Coat employees and his employers over the last year or so, I believe
he was forgiven.</div>
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The belt smelling like The Coat triggered a strong memory
for me in July when I first started wearing it.
Generally, when he had to work there on a Friday, I would drive up to <st1:city>Alma</st1:city>
after getting out of my work and spend time with my folks until he had a chance
to get out of his. He liked to change out
of the jeans and black t-shirt he always wore and get showered so that I would
not smell Line Cook Ron. </div>
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One particular Friday, I could not stand to wait. We were texting each other during my drive up. I was speeding, hurtling toward him as fast
as I could. I was feeling extra
spontaneous and impulsive. I told him I
was taking exit 127 off U.S. 127 and, if he allowed it, would turn directly east
and stop at The Coat to say a quick hello.
Ron was mildly nervous, not wanting me to see him all greasy and smelly
and sweaty. But, he admitted he could
take a quick break and would like to see me, too.</div>
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I pulled around the back, as he instructed. It was misting outside. The lot was nothing but mud with semi-trucks
and trailers parked all over. Ron came
out the backdoor of the restaurant and strode across the lot toward my Subaru. Black t-shirt. Stained jeans. Apron. Moss green baseball cap with a white skull on
it. Black work shoes. That face.
That perfect, round, ruddy-cheeked, glistening, hard-working face. Those eyes, searching me out with love and mischief
and newly-dating butterflies-in-the-tummy anxiety behind them. He tossed a cigarette aside as he made his way
over, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth before he reached me. I was out of the car and running to him. We wrapped each other in the biggest bear hug
and were kissing each other, just these funny smacks on the lips, over and
over. </div>
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I asked if I could let the dogs run around. Ron said he didn’t see why not, if I trusted
them enough. He was still learning that
they are pretty good dogs who come back when they are called. They scrambled through mud puddles, around
the trucks, sniffing the brush at the edge of the lot. Ron and I held each other and watched them,
still stealing kisses (longer ones now) and hugs from one another, taking time
to sneak glances and long stares at each other’s eyes. I was (still am) so so so in love with this
boy. There was the tangible smell of
Coat grease and cigarettes and sweat coming off him, visible as steam because
it was so cold and rainy out. My stomach
was doing flip flops. My insides were
completely warm and tingly mush. My
heart was racing. My head felt
elated. I could have floated away. Ron Clark.
Completely unexpected in my life at that time. Completely attractive, even when covered in truck
stop grease. Completely the love of my
life. I admit that I wanted him so bad -
right there, right then. I didn’t think
I would be able to wait for him to get out of work. I wanted to tell him to run away with me so
we could just be together after a long work week of being apart. </div>
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But, we said our goodbyes.
Slowly parted ways. I piled my
muddy dogs back in my new car, cringing when I saw how messy they were making
it and even more so when I thought about how mad my dad would be when I arrived
at my parents’ home with them looking that way.
The feeling I had for Ron was so intense. Even though we only had to wait a few more hours
to see each other, Ron kept texting throughout the night. In love.
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So now I wear his belt most days . . . and some days I can smell
the love. It lives there, in the belt. It is older now and faded, but right
alongside the smell of the fry grease, there is Ron and there is that moment .
. . hugging in a parking lot of mud and trucks . . . not aware of how precious
little time we would have . . . just frozen and captivated by having found each
other . . . </div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-81873520251026298802012-09-03T13:11:00.000-04:002012-09-03T13:11:59.798-04:00Updates: Work, Depression, & Derby<br />
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Time is going by. The
sun keeps rising. The sun keeps
setting. Life carries on. I carry on.
I do not judge whether these things are good or bad. They simply are. </div>
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I am working more. I
am expected to be back up to 40 hours by the first week in October. There have been some changes on my team at
work that have added to my responsibility and the pressure to conform to a
normal 40 hour work week for the first time in a year (I dropped down to 32
last September to better care for Ron and was off work completely from February
through June to provide 24 hour care to him in his final months and to take a few
weeks for grieving). To say I don’t feel
ready for the responsibility or for a full time work week is an
understatement. I fought it, at
first. Felt hurt and angry that I had so
much support while Ron was ill and now that he is gone, felt only pressure to
magically be “better” at a time when I was/am feeling so much worse. But, they have been so willing to work with
me. Far more accommodating than I
imagine most employers would be. And I
need the income and the insurance. So, I
am making my best effort to be an efficient employee again and to eventually
pull my weight on the team after they have all carried me for so long.</div>
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At work, I am functional.
I think I am doing a good job and am even adapting to my new
responsibilities and learning new things.
But it is ironic sometimes. I
will be meeting with a person and will feel that my depression and desire not
to exist is so much more severe than theirs – I cannot help but compare. Or they will give me a fantastic idea about a
comfortable way to end my life. I
realize I am saying this publicly. I
realize it is not normal to talk about wanting to die. I am aware, just as I am when meeting with
these walk-ins, that it is not normal for my thought process to jump to ‘that
is a great method’ or to take a cue from the very people who are seeking help
from me. I have a great deal of self
awareness about this. I am not acting on
these thoughts. But they are there. Constantly.
I am currently in the practice of noticing them and letting them
go. </div>
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I am trying my very best to stay alive, even when I don’t
want to be in a life without Ron. He and
I knew this would likely happen, given my family history. We talked about it. We talked about the very real possibility I would
stop living soon after he did. I know he
would be proud of my efforts to stay here.
And it is an effort. In fact,
every day that I make it to the end with all these thoughts swirling around in
my head, I feel like I have accomplished something monumental. My desire to die has been less over the past
3-4 days. That is something. But, I know it ebbs and flows. I am not “over it.”</div>
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Please don’t judge me for having these thoughts. If you have not experienced a love like me
and Ron’s and a loss like the one I am facing, you cannot possibly understand
where I am at. When I talk to others who
have lost their partner at a young age or in early stages of the relationship, most
of them confirm having shared similar thoughts.
Most of them talk about it taking a year or more before they found their
own reason for staying alive. Heck, I
think it is safe to say that most people faced with any kind of loss have had
these thoughts. It may not be a “normal”
thing for me to be sharing about my desire not to live, but it is also not the
most abnormal thing to feel or think for someone in my position. I accept that and hope others can, too.</div>
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I have started checking in with my therapist about how close
to the edge of the metaphorical cliff I am.
I imagine the cliff to be the <st1:place>Grand Canyon</st1:place>. Having been there a few times, I know the
places that have railings and the places that don’t. I know where I have previously climbed over railings
for photo opportunities and looked down and imagined the plunge. Sometimes, when I check in with my therapist,
I am dangling a foot off the rim, just to see if it feels right. There have been times when I am looking
straight down with very little to anchor me to the edge. At times, I am a few feet away. Sometimes, I imagine myself just sitting on
the railing, legs hanging over the far side.
Other times, I am safely behind the railing. As a way to check in with blog readers, I can
tell you that today I am safely behind the railing – taking my photos like any other
normal tourist would.</div>
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Forgive me, readers, for brutal honesty is all I have left
to give. I spend so much of my week
putting on my work face and performing.
Outside of work, I don’t want to perform. Work is a blessing in that it allows me a
sense of purpose and goal-directed activity.
I can accomplish specific tasks and feel like I have done
something. Sometimes, I even feel like I
have helped someone else – I get to share a connection to the struggles of humanity. But, it is also a curse because after
spending so much time there, I don’t have anything left to give socially. It makes me more isolated. I cannot pretend to be okay outside of
work. Anyone I hang out with has to be
prepared for the truth. Any questions asked
will be answered frankly. I don’t really
call anyone, even when I plan to or want to.
Sometimes, I don’t even answer the phone. And if no one calls me, then I go without any
social connection at all. For example,
Saturday I did not talk to a single living human all day. I talked to my dogs . . . and to Ron. I expect the isolative pattern will get
worse, at least for a little while, after I am back to full time.</div>
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Being alone in my house is not all bad, though. Sometimes I need it. It allows me a chance to be with my feelings
and thoughts without having to protect anyone else or try to smile or sugarcoat
things. It gives me time to openly cry
and sob to the point of exhaustion. In
fact, I have been doing so much of this lately that I have not needed a sleep
aid in over a week (yay!). It offers the
chance for me to write to Ron and to work on my Ron Projects. The Ron Projects are some of the most healing
and helpful things I have in my life right now.
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Still, I like to know that people care and think about
me. I feel selfish saying this, but it
is true. I often feel abandoned. I have people I considered dear friends who
do not check in with me for over a month . . . in fact, I have had to reach out
to them rather than them reaching out to me.
I don’t know why this is. I
imagine maybe death is hard to talk about or be around. I imagine seeing me sad to the point of not
wanting to exist is difficult. I imagine
maybe they do not know what to say or do not want to acknowledge what is
painful. I get it. I get all of these things. All I can tell you is that I need friends now
more than ever. I need people to reach
out to me. I may not be the most
responsive, but I need to know I still matter to living people . . . otherwise,
why am I sticking around when the person I really mattered to has already moved
on? I need to know that people still
think about me. It can be as simple as
just letting me know that. I just had someone
this week look into my eyes and tell me, “I don’t know what to say to you, but
I think about you every day.” This simple
statement meant so much to me and really touched my soul. </div>
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Even just the offer that you are there to hang out with or
talk to is enough. I may never take you
up on it, but just to know you are there, I feel like I have some support. In my lack of close friends being there for
me in this way, I have become very aware of the unexpected support I have
received from people I do not know well who have reached out. I feel nothing but immense gratitude for
them. I may not have ever gone over to
their house or picked up the phone to talk to them, but I knew/know I could/can. That means so much. Truly, it is so important. I am a widow.
Not a leper. Grief is not contagious. Please don’t write me off. Please do reach out. I might not be as much fun as I used to be,
but I am still here and I need to fill my life with reasons to be here.</div>
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I know what has and hasn’t been helpful during this
time. I know what I will and won’t do
for/to others who may (unfortunately) one day find themselves in my
situation. That is one consolation I can
take from this time. I am learning.</div>
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Outside of work and Ron Projects, I have stayed busy with
therapy and grief counseling. I will be
starting a six week support group at the end of September for partner
loss. Literally I will be spending 4-5
hours per week on formally processing my grief with professionals, not to
mention the time I take on my own to do this through reading and research and
self-reflection. I have an hour commute (round
trip) every day. I have to single-handedly
take care of my 100+ year old farm house and the 2+ acres of property it sits
on. And I am a mom to 2 dogs, one of
whom has significant health issues and just had surgery on Friday to remove a rapidly
growing mass from her chest. So, yep, I
am a busy person and I really don’t have much time for a social life. I feel overwhelmed when I think about all of
this stuff compounded, so I try to take it day by day, asking simply ‘what do I
have to get done today?’ And I still try
to build in time for social activities so that I am not too isolated. </div>
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Last week, I hung out on Friday with new friends and Saturday
with old friends. I had a great time and
love the people who accept me as I am: sad or funny or drunk or angry or borderline-suicidal
or momentarily happy or inspired or reminiscing about Ron or not any of those
things but something else entirely. Just
being with people who let me be whatever and however I am is all I need. By the end of the weekend, though, I was
ready to be alone again. And then I just
cried and cried and cried. It was so
much social activity for someone who has become so isolated. </div>
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Yesterday, because I needed to be home taking care of Ru
after her surgery, I had two different couples come visit me at the house at
different points in the day. So rarely
do I get visitors out here. And I need
that. I need people to come here and
help me make new memories in this space.
It was nice to talk to friends.
Nice to have people visit. When
Ron was sick, we had more visitors than we could handle, plus all the hospice
people in and out of the house. Since he
died, I can count with my fingers the number of people who have come out here. That makes the space lonely at times, to go
from so much to so little activity. So,
I do welcome visitors . . . if you are willing to be one, let me know and we
can set it up.</div>
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No matter who I am hanging out with, they are not Ron. This awareness sits with me always. I am constantly missing him, even when
surrounded by the loving presence of others.
Damn, I miss him so much!!!</div>
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I think I have pretty much (momentarily?) given up on trying
to love myself or see myself the way Ron did. It is impossible. He loved me so much. Way more than I can ever love me. And I don’t care about loving me . . . at
least not right now. This makes me
pretty frustrating to work with in therapy.
I don’t want to change right now.
I don’t want to get better. I
just want to be where I am and tell my story.</div>
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One thing that gives me hope, though, is roller derby. I had not been to a bout since Ron died. I didn’t know if I would even still like it;
though I got into it before I met him, it was something that we shared a love
of and so I wasn’t sure if I could handle it anymore. But, spur of the moment, I dragged my brother
and sister-in-law to a bout at Wings Stadium on <st1:date day="18" month="8" year="2012">8/18/12</st1:date>. Killamazoo
Derby Darlins beat the Grand Raggidy Roller Girls in an amazing bout with a lot
of action. I was surprised at how much I
still love it. I was shocked at how really,
genuinely happy I was there. I truly do LOVE
roller derby. </div>
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That same week, I had randomly talked to the “fresh meat” (term
for new derby skaters) coach for the Battle Creek Cereal Killers. They practice on Tuesday and Thursday nights
near enough to my house that I think I can get home from work, feed the dogs,
gear-up, and go. I think there is a very
real possibility, once Ru heals and once my busy September is over and once I
complete six weeks of this partner loss group, that I may start skating for
them and see where that takes me. I may
not love myself like Ron did, but I have a spark of hope that if I can succeed
at derby, I may be able to love myself for that. I may be able to love derby persona
Heather. Going to the Killamazoo bout
reinforced this idea for me, then I arrived home that same night to a care
package from my fabulous little sister who attended a four bout tournament in
Texas and sent me some awesome derby swag.
It was like a message that week, beating constant: derby is going to be my
future. We all have to have something we
can envision ourselves being passionate about.
For me, right now, that thing is roller derby. Plus, what a way to honor Ron, who last
summer bought for me all the gear I need to be a derby girl and encouraged me
to pursue it. I know he will smile if I
ever make this dream a reality.</div>
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Package from Holly - the cake mix is for eating, dry - don't knock it 'til you try it</div>
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OK, this is enough of a rambling update. I meant to make this post about some of my
Ron Projects, but I guess it is just all about me. So, coming soon, more on the Projects. For now, thanks for bearing with me while I
bare my soul.</div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-65357536887538734102012-08-22T21:46:00.000-04:002012-08-22T21:46:59.766-04:00Ron's Camp Gordonwood Reunion Tour<br />
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On <st1:date day="5" month="8" year="2012">8/5/12</st1:date>
at about <st1:time hour="11" minute="30">11:30am</st1:time>, I got in my car,
rolled the windows down, and headed east.
Destination: Gordonwood Camp and <st1:place><st1:placename>Conference</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. <st1:place>Mission</st1:place>: Scatter Ron Clark’s ashes into Turtle (Ron’s
name for it, but it was originally Tadpole) Pond. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Ron told me, long ago, that he wanted some of his remains to
be at Gordonwood, the idyllic camp scene where he had some of his happiest
memories, made some of his dearest friends, and met his first love. Specifically, he wanted the ashes to go in
his favorite pond. Ron adored Gordonwood,
spent many entire summers there, and told me how his heart broke when they shut
down the camp. Even though it is not
running the way it was during its heyday, he still wanted to be there when he
was done living. As he got nearer and
nearer to the end of his life, he talked about this with more frequency and I
assured him I would see that his wish was carried out.</div>
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Originally, Ron just wanted me to go put him there. Private.
Me and him – just the two of us.
Me letting go, releasing him to be forever where some of his more joyful
moments in life took place. Ron never
wanted a big fuss. He liked to keep it
simple. </div>
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However, as we talked about the logistics of this, me never
having been there and camp having been closed for many years and trails likely
having grown over, we realized I might need some help. So, when camp friends Jen and Jo were
visiting us last winter, we asked if they would guide me. They agreed.</div>
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Then, when Ron and I were talking about his final wishes
with his mother and sister while they were visiting one evening, his sister expressed that she wanted to be there, too, since she had also gone to
camp and, in that way, it was a shared experience. Ron was hesitant. He knew the camp was closed and he didn’t
want anyone to get into trouble on his account. He worried about too many cars drawing attention. I believe he told her she’d have to wait and see.</div>
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When the time came to follow through on his wishes, I felt
that if Ron’s siblings wanted to be there, they should be. So, I told them of the date Jen, Jo, and I
had set and they were both free and wanted to join us. From there, I offered that Jen could invite
her sister, Liz, who was one of Ron’s camp friends, and Liz would also be
welcome to bring her husband, Rick (I met them both when they came to visit
last winter). Then I learned that Ron’s
former girlfriend, Ann, was going to be in <st1:state>Michigan</st1:state>
that weekend and that it would probably mean a lot for her to be invited. And another close camp friend, Nell, was also
going to be in <st1:state>Michigan</st1:state>. Ann lives in <st1:place><st1:city>Washington</st1:city>,
<st1:state>DC</st1:state></st1:place> and Nell lives in <st1:state>New
Hampshire</st1:state>, so it’s not like they are here all the
time. Something aligned and they were here
at the same time, on this particular weekend, and it just seemed like
it was meant to be that they should join us.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would be lying if I said it was not a hard decision to
expand the group. Anything beyond just
me and Jen and Jo and I knew I would not be able to grieve as openly (even with
Jen and Jo I don’t know if I could have).
So, making the decision meant shifting my perspective a bit from this
being something for me to do for myself and for Ron to something for me to do
for Ron and for others . . . and if I could get something out of the process,
too, great. I had never met Ann or Nell,
so that was stretching a bit further. I
have a hard time grieving in front of anyone, let alone folks I do not
know. The biggest leap was Ann. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ann was Ron’s first girlfriend, first kiss, and first
love. They met at Gordonwood and Ron
shared many memories with me of their moments there. The whole concept of a camp love story is so
romantic. I told Ron, when we were first
dating and talking about such things, that I was jealous not of Ann, but of
both of them, for having such a beautiful first love story. Ron and Ann stayed together for five years,
making the relationship work outside of camp and after it closed down and even
from long distances/different states.
They remained friends after parting ways and she sent him encouraging
messages when he was sick. She even
reached out to me after he died. So,
although I didn’t know Ann, I did have a connection to her and knew what she
meant to Ron and could guess a bit at what he meant to her. Still, meeting her for the first time without
Ron and in the very location where their story unfolded made me very nervous. Since Ron’s been gone, I often have anxiety
(which was not there when he was alive) when I think of him and Ann . . . they
shared more years together than Ron and I got to and in many ways I worry that it
was a happier time (you know, since they weren’t burdened with battling
terminal cancer and all that goes with it).
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end, I felt like every one of these camp folks needed
to be there. And everyone wanted to be there. The night before we met, I had some very
sacred time with Ron dividing his ashes.
He stuck with me and was there when I woke the next morning. Surprisingly, I felt calm. I could hear Ron in my head. Initially, he was saying, “Stay true,
Babydoll.” I didn’t really know what
that meant, but as I drove east and could hear that over and over, I (or Ron?) began
to tag onto the end of it ‘to yourself’ so it became “Stay true to
yourself.” I still wasn’t sure exactly
what that meant, but I figured it meant not to let my anxiety overwhelm
me. To stay true to the mission for
Ron. To stay true to my emotions. To stay true to my memories of us.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnANFX_VtHudmTK0aHnVEsq17CG-Q-cgeOIu__qkMZU3HVZoBTofdiZ8IH7F5N7Q5Is4rTABsM1ER4GkLateSB5LP9egpu91nut0swDYy_apS1070hHzqC8VNUd39zMCNm_UHyC9fcVJiD/s1600/gordonwood+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnANFX_VtHudmTK0aHnVEsq17CG-Q-cgeOIu__qkMZU3HVZoBTofdiZ8IH7F5N7Q5Is4rTABsM1ER4GkLateSB5LP9egpu91nut0swDYy_apS1070hHzqC8VNUd39zMCNm_UHyC9fcVJiD/s320/gordonwood+002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ron's siblings, Heather and Doug</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, on that Sunday, I made it to a place I had never been
before and met up with Doug, Heather, Jen, Jo, Liz, Rick, Ann,
and Nell at the gates of <st1:place><st1:placetype>Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename>Gordonwood</st1:placename></st1:place>. Rick and I were the only non-campers of the
group, but we fell into step and began our tour. It was both a beautiful and sad day for many
reasons. Even though I had never been
there before, my heart sank at the sight of stripped plumbing, broken glass, and
boarded up windows on the buildings. I
can only imagine how it would have felt if I had been one of the returning
campers, seeing youthful memories altered that way. The tour was a mix of laughter over hilarious
nostalgia and somber silence at what had become of some of the treasured
locations. Just being in the hallowed
spaces of Gordonwood brought on a mix of emotions and tears for all of us.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZHvCp6zuUjHr1PwvVtbVIl0d0Ti2FAhzuKUcn4rBg6yiKyQ96gwAqRKXwTHVvBwEwQ-mnDaE4rTohEdJ8d2FCnWo66cjGCbkvARQ68FG-z3Hu2413Afj5Wnfv6LAoMckyhmQ8h13DlSAk/s1600/gordonwood+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZHvCp6zuUjHr1PwvVtbVIl0d0Ti2FAhzuKUcn4rBg6yiKyQ96gwAqRKXwTHVvBwEwQ-mnDaE4rTohEdJ8d2FCnWo66cjGCbkvARQ68FG-z3Hu2413Afj5Wnfv6LAoMckyhmQ8h13DlSAk/s320/gordonwood+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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To get to Turtle/Tadpole Pond, we needed to take a few
trails. The only problem was, many of
the trails had grown over significantly in the eight years since Gordonwood
closed. The main trails we could find
fairly well and the returning campers remembered the general whereabouts of the
pond. So, we pushed through the brush
and brambles, alternating leaders at the head of the group, changing direction
when needed, consulting one another about the best route. It was a sunny day and we were trekking up
and down some small hills, through overgrown forest. Eventually, Nell located the pond, but it was
surrounded by thick, thorny brush. There
was no place to stand all together as a group and hold space for Ron, as we had
planned. There was supposed to be a
grassy area, on the other side of the pond from where we were, but we could not
see any way to get to it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Jen asked me how I would feel, if we didn’t make headway
soon, about holding space for Ron at <st1:place><st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Ekelund</st1:placename></st1:place>, the larger body of water
on the property where Ron had once served as a lifeguard and invented a game
called Water Ultimate Ball. I understood
where she was coming from. I was hot and
sweaty and thirsty. Most of us were
bleeding from some part of our bodies or another, on account of all the brambles
and thorns. I have no idea how much time
had passed, but I can confidently say at least an hour . . . maybe two. I could understand the appeal of glistening <st1:place><st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Ekelund</st1:placename></st1:place>, especially for everyone to
gather and remember Ron without incurring further injury. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfm7HI5TQUFn0TcWQ5ttUu5I_q7znJhzk5r_zzTsKrhtnaJuhzxd695c4KvtZWiK6eR8i9BzqzBg8ym2y7I21L2mJTy9JOOfnPoWmGJ2dTXp-e5Dtg0Msmh_Hm_DcrJkGy62jvlcHNuvr/s1600/gordonwood+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfm7HI5TQUFn0TcWQ5ttUu5I_q7znJhzk5r_zzTsKrhtnaJuhzxd695c4KvtZWiK6eR8i9BzqzBg8ym2y7I21L2mJTy9JOOfnPoWmGJ2dTXp-e5Dtg0Msmh_Hm_DcrJkGy62jvlcHNuvr/s320/gordonwood+015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lake Ekelund beckons in the sunlight beyond the trees</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I also knew how specific Ron had been about where he
wanted to be for his final resting spot.
So, I told Jen sure, the group could hold space at the lakeside, but I
would need to get Ron into that pond.
Certainly, as a last alternative, I could crawl through the brambles to
the pond’s edge. Before resorting to
that, though, I told Jen I wanted to go on one more scouting trip to see if I
could find any semblance of the grassy location I’d heard about.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a short person. I stooped even lower and could see a thin
trail through the branches. It may have
been just an animal trail. Or it may be that
animals were just keeping tapped down the larger trail, upon which, I am told,
Ron once drove his red Ford Festiva. I
got real low to the ground and just started moving, following what I thought I
could see as it wound around. I put my
arms in front of my face, ignored my braids as they got caught in the thorns,
and basically just started almost jogging, pulled in a direction. I believe I was guided along by Ron. Before too long, I arrived at a grassy spot,
big enough for us all to stand in a circle, just as I had envisioned it. There was a white swing sitting still in a
shaft of sunlight. I knew this was the
spot and began calling to the group, playing a real life version of Marco Polo
until they arrived. “Just take it low
and fast,” I called to them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyyV4tpx5Etg8Xkvoi9g5NuS5bg_BOhgYFvehKmXxYe_-cbcWcNH-S0Vcx8QHwsUJ0fko3jLKvKeL8y4xRFnuAMS6HY8DrkhnFYlMz4pjbWjKqDWZ7bBZPM4oVk29ieDmTvjpzN063A0R/s1600/gordonwood+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyyV4tpx5Etg8Xkvoi9g5NuS5bg_BOhgYFvehKmXxYe_-cbcWcNH-S0Vcx8QHwsUJ0fko3jLKvKeL8y4xRFnuAMS6HY8DrkhnFYlMz4pjbWjKqDWZ7bBZPM4oVk29ieDmTvjpzN063A0R/s320/gordonwood+012.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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This is the "trail" that led us to the pond </div>
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photo taken on the way out, so it has already been passed through ten times</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
look real close in the middle toward bottom and you might see Ron's sister's head</div>
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<br /></div>
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We spent some time just sitting in the grass. Catching our breath. Observing the beauty of the spot. Letting the very clear feeling of Ron fill
us. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Turtle/Tadpole Pond</div>
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<br /></div>
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I could hear crying from behind me. I had barely shed a tear and did not feel comfortable crying . . . I felt like the odd one out. The non-camper. Like I didn’t have a right to be sad in this place, because these were not my Ron memories, because I was not there when they happened. Yet I was sad. And the stories Ron told me of camp had become like my memories. I was here to fulfill the wish of my deceased love. How could I not grieve?
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew I had to move away from the group for a moment in
order to let it out. I stood, pushed
through some more brush, deep belly sobs escaping as I moved, and found a mossy
rock in the woods where I could cry by myself.
Doug came shortly after. He was
there to comfort me, which instantly made me stop crying. I just do not do well grieving (like, really
grieving, from the core of my being, the way I need to) in front of
others. So, I pulled it together and
took reassurance in his calm presence. After
we talked for awhile, we headed back to the group where everyone was sharing
memories of Ron.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hearing about a Ron that I didn’t know initially had me
feeling left out. The stories are from
this great, epic part of his life that I did not get to experience with
him. I hate that (darn my Presbyterian
upbringing – why couldn’t I have been raised Episcopal, too?)! I so wish I could have been there, not just
to be with Ron, but also to have the camp experience, meet all of his wonderful
friends, and enjoy the beauty of Gordonwood.
Later, though, I would recall the new stories I heard of Ron as if they
were new memories of my own, so I was glad to hear them . . . glad his friends
shared them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We stood in a circle and I passed around the bottle of Ron’s
ashes that I brought. We each took a
handful and held Ron in our hearts and our hands as Liz and Jen led us through some
selections from the Book of Common Prayer.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #333333;">Into your
hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Ron. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech
you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own
redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of
everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to
eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our
brother Ron, and we commit his body to the ground;<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background: white;">earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and
be gracious to him, the Lord lift up his countenance upon him and give him
peace. Amen.</span></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then we turned to the water and took turns sprinkling and
pouring Ron’s ashes in. Some of them
scattered on top of the lily pads and looked like snow. Some sunk to the bottom where they shimmered
and stayed put, beacons of Ron’s life and his attachment to this place. Those who knew it sang Peace Prayer, which
was a camp favorite, while we held hands.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #333333;">Peace before
you</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Peace behind you</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Peace under your feet</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Peace within you</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Peace over you</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Let all around you be peace</span></span></span> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Look close and you will see Ron's ashes scattered on the lily pads </div>
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and gleaming white from the bottom</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nell told me how much she could really feel Ron in this
spot. I know it was where he needed to
be and I am so grateful that he guided us to it and allowed us all to gather together. I could tell this was a cathartic experience
for his siblings and his camp friends. I
know it meant so much to me to fulfill his wish/my promise to him and to feel
his calming presence with me throughout the whole day.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finding our way out was much easier. On the way, I heard the distinctive, familiar
call of the Sandhill Cranes. Migratory
birds that use southern <st1:state>Michigan</st1:state>
and northern <st1:state>Ohio</st1:state> as stopping
points, I see them often in the fields surrounding my house. When I first moved here, I only saw them in
the fall, but they have gradually been spending more and more of the year
here. Ron loved their haunting sound and
he loved it even more when we spotted them while out walking or driving. Leaving the trails of Gordonwood, there were
the Sandhill Cranes, previously spotted so rarely at the camp. Jo recalled talking with Ron about them. Seeing them that afternoon was one more sign
that Ron was with us.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When we got back to the cars, we decided to go have dinner
at a place called Bullfrogs where Jo said she and Ron had come before to watch
hockey. We got a table outside,
overlooking a lake. We drank and drank,
mostly water to quench us after a day of hiking, but also some beer to
soothe us after mourning such a great loss.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our food had been ordered, but was taking a long time to
arrive. I was talking to Ann about her
travels to and from Michigan and asked whether she had enough time to eat before
making her flight back to DC that night.
She checked the time and then Liz and Rick began calculating how long
they needed for her to get to the airport and it became clear that it was going
to be tight and they needed to get their food to go. Just then, right in the middle of this very conversation,
Ann’s phone rang. It was the airline
delaying her flight by a half an hour, thus giving her and Liz and Rick enough
time to stay and eat with the rest of us.
“That was Ron,” I shouted, “This is the kind of shit he can do!” And it’s true . . . though I don’t often blog
about it (for fear you will all think I have gone mad), I have had a few
encounters where I wished for something/wrote something/needed something, and
it happened exactly then. I am always
sure, when this happens, that it is Ron making things work out.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know Ron had not envisioned the nine of us all getting
together for Mission Scatter Ashes. He
was so humble and he thought small and simple and private was the way to go
with this. But it still was small and
simple and private. It was people who
loved him dearly, who needed the opportunity to celebrate his life, share
memories, and pay respects by carrying out this last wish. Although I didn’t follow how he and I talked
about it happening to the exact letter, and I know he would have been
exasperated with the self-induced anxiety I experienced in the days beforehand,
I also know he would be (is) so pleased with how it worked out. </div>
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Nell, Ann, Rick, Liz, Jen, Jo, Heather, and Doug</div>
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<br /></div>
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For me, it will be a day I remember very fondly. I will remember golden light falling through
the trees and the smell of pine needles underfoot. I will remember Ron’s voice in my head and
his spirit pulling me through overgrown brush.
I will remember all of us taking turns at the front of the group, softly
talking and gently laughing and crying as we found our way. I will remember voices rising in song over
the pond, lifting to the trees, to the heavens, to Ron. I will remember the way his ashes looked lace-like
on the lily pads. I will remember his
people . . . Nell’s voice cracking and heart exposed as she tried to tell me
how perfect the spot was and what a great human Ron was; Jen’s arms around me and
gentle spirit enfolding me with love as I cried out that my heart was broken;
Jo’s reassurance, when I needed it, that Ron loved me so much and was truly
happy with me; Heather’s steadfast, sisterly presence by my side as we
navigated the near nonexistent trails and sat beside the water’s edge; Ann’s
shoulders in my arms as I hugged her long and tight after we scattered ashes,
knowing that we both, at different times, shared a similar special place in
Ron’s enormous heart; Doug’s comforting words when he knew I was distressed and
came to my aid to sit beside me on a rock in the woods as my brother; Rick
telling me that he still reads this blog, encouraging me to keep on writing for
as long as I need to and letting me know it is OK to be me in whatever state I
am in; and Liz’s eyes welling up and over as we talked about how much we each
wish we had know the other one sooner, that we might have somehow conspired with
our helping profession skills to get Ron the lifesaving care he needed more
quickly.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpuP_IR9RHy_suYUTtutOi3hqM9y2Y87jZ8ZD6AoWVj-tNl85hlc4hX7i-cpsZg3TXsFDEszAbUQA-Td77lykZFEN0K7Qf9h0VbUpnbWeftbpX5q9XOTOHmW9vg0-3JGLzJJCuykWC0G-y/s1600/gordonwood+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpuP_IR9RHy_suYUTtutOi3hqM9y2Y87jZ8ZD6AoWVj-tNl85hlc4hX7i-cpsZg3TXsFDEszAbUQA-Td77lykZFEN0K7Qf9h0VbUpnbWeftbpX5q9XOTOHmW9vg0-3JGLzJJCuykWC0G-y/s320/gordonwood+009.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The whole gang in front of the pond</div>
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Back: Doug, Heather, Ann, Liz, & Rick</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Front: me, Jen, Jo, and Nell</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love Ron so much.
It is a love that grows each day, even without him here to nurture it. I know I have honored him and demonstrated
that love by getting him where he wanted to be and inviting others to be there,
too. Ron has given us all so much love
by allowing us to share in this process together. And I feel like he has blessed me with new
friends and family . . . people I hope to know more and more in years to come.</div>
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For anyone interested, the latitude and longitude of Ron's ashes in the pond are 42.839362,-83.458225. (Thanks, Rick, for figuring that out and sharing!) You can plug these into Google Maps and with the satellite view, zoom in to see the grassy area and swing where we were standing . . . this way, via computer, we can all visit Ron's requested resting spot from wherever we are. </div>
Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-68691185423419961732012-08-12T12:37:00.000-04:002012-08-12T22:18:37.332-04:00Voices<br />
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There are some moments when I feel okay. I am thinking of Ron, filled with such great memories,
and am full of gratitude at having shared my few years with him. Sometimes I feel like the love we shared will
be enough to last me my whole lifetime.
I could not want anything more – to have loved and to have been loved,
that is enough, even if I spend the rest of my life alone. I was loved so hard and I loved so fiercely. For all the moments when I am mean to myself,
wishing I had done this or that better, regretting places or people we didn’t
get a chance to visit, or agonizing over something I wish I hadn’t or had said
or did, I know, deep down, that really I loved Ron Clark very well. I loved him with everything that I had. It was enough for him. He did not want for anything in our
relationship. I know that. I gave him all I had and it <u>was</u>
enough. He told me so. He showed me.
He radiated how complete and whole he felt with me. I go on loving him with everything I have,
fully prepared to do this with as much intensity for the rest of my life. That is how much I loved and still love him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are other moments when I am filled with stupid
thoughts. Obsessive ideas. Illogical conclusions. Irrational invented moments or conversations
or plans that in all likelihood probably did not even exist. My brain tells me all the ways Ron was not
happy. Would have rather been somewhere
else or with someone else. Was just with
me because I happened to be there . . . because I had an instant crush and he
was too kind to turn me away. In my
head, I was never good enough for him.
He could have done better.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have these thoughts in the face of so much evidence to the
contrary. I know they are bullshit. I know it.
Yet, there are some days when I cannot seem to shake them. I have the awareness that they are not true. I am no longer following each thought down the rabbit hole
and believing it. I can observe them as
separate from reality, at least a little bit.
But, that does not seem to stop them from happening. They come and keep coming, one right after
the other. They take work to dispel. They keep me awake at night. I lay in bed crying and cannot make them
cease. They defy the laws of sleep aids. And when I wake, they are still there,
waiting to be picked up and carried around for another day.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to do this to myself. I don’t want to do this to Ron. I really do need to stop thinking these
things. I need to remember what was and
is good. I need to preserve the
relationship that we had (and can continue to have, albeit mainly one-sided). I owe it to myself. I owe it to him. I owe it to us. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More simply, I am not going to survive if I keep this
up. These thoughts are poison. I cannot continue to take them day after day
without something inside myself cracking . . . a fault line on this thin crust of
sanity upon which I stand and fight my way forward into each day of my existence
that I would rather be with Ron. The
thoughts are danger. I have to keep
distance from them. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to remember what I experienced and knew to be true
and real. I have to make the love enough
to carry me forth with some shred of hope that I can just live and perhaps even
be happy living knowing the love we shared.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every day in this process is work. It is challenging. It is exhausting. There is nothing about it that is
simple. I don’t know if many people
understand that. There is nothing about grieving
that is stagnant. It changes daily, as
do I. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thoughts interfere with my grief process. They stall me. Slow me.
They are perhaps part of it, but if so, they may be an unnecessary part
. . . a lethargic, dragged-out, self-inflicted pain that is different from the pain
of just dealing with the fact that he is gone.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want them to end. I
believe, overall, they are reducing.
Subsiding. I am more self-aware
of them. I believe them less and less. I question their source and validity more and
more. But, they still happen. And I wish they didn’t. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere in the very early months of dating Ron, I had a
moment of panic in which I was sure it would never work out. He would never really want to stay with
me. Once he got to know me, he would
find me too neurotic and anxious. I am
too damaged to be loved. It would just
end nine and a half years later, like my previous relationship. I wanted to spare us both the wasted time and
pain. I named for him all the reasons I
was bad and it would not work. I offered
a way out . . . the opportunity for us to “end on a good note and just walk
away with no real harm done.” He said
then, and would say on the (thankfully) very rare instances when this line of
self-deprecating thinking resurfaced, “You tell those voices in your head to
shut the fuck up, Babydoll. I love
you. I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” </div>
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I try to imagine him telling me this now. I can almost hear it.</div>Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-57829875978422031052012-08-05T01:19:00.000-04:002012-08-05T01:19:24.123-04:00Turtle Pots<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t really expect to be blogging tonight (I guess
technically this morning). I had a full,
productive day. Got some stuff done
around the house, including organizing more of Ron’s belongings and getting
guest rooms in order. Dustin and Carrie
came over. We did some work on the
house. We ate and walked dogs. Then we all went for a swim in <st1:place><st1:placename>Gull</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> while the skies clouded
over. Came home and watched some shows
together and then they left. I figured I’d
be tired, but I was wide awake and busy in my head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a big day planned for when I wake up. I will make my first trip to <st1:place><st1:placetype>Camp</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Gordonwood</st1:placename></st1:place>, where Ron attended as a
participant and later worked as a camp counselor each summer for many
years. Some of his happiest memories were
of Gordonwood. Even more than the
memories, he treasured the lasting friendships he made there. Some of his Gordonwood friends have become my
friends. They are good folks and from all
that I have heard, it was a special, even magical, place.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ron told me early on that he wanted most of his ashes to
stay with me and some to go to Gordonwood.
Specifically, they were to go to Turtle Pond. I am trying to think of whether he told me
this even before we knew he was sick and dying.
It may have just been one of those conversations you have in a
relationship, ‘So, honey, what do you want done with your body after you die?’ Whenever the conversation originated, he put his
wish in writing in his <a href="https://fivewishesonline.agingwithdignity.org/" target="_blank">Five Wishes</a> document four months before he died. Tomorrow (technically today), I carry out this
wish for him. I will meet his siblings
and some camp friends and we will honor his memory together.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple hours earlier, I was convened in the back bedroom
with the four turtles. ‘The four turtles?’
you wonder. Yes, the four turtles.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3AKTSV9xxxj9GUhr4h-kjgNW6H4FTPpO0JP4SL7yLrIpMPcSCbNQKxIDqFQS1Rq3uHOI5O5QnPHd5-e_9Ozqafzgfl-vAISA8-a_6O5_nvGi6052rZ9_JjrhVfRrenWrjVPgM0bqh3De/s1600/dustin%2527s+b-day%252C+turtles+092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3AKTSV9xxxj9GUhr4h-kjgNW6H4FTPpO0JP4SL7yLrIpMPcSCbNQKxIDqFQS1Rq3uHOI5O5QnPHd5-e_9Ozqafzgfl-vAISA8-a_6O5_nvGi6052rZ9_JjrhVfRrenWrjVPgM0bqh3De/s320/dustin%2527s+b-day%252C+turtles+092.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>The turtles are ceramic pots that I had made by Rita
Shields, an artist in <st1:city>Grand Rapids</st1:city>. Ron and I met Rita at Wheatland Festival. We frequented her booth together each year
for the past three years. Last year, we
almost bought a pot with a turtle perched on a branch on the lid. The turtle was smiling ever so slightly. We saw it and imagined it would make a
perfect container for his cremated remains because it was such a reflection of
his character. As the festival went on,
we decided against purchasing it, hoping instead that he would be around again
another year and we could delay plans for his imminent death for a little
longer. Instead, we bought mugs from
Rita, beetles on the sides of Ron’s, flowers on the sides of mine.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyvqxwUl51IfGKjLmaRzVhnc9M-QMrsi_XcUQiB-dLndg4unQL91Cz80nHx5cAtu507WiZoLJoU3WSGHJwCEn0YdnMkNsdn2whDKmpZmuyuUr5NZ-6Q5QVFV209U-wb2bgChik2dZUgz8J/s1600/dustin%2527s+b-day%252C+turtles+095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyvqxwUl51IfGKjLmaRzVhnc9M-QMrsi_XcUQiB-dLndg4unQL91Cz80nHx5cAtu507WiZoLJoU3WSGHJwCEn0YdnMkNsdn2whDKmpZmuyuUr5NZ-6Q5QVFV209U-wb2bgChik2dZUgz8J/s320/dustin%2527s+b-day%252C+turtles+095.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>When Ron passed away, I knew I needed to get a hold of Rita
to see if she could help me out. His
mother wondered what I was going to do with the portion of his ashes that I was
keeping and I told her about Rita and the turtle pot. His mother and siblings expressed that they
also wanted turtle pots. So, when I
called Rita, I asked her if she could make four small-ish pots. I told her about Ron, about his nickname
being Turtle, about his personality and spirit, about how much he loved
Wheatland, about how he loved the beetle mug she made, and about what a nice
guy he was and how much I loved him. She
listened and agreed to help us out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUekcfjk3kHJxGAGqbPN0V_SOOKA1WgeUSlqUvgUpJhCqdtFwjS8CSTAuwcXaChrfDXiV9FYuuNm17hUxfUcMx6r-So0nRzoTYouEEJu6ngUBYjTug72TwPS4QOXKRQch8AOU5VGAIiN0J/s1600/dustin's+b-day,+turtles+100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUekcfjk3kHJxGAGqbPN0V_SOOKA1WgeUSlqUvgUpJhCqdtFwjS8CSTAuwcXaChrfDXiV9FYuuNm17hUxfUcMx6r-So0nRzoTYouEEJu6ngUBYjTug72TwPS4QOXKRQch8AOU5VGAIiN0J/s320/dustin's+b-day,+turtles+100.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several weeks passed and Rita called to say the pots were
done and texted me a picture of her creations.
Last weekend, I met her at her studio and picked up the pots. Rita was very sensitive and has been absolutely
wonderful to work with. She told me that
she could feel Ron with her while she was making the pots and that this is not
something that usually happens to her. I
think she gave me a very generous deal on some very special, unique art. The extra care she put into this project is
so greatly appreciated. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdJ3DLyeStBKEWgnkGmM6TXTcsu2-RObhBnasIf2PD3IHf-gu371TszbiH0QF_W2lespt0cGn9MRBf-dt5BEr3KtoUIj6Hk6ovBe3fLtQ51oyih9lsvbREujrGuK2wqsh_NypdEGijA2t/s1600/dustin's+b-day,+turtles+076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdJ3DLyeStBKEWgnkGmM6TXTcsu2-RObhBnasIf2PD3IHf-gu371TszbiH0QF_W2lespt0cGn9MRBf-dt5BEr3KtoUIj6Hk6ovBe3fLtQ51oyih9lsvbREujrGuK2wqsh_NypdEGijA2t/s320/dustin's+b-day,+turtles+076.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Rita - in the studio with the turtles</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>So, I earlier mentioned meeting in the back bedroom (where
Ron spent most of his time last fall and early winter) with the four
turtles. I should also mention that Ron
was there . . . in a bag inside a small, black, plastic, rectangular box with
his name printed on the top. (It is
strange how a person can become so small and yet so big all at the same time.) I had already dipped into the bag once, for
the <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/06/memorial-tree.html" target="_blank">memorial tree</a>. Tonight was the divvying
out of the ashes to get them to where they need to go.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>I did not expect to be as moved by
this experience as I was. I guess I
thought I would be completely in my logical brain, merely completing another
task at hand. Instead, as soon as I saw
the creamains, I began to tear up.
Separating Ron was hard. Some of
him will stay with me, some will go to Turtle Pond, some will go to his mother
and father, some will go to his brother, and some will go to his sister. I used a scoop (Rita’s recommendation) and
poured inside small, zip-lock bags, which I then placed inside the turtle pots. I also put a little bit of him into a
medicine bottle to take to Gordonwood. When
I finished, I bubble-wrapped the pots for his family and put them in boxes,
ready to go. I put my turtle pot on the
mantle behind the wood stove, next to some other Ron mementos. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The ash dust on the scoop . . . I didn’t want to waste any
of him when I rinsed it out, so I used my fingers to wipe it off and I brushed
it on my skin . . . a fine powder of Ron to coat and protect me. I think I cried the most at this . . . thinking
about particles and where parts of Ron exist in this house, the dead skin cells
that linger, the bits of him that have not yet succumb to my vacuuming or to
his shirts being laundered, the particulate matter that may have floated into
that bedroom or into my lungs tonight while I divided him. I cried at the thought that there could ever
be a day when the particles are gone . . . when there is no more tangible
evidence, no matter how trace, that he was here. ‘This is why people keep ashes,’ I thought .
. . to preserve these traces, this proof of living matter, proof of existence. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As if there could ever be a doubt that Ron existed. Proof of his life is left in everyone who
knew him . . . in the stories they share and memories they hold. He touched people’s hearts and lives. He left his imprint on this world and it was
a positive one. I know the proof for me
is that the experience of knowing and loving him has changed me. I don’t need ashes in a pot to attest to that
. . . although I am glad to have them, just as I am glad to have such a lovely,
handcrafted vessel in which to store them.</div>
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<br /></div>Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-44089230787684968532012-08-03T22:26:00.000-04:002012-08-03T22:26:22.888-04:00The Mirror Project<br />
<div class="yiv948470543msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">I am working on many different
Ron projects. Some of them are ways to remember, make keepsakes, and
preserve the memories we shared. Many are efforts to have tangible proof
of our love that I can easily look to when my mind starts to play tricks on
me. All of them are time consuming and have me deeply concentrating on
him, us, and sometimes even myself. The work of producing them is
genuinely therapeutic. I feel best when I am working on my Ron projects.
I have had less time to do so lately, with social weekends and a fuller
schedule during the week as I squeeze in appointments with the therapist, grief
counselor, doctor, etc. around my work schedule. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">I
admit that there are times when I resent all this busyness. How can life
move on when I still have so much work to do around what has happened? I
cannot believe it is August. Life moves too fast for someone who would
rather be stuck back in time, three months ago, before his death . . . or
better yet, two or three years ago, before the word “cancer,” before the sadness,
before everything changed forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">One
of my projects is finished. Why do I feel compelled to share it? I
question this. Do I need to make visible to others my love for Ron and
his love for me? Is it somehow not real unless it becomes public?
Why not just do these things and do them secretly and quietly and without
fanfare? I am not sure I have the answers. All I know is, there is
a need to share what I am doing, now that Ron and I have both made our
processes during this time so public. I don’t really know if anyone is
still following along. I don’t really know if what I say here will help
or change or make a difference for anyone. I don’t really know if any of
this has any meaning for anyone other than me. Maybe it doesn’t need
to. Maybe writing these posts is just more therapy for me. I am not
sure. I just know I feel better when I post, so I will keep doing so
until I don’t need to anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">The
idea for the mirror project started when I arrived home from </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="color: #454545;">Texas</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="color: #454545;">. I had taken with me a note Ron wrote me. It
says, “Hey Babydoll, I love you so incredibly much! I fall asleep every night thankful that I’ve
had another day with you. You definitely
make me the luckiest dude ever! I love
you! –Ron Clark” (He wrote it after he had been diagnosed. I always marveled at how he could be thankful
or consider himself lucky when he knew he was dying. That’s Ron, though, enjoying every moment he
had and joyfully expressing himself to others.)
I took this note to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="color: #454545;">Texas</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="color: #454545;"> to
have something to help me remember his love at a time when I was geographically
far away from the home we shared. When I got back, I tucked the note into
the corner of my bathroom mirror so that I would see if everyday (you can see
it in the picture I posted <a href="http://heatherbelle79.blogspot.com/2012/06/not-ready.html" target="_blank">here</a>). My image, Ron’s words, reflected back
to me daily. I wondered about making a more permanent installation . . .
and one where I didn’t worry about the original note somehow getting damaged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">Ron
and I wrote many things to one another. Much of the longer correspondence
is from during our distance relationship. Once he moved in, we could talk
to each other, so had less need to write, but we still would pen little notes
to one another. I usually left mine on the kitchen counter. Ron
mostly wrote on small slips of paper and folded them really tiny and stuck them
in my lunch bag so that I wouldn’t find them until after I was at work.
He did not do this everyday, so it kept me on my toes as to whether I would get
a note or not. But he did it frequently until he got too sick to get up with
me anymore. When I found one, I would
unfold it, read the words, and put it by my computer monitor so I could read it
all day long. He gave me many more notes than I gave him after we were
living together (but I definitely sent more written correspondence when we were
living apart, so that has to even things out, right?). He took great joy
in sneaking these notes into my bag. I suspect he often woke up early to
see me off to work (before going back to bed) primarily for the act of writing
and sneaking notes. He was consistently and in every way so expressive
and loving throughout all of my time with him. I was truly fortunate to
be in a relationship with such a great communicator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">So, after </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="color: #454545;">Texas</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="color: #454545;">, I started to get an idea, ‘what if I copied some of my
favorite notes from the ones Ron wrote (all of which I kept) and put them
around a mirror so that I could have his love surrounding me when I look at
it?’ This is important because I am my own worst enemy and super critical
of myself. I do not look at myself kindly. Mirrors are not
generally my friends. Not that the
critic in my head only cares about looks, she pretty much thinks I suck in all
facets of life. I need to be able to see myself more like Ron did.
In fact, he used to say, from time to time, when I was being really down on
myself or flippantly dismissing a compliment he paid me, “I wish you could see
yourself the way I do, just for a second even.” I agreed with him – I
wished I could, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">I copied my favorites. I tore them out, like Ron would have, rather than
cutting them. I had intended to have one
mirror completely covered with notes overlapping each other. However, I found it hard to choose which
notes would be partially hidden. I
realized it would drive me crazy not to be able to read a note in its entirety. So, I wound up with two small mirrors. Rather than separate them, I hung them side
by side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75di9LOfpzHu7qP0a9Xz9LXSGkler8ZMlCK2o05_FphU7pehyphenhyphen6DsM4tJ4tQNnYwzbtW8bcuSleJaI2Ck7Ai4wc5e9inG03pYXt91oyj6mDT8AvKshjhYhtf5ZPEWm1hhdNf8UM6U-4in8/s1600/heather's+wedding+177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75di9LOfpzHu7qP0a9Xz9LXSGkler8ZMlCK2o05_FphU7pehyphenhyphen6DsM4tJ4tQNnYwzbtW8bcuSleJaI2Ck7Ai4wc5e9inG03pYXt91oyj6mDT8AvKshjhYhtf5ZPEWm1hhdNf8UM6U-4in8/s320/heather's+wedding+177.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">They are in my bathroom. It is a place I will see them daily. I felt a little weird putting them where
guests can also see them, but had some encouragement. It is an expression of love . . . who couldn’t
use a little more of that in their life?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGNomlxgkFvdpk50dzN1abZrkHwFiSgXk_qxZ4NLhQw2vIiQgt2_MWxUNIe-kcmyc0h4k_S-eLQdWyooFIkZnAzDoSMCHHmqkHsQCMi7N8xRPwiJ_L55IrPPi9WdIgbppthsbLL9sqiQW/s1600/heather's+wedding+179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGNomlxgkFvdpk50dzN1abZrkHwFiSgXk_qxZ4NLhQw2vIiQgt2_MWxUNIe-kcmyc0h4k_S-eLQdWyooFIkZnAzDoSMCHHmqkHsQCMi7N8xRPwiJ_L55IrPPi9WdIgbppthsbLL9sqiQW/s320/heather's+wedding+179.JPG" width="308" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">Without
Ron around, I don’t feel like there is anyone who can see me the way he did and
love me as completely as he did. In therapy, one of the goals is to help
me to see myself more like how Ron saw me. The mirror project is an
extension of that idea. It is also a celebration of our love – something
I can look at and read daily that helps me remember what it felt like to be
loved by Ron. Proof, for when I fill
myself with doubt, that he did, in fact, love me . . . very much . . . as I
love him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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PS - To everyone out there, be
sure to save those quick little notes you’ve exchanged with your loved
ones. You never know it might be helpful to reflect back on them (or turn
them into an arts and crafts project). <o:p></o:p></div>Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-32804527743991640552012-07-31T23:54:00.001-04:002012-08-01T08:36:35.015-04:00Remembering Ron Clark<br />
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<span style="color: #454545;">This is one of the harder posts I
have had to write. It is not hard in terms of content. I have known
what I wanted to include for many weeks now. It is just hard in terms of
actually doing it. Feels like there is some finality to it. Forces
me to embrace what is and let go of what is not, at least for a few
moments. But, the time has come. I
feel like I need to get this one out there, because there are more posts, ideas
brewing, things happening, stuff waiting in the wings . . . I just had to do
this one before I get to all that other stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">Ron
deserves the greatest and best tributes. This does not even begin to
cover what all is owed to him, but for now, it will have to do. It has
been on my mind for nearly three months to offer up these pieces of his
celebration of life service for those who wanted to be there, but were not able
to attend (or for those who were there and want to remember again).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">First
off, for anyone who has not already had a chance to read it, Ron’s obituary ran
in the <a href="http://www.mlive.com/news/kalamazoo/index.ssf/2012/05/kalamazoo-area_obituaries_toda_115.html" target="_blank">Kalamazoo Gazette</a> and the <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/themorningsun/obituary.aspx?pid=157524536#fbLoggedOut" target="_blank">Alma Morning Sun</a>. If you'd like, you can leave comments for others to read at <a href="http://www.legacy.com/guestbook/themorningsun/guestbook.aspx?n=ronald-clark&pid=157524536&cid=full" target="_blank">Legacy.com</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">Ron’s celebration
of life service took place at the Central Michigan Youth For Christ on </span><st1:date day="13" month="5" year="2012"><span style="color: #454545;">5/13/12</span></st1:date><span style="color: #454545;">. One of Ron’s friends from high school, Bryce Wickes,
officiated, along with his father, Brian Wickes, who worked in the same
building as Ron for several years. My friend, Wes Wickes, flawlessly ran
audio and visual. He and several other YFC
staff stayed up through the night to help clean up from the </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="color: #454545;">Alma</span></st1:placename><span style="color: #454545;">
</span><st1:placename><span style="color: #454545;">High School</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span style="color: #454545;"> prom, which was held there the night before, to prepare
for Ron’s service. Ron’s family and I could not be more grateful to the
YFC for offering the space to have this celebration and for all of their hard
work in preparing and running such a smooth service. I think Ron would
have been pleased. The YFC held a very special place in his heart and was
one of the shaping influences that helped him become the man I love. Ron
asked that any financial contributions in his memory be made to the YFC.
YFC has been kind enough to create a special donation category to continue
honoring Ron for years to come. If you are interested in donating, please
send your gift to the Central Michigan YFC (</span><st1:address><st1:street><span style="color: #454545;">P.O. Box 757</span></st1:street><span style="color: #454545;">, </span><st1:city><span style="color: #454545;">Alma</span></st1:city><span style="color: #454545;">, </span><st1:state><span style="color: #454545;">MI</span></st1:state><span style="color: #454545;"> </span><st1:postalcode><span style="color: #454545;">48801</span></st1:postalcode></st1:address><span style="color: #454545;">) and specify that it is for the Ron Clark Trip
Scholarship Fund. Or, you can <a href="http://www.cmyfc.net/donate/" target="_blank">donate online</a>. Ron’s Trip Scholarship Fund will allow for
students who are otherwise lacking financial means to go on trips with the
YFC. Ron was fortunate enough during his years with YFC to go on several
out of state missions. He recognized that these adventures would not have
been possible without the YFC funding his travels. He wanted others to
have the same opportunities he did and I know he would be beyond honored to
have a fund in his name that allows this important work to continue. The
gratitude I feel toward YFC for all the care they took in working with me and
Ron’s family in the week following his death cannot adequately be expressed in
words. I plan to continue giving in Ron’s name each year as a way to
express my thanks and ensure that all the good this organization did for Ron
continues to be passed along to others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">My brother and I
created a bookmark to remember Ron with. These were passed out at the
celebration of life service. For anyone who was not able to attend who
would like one, just send me your address and I will get it to you. You
can email me (<a href="mailto:heatherbelle79@yahoo.com" id="yui_3_2_0_5_1343781275738442" rel="nofollow" style="outline: 0px;" target="_blank" ymailto="mailto:heatherbelle79@yahoo.com"><span style="color: purple;"><span id="lw_1343781268_0">heatherbelle79@yahoo.com</span></span></a>) or write me (</span><span id="lw_1343781268_1" style="cursor: pointer;"><st1:address><st1:street><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">8603 N. 46<sup>th</sup></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #366388;"> </span></span><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">Street</span></span></st1:street><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">, </span></span><st1:city><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">Augusta</span></span></st1:city><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">, </span></span><st1:state><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">MI</span></span></st1:state><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;"> </span></span><st1:postalcode><span class="yshortcutscs4-visible"><span style="color: #366388;">49012</span></span></st1:postalcode></st1:address></span><span style="color: #454545;">) or message me on Facebook. I want to make sure
that everyone who wants one has a little something of Ron to remember him
by. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; text-indent: 0.5in;">Ron had started a
playlist of songs he wanted to have at his celebration service. I
didn’t know he had even got around to working on this, but after he passed, I
found a playlist in his iTunes simply named “death list.” </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; text-indent: 0.5in;">I knew right away from looking at the songs
that this was it. I think it was a work in progress, but we went with
what he had so far and incorporated the songs into the service. I just
thought I would include his list here, for anyone wanting to replicate it just
to get a sense of what Ron was thinking of in those final weeks:</span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">1)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="color: #454545;">Early In the Morning
– Peter, Paul & Mary<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">2)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="color: #454545;">Narcolepsy – Ben Folds
Five<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">3)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="color: #454545;">The Wood Song –
Indigo Girls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">4)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="color: #454545;">What a Wonderful
World – Louis Armstrong<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">5)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="color: #454545;">If I Ever Leave This
World Alive – Flogging Molly<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">6)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="color: #454545;">Struttin’ With Some
Barbecue – The Marsalis Family<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" id="yui_3_2_0_5_1343781275738561" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #454545;">Ron’s brother, Doug,
used the Flogging Molly pick in a video he made using pictures taken throughout
Ron’s lifetime. We’d hoped I’d be able
to include it here, but he’s run into some issues with having YouTube accept
the audio. I also got some warnings about the audio content in the video
I uploaded, but so far it seems to be working. I will post the link and
we will see how long it keeps playing. Please let me know if you try this
and it tells you the video is no longer available. Doug will get his to
me once he gets it working and I promise to post it on here. Ideally, we
would have had one long video of Ron during all the different phases in his
life, but working on this a couple hours apart with only a few days to do it
proved to be challenging. So Doug and I created separate videos.
For me, this was an epic project that involved a lot of laughter and
tears. I am certain the same is true for Doug. I cannot watch the
videos without experiencing both. I am also overcome with love each and
every time I watch Ron flash across my screen in these pictures, remembering
the places we visited, moments we shared, the people who loved him, and our
love for each other. In my video, I used three of Ron’s death list songs
and two of my own picks . . . a liberty I think he would allow. Please give yourself some time and space to
laugh and cry if you are going to watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" id="yui_3_2_0_5_1343781275738561" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #454545;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/857drIYPK6I?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span style="color: #454545;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="yiv2144969442msonormal" id="yui_3_2_0_5_1343781275738563" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #454545;">The service included a large chunk of time that was left open just for folks to share memories or express their love for Ron. Many family and friends, both his and mine, offered insight at what a tremendous human Ron was. It was clear to see that Ron touched lives wherever he went and always gave people something to laugh about. Most people spoke without anything prepared. My brother and I were not so sure we would be able to think on our feet when our emotions were so high, so we prepared something to read ahead of time.</span><br />
<span style="color: #454545;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #454545;">My brother, Dustin,
is a writer. He started toying with this
piece when we worked on Ron’s obituary, in which, we said Ron was a
superhero. In his high school years, Ron
played the role of a character at YFC known as Captain Ron. The tribute Dustin paid Ron, who he thought
of as a brother and close friend, is just wonderful. His inclusion of Ron’s many talents and
strengths as super powers makes me laugh and cry at the same time. I only
wish you could hear Dustin read it, for he is a talented reader, too. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ronald A. Clark, or sometimes known
as Captain Ron, or Turtle Man, avenger of musical justice, wielder of a vast
array of culinary arts, and all-around superhero of nice-guyness, ended his
battle with cancer earlier this week, far surpassing all mortals’ expectations.
He passed away next to his loyal and loving sidekick, Heather Hell’s Bells
Hoffman and his hallowed hound-daughters Ru-Dog and Sophie Neuroses. Together
they spent the last two years in their fortress of awesome-itude, wringing
every ounce of joy out of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Captain Ron’s
infamous saga on the planet earth found him gracing the towns of Ashland,
Pittsburgh, Kalamazoo, and, of course, his hometown of Alma where he mastered
his mighty chuckle-rays that could melt the coldest hearts into a pile of
quivering laughter. He hurled thank-you-arangs with the precision of powerful
politeness that could make even the dreariest McDonald’s cashier love him. And
then he’d vanish, speeding down the streets in his rusted-out Ron-mobiles, his <st1:city>Toyota</st1:city>
or cherry red Festiva, to find the next dark heart to brighten. Some say he was
just a man; others claimed him as a saint; but it is us here that knew the real
him, Ronald A. Clark, superhero.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Kryptonite
couldn’t touch Ron, but he did have his vulnerabilities: bad poetry, dental
hygiene, and slugs. Far more extensive were Ron’s sources of power. He
generated them from the warmth of the earth’s yellow sun, that and
Lick-a-maids, and the History Channel, and jazz and coffee and cigarettes. His
utility belt was jam-packed full of accessories. He carried a trombone on which
he played tunes that would make evil-doers spontaneously burst into dance. He
came equipped with an array of gadgetry of the most futuristic technologies,
and his nimble fingers could make short work of solving any and all of man’s
greatest quandaries. In fact, his mind itself was a formidable adversary. In
his super-human mass of gray matter he stored the answer to every trivia
question ever asked. Alec Trebec once responded to a description of Ron’s
knowledge, “What is the answer to everything?” But Ron was also modest. He
turned down repeated requests to make a super-celebrity appearance on Jeopardy,
saying he wanted to give everyone else their fair chance. And he was the first
one to tell you when he didn’t know something. Though, I suspect, he always
knew, and his humble shrugs were simply a ruse to make us mortals all feel a
little better about our meager minds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> I was lucky
enough to encounter Ron for two stages in his life. In his teenage years, Ron
patrolled the halls of high school, protecting the underdogs, all of us nerds
and punks and geeks, with his supersonic-laughter and bionic-friendship. Then
Ron sailed onward, set on sharing his powers with the world, with young campers
in eastern Michigan, teaching cooks and musicians throughout the Midwest how to
appreciate life, and even a stint in Costa Rica, where he flew, his cape
ruffling over his shoulders, to seek out the least fortunate. And then back to <st1:state>Michigan</st1:state>,
where Ron used his powers to push back the clouds, and let the sun warm away a
dismal February and spur on the earliest summer in dreary <st1:city>Kalamazoo</st1:city>’s
history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Everyone
that knew Ron loved him. Everyone who witnessed his powers swooned. We were all
charmed, uplifted, all adoring fanboys and girls of this hero we all cheered
for. Ron let me call him a friend, a brother, and that was my greatest honor.
And I’m as much in disbelief as everyone else to see him go. How can we
understand when the best hero falls, when his epic saga ends? But, like all the
best superheroes, the story never really ends. The super universe resets, and
it does for Ron, as he lives on in the new comic book panels of our memories,
where he will forever be our hero.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #454545;">I didn’t know if I would be able
to even speak at Ron’s celebration, let alone say anything about him. But
I really wanted to. So, in the middle of the night, still slightly
intoxicated from a wonderful party Ron’s former roommate and one of his
all-time best friends, Mitch, had thrown in his honor, I wrote something.
And the next day, in front of a room full of people who love Ron, I read it, my
voice barely cracking. As mentioned in previous posts, I don’t grieve very
well publicly and that whole week between Ron’s death and the service was busy
for me. I don’t think I really felt the impact of his passing until I
returned to our empty home with no urgent projects to demand my time.
Then I began to really feel. Anyway, I am closing this post by including
the words I shared about Ron. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ron Clark was the most important
human ever to live...to me. He
changed my entire life. I saw him...saw
his face...saw his kind eyes...saw his spirit reaching out to me across
a crowded Rubbles. I saw our entire life
sprawling out before us...an actual lifetime, not this tiny slice we were
actually dealt. I fell in love so hard,
even when I was not prepared to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Not living in the same town, all we had were phone
calls. We spent HOURS on the phone every
day. When you cannot actually see
someone face to face to forge a new relationship, everything is based on these
conversations. I learned Ron through his
words, through our talks, through this intense intimacy that was somehow
achieved telephonically. Every weekend
of our long distance relationship was packed with adventure and ooey-gooey
ridiculous mush that most people could barely stand to be around without
barfing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ron moved in with me and we thought
we would have the sweet life. But even
then we knew he was not well and too soon after he got there, we found out just
how unwell he was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Cancer did not dampen Ron’s will to live. He defied the odds, laughed in the face of
the disease process, and outlived every single medical professional’s
prognosis. He was a champion and I was
by his side every step of the way, fighting the good fight and trying to make
the most out of each day. In between me
working and him attending countless medical appointments, we tried to squeeze
in vacations and visits and simple little things, like a well-cooked meal or a
dog walk. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I am sure that Ron did not let me know the full extent of
his suffering, just as I know how much he kept the brightest side forward for
friends and family. He never wanted
people to worry about him. He never
wanted to cause anyone sadness...and yet, how could any of us not be sad in
losing someone like Ron? It is a sign
that he was loved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ron and I shared just over three
years together, half of it pre-diagnosis and half of it post-diagnosis. Of course, we lived a much freer and happier
life before we knew he was dying. And
yet I learned so much about him...any myself...in the course of caring
for him. I had the honor of having Ron
allow me to help him with the most basic and intimate tasks. I saw him at his weakest, saddest, most frightened
moments. I saw the side of him that he
did not want anyone else to see and I know that it was a special privilege that
he permitted me to be a part of his dying...and living...process. For that, Ron, I must thank you. What a gift, to be with someone when they are
that vulnerable. You trusted me and I
hope I did not let you down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I left work to take care of Ron
during the last three months of his life.
I treasure those months so much.
I wish I could say they allowed us time to have all the conversations I
imagined in my head...I had so much I wanted to convey to Ron. But, instead we planned a wedding...and a
huge birthday party...and yes, we even planned for this day, a little. We tried to squeeze in mini-adventures, going
out to eat, visiting with friends, and even a trip to the zoo, for as long as
he felt up to it. And at the end of the
day, rather than having those big conversations, Ron mainly preferred to fall
asleep watching something and to save those talks for a later time. I wish I could have said all that was on my
heart, but I have to think he knew what was there, or at least hope that he
does now. Let me just say to anyone else
who has those thoughts of ‘oh, I wish I had said or did this last time’ - trust
me, you never say or do all you want to, even when you have three months carved
out to do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ron stayed himself right up until
the morning he passed away. The weekend
before he went, we took him on a long dog walk in <st1:city>Battle
Creek</st1:city> and he hung out with me outside while I worked
on his vegetable garden beds, preparing them for summer. He was not feeling quite up to snuff the day
before he died and our hospice nurse came to the house and let him know that he
was likely nearing the end and his body was slowing down after such a long
fight. She said he probably had days or
maybe weeks left. I was crying and after
I ushered her out of the house, Ron said, “Don’t be sad. Don’t worry about it. They have all been wrong 100% of the time
before and they are wrong now. I’m not
going anywhere.” He proceeded to eat an
impressive amount of food. He was
planning to see the Avengers movie with his brother the next day. He went to sleep and didn’t wake up. He did not suffer and it was not dragged
out. He went on his own terms. He went with dignity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">People who know me know I have
struggled a time or two with faith. How
can there be a God or a higher power if someone like sweet, kind Ron dies so
soon, from a debilitating illness, while other people, people who sometimes do
vile things, get to live out long, full, rounded lives? Still, no matter me questioning the order of
the universe, I like to imagine Ron in heaven.
I wonder if he has found where they keep the smoke filled bars where he
can rack pool balls, belt out some karaoke, and meet the most famous jazz
musicians ever to have lived. I wonder
if he found his Grandma Pockets yet. It
gives me comfort to imagine that he has some kind of fluffy cloud perch from
which he can look down and watch over me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">It gives me even more comfort to
feel that he is a part of everything...that he is in the morning sunrise,
the bursting forth of spring flowers, the unfurling of fern fronds, the
fireflies flash in the summer heat, the changing colors on my old maple
tree. And I take Ron with me...he
urges me to go forth and be a better person and live with more compassion and
gentleness in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ron Clark really was the most
important human to ever live...for me.
He changed me. My family and
friends have been talking about this since I met him...how I became lighter
and happier and more loving. My cousin
Michelle pointed out yesterday that it is because Ron showed me what true love
is. True love, I thought, was
cheesy. But, she is right, Ron showed
me. He loved all of me. He loved the best and the worst parts of
me. He loved and forgave every perceived
flaw. I have never been able to be so
open with someone in my life. In loving
me, he taught me to love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">So, now he is gone, and I miss him
like crazy and there are not even words enough for me to express what he really
meant to me. He meant everything. I can’t say enough nice things about
him. Nothing I say would ever be
adequate. Instead, I leave you with
this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Top Ten Things I Love About Ron Clark:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">1)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He was
nice to EVERYONE, everywhere he went, all the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">2)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He loved
to learn and wanted to know everything about everything, making him the king of
trivia and able to answer most questions I had on a daily basis. And, if he didn’t know the answer, he
admitted it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">3)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He
apologized when he thought he did something wrong and owned his mistakes, but
did not hang onto guilt. And, he stood
his ground if he knew he was not in the wrong – he wasn’t a doormat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">4)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He
forgave. Everyone. For everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">5)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He
laughed. Often. Fully.
With his whole body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">6)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He loved
to make other people laugh and was expert at this. He never ceased to be full of humor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">7)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He was
talented in so many ways – chef, musician, welder, computer technician, blogger
– he could have done anything he wanted to and been successful because whatever
he did, his heart was always in it 100%.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">8)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He loved
fully and was able to receive love fully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">9)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He was
giving, of himself and anything he had – he took pleasure in sharing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">10)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span>He never
gave up. Never. Not even in the face of death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Wow, I really should have made this a Top 20 list or a Top
50 list or even a Top 100 list. But even
then I would still have things to say, there is so much I love about Ron. I have the rest of my life to say them. I will go on telling the story of Ron Clark
and trying to live a little bit more by his example. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Ron, I love you and I will never
stop. I miss you and I am sorry this had
to happen. Peace be with you now...there
is no more cancer...no more pain...no more fight. I hope that wherever you are, there is just
love...all encompassing and surrounding, because you deserve that.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8994907133164971492.post-44129226230549741122012-07-09T22:40:00.002-04:002012-07-09T22:42:39.532-04:00Suffering<br />
<div class="yiv55265962msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">I am starting to find myself at a
loss for words. How does one explain the not-even-entirely conscious need
to suffer? I only just realized while talking to a friend last week that
I am not ready to be done suffering. Not even for a little minute.
Not even for the respite of yoga nidra (yogic sleep). Not even for guided
imagery meditation. Not even to let God carry the hurt for a small portion
of my day. Not even to let a friend try to hold space for it with
me. Not even for the sedated promise offered by antidepressants or
opiates or alcohol or anything pharmaceutical. Nope. It is my
suffering. I claim it. I am not able to set it down at this
time. And why should I? It is my right to suffer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv55265962msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv55265962msonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #454545;">This
is not to say that I want to suffer. I don’t. Not consciously
anyway. Who does? I am in incredible pain. Unspeakable
pain. Again, I lose the words I would need to convey this to
anyone. There is no human description. No one would choose this suffering.
And yet, I cannot put it down or give it away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv55265962msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv55265962msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">My pain estranges me.
Pushes me away from anyone who has not experienced the death of the love of
their life at an early age and in the beginning phases of the relationship,
like, just a few years in. And let’s face it, there are not that many of
us who have walked this road. There are no real-life support groups for
people like me. We are rare. This doesn’t just happen everyday (‘thank
goodness for every one else,’ I think). I try to be as open as I can to
those with even remotely similar experiences who try to share, but really, I
hear their stories and can only pick apart the dissimilarities. I think,
“You don’t know.” I have heard of a few who have had a similar experience
and, through hearing about their stories, I cling to the concept that there
exists someone who has somehow lived through this . . . even if I never meet
them or get to talk to them. They made it. Maybe I will, too.
They are the stuff of legends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">Occasionally
I hear about the ones who didn’t survive this. They are also
legends. That is always an option. If I don’t live through this, I
shall join their ranks. There is nothing logically noble in being one of
the ones who cannot live without their partner. In fact, my former self
would have snorted at this ridiculously shallow and romantic notion.
‘Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers.
Snort. Pathetic.’ But I get it now. I feel it in a way
my former, rebellious, independent, women’s studies, feminist self would never
comprehend. It is not that I cannot live without a man. It is that
I don’t want to live without Ron Clark also living in the same world.
Even if he had chosen someone else to be with or we’d just broken-up . . .
shoot, that would be awfully hard, but I could at least live with that.
The suffering I experience knowing that Ron does not exist on this earth anymore
sometimes (admittedly daily) makes me not want to be. Just not to
exist. I don’t want to suffer, but I cannot stop . . . at least not while
I am breathing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">I
was so naïve to think, as I was starting to become burned out in my caregiver
duties a few months ago, that perhaps the relief I would experience at the
whole thing just being over would somehow outweigh my grief at the loss of
him. I actually worried about this . . . felt guilt that I would be a
terrible widow, and would just be relieved for Ron and for me not to have to go
through the burdens of cancer anymore. How foolish of me. I now see
that such a belief could never be true. Never. My grief is
mountainous and cavernous. It is vast. It is deep. It is
bigger than my body . . . bigger than this planet. It is dense and
thick. It is dark. It is unknowable, even to me, even as I feel and
carry it, so heavy, inside my heart and soul and mind. There is no
relief. Whatever was burdening me as a caregiver, I would gladly take it
all back, and then some, and endure it for years to come, just for another week
or day or hour or even just a back-and-forth conversation with Ron for a few
minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">As
I said, I do not want to suffer. Someone wondered if my suffering is somehow<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><u>for</u><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Ron. Do I believe that Ron wants
me to suffer? No. Absolutely not. I am certain he would want
me to live on and live fully and experience happiness again, no holds barred on
however I may achieve that. Do I think that the degree of my mourning
somehow honors him or is a measure of my love for him? No, I do
not. No one can understand the depth or breadth of my love for Ron, just
as I am only now realizing the full gravity of it myself. I have not
stopped loving Ron. I am in love . . . at times crazily so . . . with a dead
guy. In love with a person who is unable to reciprocate with me
anymore. And I see no signs of that waning. So, I will just stay in
love with him. It is the only future I can imagine myself living in.
But, no, this vast, deep, wide, tall, heavy expanse of grief that I feel . . .
it does not mirror the amount of love I have for Ron. They are two separate
feelings. Or at least they seem that way to me right
now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">I don’t suffer for Ron. I
suffer for me. I suffer because it is what I need to be doing right
now. I suffer because it is where I am at in this grief process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545;">It
has only been two months since Ron stopped breathing. I am allowed to
carry this suffering for as long as I need to. No one can take it away
from me. No one can make me stop feeling it. No one can force relief
on me. Not even myself. It will subside only when I am ready.
Even if I am suffering two or three or ten or twenty or fifty years from now,
there can be no intervention. For how would you, dear reader,
intervene? What method would you even use? How can you take this
away from me? You cannot. You simply cannot. There is nothing
you can do to make me suffer less. Not for as long as I <i>need</i> to feel this very real, bloody,
intense, searing, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, agonizing, pain. And,
for whatever the reason, I do seem to need it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I might put it away from time to time.
Hide it, so as to fit in with what is as close to social grace as I can
muster. I might be able to have, as I am now in my writing, a very real,
logical coherent conversation with you about how I am feeling. I might
put on the face of “functional” and go to my job where, ironically, I talk to
people who think they need help from their struggles with (let’s just be honest)
far less debilitating thoughts and feelings than those I am experiencing.
I may be able to step outside of myself to celebrate a holiday or a family
event and I can usually plaster a smile on my face and maintain conversation
for most of it. The suffering is still there, fiery hot in my belly,
trying to burn its way to the surface. You may not see it, but I can feel
it, as I gulp for a cool breath of air, acknowledge it, thank it (for I am sure
it is serving some purpose), and tell it to please wait until I can find some
alone time in a bathroom or some corner of darkness where I can let my face
fall apart and my tears flow momentarily before pulling back into a state of
composure. I may be able to exist in some utilitarian version of me, just
long enough to get through whatever meeting we have planned, only to later feel
the pain tenfold after having kept it under wraps. This is a skill I
learned early on in my life, though practiced then with much less intense
feelings. It serves me well now, so that I do not lose what little social
support I have maintained over these past couple years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To those of you who remain my social supports, thank
you. I saw four different women from
Friday through Sunday, each of whom listened so patiently and provided me some
comfort in their presence and their words and their hope for me (even when I
have no hope for myself) that it is not always going to hurt this bad. Whether you come out to my house or call to
check on me or send an email or a text or a card or a letter, please <u>do</u> <b><u>not</u></b> <u>stop</u>. The nights are lonely (and yet I need to be
alone) and it helps to know I am not forgotten about. </div>
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One resource I must share is the book <i>Companion Through The Darkness – Inner Dialogues on Grief</i> by
Stephanie Ericsson. Ericsson’s husband
died unexpectedly when she was 35 years old and two and a half months pregnant
with their child. Although there are
some obvious distinctions to our stories and I do not resonate with everything
she writes about, she comes the closest to describing my experience. As I wade my way through grief handouts and
books about living without your loved one, most of the stuff I read sounds like it was
written to be helpful to someone else. In
contrast, Ericsson describes my experience in all its grimy, excruciating detail
. . . and helps to make sense of it by writing about her initial feelings years
later. I am grateful to my therapist
friend, Cathy, for giving me this book (one of the perks of working in the
world of mental health is that your friends <i>get</i>
mental health and sometimes know what can be healing). I cannot recommend it enough to anyone who is
struggling with grief . . . especially any other widows out there.</div>
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Below, I am including an excerpt from Ericsson’s chapter “The
Light Goes Out.” Hopefully, if she ever
finds out I have used this here, she will be pleased. <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">DWELLING IN DARKNESS:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The moments when I am healing</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">by succumbing to the depression.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Few people who have not experienced deep loss can understand
the bereaved’s need to suffer. Suffering
is cleansing. It is necessary. The isolation is mysteriously helpful and
healthy. How long you must suffer
depends on your own internal pain barometer.
There is no prescribed time limit, no recommended allotment of angst.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Our grief is intensely private. There are no words to describe it, because
words dwarf the experience. The things I
said to my late husband in the months and even years after his death were
between him and me. Sometimes, telling
someone else is helpful, because talking into darkness is tiring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Living on after the death of someone you loved is much more
difficult than dying. This is not to
shame those who let go and die soon after their spouse. Proving your strength by living on without
fulfillment gives no one a badge of courage.
But some of us have reasons to go on, even though we don’t want to. . .
. </span></div>
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For Ericsson, her reason was her unborn daughter. I am not sure what my reason is. I wonder about it every day. I don’t want to exist, and yet I still get up
and take a shower and get dressed and walk the dogs and go to work and water
Ron’s vegetable gardens and do all the things I have to do in a given day. I find myself at the end of each day amazed
and wondering how I made it through and whether I will make it through another. </div>
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For now, this will have to be enough. No matter how close I come or how perilously
narrow this knife’s edge is that I balance upon, at least I am here . . . still
. . . writing again. This has to be
enough, dear readers, for now. I don’t
know what my reason is, but I can say that there must be some innate, survival
instinct of a force that lives inside me.
I cannot name it. A few friends
have tried and all the names seem to fit just as much as they don’t fit. I don’t try to name it, I just know it exists
because I experience it, pushing me forward.
I don’t know whether to be grateful for it or to try to smother it
out. For now, I just let it be and wait
to see what it does the next day.</div>Heather Bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10936860219936088500noreply@blogger.com0