Precious Memories

Life lesson: Memories are to be cherished.

I had just had a new garden bed made and I was fixing soil. It was like the shovel had hit me in the head. I had lost my wife. She loved vegetables, especially fresh picked ones. I planted things for her to snitch, thinking I wouldn’t notice.

The beds are built high, not in the style of others’ gardens here. The location I have has terrible soil and invasive trees. The roots invaded one of the beds in two years, and had to be completely moved and re-soiled. The most important thing was for her to be able to access her plants.

Her dementia had been progressing and she had fallen. I wanted the beds waist high along the sidewalk.

I built one bed and over-planted it. I couldn’t bypass a tomato plant in the nursery, in addition to the squash and peppers this year. My relatives helped me move the bed to a new location in an attempt to prevent the trees from sending roots to invade the new fertile soil. Then they built another one. I probably don’t need two vegetable planters. What I will do is spread out the plants.

In the new beds went mulch, fertilizer and peat moss. I still need to hook up the irrigation system. Those tomato plants I couldn’t pass up are impatiently waiting to be planted. They may have priority.

The week of my wife’s death is fast approaching. I am entirely sensitive. Memories just bombard me. Everywhere I turn, there is the memory of an event of her activity, of her beliefs and being, of her personality.

I haven’t had as many overwhelming grieving episodes since I migrated to our summer house. There has been a lot to do. A lot of distractions. This wasn’t her favorite house and wasn’t where she was so ill and died. So I have been sailing along. I planted our flowers in front, went to lunch with neighbor friends, then cleaned up and re-organized the house. I have kept busy.

There is no busy-ness that can outrun grief. It caught up with me this week and just about buried me in the vegetable planters.

I have no idea how I’m going to survive next week. I have been tutored to experience the pain. I wonder if it would be easier if I stuck a pencil in my eye? The pain would be less.

She always said, “it’s us girls against the world. Two girls and a dog.” Now it’s one girl and her dog. We were strong before. We beat the attacks and pitfalls life hurled at us. We thrived until illness overtook us. Now I have to be strong, and this is just a little dog.

I’m going to plant her tomatoes. I’m going to plant her squash. I’m going to plant her peppers. I may even plant green beans. The dog likes those.

Somehow we, the dog and I, will make it through. I can’t stop the buckets of tears, but I can attempt to go on with life. I can look forward to plants growing and I can eat her tomatoes, even the kind I don’t particularly like.

I can relish the memories I am being swamped with, and be grateful I have those. Memories I have had for so many years.

I miss her so terribly, I can’t breathe. Sometimes I feel like an empty shell, pretending to be alive.

I will get through this.

The grieving totally overwhelms me. A great wave has built up inside me and pours out. I let it out. I feel like if I don’t, I would explode. To curtail the wave would destroy me. I have liquor in the house. I won’t drink to oblivion or numbness. The wave is an expression of my loss. Many times I feel like an empty shell without her. If I didn’t have the wave, I would be just that.

At some point, I want to fully re-enter life and enjoy life again. What kind of chance does an empty shell have? I want one of my Pots of Promise to flourish. I have to prepare the vessel as I prepared the soil in my planters.

Let me know how you are doing. I care.

Sincerely,

Lynn Brooke

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Photo Credit: © 2023 Rachel Gareau