It’s been a tough summer. Best of times, worst of times – these words belong to someone else, but they’re true, nonetheless. We’ve had beautiful weather. I’ve traveled to my Happy Place in the Midwest at Lake Okoboji and spent the week with all my siblings and most of the their progeny. I’ve laughed with family and friends until my stomach muscles hurt. I’ve been part of moments that will live in family lore for years to come. I’ve had the chance to see wonderful friends. The good things should be outweighing the bad. But the reality is that August 11, 2022 will mark the fifth anniversary of John’s death, and the impact of it has been looming over my head all summer.
I miss John no less today than the day I had to say goodbye—the day he drew his last breath as Gabe and I told him we loved him one more time and hoped he could hear us. The day we held the phone to his ear so Megan could say farewell. The day I sat by his side as we waited for the nurse to come confirm he was gone. The day the kids and I had to decide that he would have wanted to leave the house one last time in what he called his retirement uniform – shorts, ankle socks, and tennis shoes. The day we looked for items to send with him to the funeral home – Serenity sent the felt teddy bear she had just made for him. Patience sent her prized school patrol cap that he always talked her into putting on his head and then claimed he was going to keep, because it obviously looked much better on him. Courage sent something that I can’t recall right now. I sent my everlasting love and gratitude that I got to be his wife.
My grief was born on the day John died. If it had been a child, it would be starting Kindergarten this fall. I find this unfathomable, disconcerting, bewildering, and profound. In a way, my grieving process during this first half decade truly has been like raising a child. The physical pain was agonizing at first and later subsided into a dull memory. The first few months then years contained fear, indecision, lots of tears, and many sleepless nights. There were first smiles, first laughs, first steps—so many firsts. Many were painful, some were sources of pride. I watched myself fall and get back up multiple times. I babbled on about John’s last few months, because I needed to tell the story again and again, just as new parents need to retell their childbirth stories. I observed others who had lost their spouses and watched to see how they navigated their unchosen reality. I had to begin separating myself from the “we” that was our life together, just as a baby slowly learns it is independent of its mother. None of it was easy. It still isn’t. It still won’t be. But it still IS.
I am working to claw myself out of this pit. I have been distracted, forgetful, and dispirited. I have apologies to make and no valid justifications to offer. I’m just not myself. Joyful things are happening all around me, and I cling to the happy moments like a life raft. But just under the laughter that feeds my soul is a feeling of incredulity. John’s gone—and he has been for almost sixty months. Five years sounds like a long time. How can everything feel so raw again?
That’s not to say I haven’t moved forward, or laughed, or felt pride in my accomplishments, because I have. Life moves you forward, and I look for the things that help me be ok with all of this. I have discovered I like living alone. In fact, it has fueled my organization, my creativity, and my writing. At first, I missed the clank of the dishwasher being unloaded in the morning while I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Now, I just sleep until I wake up on my own. At first, I missed having John open up all the windows in the morning to let in the cool air before it got hot. Now, I just turn on the air conditioning. At first, I missed the treats he brought home from the store when he went grocery shopping, and now I just buy whatever the hell I want myself. I control the remote, fix anything I want for dinner, write whenever I want to, talk and sing to myself as I wander around the house doing laundry, and burp out loud without disturbing anyone. These are all pretty great things, but they will never outweigh the longing I have for John’s counsel, his laughter, his body, his smile, his voice, his touch, and his love. I would change it back in a heartbeat if I could. But I can’t.
I’ll get past this disquiet; I know I will. I’ve proven it time and again. This ability to find the rainbow is who I am, and it’s one of the things I like about myself. And I am coming to the realization that it wasn’t just grief that was born when John died, but a new self that I need to get to know better. I’m finding my voice in writing. I’m working on a memoir that still has no structure, and a murder mystery that still has no protagonist. I’ve started this blog that doesn’t always point to the correct URL. I’ve gained ten pounds that I swear every day I’m going to lose. I’ve traveled to seven countries I hadn’t seen before—and I’ve missed John every single day of the past five years. He was my most loyal supporter, and I believe he’d accept the new me just as easily as he did the old. (Well, maybe not the burping part…)
If you’ve stayed with me throughout this missive, thanks for reading. Writing all of this out is, truly, easing the angst I have felt since May. It’s what I needed. You—my sounding board—are what I’ve needed. My Mary Engelbreit calendar page a while back said “Accept what isn’t, so that you can move forward with what is.” Crap. I hate when a 4×5 inch scrap of paper is wiser than I am.
Here’s to you, John! Semper Fi, my love.
This is beautiful Marna. Thank you for sharing, for being real. It is a beautiful and vulnerable read and I love it. Love you…
Thanks so much, Linda. Being vulnerable on paper helps me be less vulnerable in the real world. Love you, too…
What a beautiful voice you have. Sending you love.
That is music to my writer’s ears. I hope you feel me sending love right back to you.
❤️❤️
Thank you, Marillyn.
What beautiful words! You have a gift ! Keep writing and it’s my pleasure to keep reading!
Pat, I’m honored that you are willing to read my “stuff.” Thank you so much for the encouragement!
You are so gifted with words… Thank you for sharing your heart and wisdom❤️
Looking forward to more!
Estelle, thank you so much! There isn’t much wisdom there, but the heart definitely does get wrapped up in all of this.
Oh. Marna. This is so beautiful. Your pain is real and raw…and your love is powerful. You say things my heart has been feeling but I’ve been unable to express. Thank you for sharing your heart and soul…I love you, my friend.
Kathy, I know you feel all the emotions that I do. I hate that we share this journey, but appreciate that you can express your feelings, too. Love right back to you, my friend.
Hi Marna, it’s JoAnn Cragoe, Sherri Rutman’s cousin. I’ve been a FB friend for several years but haven’t reached out – I’m not on FB much nor do I feel that comments I do make do a good job of conveying my feelings, except in a very casual way.
But I’m just killing time on this Saturday evening and I somehow came upon your blog. You are an incredible writer. You captured such genuine feelings about John and it was a privilege to be able to peer into the special relationship you two had. The other thing that really resonated was your musings about living by yourself. That’s not my situation but I also understood what you said to be describing life as we grow older (and wiser). Thank you for sharing your thoughts so intimately. I don’t think I’ve seen you since our Iowa City days, but I sure like who’ve you become over the years and I look forward to reading more of your blogs.. ♥️
JoAnn, I remember you so well from our (far too long ago) U of Iowa days, with great fondness I have to add. I am so glad you stumbled on my new platform and reached out to tell me. Your words have touched me and made me smile. How thoughtful! I hope you will stumble this way again in the future.
Your wound is becoming a scar. Less painful, but still tender to the touch. It will always be with you to remind you of the man you loved so deeply!
Thanks for sharing that, Marna.
A great analogy, Ron, and you are so right. The pain is just a reminder of how lucky I was. Thank you!
What a beautiful way you have of expressing yourself Marna. Your love for John and the grief you continue to endure is always evident in your writing and posts. But I love how you manage to mention the positive aspects of your life as well. You are a truly gifted writer. Looking forward to your next blog! 😘
You have always been such an encouragement for my writing and my posts. Be they silly or serious, thank you for being one of my most faithful readers!
You inspire me Marna 🌈
Thanks, Carol. Good friends like you do that for me, too.
Marna you are such a beautiful person with a beautiful soul💞 Thank you for sharing your most inner thoughts and feelings. I know you that you are going to be “OK”, love you old friend .
We have helped each other be OK so many times in our lives. Love you, too, and always have!
I have a number of friends who are walking the same walk and it is so difficult watching them. You have done an exquisite job of sharing what I know of their mindset. As soon as I send this, I will be contacting them to share your blog and urging them to follow it. You have matured from a bright, cute, happy little girl to a wise, talented, humble, woman.
Yes, please pass it on to anyone who is struggling through grief or just plain old life. Your words make me smile, and I love being reminded that I was once a little girl!
Beautifully said…I HATE that we share this time in common. When I think of August…and all that went on 5 years ago. At times it seems like only yesterday. I still look for Bev when I hear someone laugh like she did. I want to pick up the phone and just “waste time” gossiping with her…I TRUELY believe they, BOTH John & Bev are watching over us…and laugh when we laugh…and want to HUG US TIGHT when we are sad or crying. THANK YOU MARNA for saying the things that are hard…
MUCH LOVE MY FRIEND!!!
Everything you say is true from the things we miss to the fact we are being watched over. Thank you, dear heart!
So nice to have access to your thoughtful musings
It’s because of you that I feel empowered to write and to publish my thoughts. You gave me the courage. Thank you!