Harriet Levi R.I.P.

 I haven't experienced loneliness in a very long time.  Even though I've been without my parents and two best friends for a while, and missed them, I didn't feel lonely as a result. My best friend and I didn't live in the same town. When I thought of him, as I do to this day, he didn' t seem "gone." He seems "away," as ever. Far different now! With Harriet gone, I feel intensely lonely. I've been going to the dining room just to be around people.  At dinner tonight one resident told me she she didn't know I could talk so much. With Harriet alive, and focused on her, I otherwise kept to myself. I text with my three designated next of kin, which helps a lot. But I wish I had "a buddy" to fill in for Harriet.

 Not only do I have a four-part plan, already begun, I've put together two long-range goals to begin after I've transformed this apartment into a minimalist living space. 1 Start writing again, focusing on literary short stories, which is where my career began. Full circle. 2. Show a series of my digital films here. I have shown two, which went over well. I have a dozen more. Goals feel like motivation to get through this.

 Until a  moment ago, ir's been a great morning. Rose feeling good and almost rested, had a nice breakfast in the dining room. Came home, put on cool jazz, and started dealing with clutter, most going into garbage bags. Then suddenly out of nowhete, bam! and I lost it. I'm still recovering. I've been told recovery from losing a spouse is a long process. Took one man a year. I hope forewarned is forearmed. 

 When I started this blog just a few days ago I was adding remarks like crazy. But I'm into a rhythm doing my Plan now and will be having less to say. In a few weeks,  when I pick up her ashes and finish a memorial for her here, I'll add a photo of it and wrap this blog up. It will have had a short but (to me) a useful and important life.

 I must have gotten some sleep because, rising at 530 a.m. I don't feel half bad. I don't remember having any grief attacks last night. I think I'll even go to the dining room for breakfast unless I end up going back to bed. I'll continue de-cluttering today. I've already done enough to see a difference. I work slowly and so far prefer working alone, while listening to jazz.

 My expressions of grief are primarily vocal. My eyes well up and tears may flow. They last from 5 seconds to a minute. They can come at any time without warning. I'm brushing my teeth one moment and bawling the next. I probably could use another really hard cry but I haven't had one since the several I had on the afternoon and night of her death.

 I won't really know where I stand financially until I meet with Social Security in April, the soonest I could get an appointment (!). But even at that, I don't have to stress out about money in the foreseeable future.  By my rough guesstimate, in a worst case scenario I have 4 years here before freaking out about money, in a best case 7 years. So I would say it's more than 50-50 that I die right here. I hope so. Speakiing of which: today I watched the satiric video I made with residents here. There's a scene with six actors who have all passed away since the shoot. 

I've had four experiences with spreading ashes: my mother, father and two best friends. I dreaded going to the funeral home to arrange for Harriet's cremation. To my surprise the visit did not upset me, due mostly to the skill of the woman I dealt with, who already had important necessary things started. She had a way of making me relaxed even under the circumstances. The meeting lasted only fifteen minutes. And it cost much less than I anticipated. I am keeping her ashes in an urn, so our ashes can be spread together after I pass. Cremation is more popular than ever but the experience isn't perfect.  Here is a poem about spreading my mother's ashes, from my book of poems, In My Old Age. Applegate   Under a warm sun in a blue sky  we spread my mother's ashes  in the Applegate  at her favorite fishing hole.   This was a special place.  When we returned,  we knew we'd find her perched on a rock  line dangling in the river  crossw...

 My grief is more intense after dinner than through the day. And I have a hard time sleeping, restless naps through a very long night. When I see my new doctor next month, maybe he'll give me something.

 During my career, I wrote something somewhere on a daily basis. Without fail. I continued after retirement. A writer never retires,  someone told me. But in 2014, when I became Harriet's caregiver, my writing ground to a halt.  In the next 11 years, I wrote almost nothing. I'm not a natural caregiver, I had to focus on it. Moreover I was a nervous wreck. Harriet had been dead for 3 minutes before she was revived. If she dropped dead once, she could drop dead again. (I was right. 11 years later she dropped dead in her sleep.) Writing now about my grief and other things feels like a rediscovery of myself. This suggests that yes, I can still have a life,. And here at Homewoods I am surrounded by people who have done this very thing, surviving the death of a spouse and creating a new life. Even as I am feeling deep grief, I feel blessed to be here.

 I'm not sitting around feeling sorry for myself. Keeping busy reduces my grief. I've arranged to return to VA health insurance. Since getting married, I've been piggybacking on Harriet's health plan at Kaiser. This will save me a significant amount of money. I've arranged for her cremation and while at it am prepaying for my own. Harriet was my last connection, so to speak, and now I am a man without next of kin. I've outlived all my family and friends. Imagine!  No next of kin. Harriet's oldest son has agreed to play the role of next of kin after I pass. Paying for my cremation now will simplify things for him. I have a plan for dealing with much that needs to be done. 1. De-clutter the apartmnt. We were the Mothership of Clutter, believe me. After her heart attack and minor brain damage, she no longer did housework. When I did it, she wouldn't let me get rid of anything unless she went through it, which she never did. I didn't make an issue of it ...

 I am not new to losing a loved one.  I lost my mother, my father, my only brother, my two closest friends. I spread the ashes of four of these. The sadness I felt and still feel about these deaths doesn't come close to the intensity of grief I feel now. I'm in a world I've never been before. I'm not taking it one day at a time. I'm taking it one hour at a time.

Harriet often said, usually with a smile on her face, "I'm just an old bat."  This is the same Harriet who through most of her life was a multi-tasking house of fire. Now and again, a family member or friend would disagree, telling Harriet she still had adventures ahead of her, she should be out there finding them. Harriet would reply that she'd spent many years and tons of energy raising four kids, she deserved time doing nothing. Harriet also was challenging a popular myth about old age, that the retirement years represent the best years of a life, "the golden years." A few years ago I made a short satiric digital film about this, starring Harriet. It can be found on YouTube at https://youtu.be/8hbliazzu3c?si=axozO2nl0w3etEiS (The best discussion of all this is Susan Jacoby's book, "Never Say Die: the Myth and Marketing of a New Old Age").

 I am receiving lots of support but what is helping my grief more than anything is listening to cool jazz. There is something about the slow sad sound of a Gerry Mulligan or Stan Getz saxophone that exactly expresses how I am feeling. It's as if the sax is saying, don't worry, we get it. You're not alone. Let us weep for you.  My unofficial godson in Idaho, a blues musician himself (harmonica), came up with a name for this: The Mulligan/Getz Cure. Perfect! My day starts this way: I come into the living room and say, "Alexa, continue." On an Amazon Echo that Harriet was given by her oldest daughter, the Cool Jazz Radio station on Pandora starts playing. The cure begins. Another unexpected source of support are the residents here at Homewoods on the Willamette. The vast majority of them have lost a spouse themselves. They know better than to ask any well-intentioned but hurtful questions.

 When we married in our 50s, Harriet was involved in so many activities as Levi, she didn't want to change her name. I had no problem with that. A few years ago she told me she was going to change her name to Deemer. I researched the matter and advised against it, given her age. If she started the process but died before it was finished, she could create a nightmare for heirs dealing with various institutions. I found some horror stories. I suggested keeping her legal name but using Deemer when she could. Thus, in the retirement facility where we live, she is known as Harriet Deemer.

 I have a suspicion that Harriet knew she wss dying. For four or five days earlier, she had a bad case of the flu. On the day she died, she woke up feeling good. She planned to go to the dining room for lunch. But around 1130 she said she wasn't feeling good. She was going to take a nap. I checked on her every hour or so and could hear her breathing. Once, around 3, she heard me and said, "I love you."  On my next visit, around 4, I heard no breathing. I couldn't wake her up. I called 911. She was gone. In retrospect,, her "I love you" feels like a goodbye.

I need somewhere to express my grief at her death.  This new blog is the place.