Time Does Not Heal

Time heals all wounds, they say.  I call BS.

Time doesn't heal.

I recently read a post about this and I found it to be profound.  The post I read wasn't completely in line with what I've learned in the past year-and-a-half specifically, and more generally, in the past seven years, in which I have lost six very significant players in my life.

But the statement still rings true for me: Time does not heal.

Time simply provides a window in which you are given the opportunity to gather tools. Tools to help you survive. Tools to help you grow. Tools to help you come to grips with your reality,

The tools are presented in different forms and at different frequencies for every person needing healing. I'm sure this is true whatever the nature of your wounds.

I, personally, am determined to grab every tool I can manage to latch onto.

My mind's eye envisions this like an old-school video game where items are dropping from the top of the screen and you are trying to click on as many 'point giving items' as you can while avoiding bombs that set you back.

And for sure I have, and will again, miss some important tools that I was given opportunity to collect. I've also collected some bombs that have hindered my progress.

And honestly, there have been moments, days, and even weeks, where I don't actually want to collect tools because I'm kinda comfortable in my grief and don't really want to move forward.

But the tools are there.

And I'm free to collect them, or turn a blind eye to them, or purposely avoid clicking on them.

And my healing journey will reflect my choices.

*********

January 23, 1982 was 38 years ago.

It was cold. It was snowy. Like, FRIGGIN' snowy! (Snowiest winter I recall) It was not ideal.

But it was the day I said, "I do." And I did.

And Albert committed to "till death do us part." And he followed through.

Charcuterie for Dinner

Charcuterie board for dinner tonight!

Which is just a fancy way to say meat and cheese plate. 

In reality, what I'm having are little bits of scraps of stuff I found in the fridge: two radishes, a wimpy stalk of celery, three inches of garlic coil, two pounds of mushrooms and 27 varieties of cheese. And an open bottle of antipasto - it still looks and smells fine although I don't remember how long it's been open. I'm sure I won't die. 

I cleaned my freezers out last week. It was the fridge's turn today. 

Oh my goodness. I throw away so much food. Between the freezers and fridge I have tossed enough food to feed a family of four for three months... if it wasn't either freezer burnt, slimy or growing green stuff. 

How do fridges get so bad? I'm the only one who lives here. Under the crispers was a layer of brown powder. I'm unsure if it was dehydrated soy sauce or steak blood, but I don't remember spilling either.

I found 7 bottles of mustard. Seven. Dijon, horseradish dijon, old fashioned dijon, two bottles of yellow mustard and two 'fancy' varieties.  I don't even like mustard.

There was a bag of spinach that looked like an 8th grade science project. And a tupperware container of, I'm not really sure - looks like it was either roast beef or spaghetti at one time.  

Having a clean and organized fridge is always so nice. Kinda like washing the kitchen floor and laundering the bedding - so nice and fresh and you always wonder why you don't do it more often.  I did all three today.

It was a good day to be snowed in. 

So fancy

More my reality.

Wandering

Holy Crap!

I know 10,000 steps in a day is the ideal 'goal' for most people. I'm not most people.  I average 4-6 thou.  I'm a sedentary type girl. The only time I come close to 10,000 is on days when I do both Superstore and Costco in the same day. 

But I reached more than ten thousand today.

And let me preface by saying I hate snow, and cold, and dark and all things winter.

But JimE and I went snowshoeing today. 

Okay, I admit I feel like a bit of a snowshoeing expert... I went out for about an hour last week with my dear friend Darlene Mj - my only time snowshoeing since I was in the sixth grade. But I felt empowered. 

"Let's do Moore's Meadow," I suggested. 

Thinking: this is a park in the city, it'll be relatively easy. I can handle it. Even after dark. 

I have lived in Prince George for over 43 years and I had been in Moore's Meadow park exactly ONE time.  It was 1980. I was 15 years old. And while I was in this said park I smoked two joints with an unnamed future-sister-in-law. I honestly have no idea how we found our way out of said park. 

I've never been back. And I've never smoked another joint.

Anyway... back to tonight... 

It was snowing lightly and the moon was marginally visible through a light cloud cover at about -2 degrees. 

We geared up in a parking lot off Foothills blvd and set off. 

Neither of us having any idea where we were actually heading, we just sort of "coin tossed" every Y in the path and headed off. 

Okay, I should interject here that I can totally get lost in a simple mall. I've been known to go browsing in a store and come out and head back in the direction I just came from with NO recollection of direction. 

JimE kept saying, "We can turn back any time - remember we have to repeat our steps to get back to the truck."  

I kept responding, "I can do this." Thinking: if we just keep walking I'm sure we'll circle the park and end back where we came from. 

Holy Crap. 

About one hour into the trek, when we ventured upon a row of houses, I assumed we'd come back around to 1st Ave... not far from where we parked. But no. We were so off course it's not even imaginable. 

 Standing in the moonlight on a path in the woods I consulted Google Maps to try figure out where we were. A woman walking her dog approached us.   I confessed I was lost and asked where Foothills Blvd was.  "Oh. Oh dear. It's quite a ways. I can give you a ride?"  

How does one get so lost so easily? 

We declined her help but thanked her profusely for her offer. 

And off we trudged.

Okay, if you aren't familiar with Moore's Meadow, it's a park in the city bowl. The bowl - y'know the flat area of the city that was carved out by the rivers millennia ago. Who knew there were actual mountains and valleys within the park?? Not me, that's for sure. 

Seriously, there were 90 degree hills. Is it possible for a hill to be steeper than 90? Cuz I'm pretty sure there are some in Moore's Meadow. And we hiked them up. And we hiked them down. ALL of them. Twice, some of them. 

And I started to think about the Children of Israel wandering in the desert for 40 years.  FORTY years.  Here I was two hours in and feeling somewhat helpless.  

JimE, gentleman that he is, offered to leave me and trudge out on his own. Uh...not too likely. You can't find us outta this wilderness, like heck I'm gonna sit here in the woods on my own, trusting you'll somehow make it out and manage to get the truck closer to where I am. We don't even know where I am. 

I regretted not putting a keto bar in my pocket for energy. 

I wished I had packed a water bottle. 

I wished I had enabled Google Location Services path tracker thingy.  Big Brother be damned. 

I did in fact have the foresight to put a couple of "Hot Pockets" in my pocket. Y'know... in case I got cold. 

I didn't get cold. I actually worked up a sweat. 

So the sh!t I prepared for was not actually the sh!t I needed. 

Somehow this was enlightening.

Can we ever really prepare for the sh!t we are faced with? 

Long story short, I put on more steps than average (maybe even more than ever.) And I did manage to find my way 'round to where I needed to be. 

I was pretty much exhausted after trudging 6km through snow uphill and down.

Survive...Revive...Thrive...

Getting past the one-year of widowhood anniversary was a giant leap for me. Well, calling it a leap is a bit of a stretch. I don't know that I really have the words to explain it. For a year I sort of felt like a freight train lumbering along, but with its brakes on - still moving forward but creaking and groaning and grinding along.

I was resisting arriving at the anniversary and what I perceived it symbolized. Not that I had any control over it arriving, it was coming in 365 days whether I was ready or not.

But I do feel like this lumbering freight train is emerging from a long dark tunnel. Like I've been released from merely surviving into a season of reviving. And I am hopeful to once again thrive. And I have no doubt I will.

I have so much to be grateful for. My husband took very good care of me for 37 years and he ensured that will continue.  I have so many fantastic memories - both the good and the bad, and the legacy of our children sustains me daily. I know Jesus walks with me, carrying me when necessary, and even giving me the occasional perverbial slap upside the head. I have some really great friends and I have things in my life that give me purpose.  Onward and upward, I say.

I've been a bit lax in blogging but figured since it is once again the 28th I should just sit down and do it.

And being the 28th of December, it is my birthday.  Freedom 55 they say. Fricking old I say.  It really struck me yesterday when I was filling out some sort of online form. I had to check off my age. I was so excited that (for the last time) I could check off 45-54 as my category. Today I entered the 55+ group. Yikes! It's not even 55-64. Nope. Just 55+.  I'm now in the same age group as the 80 year-olds.

Oi. How am I supposed to thrive under these conditions.

Every Day is the Threshold of the Rest of Your Life.

Threshold: (n) any place or point of entering or beginning.

Birthdays that have someone turning 30, 40, 50, 60 etc are often accompanied by a party. Not so much because the person is excited about being launched into a new decade. Often the party is to soften the blow of these threshold birthdays. 

For the past couple of months I had been viewing November 28, 2019, the anniversary of Albert's passing, sort of as a threshold day. One which would launch me into a new phase. And I didn't want to go. 

I have sort of felt some security in being a "recent" widow. Perhaps even justified in living a bit selfishly as I stumble along this path of grief and mourning. 

I didn't plan a party as such, to soften the blow of the day but I did plan to share a meal with Jed and JimE. A meal which would have had Albert declaring at some point, "Mighty fine vittles, woman."  I heard that often during dinner. Followed by him patting his belly with both hands at the end of the meal and singing, "I'm a fat little bugger and I don't know why - my wife don't feed me no pumpkin pie. I don't know, but I'm feeling fine. Must be all that steak and wine." (I honestly don't know if this is something he made up or if it started out as someone else's song or ditty. My life with A was filled with ditties. And this one made regular appearances.) 

I have been eating a keto diet for over six months, but I planned Nov 28th to be an intentional carb day as I meal planned: steak with blue cheese topping, baked potatoes, bacon wrapped scallops, roasted beets, salad and garlic toast. All topped off with tiramisu - an Olive Garden favourite that Alb and I shared many times over the years. 

And while I was grocery shopping I decided since I was having a carb day, I would buy an apple to enjoy on the day. I have nothing but good things to say about the keto life, however, I really miss apples.  

I lingered over the bins of various apples, fondling many of them, trying to find the perfect apple. I compared colours, size, firmness and checked for blemishes and bruises. I basically was salivating in the produce department as I envisioned slicing up my perfect apple, dusting it lightly with salt and eating it alongside a few slices of extra old cheese.

Much like a birthday, I awoke in the morning feeling really no different than I had the day before, despite the numbers having changed. The day that I had feared and dreaded really didn't change anything. I'm simply one day further along in my journey. 

And in mid afternoon, I cut into my perfect apple. 

And I cried. I literally cried. 

What appeared on the outside to be perfect, was a complete disappointment. 

And my day that presented as fearful, turned out to be a really lovely, meaningful time as Jed and JimE and I reminisced, listened to songs and sound bites, laughed and even cried.  

Well, that was a big hairy deal.

Allow me to explain to you how my day went. 

I started off my day with a 10 o'clock appointment for a hair trim with my stylist whom I've followed for twelve years to various salons and a few stints of working out of her home. I've lost her and found her a few different times when she has changed locations and phone numbers over the years. 

I've had a couple of trims since my last colour job so there really wasn't much colour left in my hair. And by 'not much colour' I mean not much colour of any kind, as my natural hair also has not much colour left to it. 

Recent photo showing that yes, it needed cut and yes, it has no colour left. 

I told her this trim would probably remove the last of the colour but I was going to try to go au naturale and see how I liked it. And added I'd probably last about two weeks before I was back for a colour appointment.

Without actually saying that my natural grey hair is just sort of a blah colour, not lovely lustrous silver, she instead offered that maybe adding a few strands of black would help make my grey "pop."

"Black??!" I looked doubtful into her eyes. Even though I have always completely trusted her colour judgement, often just sitting in her chair and saying, "Do something dramatic."

"Not chunks of black or anything. Just a few really subtle strands. Here I'll show a couple of photos."

And she reached for her phone so show me some pictures similar to this: 

I was still a bit doubtful but threw myself at her mercy.

I caught  glimpse of myself in the mirror as she was removing the foils at the sink.

"It's awfully dark. I'm kinda freaking out here."

"Oh no. It's gonna be good," she replies, easing my fears a bit. 

I remained calm while she put toner in and did an initial cut and 'texturized' it with her thinning shears. 

"What do you think?" she asked. 

Oh.My.Freak!! 

What do I think? I'm freaking out inside but I continue to remain calm. 

The sides and back of my head were my natural grey, but there was no natural hair colour at all left on the top. It was patches of black, and I mean black-black, and blonde-y silver colour that was arranged in stripes akin to a zebra.  

As I casually as I possibly can, I point out that there is a large 3-inch chunk of black right in the front on the left side of my bangs that was a bit too much for me and the sides were really 'stripey.' 

"Ok, I'll reduce this front patch," she says as she swoops in with the thinning shears that are still in her hand, and just starts attacking that one patch until it's half gone.  

Realizing that I am going to have a bald spot in about two more snips if she doesn't stop, I say, "I'm really freaking out here!" 

"OK, I think I'll tone it down for you a bit." And she heads off to mix up more colour.  

I should have taken a photo at that point but I really just sat in disbelief that this woman whom I've trusted so much over the years had just messed up this colour so bad and then attacked a random spot in my hair. It was so bizarre. 

I'm not a great judge of these things, but I'm fairly certain she was not drunk or stoned out of her mind. But I was pretty baffled. 

Anyway, I sat through another round of colour and foils and toner. In the end, the silver had disappeared and turned a brassy-blonde colour and the black was reduced to more of a dark chocolate. And my 20-30 minute quick trim I'd gone in for turned into a 2 1/2 hour trauma and I was late for my lunch date with a friend.  

She assured me as I left that it had a lot to do with the fluorescent lighting in the salon and if I used my purple shampoo the first time I wash it the brassy colour would be gone and the silver would brighten right up. 

And I bravely sat in public and enjoyed a lovely lunch with my striped hair looking sort of like a brindle coloured dog. 

And as soon as I got home I jumped in the shower. Lathered up with a ridiculous amount of Bust Your Brass shampoo. And left it in my hair for about 20 minutes while I just stood in a stream of hot water and cried.

I don't think I cried for my hair. It's only hair. And mine grows really fast. But I was just spent. It's been a rough couple of weeks with Albert's birthday, the anniversary of his death coming up, I attended a funeral on Monday, have another one on Saturday, I hate the time change back to standard time and the dark evenings, the coming of winter always depresses me, and I haven't been sleeping well again lately.

I managed to get my hair rinsed and get out of the shower before I ran out of hot water.

Alas, the purple shampoo did not produce a miracle.  

I couldn't adequately capture the striped sides while taking a selfie. But the top speaks for itself. 

All the kids were over for supper and within moments of them leaving I was off to the drugstore for a 6-dollar box of hair bleach and a 6-dollar box of Loreal "medium golden blonde."

The hair bleach instructions said to apply to hair 3 cm from scalp and leave on for 30 minutes before adding more to the roots, but avoiding getting on scalp, and leave on for another 30 minutes. 

Leave 3cm from scalp? What are you supposed to do if your hair is only 3 cm long?? And I since I didn't have any 'roots' because the colour was only 6 hours old, I envisioned created even more stripe affects by not stripping all the colour out. 

I applied it all over.

By 20 minutes in, my scalp was burning. This was, after all, the third application of chemicals in just a few hours.  

I checked in the mirror at 30 minutes and the blond parts were looking almost transparent white, and I  started to panic and decided not to leave it on for the second 30 minutes that were recommended. 

And I jumped into the shower once again.

The lighter areas definitely lightened up but the dark was still pretty dark. So the stripes were even more noticeable now.

Thank God I hadn't actually thrown out the 2nd half of the bottle of hair bleach.

I slathered my hair once again and waited for another 30 minutes before jumping into the shower yet again.

By the end of the second session my scalp was on fire. 

Finally got the darkness removed. 

After the second session with the bleach, the colour was actually ok enough that I could have left it as is. It had some nice variety of tones to it without looking like stripes anymore. 

Yes, I could have left it... had I actually paid attention to how I applied the bleach.   Since the sides and back of my hair were still my natural grey I didn't put the bleach to it. And it was very evident that I paid no attention to getting it even.  

So I bust out the box of medium golden blonde and lather up with chemicals for the fifth time. This time making sure even my grey is covered. 

By the time the 25-minute dye session is over my scalp is akin to what I imagine it would be like to have someone squeeze jalapeño juice into your eye. 

And I jump in for my fifth shower of the day.  

And by the time all is said and done it's past midnight. But I can't resist the urge to blog while it's fresh in my mind.

I look like a 4-year-old who has snipped off their own bangs and my hair feels like straw.

I'm heading to bed hoping I don't wake to find all my hair laying in a neat pile on my pillow entangled in my CPAP straps.

Is This My Actual Life?

Sometimes it's just too early to go to bed so you invent distractions to get you through to the end of the day.

As I am closing in on the one-year anniversary of my Albert transforming into the presence of Jesus, I've sort of been hypersensitive to it. So in my "distract yourself until you can justifiably go to bed for the night" mission, I decided to peruse his Facebook timeline to see what his last official post was about this time last year.

While he did have a few posts from other people that he shared in November, my heart was blessed by these final few posts.

One year ago today, on November 7th,  he shared this post of Beatrice.

And on October 27, 2018 Albert officially made his last Facebook post on his own timeline:

Oh my how Daphne, his little Schmoey-Girl loves that book. He probably read it to her 40 times in his final weeks. And she loved it every.single.time. Here's my video version of it:

Oh, to hear him bust out in spontaneous song just one more time. 

On October 25, his final birthday, he made this post:

I neither "liked" nor commented on this post. I don't actually remember ever seeing it.  However I wrote a book about it.  That kinda blessed my heart to see.  And now I can peacefully call it a night and go to bed.   

Sometimes I think, "Is this my life...it's so shitty." Other times I'm overwhelmed with thoughts of, "Is this my actual life...I am so blessed."

(Feel free to contact me if you haven't yet gotten your own personally signed copy of Bluebird's Song, my tribute to Albert. A children's book with a message and illustrations for anyone of any age.)