Following or just looking?

I love statistics. One of the perks of having this blog is that it provides statistics to me that tells me where the views are coming from when someone has either read or looked at my blog. Just a bit ago, 1,357 pageviews have occurred since I started writing this blog. Most of the views have been from the United States, but I've also had 8 views from Germany, 4 from the United Kingdom, 2 from Denmark, and one each from Canada, Belarus, and Russia. With that many views, you'd think I'd have more "followers" — people who regularly look in and continue reading my postings, but when you look at the opening page of the blog, it only shows that I have one follower. I know of a handful of people who read this blog quite a bit, but I'm not sure what you have to do to become a "follower." So I've wondered for some time now: how may regular readers do I have? If you are a regular reader, please leave a comment after this posting. Thanks. My curiosity has been piqued.

Six months plus a day

Approximately 12 hours ago, I was crying my eyes out as it was exactly six months to the minute that he died—7:45pm on Christmas Eve 2010. Minutes later, my great friend Donna called to check in on me, as she knew I'd be feeling down. I told her I already had a few crying spells throughout the day. What I didn't realize as I was speaking with her, was that as soon as I hung up from the call, the tears started up again—big time. An hour later, my best friend Tom called, as he also knew that I'd be feeling down. A group of us, including Donna and Tom, had been together the night before as we took in the new musical Tales of the City, based on Armistead Maupin's books from the 1970s. Before I had gotten to the theater, I had taken BART downtown as it's always difficult to find parking, so I opted for the easier parking situation at the Glen Park BART station and rode downtown instead. Because BART can be very efficient, I got downtown earlier than I had anticipated, so I walked around the Union Square area doing some window shopping. I then decided to just sit in the newly revamped Square and people-watch until it was time to walk the two blocks to the theater. I chose one of the newer tables & chairs area that includes an umbrella on the table. As I sat there watching people, I noticed what I perceived to be an elderly gay couple walk across the open area of the square. And what do they do? They beeline directly towards me and sit at the very next table. As soon as their conversation started, it confirmed my suspicion that they were indeed a couple. And naturally, their very presence set the tears flowing, as I was already missing Dennis immensely, knowing that he would have enjoyed the night out with our friends as much as I was anticipating it. I wanted to ask them how long they'd been together and tell them about Dennis, but I just could not get my crying to stop so I never did talk to them. Just before they left, I heard one of them say, "It's about time we head over and meet our friends and get to our seats." I naturally assumed they were heading to the same play where I was headed.

I was the sixth person in our party of seven to reach the theater, and found everyone standing in front of the theater—our meeting point. After hugs and kisses were exchanged, I said, "I just can't believe my luck. BART got me down here early so I've been people watching at Union Square. These two elderly gay guys come strolling across the square and sit at the table next to me, starting my tears flowing. I was already missing Dennis because I really wanted him here tonight with all of us, and of course I broke down. I'm not even here yet, and the evening has started on the wrong foot." Both Tom and Donna hugged me as the tears started again.

"Take a deep breath and relax, Rick," Tom said. "We all know what you're going through and we're here for you."

It took a while, but I finally got my emotions under control. Peter arrived about then, so all seven of us were now in attendance. We headed into the theater to find our seats. The musical was very entertaining and I think we all enjoyed it, even though it was about three hours long—the fastest three hours I've spent in a long time. I couldn't believe it was after eleven o'clock when we got out.

Friday morning arrived and I knew it was going to be a trying day. It's never taken much to get me crying, and that morning was no exception. I had many emotional moments throughout the day, minor compared to the major breakdowns I suffered through later that evening. But here it is, Saturday morning, and I'm still plugging away. There are still so many more moments that are going to happen to me throughout the rest of the year. I wonder at times how I'm ever going to get through them, but get through them I do. I leave in two weeks for Michigan to attend his memorial that his sisters are having, and while I'm looking forward to the trip, I know that Kleenex stock will probably hit an all-time high. I just have to remember: one day at a time.

The sadness just won't leave

I know I'm getting used to living without him, but the sense of sadness that surrounds me just won't take a leave of absence. I manage to get through the day, but it still seems like I'm just going through the motions. Every morning that I get up, he's still not there in his chair. Every night when I go to bed, he's still not there in his chair. Every weekday morning when I leave for work, I say goodbye to his photo, but end up sighing as I make my way to the front door. At times, my sense of loss seems to keep growing instead of dissipating. How is that possible? I've been told and have read in grief books that things get better—it sure does take a long time though. I interact with people all day at work, with friends on weekends, but when I get home, there's no one to interact with any longer. It's very depressing and my common sense tells me that I've got a long road yet ahead of me—ruts and pot holes notwithstanding.

This coming Friday (June 24) looms large in front of me. It will be six months to the day that he died, and not just the date, but to the day as he died on a Friday—as if I could ever forget. In less than three weeks, I leave for Michigan to attend his memorial that Sandie and Eileen (his sisters) are having for him; they live in the Detroit metro area. I spoke to Sandie the other night and she's having a tree-planting ceremony; the tree will be planted in her yard, though I don't know if it will be the front yard or the back yard. And I can't remember the type of tree, even though she told me. All I can remember is that it will bloom once a year. After the ceremony, we will have a barbeque with most of the Healy family that live in that area in attendance. I'm planning on reading the poem I wrote about a couple of articles ago. It's very touching and the first time I read it, I truly felt that Dennis was speaking the words to me. It had that much effect on me, and I'm someone who has never "enjoyed" poetry. It will take all the strength I can muster to get through it without falling apart. And if I do, at least I will be with people who understand what I'm going through, as they are experiencing the same feelings, though at a different level than what I'm feeling. But grief is grief, and we are all being embraced by it.

I'm hopeful that by grieving with the Healys, it will begin to assist with the elimination of the sadness factor that clings to me like Saran wrap. I'll keep you posted.

Falling off the deep end

Do you remember the movie The Sixth Sense, starring Bruce Willis and Haley Joel Osment? The premise being that the kid's (Haley) "talent" was that he "sees dead people." Of course, by the end of the movie, we realize Bruce is dead. While I don't "see" dead people, I do talk to a dead person—all the time. Is this normal activity for a grieving person? It seems normal to me but at the same time it also seems kind of bizarre. He never talks back, so it's a pretty one-way conversation. When you've talked to someone every day for more than 30 years, it seems like an everyday activity. It's just difficult to realize that he will never answer me again, at least in the terms of what we here on planet Earth call "talking to each other." Have I now reached the point where I've fallen into the deep end of the pool and my life preserver is nowhere to be found? Or is my floatation device behind me and I just don't see it?

I've mentined before that I listen to the blues channel a lot now, as it makes it seem like he's in the next room. My computer is at the front of the house; the music is at the back of the house in the living room. I crank up the volume so I can hear it while I'm typing. This Friday, June 24th, will be the six month anniversary of his death—right down to the day of the week. Doesn't seem possible, yet it seems like only yesterday, all at the same time. The last week he was physically here is a continuous loop going through my brain. I can't find the off button. I miss him so much. I am learning to live with it, but I don't like it one damn bit. But then, I guess I'm not supposed to like it, am I? I did wish him a "Happy Father's Day" when I got up this morning, along with my Dad. Maybe Dennis, his dad and my dad are all hanging out together today—that would be cool. Dennis is probably making a quiche for their brunch. LOL

Watch out below

Every once in a while I just feel so numb that I can hardly type. Now is one of those times. It's not even an abyss any longer, more like a black hole, sucking everything from me. I want to scream, "Why did you have to die?" Being alone in the house at the end of each workday, loneliness creeps in, grabs hold like a bulldog, and shakes me until I'm a bloody pulp. Dramatic enough for you? I can get carried away. Sorry. I close my eyes sometimes and just let my fingers do the walking over the keyboard and then I read it afterwards. I generally edit most of the shit out, but then again, maybe I'll just leave this as it is. What the hell, it is my blog and it's pretty much how I'm feeling at the moment. I know it's the approaching six month anniversary of his death, trying to sneak up on me—as if that's even possible. Insert snort here. It's affecting me. I don't need reminders; I feel his absence every day. I get jealous when I hear Lisa Duncan tell me that Dennis has been in her dreams but I never remember my dreams, so I couldn't say whether or not he's been in mine. Hell, I can't even tell you with any certainty that I dream; I'm only assuming I do since that's what the "experts" say—we all dream. This is really turning into a rambling mess, isn't it? I think I'll fall back on the old adage: if you don't have anything good to say about it, then don't say anything. Or something along those lines. Therefore, I think I'll try this again sometime when I really have something to say.

Approaching six months

Friday, June 24th is getting closer and that date represents six months to the day that Dennis died. It does not seem possible that six months have elapsed, but the calendar doesn't lie. His last day is still so fresh in my mind it's like it was yesterday. Not a day goes by, hell, not an hour goes by without my thinking of him in some respect. I used to listen to the classic rock station on the audio channels of the cable connection, but I now find myself saying, "Want to listen to some blues, dear?" and I turn to the blues channel instead. It makes me feel like he's there listening with me. I still turn to his chair to say something to him but catch myself before the words get out...sometimes.

One of the topics we discussed at my grief group was "getting stuck" on something, and I think that's a stage I'm at currently. I keep reliving the last week Dennis was alive; I can't get past it. I know there wasn't anything further I could have done at that time except what I did—helping him get into and out of the bathroom, in and out of his chair, making him meals, making sure he took his medicine at the appropriate time. I kept giving him the cough syrup that he wanted, though I knew it wasn't really doing him any good—other than it kept his mind off the fact that his lungs were failing—the placebo effect. Which was fine by me. I certainly didn't want to face that fact either, so I can only imagine what he was feeling.

I still have two sessions of individual grief counseling available through the hospice and I'm going to go at least one more time. I went last week, starting again after the group counseling was over. We agreed that the next session would be after I get back from my Michigan trip, as I will have lots to talk about—his memorial, my grieving with the Healys and with my old friends Jerry and Judy, how I managed to survive both a memorial and a wedding in the same week—at least I'm pretty sure I'll survive.

Two steps forward, three steps back

Yeah, I know, I know. It's supposed to be "two steps forward, one step back" but the past couple of weeks have had me "slip sliding away" (thanks for the song title, Paul Simon) in the wrong direction. I think it has to do with the approach of June 24th—six months to the day that Dennis died. Just another milestone on the road to recovery (is that even possible?). My main problem lately is loneliness. Our house is not that large; less than 1,000 square feet of space, but it feels like I'm roaming around in a mansion and I never run into anyone. Ever since I've turned 60, I have felt an improvement in the way I "feel" but this is a long process and I suppose there will be setbacks. I'm having one at the moment. Every Friday night I relive his last day—I can't seem to help myself. I constantly "see" him in his chair, looking frail but knowing that there really was nothing further I could have done for him other than what I did. My biggest regret is that we weren't in a financial position where I could have just taken a leave of absense and spent each and every day with him. He knew I had to work though; I had to keep a roof over our head, food on the table—it was a stressful time and I did the best I could. He certainly knew I loved him because I told him so every single day. I just regret not being able to spend more time with him than I did.

I'll be heading back to Michigan in about a month, to attend his memorial that his sisters are having for him. Later that same week, his nephew Jeff is getting married and I'll be there for both ceremonies. I posted a poem in my last entry that I received at the last session of my grief group. I'm going to take it with me and try to read it at the memorial; it remains to be seen whether I'll be able to get through it without the requisite tears. I don't really know what form the memorial is going to take, whether it will just be something simple at Sandie's house, or if it's going to be a bit more and at a different location. I'm planning on talking with her in the next couple of weeks, as I'd like to find out the parameters of the memorial so I can let my younger brother know what's happening. He and Nancy live only about 30 miles north of where I'll be and I'd like them to come if at all possible. This trip will be the first time I've grieved while in the presence of his family, and if John and Nancy are able to come, it will also be the first time with anyone from my family as well. I already know this entire trip is going to be an emotional roller coaster. Just thinking about the trip can reduce me to tears. But at the same time, I'm looking forward to seeing everyone. It's a classic Catch-22 situation. I'm also planning on seeing Jerry and Judy, two old friends who were there at the very beginning of our relationship. We had gone with them to see A Chorus Line at the end of August 1980, and over that weekend, Dennis and I decided to give a relationship a try—and we made it work for a little more than 30 years.

Another regret that I have is the fact that we never "got into" the technological revolution that has appeared over the last couple of decades. I'd love to have some videos of us, with sound, so that at the very least, I could hear his voice again. I still talk to him/his photo all the time; I so miss talking to him though—and having him talk back, to having him call me "babe" one more time. I've got to stop for awhile; I'm a mess.