There is a chapter in my memoir (the one we are all praying will find an avenue for publication soon) entitled “Christians Believe in Resurrection.” Here’s a portion I am considering today:
While I was a chaplain, I watched a group of doctors resuscitate an elderly gentleman. Resuscitation is a gruesome act. It often involves broken bones and blood. While physicians monitored blood pressure and breathing, I monitored grief and loss. Everyone in the room wanted to save life. I wanted death. I wasn't callous to the family or the doctor's desire to prevent death. I get that not everyone is comfortable with “do not resuscitate” orders. The doctors did not save this man. He suffered yet another major heart attack. And his last minutes on earth were traumatic.
Pete’s last moments were complicated just like that experience I had as a chaplain. Pete had a major heart attack. I watched it happen in his eyes as he reached for me and said, “Help.” Then he fell back on the bed, gasping for breath. I held his torso in my arms as I reached for the phone to call 911. He took four labored breaths as I cried and whispered “no, no, breathe honey, breathe honey, no, no.” And then I believe he was gone.
But the switchboard director answered the phone and asked me to get him onto the floor. She instructed me to do chest compressions. And then the squad arrived and they took over. And then at some point they thought they saw cardiac activity so they continued. And then finally, I asked, “are we doing the same thing over and over and getting the same response?” There was a pause and this time I did not whisper, I waved me arm and said, “Everybody stop. Really. Stop. Death is ok.”
Here's a bit more from the memoir:
“Resuscitation is about holding onto the life we have. We hold onto what we have; we cling to our lives – exposing our lives to traumatic acts of resuscitation just to hold onto what we know. We try all kinds of things to resuscitate the life that we know… There are obviously some situations that require some more grit. Sometimes in life, we need to keep working at something. But there are a lot of times where we need to stop for a second and imagine an end. Stop. Let go. Allow death to happen. Embrace loss. Wait for resurrection.
When Pete and I can no longer do certain things or go certain places, we adjust and sometimes those adjustments seem bitter. I have grown to understand that bitterness is a sign that I am still trying to resuscitate. I don't want the life we imagined to die. I want to try to keep it alive. I cling to the life we had. I cling to the dreams we dreamed together. But when a dream is dying, or MS has taken Pete's ability to walk, I want to have the courage to say, “Do not resuscitate.”
As you can imagine, I am having to imagine a new life. A resurrected life. But at the same time I am most certainly clinging to the life we had. I am overwhelmed with wanting to maintain or recreate the family life we had, the home we had, the comfortable conversation I so deeply miss. I worry about whether my life will work without him. I worry if I will know how to be who I have become – a stepmother, a grandmother, a pastor, a writer, a friend, even a lover – without him. But “who I have become” is not tangible. There’s nothing physical to hold onto.
In fact, all of the tangible things are either donated, packed or treasures that we have kept. We have donated Pete’s clothing, the dishes we used during our life together, many of our books. We’ve thrown away cds and packed up pictures. In one week, movers will pile our “life” together into a 10x15 climate controlled box, a tomb if you will.
The Christian scriptures say Jesus was in the tomb for “three days.” Three days is a literary device that essentially means “when the fat lady sings.” Jesus was in the tomb until the “fat lady sang” or “until it was time” or “when God was good and ready.” The “three days” is when the magic happens, the miracle of new life from death.
He missed it. Pete missed Mateo’s third birthday. I made a 3D firetruck cake that sliced easily and everything. Pete would have remembered the meltdown I had last year when the dump truck cake fell apart and Julia and I “fixed it” by throwing a bunch of broken vanilla wafers on it and creating a whole new 3D cake. “No one will know, Mommom,” she said. And they didn’t. But this year the cake worked just as planned. And the kids helped me decorate it and… Pete missed it.
And I couldn’t help but think about how Mateo being three will only know Pete from what we tell him. And although he’ll hear how Pete was beyond joy, without words at the adoption of Mateo, Mateo will never hear Pete tell him about how adopting a baby was a dream come true for him. He’ll never hear Pete talk about his hope for a world that loves one another, across racial and ethnic, social and economic barriers. He’ll never hear Pete talk about camping out at the Washington Monument and being jarred into adulthood when armed military personnel monitored their peaceful protest.
He won’t hear Pete talk about; he will hear us talk about it. But it’s not the same. Pete is missing out on life. And Mateo is missing out on life with Pete.
Pete missed Charlottesville too. And this was when I realized it wasn’t just that Pete was missing out but that “we” were missing out on experiencing life together. I didn’t miss out on this past weekend’s events. I am not missing out on trying to figure out what kind of world I live in now. I am in the thick of it but my partner and best friend is not here with me and so I’m missing being part of a “We.”
I can’t help but think if I were a “We” still, I would have had a thoughtful, fruitful conversation about race and violence, militia and the first amendment. If I were still a “We,” I would have gained a historical perspective that I have grown to assume is readily available to me. And now I am grasping for the questions to ask other that would get me somewhere near that conversation that would be happening in Pete’s head. I want to be part of that conversation and I used to be part of that conversation – every day, but especially when horrible things happened.
Pete and I loved to talk to one another. About anything. Neither of us danced on the surface of life. We loved the conversation about what makes life worth calling it life. And so when people walked into the University of Virginia wearing khakis and carrying torches, I don’t want to search the internet for good journalism, I want to ask Pete what he sees and what he thinks. I want to lay in bed with him, my arms wrapped around him, his arms wrapped around me. I want the two of us to shed tears together for a country we love but no longer recognize. I want the two of us to pray fragments like,
Dear God, what is happening?
Dear God, we are sorry - for our part - implicit and complicit.
Dear God, what the hell is happening?
Together, our prayers were never "put together." They were honest and vulnerable. They spoke of our sinful nature and how we were at a loss as to what to do next. And now I am left with my own prayers; there is no "we" anymore, just “me.” And it’s so much less than “we.”
And so it’s not that “he” missed Mateo’s birthday or “he” missed Charlottesville, “we” did. We missed it. And “We” are going to miss a lot of things.
I promised myself I'd update the blog once/week and then I also promised myself that some weeks I might only have picture to share. I've reached that week.
I've started to pack up my house. This has included taking an inventory of what I wish to keep, what I will use, what I will imagine in my life moving forward. If you know me, I really have no problem throwing things away. Purging is cathartic (for me.) And so I can only imagine that I will eventually be opening boxes and wonder, "did I really throw out the dish drain? What was wrong with the dish drain?"
And joking aside, in a moment of rash purging the other day, I threw out the key to a small storage closet in our building. And I didn't realize it until I needed the key. Ugh.
We've also taken three full car loads to the local Good Will. That's been great and gives me a little bit of help with my, "look how much stuff you're putting in a landfill" guilt.
Having to imagine what my life will be is the most ridiculous idea that it's made it that much easier for me to settle into bedroom three at Dan and Faith's house. I've given myself the freedom to grieve, to reflect, to cry, to laugh. Eventually, I will begin to imagine what is next.
In the meantime, Julia and I are playing monopoly. She's killing me.
And if I had the brain space or the reflection time, perhaps I would make some grand connection between how I'm trying to figure out my next move, hoping to pass Go and collect $200 as often as possible. I might understanding why I mortgaged Water Works just so I could have another property with the same color. I think it's fair to share also that Pennsylvania Avenue doesn't look too appealing to me with its current residence. And maybe I'll ask my therapist what she thinks about me using the iron as my playing piece.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid but the sensation is like being afraid.”
These are the first words of C.S. Lewis’ renowned book A Grief Observed. In this honest and thoughtful memoir, he recounts so much of the chaos that occurred within his mind and body after his beloved died. I’ve read it twice since Pete died and I’m still mostly stuck on that first thought.
Grief feels like fear.
For example, when I get in my car alone, a funny things happens at about mile 3. Without prompting, remember the moment Pete stopped breathing or I remember I have to pack up my house in the next six weeks or I remember that I don't really know how to do life without him. My breathing changes. And I feel unrest. This is the same feeling as fear. It’s fight or flight time.
You see fear comes to us from our amygdala. The amygdala is part of our animal brain. It’s lodged deep in the cerebral cortex and it is part of our limbic system. It controls memory, our decision making, our emotional reactions. It gives us fear… and I’m going to say grief too.
Grief comes from memory. Grief is a much deeper seated emotion. It’s not cognitive.
Dr. Bessel Van Der Kolk is the Medical Director of the Trauma Center at the Justice Resource Institute in Brookline, Massachusetts. He’s also a professor of psychiatry at Boston University Medical School and in an interview with Krista Tippet, he said, “We have these two different parts of our brain. Our animal brain makes us go to sleep, and makes us hungry, and makes us turned on to other human beings in a sexual way, stuff like that. Then we have our rational brain, the Broca’s center, which is sort of the part of your brain that helps you to reason, understand and articulate things. It also allows us to get along with other people in a civilized way.”
These two parts of our brain are not connected.
That’s why when we become upset, our ability to articulate disappears. (And this also is why our political discourse has become uncivilized, irrational and nonproductive.)
So what is a girl to do when she’s at mile three and her amygdala hijacks her brain?
For that I turned to yet another interview with Krista Tippett. In February of 2016, she interviewed, Dr. James Doty, a clinical professor of neurosurgery at Stanford University and founding director of the Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education. Dr. Doty is at the forefront of how our mind communicates with our bodies. Dr. Doty talks about how we all have to deal with the “The baggage of evolution: the fight or flight response that is linked to violence and tribal conflict.”
“When we are fearful, we have a tendency to shut down. We don’t want to have new experiences. We want to have familiarity, which is typically with people who look like us, act like us, think like us. When we shut everything down, it gives us a sense of being safe but it also keeps you on pins and needles waiting to be attacked.”
Do me a favor and read that last paragraph again… because I feel like that several times a day. I live with an overwhelming feeling of being unsafe. My shoulders are constantly riding up my neck and my arms, my biceps in particular are always flexed.
How do we deal with this baggage from evolution? How do we bypass the amygdala? There has got to be a way to get my animal brain to communicate with my cognitive brain so that I can grief in a productive, soothing way.
Well… listen to this. Dr. Doty has been studying the effects of meditation and mindfulness on our brain. With a meditation practice for as little as two weeks, we see lower blood pressure, a change in the release of stress hormones and a strengthening of the immune system.”
Basically, practices like meditation or mindful breathing connects our parasympathetic nervous system with our with our vagus nerve. The vagus nerve is the communication method between the heart and brain.
So a funny thing happened yesterday around mile three when I was alone in my car. My breathing changed. I felt unrest and I my brain started toward the direction of running in circles of things I could do or should do. And instead, I took a deep breath. And I felt my body present in my car. I breathed again. I looked out the window and noticed a specific tree, a specific house, something that was present, here and now.
Then I breathed again, and again, slowly, intentionally until the unrest passed. Take that amygdala.
Three days before I left for Portland, I admitted to my oldest son and his wife that living alone was mostly leaving me lonely. I needed people around me, particularly at night time. I asked if the offer to move a bed into their house was still good. “Of course” they said.
Two days later, I found out that I could not stay in my condominium. I live in a 55 and older community and I am not 55. Our request for a one year exception was denied.
One day later, I would be on a mission trip to Portland, Maine with some folks from church. One of the things we were going to do was work with refugee families. The irony was not lost on me. I would encounter people who had fled from their homes, who had been displaced from any kind of life they knew, who would eventually settle here, a foreign land. Perspective… perspective.
Two days into the trip, I made a joke about being homeless when I get back to NJ. One of my teammates quickly responded, “You are not homeless; you are house-less. They are not the same thing.” Again… Perspective.
Three days into the trip, we stole 30 minutes to check out the rocky beaches of Portland (different from the miles of sand along the Jersey shore.) One of the young adults on the trip was collecting shells and I asked her to pick me a good one. They were fully intact snail shells, still fully intact.
They reminded me of the parable of the lobster -
“Long ago, when the world was very new... there was a certain lobster who determined that the Creator had made a mistake. So he set up an appointment to discuss the matter. “With all due respect,” said the lobster, “I wish to complain about the way you designed my shell. You see, I just get used to one outer casing, when I’ve got to shed it for another; very inconvenient and rather a waste of time.” To which the Creator replied, “I see. But do you realize that it is the giving up of one shell that allows you to grow into another?”
Because lobster shell is not elastic, the lobster must shed its shell in order to grow. Shedding is called “ecdysis” and the overall process is called molting. A lobster will molt dozens of times over the course of its life. Therefore, much of a lobster’s life is spent preparing for, performing and recovering from molting.
I dare say in this way, we are very much like lobsters. We spend a lot of our time preparing for, performing and recovering from molting.
And if resist or refuse, our lives become uncomfortable and unmangable. Similarly to the unhappy lobster who requested to stay in its shell, I believe we too can resist change. Haven’t we all been guilty of trying to stay where we are when we really needed to move on, change, grow, mature… molt?
For sure, the molting process is gruesome; it’s vulnerable, stressful, painful and downright scary. But my shell doesn’t fit anymore; in fact, it’s for many reasons thrust on me and for reasons I control, the life I had is no longer compatible. While I will pray for patience and peace through this process, it is clear that the steps are mine to take. God will not take them for me. And so I will read, reflect, share, process, learn what I can about what I am becoming so as to find and grow into my new habitat.
Pete always wanted to tell people that we fell in love under the Kenyan skies. I told that sounds beautiful and romantic but we fell in love in Middlesex, NJ.
When Pete and I were dating, we went on a mission trip to Nairobi, Kenya. We were two people on the worship team for a pastors conference. Our team was comprised of members of Middlesex Presbyterian Church. Pete on bass guitar and I was on vocals. The guitar player, Don played for Pete's memorial. His wife, Pam came over to walk and talk just days after Pete died. The leader of the team and pianist, Ted was the best man at our wedding. Ted's wife was in my wedding party and has written a beautiful book filled with her photographs coupled with scripture called These Greatest Gifts. These folks, along with Laura (my roommate at the time), John who wrote a beautiful ode to Pete in his death, Danny (who was an 8th grader in my youth group), Al (whom Pete called "Cous" as in Cousin), Al's wife Linda and Vicki (tambourine player extraordinaire).
Pete likes to tell this story about how we were deciding whether or not we were really dating. Was this really a thing? I mean from my perspective, "who just dates a single dad?" You don't. Well, I don't. This whole "I'm falling in love with Pete Scibienski, who has a 13 year old and an 18 year old" wasn't something to be uncertain about. And so as we were headed to Kenya, we decided we would be serious about the mission trip, cool it a little on our relationship and see where we were on the other side of Kenya.
But a funny thing happened in Kenya. I fell in love. And so did he.
We drank coffee each evening on the veranda outside of the Nairobi Hotel. And we talked and talked the way you do when you're falling in love. Stories after stories of childhood and embarrassing truths you save for the one you hope will hold those stories in trust for you.
On one of our days away from the conference, we visited a giraffe respite, a hospital of sorts. Folks collect hurt giraffes and mend them back to health. And we got to see them up close and personal.
And on the last night, we stood under the Kenyan sky, he took me in his arms and kissed me. And that was when I decided I would marry him and commit to his sons, my stepsons Dan and Joe. It was in Kenya that I fell in love.
I may have killed the bleeding heart plant that a friend gave me right after Pete died. I mentioned its impending death to friends last week and they said, “It’s a shade plant.”
Well shit. It’s been hanging in the sun on my patio. It gets the morning sun and then most of the day it gets heat and partial sunlight. At the end of the day, part of it can see the sunset.
So yea... I may have killed my bleeding heart.
And here is what I’m trying to learn from it: I need shade. We all need shade. And by shade, I mean safe places where we can find rest. Not necessarily sleep. Rest.
In my pastoral work, I have often said one of the greatest gifts we can give to one another is the gift of our presence and in particular, the gift of sitting together in silence. Being in silence is not comfortable for most of us. And as our world has gotten louder, our comfort level with silence has gotten worse. There are so many words, so many pictures, so many comments, so many “likes” to our posts on social media, so many friends “talking” out there in cyberspace and we don’t want to miss anything. And then add in the constant chatter of the 24 hour news cycle. Our ears are so busy; our eyes are constantly reading and watching. It’s very loud in our heads. We know little rest. We have little shade.
Perhaps that’s why the 23rd Psalm says that God “makes us to lie down in green pastures.” God has made us to lie down. Lying down is part of our nature. Lying down or rest is a natural component of being human.
To be human is to need shade. To need rest. To need quiet. And my truth: I am fighting this need for shade every day lately.
I don’t want to stop and sit still and be quiet with myself. I am grieving and it feels horrible. So, no I don't want to sit quietly with myself. I want to run away… from myself, from my surroundings, from my relationships, from my job, from my home, from my own skin. I can’t stand it in here. I miss Pete so much that my flesh starts to feel prickly; there is humming inside me and my tears have never been this close to the surface in all of my life. They overtake me. And I can't will them to stop. I don't want to sit still with myself. I want to run away.
There is quite a bit of irony in this tension too. For the past five years I have complained that I was never alone in my own house. Pete was here all the time. I would get up early to write or to read or to enjoy my house alone. And now that I have it alone, I am squandering it away by scrolling through facebook early in the am or by watching the Newsroom for the 4th time til late at night.
And then I say to myself - give yourself a break, Beth. Stop with the chastisement. You’ve just lost your best friend, your partner, your shade tree.
I’ve lost my shade tree. And my bleeding heart looks pitiful.
Pete used to tell this joke about a guy and a monkey who went to space together. They make it through take off and the monkey begins working frantically, pushing buttons, working hard. The guy just sits there. And so someone asks the guy, what do you have to do? The guy says, I feed the monkey.
In my and Pete’s world, he always said his job was to feed the monkey. I was the monkey. And I’m having to learn to feed myself.
Last week, I learned to ask for help and my sons fed me.
Last week, I learned to be more honest about my bleeding heart and my friends provided restful shade.
Last week, I told the story of Pete’s death again to a couple women at my church and it felt like I was watered.
But the honest truth is my bleeding heart still looks, and feels, pitiful.
Pete and I met at the first church I worked for. He was the bass player in the church band. I sometimes sang with the band. I was a vocalist by training and I had also picked up the guitar my last semester in college so that I could lead songs for youth group. But my guitar playing was mediocre at best. One night I approached the guitar player in the church band and asked if he had time to give me some lessons.
When Pete told this story, he said, “I looked at my friend and thought, he is working such long hours with his job. He doesn’t have time for this so he said to me, “I’ll give you guitar lessons.”
And I said, “You play the guitar too?”
And Pete said, “Yeah.” (Meaning – I have guitars that are older than you are.)
So I asked him what he would charge. And he asked, “can you make coffee?”
I said, “Buddy, I make great coffee.”
And so that began my friendship with Pete Scibienski. He came for coffee on Monday nights and taught me guitar lessons.
Coffee and guitar turned into great conversations. Great conversation leaked into going out for cheesecake at the diner. And cheesecake led to a concert in the city one August evening. And the next morning, my phone rang and he asked if I wanted to go to breakfast.
And since then he has been my first cup of coffee and my last conversation. Every part of my life misses him.
Last night I pulled his guitar off the wall, dusted it off, and tuned it up. It’s a Martin D28; he bought it somewhere between 1968 -1970. Like I said, it’s older than I am. And like any Martin, the bass notes are so full. The first strum rang within me and produced a smile.
Several years ago, I took more guitar lessons because although Pete was helpful to me not making a fool of myself during youth group, I was and still am such a hacker when it comes to playing the guitar.
I adjusted my grip just as my teacher instructed and I began practicing scales – the Ionian, the Dorian, the Phrygian, the Lydian, the Mixolydian, the Aeolian and Locrian. By the time I got to the last two, my fingertips were aching something fierce. But I kept going because I had promised myself that if I practice my scales and run the chords up the neck, then I can play a song.
And so I kept at it, fingertips screaming and the strings buzzing from a lack of pressure because my wrist was hurting as it tried to bend into the proper position.
Start the scale, start over, come back from the bottom. Try it again.
For over two decades I have relied on Pete to help me play the guitar. We figured songs out together, him plunking it out. When I didn’t like the key, he would help me convert it – and help me find easier ways to play chords because I’m still a hacker on the guitar.
Sometimes when I’m figuring out a song for church or for chapel or if I was playing at an open mic, he would holler from the other room, try the minor 6. And he was right. I had the chords wrong.
I chose a song to play after my chords and I had forgotten how the bridge went. As I was plunking it out, I stopped to listen for the inner voice of Pete who said, try the minor 6.
So I did but it was wrong. So I stopped again and listened for the inner voice of Pete who said, yeah ok, go back to the 4 not the 1. And then we had it right.
My strumming is uneven just like most of my life right now. And I got the chord sequence wrong on the bridge that we had just worked out. But here is me singing Christine Kane's "This Is the One Thing I Know" to Pete’s beautiful guitar.
I want to talk about Pete. But I worry people will not be comfortable with me talking about him, especially if I cry – which I most certainly will. I worry talking about him might communicate to some that I am “stuck” in grief when in reality, I think I’m just now coming out of shock. I worry people will tire of me talking about him when in reality, I have actually spoken very little about him since he died.
And he was so great. We should talk about him. Right?
Did you know…
Did you know Pete collected stringed instruments? one acoustic guitar, one electric guitar, three electric basses, one acoustic electric bass and one upright bass?
Did you know he played his upright bass for Faith to walk down the aisle at her wedding? He played “There’s a place for us” from West Side Story.
Did you know he loved the Allman Brothers? When Greg Allman died last month, I hated not having him around to play his favorite songs.
Did you know he loved history? When he died he was studying the Columbian exchange. He had been reading about it for almost a month. One day after work, he wheeled into the kitchen and asked me, “Did you know that cows are not indigenous to America?” I said, “No I didn’t. Who on earth would load a cow into a boat and transport it here?” When I turned around, he had the biggest grin on his face because clearly I had asked the right question. “Exactly… it’s part of the Columbian exchange.” He kept talking blah blah blah and I cut him off and said, “Wait, Columbian like Christopher not Columbian like the country?” Then he no longer had the same smile but still stuck with me. “Yes, I’m reading up on the ramifications of Columbus coming to the new world and how we got what and when we got it.”
Did you know he was also reading Waking Up White and frustrated with it. From time to time, he’d suggest that the author is naive or that her experience is not his experience in realizing his “white-ness.” And then in no time we would come to realize white people aren’t too different from one another – none of us really understand that we’re white and privileged and powerful. Even him, in a wheelchair, on disability – a middle aged white male has tremendous power.
Did you know someone gave Mateo a bi-plane that came with a battery operated toy screwdriver. The bi-plane could be taken apart with the screwdriver. One morning I helped Mateo take the plane apart but then I couldn’t figure out how to put it back together. I said, “maybe PopPop can help.” And so he started to hand the pieces to Pete and sure enough, 15 minutes later the plane was back together again.
Did you know he loved Sherlock Holmes? Absolutely any rendition, he was in.
Did you know he wore button up shirts and ties for the 25 years he worked for National Starch? But before he got to his desk, he would loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves.
Did you know he can quote the first line or tell you about any main character in a book but most of us have never seen him reading those books? I think he read them all before he turned 25.
Did you know he was not a fan of sweets? Yep, he would say, “All this and sugar free too.”
Did you know he had the cheesiest sense of humor?
Did you know he also had the darkest sense of humor?
Did you know he bought himself an Amazon Alexa mostly to have her tell him jokes? True.
Here – I’ll ask her for a joke for you…
“What do you call a potato wearing glasses? A spectator.”
Did you know he collected hats?
… and NRA stuff – Not National Rifle Association but The National Recovery Administration. This was a prime New Deal agency established by FDR in 1933. The goal was to bring industry, labor, and government together to create codes of "fair practices" and set prices.
Did you know he marched on Washington in protest to the Vietnam War? He and others from NJ slept near the Lincoln Memorial. He often talked about his shock (and probably fear and perhaps some new awareness of how the world works) at military police with automatic rifles walking around what was a completely peaceful protest.
Did you know he was actually a tea drinker in his earlier life? But then he got a job where in order to get a cup of tea, you had to go into a lounge where primarily women gathered. He felt out of place and perhaps invading their space so he settled for the coffee that was flowing freely in the office.
Did you know this was his favorite tshirt of all time? (Based on research done by me.)
Did you know although he did not have a sweet tooth, he loved bread with butter? When we were first married, I made (my bread machine made) honey granola bread regularly. And he went to work with it still warm. He said, “Those were the good days.”
Did you know he also loved pork roll? Of course you did.
Did you know he loved to talk to strangers?
Did you know he had an impressive LP Collection until his wife convinced him to sell them back to the Princeton Record Exchange for a fraction of what it cost him? And her reasoning was that we had not had a record player on which to play any of the records for as long as they had been married. And did you know she needs someone to grant her dispensation from this horrendous act?
Did you know he loved Mark Twain? Particularly, he often quoted the War Prayer.
Did you know he loved Dan and Joe more than any words he could ever utter? The three of them lived happily with one another using as little words as possible before they met me. And now there is all this need for talking.
Today marks two months without my beloved. Two months without a kiss or a hug or a pinch of my butt. Pete would often sneak a pinch of my butt and then with a smile, he would say, “I paid $14 for that pinch.”
We had a running joke about our marriage license costing $28 and each of us paid half. And so for the bargain price of $14, Pete could pinch my butt whenever he wanted to.
The other day, my grandson Mateo and I were settling in for a nap in my bed. He was laying half on Pete’s side of the bed, half on mine and we were laying close with my arm around him and I was suddenly aware of how beautiful touch feels. My arm wrapped around his. Our warmth together.
One week after Pete died, my girlfriends had planned a spa day together. I am a regular with massages. I keep a lot of stress in my body (as we all do); This spa party was not with my regular massage therapist. And I had not been touched in this way since Pete’s death. Realizing I was anxious, I emailed the spa ahead of time to tell them my story and ask that they assign the right therapist to me.
They understood and had assigned a therapist who did energy work as well as massage. She had lost a love as well in her lifetime and understood the odd sensation of being touched by another. We started in a prayerful manner by my head and then I can best describe her massage of me as lightly petting me everywhere. She never used strong touch or deep massage techniques. She just moved her hands over each inch of my body finishing with my feet.
I cried a bit but mostly I allowed myself to feel the sensation of being touched. And I was thankful for the safety and warmth of the experience.
I practiced the Japanese healing art called Reiki. For me, as a Christian practitioner, my practice is about sensing the person’s energy and prayerfully asking the Holy Spirit for healing which I feel/sense as the moving energy in the room. I have spent a lot of time in people’s energy. I have honed a skill in differentiating my energy from others’ energy. I have learned to name or describe certain energy in a room, with a person but most importantly within myself.
The practice of Reiki for me has been primarily self-discovery. After all, isn’t this how we are able to serve others. Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”
Since Pete’s death, I sense differences in my own internal self. For example, I almost always have a humming sensation around the part of my body that holds my heart. And most of my upper back is tight, as if protecting the “back door of my heart.”
A couple weeks after Pete’s death, my daughter in law to be, Teal and I planned to go for a foot massage at an Asian massage place around the corner from her home. But when we got there, we thought, “Let’s do an hour.” And I thought, “Well, if I’m doing an hour, I’m going to have her do my back.” So as I settled on the table, I took a deep breath and suddenly realized I was about to have someone who does not speak my language work out the muscles and energy of my back and I would not be able to communicate what is going on with me. I should know better, I thought to myself.
So I took another breath, I said a prayer and I decided I would deal with whatever consequences there might be from this experience tomorrow. Well… if my back was the floorplan of my interior life (my emotions, my hurt, my joy, my worry, my grief) she opened up every dang room and every dang closet. I was swept clean – and I was left vulnerable and exposed.
So I spent the next couple days breathing in God’s love for me, trusting my love for myself and accepting the love from so many around me.
A couple weeks after, I went to a trusted massage therapist, who not only speaks the same language as me, she knew Pete and loves me. She used a bit harder touch but not as hard as would be typical for me. When she got to my shoulders, I had an overwhelming sensation that something was leaving, like a package and internally I started to grab for it, to save it. Then I am not kidding - Pete swooped into the room and with his sternest voice he said, “You have got to let that go.”
I started to object but he cut me off. With the same stern voice but this time filled with deep sympathy, he said, “You should never have had to carry that in the first place.”
I believe (although I can’t be completely sure) the package was filled with the weight of caring for him. In one fell swoop, the responsibility, the worry, the stress, the joy and love of caring for him as he has been sick left me.
I cried through the rest of the massage.
Our bodies carry trauma with them. Life happens and things stick to us. Sometimes things burrow inside of us and although talk therapy is invaluable, we need to honor the physicality of our lives. Not all of who we are happens in our thoughts. We are bodies. We are amazing bodies. Bodies that protect us and keep us. They move for us and serve us. And they take a beating because of us – inside and outside.
Last week, I had my annual visit to the OBGYN. I hadn’t really thought about the visit until I parked my car.
I texted Faith, “I’m at OBGYN… this appointment is never fun but it feels even more weird without anyone else touching me. Too much info but needed to say it.”
She texted back, “[sad emoji] I know you miss his hands.”
How absolutely true. I miss his hands. I miss his touch. I miss the warmth of his body beside mine. I miss the hugs and the kisses and the pinches of my butt.