“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.”
         ~Henry Van Dyke

One of the strangest facets of loss is how it changes time.

You’d think time is a fairly straightforward measure. There are 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day, 365 days in a year. Those numbers can’t adequately measure the experience of the human heart flowing through time.

I have lived 45 years. Raised children for 21 years. Loved Bryan for 12 years. And have been on my own, without him, for one year. That 12 years with Bryan, one-fourth of my life, still defines me – my values, my home, my heart, my plans.

How can it be that the one year since losing him can feel like it was equally as long?

I remember, in the initial days, even month, following the initial shock of his passing, time behaved especially strangely. I had the strangest sensation of being frozen, like a fly in amber, like a pebble in a stream, as life rushed on around me.

The night hours stretched out like an eternity — every night was at least a week long. In the daylight hours when I’d try to rejoin life, I couldn’t keep up. I’d notice something, consider reaching for it in the current, and it’d be swept far past me by the time I moved.

There were times when I slowed my life down to match time’s flow. Sailing, flying under the sun at whatever speed the wind chose to take us, allowed time to catch up and life shifted into focus. Hiking on a beach or in the woods, time became my friend; the birds ignored the passing of the hours and the only rhythm was that of the sunrise and sunset.

But always, I had to return to real life, the fierce onrush of work, deadlines, errands, housework, bills, and I then I couldn’t stay synchronized, couldn’t keep up with the flow anymore.

Maybe this year my own personal time flow will speed up a little and match the world I must live in. Or, more sanely, maybe I can find a way to slow my world down to mesh with my life.

Goodbye my love, maybe for forever
Goodbye my love, the tide waits for me
Who knows when we shall meet again, if ever
But time keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it’s gone forever
         ~Alan Parsons Project, “Time”

Just three years ago Bryan, the boys and I visited the big island. We had an excellent trip, with lots of sun, sand and adventure. We’ve been to Hawaii a few times (we’re very spoiled) but usually Kauai or Oahu. The below picture is from an early trip to Kauai, when the boys were fairly little.

In spite of my amazing friends, it was a little bit difficult coming here this time without Bryan. He loved visiting Hawaii, loved snorkeling, diving, beachcombing, golfing, driving around the island. On one of our most memorable trips, we went scuba diving off the south shore of Kauai, in Poipu, and we were surrounded by sea turtles. We knelt on the sandy bottom while the turtles danced around us in the crystal water.

Bryan and I had a travel ritual. When we’d go places we loved, we’d try to bring home a piece of art to remind us of our trip. We have a particularly beautiful colored handmade paper lithograph over our mantel of sea turtles, symbolizing the life cycle.

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When I lost Bryan almost exactly a year ago, symbols like that became important to me. I wore a small gold turtle pendant he’d given me on a chain, circled by his wedding band, on a gold chain for months.

One of the rituals I did to mark his passing was get a tattoo. It was my first one. (My only one!) I chose to take the piece of art we’d brought home from Hawaii, and have it translated to body art. I’m proud to wear it not only to honor Bryan, but also as a reminder to pursue adventure and joy – to dive with the turtles when I can.

Yesterday as we wandered Waikoloa, I fell in love with a turtle pendant. I got it for myself. For Bryan. It’s the simple, graceful sort of thing that I can wear most of the time, and probably will.

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I’ll probably do something else to remember him while I’m here as well – toss a lei into the volcano or the sunset surf and say a few words. Still, finding and wearing the turtle necklace completed something for me.

He, his amazing wife, Donna and their three awesome girls are ok, but they lost their dogs in the fire. They have their needs taken care of for the next couple of days, however, they have a long, hard road ahead of them rebuilding and putting their lives back together.

There are two ways you can help:

• Send donations via Linux Journal’s ChipIn page.

• Send donations directly to the Indian River Baptist Church, P.O. Box 217, Indian River, MI 49749, with a note that it is specifically for the Powers family.

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This is incredibly sobering; it puts the petty things of life into perspective. I sit here looking at my four walls, my roof, my (messy) kitchen, with an intense sense of gratitude. Give thanks for what you have! And give your pets an ear scratch today and send a prayer or positive thought to the Powers family in Michigan.

In my dream, I was in an airport or a train station, looking down from a mezzanine level, and I saw Bryan below. I was shocked and surprised, but my dreamtime brain told me, “He hasn’t died yet, you can save him, you can reverse it.”

As a fix-it sort of woman, I got moving and tried to get to him before he disappeared into the crowd. The escalator was broken and boarded off. The elevator didn’t come. I couldn’t find any stairs.

I watched, growing increasingly frantic, over the balcony railing as Bryan slowed, turned red, convulsed briefly, then collapsed onto the cold marble floor.

At that point I attempted the broken escalator, jumping the barricade and picking my way over the construction zone, while security men shouted at me.

By the time I made it to Bryan he was unconscious. I screamed, “Call 911″ at hurried passers-by, padded his head with my coat and elevated his feet on his backpack.

He stopped breathing and his heart stopped beating as I checked him, so I prepared to start CPR. Strangely, of all those rushing by, no one gathered around and no one offered to help, it was if, dreamlike, we were invisible.

In my dream I don’t remember actually administering CPR, just knew I’d done so, and the paramedics did not come. I just remember giving up and admitting he was gone. I laid down beside him and held him on the chilly marble as he grew colder.

I was neither able to get to him in time nor save him, after all, in my dream; so much for changing history.

Tonight, dream gods, I’d like Tahiti, a sailboat and Mai Tais, please?

As a frequent telecommuter, one of my goals is to get up and showered and ready to go in the morning. Morning swimming helps with that goal! I don’t do anything fancy with my hair, and often wear sweatpants and a t-shirt, but I’m clean and dressed. Not being so before I get on conference calls feels pretty slimy, even if no one can actually see.

I actually have a very personal experience in that area that strengthens my resolve.

As many of you know, the morning I lost Bryan, he had gone into the office and I was working at home. I did not get up and shower that morning; I was working in the den in my pajamas. Nice PJs – flowered drawstring pants and a henley t-shirt – but PJs nonetheless.

When the knock on the door came at about 10:15am, I tossed a sweat jacket on over my PJs to cover up my lack of, err, proper undergarments and answered the door. Of course, I had no idea who was there – it could have been UPS, or a neighbor. But it wasn’t.

The whole time the officers were talking to me, telling me about Bryan, I was dreadfully, inappropriately self-conscious of the fact that I was sitting there in pajamas, without a bra. Craziness! It was the assistant coroner, for goodness sake – he works with the dead – he doesn’t care whether we survivors are wearing pajamas, jeans or business suits.

As soon as he stepped out to get death certificate paperwork I ran upstairs and changed to jeans and a sweater and brushed my hair. I think perhaps my brain was clinging to odd little details like pajamas, like flotsam in a flood.

Last night’s visit from the police, of course, reminded me of this earlier, more tragic one.

So now, every morning, I make it a point to be up and dressed before starting work. On weekends, I get ready for the day before fixing breakfast. I’m sure it won’t prevent another visitation from bearers of bad news someday, but at least I’ll have to find a different, distracting focus if it should ever happen again.

Yes, it’s been a hard year, a year of terrible loss, grief and pain. But it’s also been a year of rebuilding, of adventure, and of the most wonderful inpouring of love I’ve ever experienced from my family and friends. I could not have gotten through this year without those I cherish, and this Thanksgiving, I think of them.

My awesome sons and I are healthy, thriving, and successful in our chosen endeavors. We have become closer and more supportive of each other, and they have helped me out with running our household and matured beautifully. I’m very, very proud of them.

We have a beautiful, comfortable house, reliable cars, and everything we need in our pantry and our closets, and can share that with friends when we see need. We also have both preventive and acute medical and dental care when necessary.

We have high speed Internet and more technology toys than we should; we’re all geeks. At the touch of a finger I can research pygmy marmosets, order flowers for a hurting friend, or watch the news from Afghanistan.

Those, though, are only material things. What we no longer have in our home is a father and a husband. While I miss Bryan intensely at times like this, I’m coming to terms with his loss. He’s in a better place, whatever that is, and he’s with us in spirit on Thanksgiving and every day. While I’d planned to grow old with him, I’m still so very, very grateful I had twelve beautiful years by his side; he loved us very much.

I also remember my father each Thanksgiving with love and honor. He left us ten years ago, 1999, on Thanksgiving day, and the world is a smaller, drearier place without his ideas, intelligence and integrity.

Looking back on the memory of
The dance we shared ‘neath the stars above
For a moment all the world was right
How could I have known that you’d ever say goodbye

And now I’m glad I didn’t know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain
But I’d have had to miss the dance
      ~Garth Brooks, “The Dance”

I’m thankful for the dance: the precious years with Bryan, but also for the unmarked future, on my own but surrounded, supported by so many I love.

I wish you all a peaceful and meaningful Thanksgiving, filled with love and laughter.

It is permanently etched in my memory. It was March 19, 2009 at 10:10am. I was working at home that morning, and I’d been lazy and hadn’t changed out of my pajamas. I’d thrown on a sweatjacket to go to the door, and the dogs were barking in the background.

It was two men in plain clothes. They said they were with the police. The things that go through your mind at that point… Car accident? Past due parking tickets? Certainly couldn’t be a criminal investigation. I offered to step outside to talk to them in peace, but they suggested we go inside where I would be comfortable. I asked for ID, and my heart broke when the lead gentleman flashed his, identifying him as the assistant coroner.

Ben was home too, in the office, and without argument he took the dogs so I could talk. I think he heard the panic in my voice.

I sat down, and they told me: my husband Bryan had collapsed and died that morning at the Bainbridge ferry terminal. They didn’t have many details, they only knew the basics. He’d collapsed while in line, fellow passengers including a doctor helped him immediately, ferry staff were on scene in seconds and EMTs arrived in minutes. EMTs treated him on scene for 45 minutes, closing the passenger ferry ramp, but were unable to save him. The coroner had talked with his doctor and they felt it was a sudden, massive heart attack.

The news was surreal. I didn’t cry, scream, faint, or panic. It just washed past me, like water around a rock in a stream. Sadly, strangely, all I could think of was that I was in my pajamas with no bra – I was so embarrassed. (Good lord, these men recover and examine dead bodies for a living – they certainly don’t care about pajamas!) While they went to get death certificate paperwork, I ran upstairs and put on jeans and a sweater.

After they left, I sat for a minute. Ben was upstairs in hysterics, I was numb, shocky, and still felt like stone. After a few deep breaths, I began making the phone calls that would turn everyone’s world upside down.

Now, six months later, I’m sitting in the same family room in the same seat. I’m not in my pajamas. I’m surrounded by a group of awesome, cheerful kids who keep my heart young.

It’s been a really difficult time but we’re slowly rebuilding. I’ve had periods of numbness, storms of tears, and intermittent bouts of melancholy. I’ve made it through a fairly intense period of insomnia and anxiety, and am am on a more even keel now. We’ve had three very meaningful memorial services – one here, one in Anchorage, and one on the water, to scatter his ashes. I’ve gone through his things and organized our financial and practical picture. After careful reflection, I’ve changed my name back to my maiden name.

I’ve fallen in love with my family and friends all over again; they are the silver lining in this very dark cloud. I’ve gotten back into exercise, particularly distance and open water swimming, and it’s been great for my sanity. We’ve learned to sail, living aboard a sailboat for a week, and it was exactly the vacation we needed. We’ve adopted a psychotic kitten. I’m slowly rediscovering my creativity, although admittedly it’s been more ideas than follow-through at this point.

What’s next? I’ll always remember and love Bryan, and life will continue to remind me of how much I miss him at unexpected times. Still, I’ll continue to rebuild, to grow healthier and stronger and maintain connections to those I love. I need to get to the point where I’m happy living alone and truly enjoy my own company. I do want to sell this house and downsize to a condo; this house & yard is just too big for me to take care of on my own. I also want to see my children healthy, happy, and successfully launched into their own lives, sooner rather than later.

Beyond that? It’s an adventure – there will always be tragedy and joy – and I’ll figure it out as I travel the twisting, turning river.

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day
Out in the yard with your wife and children
Working on some stage in LA
Did you stand there in shock at the sight of
That black smoke rising against that blue sky
Did you shout out in anger
In fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry

Did you weep for the children
Who lost their dear loved ones
And pray for the ones who don’t know
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
And sob for the ones left below

Did you burst out in pride
For the red white and blue
The heroes who died just doing what they do
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer
And look at yourself to what really matters

I’m just a singer of simple songs
I’m not a real political man
I watch CNN but I’m not sure I can tell you
The difference ‘tween Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day
Teaching a class full of innocent children
Driving down some cold interstate
Did you feel guilty cause you’re a survivor
In a crowded room did you feel alone
Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her
Did you dust off that bible at home
Did you open your eyes and hope it never happened
Close your eyes and not go to sleep
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages
Speak with some stranger on the street
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow
Go out and buy you a gun
Did you turn off that violent old movie you’re watching
And turn on “I Love Lucy” reruns
Did you go to a church and hold hands with some stranger
Stand in line and give your own blood
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love

I’m just a singer of simple songs
I’m not a real political man
I watch CNN but I’m not sure I can tell you
The difference ‘tween Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love

I’m just a singer of simple songs
I’m not a real political man
I watch CNN but I’m not sure I can tell you
The difference ‘tween Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love

The greatest is love
The greatest is love

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day

      ~Alan Jackson, “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)”

This week has been a tough one. For those that don’t know it, Bryan and I shared a birthday, although not year; he was a year older. I’ve never been a huge fan of my birthday anyway, and the added dimension of Bryan’s loss makes it that much more difficult.

Yes, I should be grateful. I get to celebrate another year on this earth. It’s all too painfully obvious that’s preferable to the alternative – not being around to have a birthday.

The hell with grateful.

I’m mad. Bryan was too young, and had too much unfinished business here.

Football season is starting up; I’ll never see a game again without wishing he were there. In fact, I probably won’t see a game again, period. I’m a casual fan, while he absolutely loved the game.

Zach’s starting his senior year. He has senior pictures, homecoming, prom, graduation, which Bryan would have loved to attend. Zach’s first, beloved girlfriend broke up with him and he could probably use a male perspective.

I drive Bryan’s cute little car daily, his convertible MINI. It makes me smile, there are happy memories.

I am doing a triathlon, relay-style (I’ll swim) with some of his friends in mid-September, in his honor – coincidently, it’s almost exactly on the six-month anniversary of his passing. He would have loved hanging out with us and cheering us on.

I remember all the birthdays we’ve celebrated – with camping trips, dinners out, family and friend get-togethers, labor day weekend events, and try to pick out something memorable. His favorite birthday cake was spice cake with cream cheese frosting.

There was always a little bit of tension around our birthdays – he enjoyed them, while I faced them more reluctantly. He didn’t want to throw a celebration and leave me to fade into the background, and I didn’t want to minimize something that was obviously important to him, so we tried to find a happy medium.

In the midst of my grief, and this week has been very painful, my lovely neighbor Joan made a comment that helped immensely. She said, “He’s probably celebrating with a banquet up in heaven today.”

Perspective helps! While those of us left behind feel the emptiness and sadness, he’s in a better place. I do believe that.

Little things I should have said and done, but I just never took the time,
You were always on my mind, you were always on my mind.
              Willie Nelson, “Always on My Mind”

Psychologists say there are three phases to experiencing grief: shock/denial, anger/guilt, and acceptance.

I definitely experienced the first phase – not being there in person when Bryan died, and instead receiving a notification via a knock on the door made the whole ordeal very surreal. I needed to see his body, but the cost was high. the image of him lying on the gurney at the mortuary blocked so many of my positive memories of him as a warm, living, smiling, loving, breathing man for quite some time.

The second phase? I’ve never experienced one minute of anger, which strikes me as very strange. Many friends and family members who have experienced similar loss tell me it may still come. None of us gets to choose our time, but how could I be angry at Bryan for leaving so young, so untimely? But oh, the guilt and regrets…

And the final phase, acceptance. In many ways, I have accepted his loss, his resounding absence, perhaps too easily because I’ve always been so independent. I’ve worked hard to rebuild a life and new routines with the boys. I’ve picked up the threads of my professional life, re-established my travel schedule, and extended my connections to the family and friends I hold so dear.

And yet, this is where the guilt builds, in layers.

Bryan and I loved each other very much. Our marriage was far from perfect, but we worked hard to make it happy, and took good care of each other. Surely his absence ought to be more cataclysmic, and my life should be more torn asunder by his passing? And yet, I keep going, one foot in front of the other, as I must to take care of my sons, my job, pay the bills, and keep myself on a relatively even keel.

Another layer of sadness, of regret.

There are so many little things, and large, that we wanted for ourselves. We meant to boat more. To take a trip together this summer, a cruise to Alaska. To see Zach graduate from high school next summer, and see him off to college. To collaborate on a writing project. To retire together, with our dogs and our books and our hobbies.

Yet another layer of guilt.

Tonight I went to a movie by myself. I pride myself on my independence, my willingness to adventure alone or with my sons, family or friends. Still, sitting in a movie theatre or restaurant alone isn’t always comfortable in a society built around couples. Bryan loved movies and television, and I often scorned the media, preferring to read or write. (Action film can occasionally trigger a migraine for me.) So tonight, sitting alone at a romantic comedy I might not have gone to with him in life, the tears began to flow.

And still more regrets.

As I go through the house slowly, there are so many reminders of half-kept promises, of good intentions, of commitments together – the foot rub lotion, the camping gear, the movies we bought but never watched, the empty photo albums waiting to be filled.

Missing him is an ache, but I don’t cry much and still feel somewhat sad and numb. I know I could have been a better wife and partner to him while he was here on this earth. And we both should have lived our lives more fully while we were together, instead of always deferring wisely to the future – which, in hindsight, wasn’t very wise after all.

I will never regret loving him; I simply regret not giving him more during the brief time I had him in my life.

I don’t know how to get past the guilt and regret, since I have no way to make amends or fix things. I accept that he’s gone; somehow I have to also accept that I’m a flawed human being, as well, and learn from the experience, forgive myself and keep going.

Maybe I haven’t finished the whole acceptance phase after all.