Tag Archive | Grief

First Rejection & Snow

Of the year. And it’s fine, it’s part of the process. It’s fine. I read somewhere once that being rejected just means your story has not found a home yet.

What hurts is that in the midst of the s**t show of the last few years, I lost both my physical log and the computer log of where I had submitted which stories.

In the rejection letter they were absolutely both extremely professional and kind. Especially since I had apparently submitted that story to them in 2021.

Sigh.

So many emotions are swirling in me right now. A morass. Not because of the rejection of the story. It will find its home.

And it hit hard because I’m trying to find my footing in my new home. Most of that is working through the mental state that I arrived in. My home is still in disarray, and when I lay in bed and close my eyes I see my old room. My old life.

Friday night & Saturday morning we experienced our first snowfall that stuck. My son still calls California home. Sunday we went to lunch with my niece & her family, and I borrowed a shirt for a wedding next weekend. Wednesday I put my kid on a plane to our old home to visit– and I’m hoping he gets on the plane back 12 days later. I’m hoping he doesn’t get into trouble.

I’m also looking forward to time without him. Time to make a freaking mess of the house so I can put it together the way I want to.

My words are messy, but they are coming out. I’ve got 2 stories I’m working on because well, messy. I wrote a poem.

I talk to my bestie on the phone everyday. She’s still in Cali, and is my backup with the almost adult boy I’m sending out there. I miss her. I have family here but haven’t made friends yet. I also don’t really go anywhere– haven’t even been to the library yet. I do recognize the cashier at the Dollar General, but I’m sure I’m just another face in the day to her.

Well. This has gotten a lot more personal than I thought it would. Hope you don’t mind. My brain doesn’t feel as messy.

Until next time, my lovelies!

When it isn’t about the thing…

So I follow @hannahnicolemaeon TikTok. She has a series of what I just thought were skits — Assistant to the Villian, and they have gotten me through some really dark days. I am so happy that it’s actually a book that will be coming to a shelf near me in November. So excited for her, and also excited to support it.

Now she has a brilliant marketing team. They sent out gorgeous promo boxes and I started seeing them pop up on the Tok. Kewl! Then there was a contest to get one, but my phone wouldn’t let me enter. Google don’t like doing that kind of stuff from the Tok or an evil villain is holding me down. Or would it be a hero being a dood? One or the other. A chance popped up again, and again I was blocked. And again.

Then there was a book club and the first 50 would get a free ebook. I was, miraculously, right at the very beginning but… Again. Blocked at every turn. Couldn’t follow the link thru Tok and it wasn’t available thru the actual app the club is on. So once again…

And I lost it. I was on lunch at work, sobbing in my car, trying to get myself back together because it was time to go in. Red eyes and snotty, but I eventually did so. Thankfully the guys I work with are kind of oblivious.

Now here’s the thing. I. Don’t. Cry. Over. Not. Having. Books. End of story. Never have. Do I really, desperately want to read it? Yes. However, I don’t even know if it’ll be any good. Never read anything by her. Want to support her, interested and wanting to bring some sunshine back in my life, yes. Absolutely. But I don’t cry over not being able to buy books. If I did, it would be waiting for a new Anne Bishop book and never have I ever.

WTH?

Talking with my sister Mary, who btw I’m running away to in about a month, put things into perspective. Dad died and I’ve been running and fighting so hard since I haven’t had time to grieve. I’m leaving my home. I’ve been here 13 years, and in Cali all my life. Said goodbye to SF over the weekend, and my beloved Pacific Ocean and now I’m crying again. I’m trying to pack up my home and don’t know how to do this.

On top of all that I can’t write. My tongue has been leashed, at least for another month. All the hurt and anger and so many more emotions that need to come out but I promised to hold it in. And when I can’t speak my truth I don’t write it either. Actually I probably should. It’s not like I have to show it to anyone, right? But will I have any time.?

To be honest, I have been feeling like I just have to live in Hell for a while, then I can escape.

And again, not the fault of the author (hannahnicolemae) or marketing team of the book. I am so excited for her. And to be very honest, I have been blessed with ARCs and marketing treats from Rie Sheridan Rose and if you haven’t read her series with Jo what are you waiting for???? Steam Punk greatness is what’s waiting for you there. She also has spooky books, just in time for fall.

I Don’t Know

What I’m doing and it’s getting pretty obvious.

Let me explain. That would probably help, right?

Or maybe I should flex my description skills. It is one of the areas I lack, or need more practice with. The Lazy Writer, remember?

Bare bones edition: I am trying to figure out how to pack up a 3 bedroom home that my father lived in for 20+ years and the Princeling & I have lived in for 14 years and move away from the area I’ve lived for 20-ish years.

Possibly the state I’ve called home my entire life.

Probably.

More than likely.

Now, let’s add to the stress of our hapless heroine. The last time time she moved it was in a hurry-+ clothes and toys shoved into trash bags filling up the trunks of 2 cars. She was able to go back later and grab a few precious items, but not all.

Now, of course, everything is precious. And not just to her. It isn’t just move, trash, yard sale piles. There’s also FAMILY pile, stuff the family might want. The problem is,  well, family.

Sometimes it feels as if–+ well, I put it this way. If I let everyone have the things they asked for there would be nothing left. Not a stick, not a stone. Not even the stuff that belongs to me & my son.

I just threw some stuff in the trash. It unfroze me for a minute. But there’s also a fear of… What if someone asks for it? Let’s be clear: this stuff wouldn’t be sold in a yard sale and belonged in the trash. My insides twist and turn, knot and release.

And the creative ideas are popping like bananas but I have energy and/or ability to function in the single digits. I’m scared. I’m frozen. I haven’t had a chance to breathe because hits just keep coming and yea, I still need to grieve as well.

I started writing prose poetry to work on my feelings. It’s working. I’m getting out the vitriol and it’s helping me heal and remember family is family and I do love them. They love me too, it’s just other things getting in the way.

It’s supposed to be 108 today. I’m not going to be doing much out in the garage until much later. I got started…. And that’s half the battle.

Widow’s Walk

(I wrote this in response to a class assignment. It is inspired by a picture by Rob Gonsalves and the journey of a dear friend. )

Widows walk. They walk along the balcony, pacing out the nights. One step after another, chained to a mast that never comes into view. No skips, no hops for the balcony is dangerous. Weeping into the ocean doesn’t count if you are alone.

Widows walk alone, friends and family woefully out of step. They bear the isolation alone, watching the clouds skittle across the night sky, longing, wistfully, for a glimpse of the one who left them behind. They walk, they pace, they shiver and moan. Even among the crows, they are alone.

Widows walk alone into… . They carve out a path made of stone yet soft as sand. Night becomes day becomes night and still they walk their lonely halls of grief. Typhoons, monsoons, tsunamis break over them. The trick, the widows say, is to let them break. Let them rain down on you, absorb the fury and power of nature into yourself because otherwise it will burn you alive. The clouds on the horizon are puffy and white… or are they a sail in the wind… or will they change as they start to come in. Widows walk alone into…

The unknown. Once you are half of a hole (it’s wrong but it fits and oh how that hurts!) how do you become whole while only half of you is there? Once, you were whole all on your own. You didn’t choose to walk this walk, you didn’t ask for this you didn’t want this–never this– game of life that tossed the rules out on you– why did the rook take the queen– you didn’t know you didn’t want you didn’t mean in when you said you only wanted a minute alone youdidntyoudidntyoudidntyoudidnt

But still. Here we are.

Somber as a post.

Knowing.

Widows
Walk
Alone

Copyright 2020 Wynelda Deaver

Hey you

Hey you. Yes, you. I see you there. I know you’re scared, and I don’t want to tell you not to be afraid…

And yet…

Here I am. Telling you it’s OK to be scared, but you still have to go on. Maybe it’s something you’ve wanted for a long time, something positive even, but it’s such a huge change that you’re scared to death. 

It’s OK. Let’s breath through it. We will make it to the other side, and you might even wonder after all is said and done why you were so scared. You might even feel a bit silly, but that’s OK too. I’ve been there.  You’ve been there too, so remember to just breath. And maybe giggle a little. 

It releases tension.

Truly. 

And even if it’s not ok, I’ll sit with you on the darkest night and light a candle for you. Call me and I’ll just breath on the other end letting you know I’m there. Maybe it won’t be ok again today, or tomorrow….

But things will be ok again. And after they’re ok again, you’ll be able to search for the good days. The awesome days. 

You’re not quite ready to believe in them, but they’re out there. So I will hold the dream for the both of us.

Uncle Mark #wemissyou

You were involved in some many firsts, although not *that* one lol. You were the first grown up friend we made, one outside of family, school or church. 

You called us the Katzenjammer Kids.

We called you Uncle Mark.

Which is utterly ridiculous because you were only 5 years older than us.

But you had a house. We were in our early twenties, and that seemed so far away. That’s the only thing I can think of, because you were wholly and unapologetically there for us. 

We met at Danny’s, of all places. In Milpitas, off Calaveras. It was our non bar hangout, and your dinner stop on your commute home from work. I still order the Super Bird, with a side of ranch. Dipping it makes all the difference,

You weren’t one of my college buddies, but we talked about everything. From motorcycles to midevil knights, books and bars. Your interests were so wide ranging, I think you could talk to anyone about everything. 

You found love, and lost love. Always painfully, and sadly, once, tragically. And yet you still believed, still put yourself out there. And found it again, with Lyn. I could tell when I met her that she was going to be good for you. That twinkle was back in your eye. You, Sir Knight, had found a Lady worthy of your wooing and you enjoyed it.

I didn’t make it to your funeral. Damp, winding roads scared me too much. Instead, I did something I know you’ll approve of. I went and spoiled my great nephew, visiting from afar and sicker than a dog. He napped while I dropped the stuff off, but spoiling doesn’t happen because you need approval. It happens because they need to be spoiled. 

Regina and I will miss you terribly, Uncle Markypoo.But we know that when you see you again, you’ll share all the best spots with us and have some amazing stories for us.

Love Never Dies

I know this to be true:

Love remains, even when all that is left is a memory.

Love remains, through the years you should have had together.

Love remains, even as grief changes the very molecules of your soul.

Love remains, as you live your life, alone or with others.

Always, always, love remains.

Love never dies.

Bones

I saw the bones

Of the world

Washed up on shore

Stripped bare of the

Taint of hate

Laying side by side

One atop another

Coexisting
No care for male 

Or female

Republican or Democrat

Black or white

Brown or tan.
How long until

We no longer

Need to wait

Until we’re bones?

When Nightmares Come to Visit

Halloween was my favorite non-Christmas holiday for a long time. I loved decorating my room for it, actually had boxes of Halloween decorations. It was spooky and fun: a night to pretend to be someone other than yourself, and imagining that ghouls and goblins really are around the corner. I was living with my parents, going to Cal State… when I found out that not all Halloween Nightmares end.

I did not celebrate Halloween (other than handing out candy) from the time I was 24 until I was about 38. One year, during that time, I went over to my brother’s house to hand out candy while he and his wife took the boys out trick or treating. That first night started a tradition, a way of raising a toast…

You see… my mother, she who loved the very dry and sometimes tasteless British sense of humor died on Halloween.

That particular Halloween Nightmare— you don’t ever shake. You learn to live with it, but it’s always there. I can’t remember parts of that day– I must have blacked out while picking up a chair and throwing it at a window in the hospital. I remember many friends who helped, who made phone calls and came by the house to hold my hand while I made phone calls. I also remember going to the airport to secure the flights for my sister in Missouri and my brother who at the time was in Arizona.

My friend Jackie drove me. It was a good thing she was there, because I remember wanting to punch Raggedy Ann in the face. Yes, a lady at the ticket counter, dressed as Raggedy Ann gave your good old Wynelda Ann a temper overload. Jackie quietly stepped between us, defused the situation.

When we returned to the house, it was just getting dark. Trick or Treaters were starting to swarm the streets. The neighborhood that I loved, the holiday that I adored… suddenly was way too much. As a group came up, the kids just starting to come up the drive, I told the grown ups “no Candy.”

“No candy? What’s wrong with you?!!” It was someone I knew, someone I’d known since childhood. He probably meant it in a joking matter, but I couldn’t…

“Mom just died.”

I don’t know how he did it. But there were no trick or treaters that night. None.

My soul sister came in from Reno, spent that first Halloween night with me.

After that, I couldn’t get into the spirit of dressing up, of decorating. Halloween lost its appeal for me. Slowly, the boxes of decorations disappeared.

Then came the toast. It was quite a few years after Mom had died. I was watching the house and handing out candy for my brother, Charlie. They came home, and were separating out the candy. “Hey, a Butterfinger! That was mom’s favorite candy bar!” Soon came to find out, she would con me, my dad and Charlie into buying her just one candy bar… sometimes on the same day. She was diabetic, so if we had known… well. If we had known then what we know now, we would have bought her a bag of full size bars.

SItting there, on their living room floor, Charlie, Beth and I held a toast with Butterfingers, to Mom. It’s a ritual, a tradition now. Even when all I did for Halloween was hand out candy, I always made sure that I had a Butterfinger. Sometimes alone, sometimes with family.

And the tradition spread through parts of the family.

After all that, I’m here to tell you… Sometimes nightmares come to visit, and they don’t leave. But you can learn to live with them… and start enjoying what you once loved.

Because I have a child now. He’s 9 years old. I’ve dressed him up and taken him trick or treating, but haven’t decorated beyond the general fall decorations that my dad has. That changed this year. Princeling wanted to decorate. Please mom! Please!

Love the dollar store. Love it! Halloween items were a true BOGO, and we got a bunch. Mostly stuff he chose– a mummy hand, a skull candelabra centerpiece, signs for the yard, big spider and webbing… I tried to steer him away from outright demons and ghouls, because my dad… but he had fun!

But then there’s my 2 items. That’s right. My. Two. Items. I actually found 2 things that I thought were cute. And then they needed to be mine. And they were BOGO, so how could I not? They are black and purple and witchy and sparkly and they had to be mine. I’ve started up my decorating again… Last night, we watched the Dreamworks Scary/Spooky collections on Netflix and laughed our butts off.

This morning, I’ll go over to my neice’s house and raise the toast with Princeling, the niece and her family. We’ll probably also have the toast again tonight with Pappa.

It’s hard to learn to live with your nightmare. Hard to learn to walk everyday with it.

I plan to dance with it tonight. I think Mom would like that

My wish for you is that you give yourself time to learn the steps. It isn’t easy, it isn’t nice.

Living with grief is of like trick or treaters. Sometimes you’ll get a ghoul, and sometimes it will be a princess. But you always have the power to decide which candy you’ll feed your nightmare.

And there will come a time, either soon or in the distant future, where you can dance with your nightmare and celebrate the one you’ve lost. It takes a while.It takes a lot of ugly, messy tears before you can get to the point where you can remember them with joy and not want to ball.

But you’ll get there.

Love, Grief and Mashed Taters

When I awoke on Saturday morning, it was to the news that Shirley, my sister in law, had suffered a stoke. She’d been airlifted to Sacramento. I went to be with the family, to offer support as I could, and to love and pray with them.

The situation was dire.

And all I could think of were her mashed potatoes. Shirley married my oldest brother, Richard. Her sons bracket me in age— I was the midlife crisis baby. I was little, maybe 5 or 6, and Charlie (my brother closest in age to me) and I were at their house for dinner. I was told that I had to finish everything on my plate before I could have something to drink.

It included a big heaping dollop of mashed potatoes.

I loathe mashed taters, always have, always will.

In a flash of sibling solidarity, as soon as she left the room, Charlie scraped all of my potatoes onto his own plate and I finally got something to drink.

And this past weekend, somehow, I ended up peeling a bag of potatoes for a church potluck.

Monday at 1:39pm, Shirley went home.

Losing your mother at any age is devastating. If I could spare them the pain, I would. I hope they know they are in my prayers every night, and that I love them fiercely. I was 24 when my mother died, she was 65? I understand how grief can come at you and rip you apart. And amid this grief, this wreckage left of their lives….

They have to somehow pay for a funeral.

Kimmy said it best:

“Walked put of the hospital today.. I was the last one to leave the room.. Carrying moms clothes.. Feeling so numb.. Not wanting to leave my mother.. Please help me get mom transported home..go to Linda Shelton go fund me account so we can bring mom home…”

Ricky posted:

I just changed my Facebook status to public because my mom just passed and my sister Kim took on the responsibilities of power of attorney. We have no ability to pay for the funeral cost. I am reaching out to the public in hopes that I can help my sister the strongest women in the world be able to lay our mothers body to rest. We are sorry to request assistance from others but are lost and stuck with no other options. We are good people and our mother was our best friend in this world if you can help please do. We are in such great need.
God Bless you all. Rik
.

 

David & Stephanie have been quiet— or I haven’t seen it because I decided to hide from Facebook.

Here’s the thing. I’ve never asked for any money on this site. I’ve stopped following people who because just one long harrange for money. But this is my family. And when your whole world has been knocked out of orbit with no warning… the expenses pile up ruthlessly. All four of the kids have jobs, they have families that they are supporting with little or no extra. Kim used her car payment for transportation.

If you can help them, the site is here

And if you can’t help with money, please pray for them, keep them in your thoughts. It’s a hard road to tread, and they were thrown onto it with no preparation, no map….