A little grey

Scattered about my head are quite a few more grey hairs than I used to have. My hairdresser says it's time for a color. I've colored or highlighted my hair for fun for a lot of years now. I come from a long line of Swayne color-ers, and until Jimmy died, I really didn't have any more of a problem with putting color in my hair than I did putting on a blue sweater. I even colored my hair purple once - not like bright purple - but my hair had a definite strong purple tint to it. Unfortunately, I took a three-year-old Kirsten with me when I had it done and she announced it to EVERYONE we met for about a month - "MY MOM COLORED HER HAIR PURPLE!" But now I look at the grey in the mirror and I think "Boy, I've earned those." My own badge of courage. In an odd way, I find comfort in seeing the grey hairs. In my own warped view, I think "Oh good, I'm that much closer to seeing Jim again." I'm not looking to rush it or anything, but I don't mind getting older. I don't mind seeing it. In the end, I get to see Jimmy again and I'm looking forward to that. The greys are a daily reminder that life moves on. Some people want to stop the passage of time. I'm enjoying and thankful for every day I have here with those I love, but I also don't mind the days going by.

And now for a little funny story. I was sitting at the table with Mom after Sunday dinner. We were talking about how much we missed Jimmy and how difficult it is to get motivated for Christmas. So she says "I dreamed about Jimmy and my mother last night. I went to heaven and I saw them together." I said "Really? Last night? Because I dreamed about Jimmy and Grandma last night too. Only I didn't go to heaven. We were all at Grandma's house." Without missing a beat, she smiles and teases me (just like Jimmy would've done) "That's because they don't let atheists in heaven." Then she laughed at her joke, just like Jimmy would've done. It made me smile and laugh too.

The grieving process?

I'm an instructional designer. In instructional design, we have a type of content called a process. It's defined as "A flow of events that describes how something works rather than how to do something. It usually cannot be done by one person—many persons or organizations are involved. A process can be mechanical, business, or scientific and has either stages, phases, or cycles." Hmmmmm...that sure doesn't seem to apply here. Grief is quite solitary. There isn't a flow. It doesn't move nicely from one stage to another. It seems to jump around depending on the day. For example, shock and denial are the first stages described in many books on grief. I can tell you that two years after my brother's death, I'm often so horrified by the mere thought of it that I become Scarlet O'Hara "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow." Shock and denial.

Life moves on without him now, whether I think about the consequences of his death today or not.

My truck wouldn't start the other day. I called Mark, who suspected what was wrong with it and had it towed in to be repaired. I drove Kirsten's car for about 30 minutes and then that wouldn't start either. Mark came home and fixed it. Kirsten drove to a friend's house late at night for a sleepover, but didn't call to tell us that she'd arrived like we asked. Mark got up out of bed and drove the route to the friend's house to make sure a deer didn't put her and the BMW in a ditch.

Kate ordered bed rails to change Jake's crib into a bed. She disassembled the crib and reassembled it into a bed. That's something Jim would've done. She was fully capable of doing it, and she did, but I'm sure she was wishing Jim was there to do it instead.

I sometimes complain about Mark and what he does or doesn't do, but I realize that I'm terribly blessed to have him around--to lighten my load and to watch my back. Jim isn't there to do that for Kate and that makes me really sad. I hope someday, Kate's heart heals enough to share her life with someone else if she wants. Sometimes the journey's just easier when we walk it with another person.

Put one foot in front of the other

I started walking with my neighbor, Melissa, the winter before my 40th birthday. By the time my 40th birthday arrived in May, we had made it through the "Couch to 5K" running program. An exceptional accomplishment looking back at how we use to tick off the seconds in the run part of the run X minutes/walk Y minutes program. I'm 44 and 5 months now, and except for six months or so around Jim's final days with us, I've been running fairly consistently all that time. That's 53 months of consistent effort, trying to create a new life habit. And yet some days when I hit the pavement, it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other and get through the run. From start to finish, the lethargy never lets up, I never "get my legs" during the run, I finish as miserable as I started. And I'll let you in on a little secret - after 53 months, it is a rare occurrence when I wake up and think "Oh boy, I have a run today!" Most days are a variation of "Oh crap, I have to run today." But then I get out there and it feels good, I end my run feeling glad I went, and most of the time very happy I'm done. It helps to have a goal and a partner. I just finished the Rochester Half Marathon and trained with my neighbor Russ, both the goal and my partner helped me get in those shoes and out the door. But then race day goes by and you still have to put one foot in front of the other, get out there and continue running.


I've come to realize that living without my brother is another life habit I'm trying to create. Like running, I'd prefer not to have to do it, but I really have no other choice. There are days I wake up and think "I just can't do this. I can't live my life another 30 or 40 years without him." But I have to. So on those days, I concentrate on just getting through that one day, just like I get through those bad runs. I remember that there are people out there running the same race I am, and they understand the effort. Most days are like my runs - a mix of sadness missing him, but also full of my daily life. I push through the sadness and concentrate on the living. I have events that I look forward to, which relieves some of the pressure, but then they go by and I still have to live without Jim. Sometimes I think "This should be getting easier." But then I remember my running - some days it just plain sucks, but as long as I don't quit, I'll be just fine.