New Year

By Bonnie Grill

This memoir details the authors experiences and growth in the year after her husbands sudden death. As she untangles the complex web of emotions around losing a beloved partner who struggled with health problems and alcohol addiction among other things, she remembers good times and commemorates the positive impact he had on the world. She also compares her grief at the changes in her mother, stricken with dementia, to the signs of early dementia exhibited by her husband, and she examines family relationships, broken and healed, on both sides. This thoughtful memoir is a realistic look at the grieving process, our societal expectations of the bereaved, and the Christian challenge to love and forgive our complicated and very human companions on this earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524508470

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Copyright © 2016 by Bonnie Grill.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 06/14/2016

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 New Year’s Eve, 2013

Chapter 2 The Next Day …

Chapter 3 The Next Day, January 2nd

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 January 11 – The Funeral

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31 New Years Eve – One Year

Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.

Matthew 7:1-2

CHAPTER 1

New Year’s Eve, 2013

I T WAS A very cold day, not much different than the prior three days. It was the sort of Minnesota cold that freezes your nostrils shut at the first attempt at breathing outdoors. From inside it looked nice. It was sunny and bright, but stepping outside the cold slapped you hard in the face and tried to smother you.

After working a half day at the church, I scurried to the car with my shoulders pushed up high to keep the cold off of my neck. The snow moaned under each step as though it also felt the pain of the bitter cold. I hurried, not only due to the cold, but I was looking forward to going out to lunch with my husband, David. Lunch would be our highlight of New Year’s Eve; we had no plans for the evening. The last few years we found it difficult to even stay up until midnight and no longer enjoyed the crowds of New Year’s Eve parties. We joked that we had gotten too old (at sixty-three and sixty-six respectively). We also didn’t savor the idea of driving icy Minnesota streets with traffic populated by drivers who more than likely had been indulging a bit too much. We would hunker down and watch a couple action/adventure movies that I had given David for Christmas. We had resisted watching them all week so we could enjoy a holiday movie-marathon of sorts. I was prepared for the evening with cheese and crackers. If we really wanted to go all out, there was microwave popcorn in the cupboard.

It was about half past noon as we headed to one of our favorite spots, Fat Nat’s, a neighborhood eatery serving sinful portions of home-cooked bliss. Entering the parking lot, David abruptly turned the car around and headed back toward the street without uttering a word. I queried why, after all I was hungry. He snapped back at me that the tire was going low, he could feel it, and we needed to get air in it. He was like that; showing his irritation of a situation by appearing to lash out at me. I wasn’t fazed; that was just his way and I didn’t take it personally. I knew he was irritated with the situation, not me.

When we pulled into the gas station and discovered an out-of-order sign on the air hose, David had choice words to express. He always did have a knack for expletives. He resorted to colorful language whether irritated or excited. Working blue-collar with mostly men, his language was accepted, actually expected. He did have difficulty recognizing inappropriate times or places to be so figurative.

Early in our dating I was bringing him to a family gathering at my grandmother’s and I was appalled at the possible scenario that he might simply be himself and my family would be shocked and dismayed, dismayed and shocked with my choice. This would be the first time he met my family and I coached him the entire trip to my grandmother’s house, explaining that these people never swore. Growing up I thought fart was the F word. We didn’t even use the word hell. Cursing was unacceptable. Upon arrival, introductions were made and David assumed his place with the men in the living room, watching TV; football to be exact. That was his downfall. As the women hustled about the kitchen and dining room, getting the meal ready to serve, the men sat quietly watching the game (Swedish Lutherans don’t cheer or become animated in any fashion) … until something dramatic occurred in the game and David leapt to his feet shouting, Run, you son-of-a-bitch, run! Absolute silence – time stopped. All eyes were on David. He very slowly, sheepishly resumed his seat. For me, the shocked stillness seemed to last minutes rather than seconds and I finally broke the silence with a distracting statement, Grandma; those potatoes look great!

Under this particular circumstance, at this moment while he was so annoyed with the car and the gas station, I knew the best reaction was to remain silent and let him rage just a little. There was no harm in it.

David decided to limp the car home, just a couple miles, to use his air compressor. As we got closer to the house, we could not only feel, but hear the flat tire as he encouraged the car, Just one more block; you can make it.

Once in the garage we could smell the rubber burning and smoke was rolling off of the tire on the front driver’s side. All I could say was, Oh my. After forty years of marriage to this man, I knew better than to offer any suggestions or ask any questions. Car problems always put him in a different, dark place, which we could always laugh about later. He wouldn’t be able to find the humor in the moment. Even our sons, when we would tell stories of past dad-irritants would laugh telling of how angry dad had gotten over a certain situation and they would just maintain silence until it subsided. The best thing for both of us at this moment was to appreciate the silence and give the other adequate space.

I went in the house to make us lunch since I figured we no longer were dining out. Just as I was hanging up my coat David hollered in the door that we were still going out, we’d just take his car. So we did. We didn’t speak of the tire.

Since it was a holiday, Fat Nat’s, who only served breakfast and lunch, was closing early. I was hesitant to enter since it was near to closing, but David insisted. He had his heart set on Fat Nat’s. We were seated at a table and placed our order. I enjoyed a burger and he devoured a breakfast-served-all-day plate of Eggs Benedict (he loved breakfast at any time). It was nice; we talked and enjoyed each other’s company. We discussed my day at work and, even though I complained about my workload, we found things to laugh about.

One might surmise that humor would be scarce in a church staff meeting. Not so. There was lots of laughter and on occasion it is not what you might expect. Wit was not limited to quaint little jokes like why didn’t Noah just swat those two mosquitoes. I was anxious to tell David over lunch the latest incident. Since it was New Years Eve, the Youth Pastor was planning an over-night for the youth. She had explained to the church staff that they would start out the evening by bringing the boys to the gym and blowing their balls up with air. Obviously she meant the basketballs, but that wasn’t what she said. After a few moments of silence someone in the meeting observed in a shallow voice, That sounds painful. The staff, with the exception of the Youth Pastor, laughed nearly to the point of tears. As a matter of fact, the Senior Pastor was wiping tears from his eyes, but the Youth Pastor was quite annoyed with the rest of us, commanding us to grow up.

As expected, David loved the story. Our shared sense of humor was what drew us together from the beginning. David and I could find the funny in most any subject. We thoroughly enjoyed each other 99% of the time. As with any couple having spent decades together, there was at least that 1% of the time when you would wonder if you made the right choice those years ago when you stated, I do. We learned to not give much attention to the 1% moments and focus on all the good aspects instead. We topped that off with the ability to very seldom argue or fight. I can only recall two times in our marriage when we exchanged unkind words. The first time we quickly apologized to each other. The second time we were both so disturbed by what we had allowed to cross our lips that we swore to each other we would put much more energy into thinking first. We promised there would not be a third incident.

That cold New Year’s Eve day, while we sat at the table at Fat Nat’s and ate, the inevitable happened; a drop of ketchup mingled with hamburger juices fell, landing smack in the middle of my chest on my new white sweater. Exasperated, I plopped my burger back on the plate, dabbed at the spot with my napkin, and grabbed an ice cube from my water to attempt stain removal. David shook his head and wondered out loud, for probably the tenth time, Why do you ever buy anything white? We laughed at this all too common occurrence. I recalled the time when we were out to lunch and I was consuming an extremely messy open-faced sandwich of which the contents sprung, not once, but three times onto my blouse. The serving was beyond generous and when I commented I would need a take-home container, David’s response was, Why don’t you just take a few more bites and wear it home?

This was the humor we shared and the teasing endeared us to each other. We were never offended by the other’s prodding. We were respectful to each other and personal jabs about weight or any other physical or personal thing that might be hurtful were understood to be off limits. There were times when David would shake his head at me when he noticed me do something foolish or clumsy. I would sit up or stand up straight and smile broadly at him and very intensely state, You love me! That would make him smile and he would agree, yes, he loved me. We seldom missed an opportunity to tell each other I love you. We never parted company without exchanging a kiss. Even a trip out to the garage was reason to share a kiss. Even in a restaurant, across a table, we may reach out to touch the hand of the other.

We were the last patrons in Fat Nat’s that year.

Returning home, David changed into his garage jacket, ready to tackle the job of changing the tire. I suggested he didn’t have to attend to it immediately, it could wait a day, but he wanted to get it over with. Again, I knew better than to argue. It was such a cold day, not even expected to get to the plus side of zero. He hated the cold and I knew this was only going to make him more irritable. I had often teased him that he needed to put more fat on his bones so he wouldn’t feel the cold so intensely.

David was thin. Though not currently drinking, he had abused alcohol and had lost a lot of weight. I had always known him to enjoy his cocktails, but the previous year and a half had been difficult after losing our oldest son to suicide. Patrick died just after Easter in the spring of 2012. We were all devastated by the loss. The grief we experienced was compounded by the confusion of trying to understand suicide. Disease happens. Accidents happen. Suicide is a choice. None of us were aware of the emotional pain Patrick had been suffering that would cause him to make that choice. We couldn’t help but wonder if there might have been anything we could have done to create a different outcome. We knew that was more than likely not a probability, but entertained the idea anyway. The concept that Patrick felt life would be better for everyone if he was gone was hard to grasp. I believe David had the most difficulty dealing with it. Being a father was his greatest accomplishment; he was a success at it. I wondered if he felt he had failed somehow. The pain he experienced was simply too great for him to bear and he attempted to drown it with liquor. Nearly a year after Patrick died David suffered a seizure from alcohol withdrawal and was hospitalized for a week, undergoing detoxification.

Though I tried to share feelings with him, David was withdrawn and didn’t talk about his emotions. Instead, he self-medicated with rum. He was pretty much a functioning alcoholic and hid his addiction. I had become more aware of it by way of the discovery of damaged furniture, walls, and décor from drunken falls he had taken in the middle of the night. Encouraging him to seek counseling hadn’t been fruitful. I was concerned, but kept his secret.

When he experienced the seizure early one morning in April; I thought he was having a stroke. He couldn’t form words and appeared paralyzed, lying in bed, sweating profusely. The fear in his eyes was what I remember most. I called 911 and within moments paramedics were checking him over. They assured me it appeared to be a seizure and not a stroke. After an ambulance ride to the hospital, the examination in the emergency room verified what the paramedics had suspected.

Sobriety increased David’s appetite. He was eating again, but remained trim. I hated that I weighed more than he did. Many attempts at dieting were undermined when he would supply me with chocolate ice cream bars and donuts. Since he had retired from the newspaper four years ago, he assumed the duties of cook, preparing most all the meals. He didn’t comprehend a balanced diet and menus were overloaded with carbohydrates, lots of rich sauces and very few vegetables or fruits. I hated to look a gift-horse in the mouth and simply appreciated his efforts. Finally, after moving into yet another size of pants, I pleaded with him to include more vegetables at mealtime. He complied and the next day when I arrived home from work, I found a dinner of meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and a vegetable side dish for me: potatoes. He tried.

That afternoon, while David worked in the garage to change the tire, I relaxed in my recliner and managed to fall asleep. Napping was something I used to do only if I wasn’t feeling well. After my triple bypass just over a year ago, I learned naps were my friend. Initially I was napping several times a day and as my recovery progressed, I weaned myself down to one. More recently I took occasional naps rather than daily ones.

This day, when I awoke from my nap I realized an hour had passed and was surprised that David wasn’t sitting in his recliner. I assumed that the job in the garage was causing him anquish and I really didn’t want to go out there and ask about the progress. If it wasn’t going well, he would be angry. I figured while I slept, he must have come into the house on and off due to the cold. I opened the door to the garage and called his name. No response. I looked in the basement and I looked upstairs. Then I knew I had to go back to the garage. I didn’t want to walk around the car. Somehow I knew I would find something I didn’t want to see. As I rounded the rear of the car, I found him flat on his back, eyes open, and his glasses on the floor above his head. I hurried over to him and felt his neck for a pulse. He was cold. I couldn’t feel a heartbeat. I rushed back into the house and dialed 911. My husband’s unconscious on the garage floor and I can’t feel a pulse! The operator directed me to check for breath. I wasn’t quite sure how to do that. David hadn’t shown even the slightest movement and I thought maybe I should grab a mirror or feather to put under his nose.

Returning to the garage with my cell phone and emergency response on the other end, I had the presence of mind to unlock the front door as I passed. I quickly approached David and listened closely for any sounds of breathing. I frantically checked his neck for a pulse again and thought if he’s not dead already, I’m choking the life out of him. I halfway expected him to slap my hand away from his neck.

Soon I heard a siren and activity from the driveway. I heard voices in my foyer and hollered that I was in the garage. I had been performing CPR on David for a few minutes. I was certified in CPR, but had joked in the class that I would only be of use if someone collapsed on a tabletop since my knees were bad and I couldn’t perform the process on the dummy on the floor. Remarkably I felt no pain as I was on my knees on the cold cement garage floor counting compressions. It was pure reaction and adrenaline. I had forgotten that a few months earlier David and I had completed Do Not Resuscitate forms of which a copy was attached to the refrigerator for instances like this, to prove to a paramedic that we wished not to be revived. I forgot. I suppose when we completed the forms we anticipated they wouldn’t be necessary for another ten or twenty years. I just couldn’t imagine that David would die at only sixty-six years old. I needed him to breathe and get up, dust himself off, swear a blue streak and go plop down in his recliner.

The paramedics took over and a police officer asked me to step in the house to answer a few questions. I realized later that the paramedics were preparing to shock David and the officer’s job was to remove me from the immediate area. As the officer asked me questions, I had trouble recalling David’s birth date. I misspelled his middle name. I was crying and anxious.

The officer suggested I call someone to come over, a neighbor or family member. I complied and called my two sons, reaching the voice mail of one and connecting with the other. I only shared that dad was unconscious and the paramedics were at the house. As I ended the call, one of the paramedics emerged from the