The Empty Chair--Living with Loss

 

loss: n. The result of no longer possessing an object, a function, or a characteristic due to external causes or misplacement. The death of a person or animal. The destruction or ruin of an object.

 

The reminders of the life I shared with my partner and friend are like the little hummingbird flitting back and forth outside my dining room window. Darting in and out of my mind while I go through the process of establishing a new, changed routine, the memories simultaneously sober me and bring joy. I am living with loss.

Prior to his passing, my partner and friend spent most of his hours and days sitting in a recliner. His own personal loss was immense as mobility and energy were drained from his once virile, active body. I learned a great deal from him during that time--unspoken, personal preparation for what I was to face. He never complained; he never felt sorry for himself. Daily, he faced and lived with the hand he was dealt.

The resident hummer was visible from his stationary vantage point--perching on the clothesline, eating from the feeder, or protecting its territory by dive-bombing any intruder that might even think about coming near. My partner always spotted its activity and pointed it out to me.

The little bird has been gone for several months. When he recently showed up again at the feeder, the fact of my loss was reinforced. My friend wasn’t sitting in his chair; I had no one with whom to share the headliner news.

The calendar reveals my partner and friend passed over four months ago. The deep mourning and grieving have subsided--those times when I couldn’t stop crying--and given way to unannounced pinpricks of sadness and loss.

Loss surrounds me. My home is silent. The television no longer broadcasts old Western movies or favorite relic series. Baseball, basketball, and football games aren’t part of the TV schedule. The volume isn’t ramped up due to a malfunctioning hearing aid. I am the one in charge of the remote control.

The absence of companionship and conversation colors everyday life. I profoundly miss a touch, a smile, an eye roll…and a hug. A paradox has presented itself: I have no problem being alone with myself, but the “aloneness” has the potential of crippling if I allow it.

Let me be very clear. Death does not possess the exclusive rights as the sole human experience that constitutes living with loss.

Each person born into this world lives with loss, whether or not there is a conscious realization. Loss of innocence is inevitable as is loss of youth. For many, the loss of health and its accompanying restrictions dominate as that translates into a loss of freedom and independence.

Who hasn’t experienced the loss of a friendship or relationship that turned out to be one-sided? Is there any amongst the citizens of the world who haven’t experienced the loss of a hope or dream?

Entering retirement has created a double whammy with another type of loss. My work was my social contact. I now have no work schedule or clientele list to fill my days. Work gave me a sense of purpose and fulfillment, a feeling of accomplishment. How do I fill that void?

Then there is physical loss with its aftermath. Almost sixty years ago, my husband and I lost most of our physical possessions when a historic flood swept through. Just yesterday, I was remembering the loss of a scrapbook that chronicled my stay as an exchange student when I was sixteen. Water and paper result in paper mache. That took place almost sixty years ago and yet the memory remains.

How does one recover after experiencing the loss of a home due to fire, a rift that tears a family asunder, an infant born too soon, an employment transfer that requires leaving behind a "dream home"?

How does one live with the loss of trust, faith, and hope—not only in fellow mankind but God as well? How does one live with loss?

I have no real answers, easy or otherwise. And I certainly do not purport to being an oracle of great wisdom. What I do have is personal experience. I knew I had a choice. I could either curl up in the fetal position, coming up occasionally for food and water. Or I could choose to live life, including living with the loss of my partner and friend.

I made the choice to live. The loss is still there--and will always be, because it is a part of me. But I am living my life.

For me, the driving force behind my choice and decision are words of wisdom from my Heavenly Father: “Just keep going.”

I am of the conviction there is a point and purpose to everything. And just because something is hard does not mean it is bad. That, I feel, is how to live with loss.

On a Memory Garden

          

Call me “old-fashioned.” Or perhaps I’m just getting old and sentimental—and that would be accurate as well. But I feel the best garden you can plant and maintain is one that evokes personal memories whenever you wander through it…or even glance at as you pass by the window.

One of the first things I do on a daily basis is to open the blinds and peruse my garden. I need to cut back that African Daisy, noting the twenty-degree temperatures nipped it back. Oh, yes. I want to plant those foxglove seeds Betty sent me in that space I just weeded. They will be magnificent next summer as I sit at my computer and watch them grow.

I make a mental list of the things I need to do before Winter sets in, many times reminding me of the person who gifted me the plant or its history. I note changes as this gardening season draws to a close and admire the remaining fall beauty.

A Mother’s Day gift from long ago, the Black Lace elderberry has lost its leaves. They should be removed from the ground. My grandgirl’s transplanted blueberry bush, given when the family moved, is ablaze with vibrant reds. The Chocolate cosmos I saw in Jennifer’s garden—and was compelled to buy for myself--needs cut back. The dahlias shared by friends have turned to mush. That clean-up chore is put on the list. The hostas in the back yard, another gift, are slime as well. A former client and friend planted impatiens and cyclamen under her shade trees. I borrowed the idea and did the same. They have “bit the dust” too, but their beautiful statement during the growing season reminded me of Sandy.

The Lorapetalum and smoke tree I purchased at Peggy’s nursery where I worked as a newly single person will need hefty pruning when dormant. Her nursery was a literal, yet symbolic place of growth and nurturing in my life as my damaged, fragile inner confidence absorbed the beauty of living things in an environment of pure love and acceptance. I thrived there while watering, feeding, and caring for the hanging baskets that came in for Mother’s Day, the annuals filled with color, the fuchsias, shrubs, and fruit trees. When I look out my window, I am filled with memories of the greenhouse--stifling, steamy in the summer and bone-cold in early Spring, learning to operate a bucket on a tractor, and Peggy’s wonderful laugh.

My friend and partner often visited his favorite nursery. I reaped the benefits as my garden is filled with snapdragons, creeping phlox, a variety of perennials—including echinacea, liatris, and hydrangeas—that he insisted on purchasing for me. Since his recent passing, I treasure not only the plants, but the memory connected to them as well.

I have visited some expansive, beautiful gardens on the grounds of castles and estates. But I must say my “memory garden” is the best. The next time a friend, family member--or even a stranger on a gardening site—offers you starts, tubers, bulbs, seeds, or cuttings…receive them with thanks and appreciation. You’ll not only be planting a living, growing thing, but a memory as well. The end result is you will be surrounded by a personal element in your garden that cannot be replicated—the kind money cannot buy.