The last few weeks have been hard. The next few will probably be better, but the holidays have their own sadness as well as celebrations. My daughter’s birthday was the 14th and the 15th was the anniversary of her death. These days are difficult for me and especially so for her son, daughter, brother, father and husband. We don’t talk a lot about it. Each of us trying to protect the others and really just can’t find the words or get them out past the lump in our throats. This is probably not the best way to manage this grief, but we are doing what we can for now.

My husband had surgery for a rotator cuff a little over three weeks ago and has been unable to do much of anything for himself so has to rely on me for his care. I am glad to do it, but he is an independent sort and is really tired of having to have help with his socks, his icepack, pulling up his bed covers, cutting up his dinner, and especially his shower. Thankfully he is now able to do some of those things and will begin physical therapy in a couple of days. It all balances out as life goes on. He comforts me in my sadness and I make him laugh at his limitations.

All this has me looking back on how death has been a presence in my life, almost from the beginning. I was not yet five when my maternal grandmother, Bammie, died and nine when her husband followed her. My infant sister lived only four days and I vividly recall that funeral. So much sadness and so many people trying to help with food, visits, flowers, letters and just being there. Then in high school both my paternal grandparents passed away leaving another empty place behind. My dad was only fifty-six when he died far too soon and I was in my thirties. That one was so hard, not only because of my overwhelming grief but I had to try to explain to my son and daughter when they were only nine and eleven. I cannot remember talking to them about it even though I know I did.

Since then, my mom, the in-laws, and most of my cousins are gone, some close friends and neighbors, and co-workers. I miss them all as I put ornaments on the Christmas tree and prepare for the Thanksgiving meal. No more do I hear my mom and Aunt Louise fussing over the dressing and cranberry relish. No more my cousins sparing over the wishbone. So much that enriched my life left in the past, just memories that my husband is a bit tired of me yakking about, but he is sweet about it.

These musings make me remember a line from Forrest Gump that I repeat to myself often. Dying is just a part of living, Forrest. We all die someday.

Just a part of living, but only a part. I am not sure how or why, but I always get back to living. Doing and being and thinking and planning and hoping. Living. Even on the hardest of the recent days I made the bed, drank my coffee and went to the gym. I visited with the great grandkids and we laughed and played. Lots of hugs and kisses and sneaking some candy when daddy wasn’t looking. Life is good and I am enjoying most of it. Memories are mostly happy ones, and I indulge in a bit of nostalgia as I go about my days. I am fortunate to have a son who calls me a few times a week and keeps me up to date on his family. He will be here with his boys and wife at Christmas so that what I am most looking forward to now. My first grandson is coming home for Thanksgiving so that day will be a treat.

Right this minute I have a glass of wine at my elbow as I type, and the dear old dog is snoring at my feet. The husband and I had a nice dinner and now he is settled at the television where I will soon be also. Life is good.

What a week it has been. So hopeful on Monday and then devastated Tuesday night. My fear became real. It is still with me, but not as overwhelming as it was initially. It is likely that hard times are coming for many of us, especially those who are just one pay day from homeless and hungry. Can we even hope that those in power have compassion? Now that they don’t need our vote anytime soon do they even know we exist? It would be so easy to sink into despair.

Then Wednesday came and there was a bit of time to process it all. The sun rose as it always has and slipped below the horizon at the end of the day. When the new (slightly used) president takes office we will know very quickly what to expect. That is still several weeks away so wringing our hands in fearful anticipation serves no purpose. So, I met an old friend for a beer at the end of the day and we talked about shared memories and our families and friends. We laughed and enjoyed a good meal.

Thursday I woke up determined to have a good day. So I made a plan. First coffee, hot with sugar and cream and the dog for company. Check. Make the husband a good breakfast, make the bed, finish the laundry and pay some bills. Check. Go to the gym for at least an hour. Check. Long, lazy hot bath and put on soft pajamas. Check. Simple supper and finish reading the novel that has been neglected for several days. Check. Have a glass of good wine and go to bed. Check. Most of the fear of earlier in the week is on the back burner now.

On Friday I made a list of chores that need doing around the house and then tackled about half of them. Managed to hit the gym again and have a nice dinner with the husband, and of course the dog. Still worried about times to come, but not as much.

Now on Saturday night I have knocked out most of the to do list, had phone calls with my favorite people and have settled in with more of the wine and some television — no news allowed.

I am making a conscious decision to move from fear to hope and I think I am on the way. Tomorrow is likely to be much like most of my days and that is pretty good. I hope to get hugs and laughs from my great grandkids and that is likely to happen. I hope that there are more people who want to do good things than bad. I hope for health and know that depends on what I do. I hope the rest of my family are okay and so far, they seem to be. I hope my community is made up of people who are kind to each other and I hope those things I have feared are less likely than they seem.