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.