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On bicycle rides or road trips, Bryan would get really irritated by roadside memorials. These are often in the form of crosses with a collection of plastic flowers and whatever items are meaningful to the folks who place them. Friends and family of Bryan’s recall some of those conversations while riding around the valley or on the lengthy Seattle to Portland ride. And Bryan rarely hesitated or held back when sharing his opinions. I don’t remember exactly where we were when I first heard him express his clear distaste for this particular form of public grief, but once he did, I never doubted exactly what he thought.

I remember trying to persuade him to consider an alternative viewpoint. People have very different needs when they grieve and they are as unique as each person’s personality, so too are the ways folks express sorrow and process grief. I think we came to a place where he acknowledged that perhaps some folks needed to do that in order to move forward in their healing and grief-processing. For Bryan, these would always be distasteful and not something he would have ever wished for.

There are pieces to the discussion that I don’t think we really had the chance to delve into together. There’s the need of those left behind. There’s the consideration of the preferences and tastes of the deceased. And then there’s the shared nature of those who grieve together (be it in shared space and time, or separately/privately for the same person).

When my Mom was in Hospice care at her cousin’s home, my sister asked our Mom if she would like us to set up a scholarship at her alma mater and she enthusiastically supported that. So we did and have done yearly fundraisers to keep it growing. She said she wanted music at her service. So we made sure she had a concert. When my Dad passed, with the help of our Aunt Daisy, we put together a service that told stories of our Dad while also being cheekily irreverent, very much in his style. [Ask me about “Bridge Over Troubled Water” someday over coffee.] And good food was a cornerstone of that event, too. At Todd’s service, I believe it was his eldest son who called on folks to do a hot pepper toast. (I declined because I grew those hot peppers and knew what they were capable of.) But those who loved and knew Todd GOT that he had a particular penchant for things piquant. Many of the dishes after Todd’s service were hot and spicy, too.

I like pop culture references. I probably make too many of them, but here I go again. The series Parks and Recreation is a favorite for a lot of reasons, but there’s one particular scene that sticks out when I think about this topic. Leslie Knope, the main character, is pranking her colleague and boss, the crusty libertarian working for city government, Ron Swanson, about his birthday. She hints that she’s going to throw him a loud, obnoxious, surprise party with lots of bells and whistles like she just had done for her bestie, Ann. This increases his anxiety the more he believes she’s going to deliver on it. Instead, she gets him a takeout steak dinner from his favorite restaurant, some Lagavulin whisky (his favorite), and an opportunity to view Bridge on the River Kwai (a favorite film) all by himself while enjoying the steak dinner and whisky in a comfy chair. In his confused delight and relief, Leslie explains to him “Why would I throw Ron Swanson an Ann Perkins party?”

There’s no right way to do this. For me, for anyone. But I don’t want to throw Ron Swanson an Ann Perkins party.

(Trigger warning: self-harm)

The French language has a number of great sayings that don’t have direct English translations. The title of this post is one for example. “Well in one’s skin” refers to being content with oneself, at ease. The negative is a sense of disconnect, discomfort, discontent with oneself. There are many things about aging that are difficult, aches and pains, loss, regret, but one of the things that I am so thankful for is becoming more comfortable in my own skin, confident in being me. Such was not always the case.

As a teenager and well into my 20s, I was not well in my skin, neither metaphorically nor literally. In fact, long before I knew the term “cutting” or “self-harm”, I was engaging in activities that were very similar. My arms and chest were covered with evidence of this, so I kept long sleeves and high necklines. When the emotions and pain were so much with no where to put or express them safely, I focused on ways to bring that pain out to the surface.

Fear not, reader, I do not do that any more. I have better ways to navigate and express my pain–art, writing, yanking weeds with intense aggression. Being in a safe place with Bryan meant we could confront problems together. We could argue fairly, without fear of abandonment or loss, bolstered always by love. That kind of love changes your brain’s mode of thinking about a lot of things. And while Bryan is gone, the love is not. I remain reassured by my worth and my lovability because of what we built together.

I am so grateful that I don’t live in a space where I have constant knots in my stomach or have a compulsion to tear at my skin any more. Being content in my skin, doesn’t mean I don’t wish to be better than I am–kinder, more gracious, more loving. It also doesn’t mean that I’m not confronted with intense longing to be loved and touched again. For here and now, however, I am bien dans ma peau and maybe just a little bit more every day.

I’m an inconsistent list-maker. To do lists, grocery lists, lists of people to write/call/email. I think writing a list is an act of hope and encouragement, but sometimes it’s also a cudgel–a giant, flashing neon sign in all caps that reads SHOULD SHOULD SHOULD. How can one find the balance of a useful tool and something that debilitates? Chatting with friends about such things gives me a lot of food for thought.

One friend suggested that instead of making to do lists at the beginning of the day, where I feel like a failure when I haven’t ticked off each and every single item, to rather write a “have done” list at the end of the day. I’m inconsistent at this, too, but I tell ya, on the days when the SHOULD sign is extremely bright and I feel like absolute garbage for not fulfilling some arbitrary goal set that I’ve put on myself, it helps me to pause, reflect, and extend myself a little grace. Instead of you “you should have done this and this and this,” it’s “wow, Becci, you did this and this and this.” (When you live alone, the internal dialogue gets a LOT louder.) Reminding myself of what I did do instead of beating myself up for what I didn’t do is a recipe for a better night’s sleep, I can tell you that much.

Another friend talked about how we need to make more space to celebrate progress. A list is to do or done, but there’s no space on a sheet of paper for a full progress report. Nevertheless, taking time to really account for progress helps turn down the brightness of the SHOULD sign. Every little inch of progress is worthy of celebration. This same friend talked about how much of our thinking is “best, 100%, all the way, nothing counts unless it’s perfect” and how toxic and paralyzing that is. There are lots of cliche sayings that really do encapsulate this–“Rome wasn’t built in a day;” or “Good enough is the enemy of perfect,” are a couple. Progress is better than perfect.

I got sick last week and was in bed all of Thursday, some of Friday, and I’m mostly better, but still feeling the effects. The blinking SHOULD sign along with the internal (extremely critical, cranky, cantakerous, and cruel) editor have been particularly rough. And yet, the cats are fed. I made a batch of applesauce. I’ve painted. I went through a pile of papers and paid bills. The giant blinking SHOULD sign will never permanently go away and sometimes it’s much worse than others, but good chats with friends help remind me that progress and accomplishments are things to list, too. And when I’m sick, the grace quotient needs to go up accordingly.

For a while now, I try to reflect on something good during the week and invite folks to join me. I’ve actually thought about this one for a while and I wasn’t sure how to articulate it, but I’m going to give it a go.

Last fall, when Bryan was diagnosed with grade IV glioblastoma, one tumor the size of a baseball exploding into a star and a smaller one about the size of a marble, I started a CaringBridge account. My motive was to let folks know what was going on in a way that was respectful of our family’s privacy while also keeping those who loved Bryan, Mary, and me updated. I often shared that writing on FB so that as many people who wanted to read it could.

Facebook has this handy little button that I have mostly enjoyed and sometimes dreaded. It’s the “Memories” button with the little clock next to it. I like seeing cat photos from years ago, reminiscing about Lubbers family adventures, admiring my baking and art exploits, and laughing at my political harrangues. What I did not want to relive was seeing those posts. I have not gone back to read them in a long time and I’m not sure I will want to. I was afraid Facebook was going to force the issue in the memories option. Lo and behold, they have not. I have not sought out why. I am simply relieved, having a little extra space for a breath or two.

The body and the brain hold enough memory for right now that I don’t have to relive every second of what we went through. With time, I’ll be able to focus on the most beautiful of moments, but the constant reminders of all the pain would be too much. Way too much. So I’m really grateful, that’s not happening.

When I was little, I remember going agate hunting, mushroom hunting, sea shell hunting, and yes, sometimes with my mom and sister, bargain hunting. As an adult, I still hunt. When I’m out for a walk, I’m searching for striking images, beautiful things that capture my attention and imagination. I seek out the best jokes and stories to share at my next gathering. I dig for recipes. Maybe this goes back to our hunter/gatherer roots.

As an adult, I’ve tried to develop the habit of gratitude or what I like to call joy-nugget hunting. Wouldn’t you know there’s already a term for it? They’re called “glimmers” and they’re the anti-trigger. Instead of things that revert us back to painful, difficult things, they instead bring calm and feelings of safety and joy. Glimmers (I’m still going to call them joy nuggets) can be internal or external. Gratitude and things like glimmers can help shift our thinking.

Of course I want to be mindful and make a huge distinction between toxic positivity and using tools to help combat anxiety, depression, and fear. Finding joy and choosing gratitude in appropriate, healthy ways aren’t a denial of the very real tragedies we face, but they’re helpful in surviving them, navigating them, facing them with maybe a little more courage.

Time in nature at Bennington and Mill Creek, my garden, my kitties, painting, laughing with my family and friends, singing really loudly in the car, watching the leaves change, hugs, watching movies and making bagels with my kiddo–these are my joy nuggets, my glimmers. They do not change the fact that I am in this home alone and my person isn’t here to help navigate the hard times, but they give me courage and delight as I move forward in this new reality.

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