Dream New Dreams

by Jai Pausch

  Next I pitched out all the old bed linens: the pillows we had bought, the sheets we got at Sam’s Club on sale—all gone! I started fresh. I painted the bedroom a deep shade of blueberry. I got rid of the Luxo lighting that Randy had insisted on for utilitarian reasons and I had disliked for aesthetic reasons. I bought beautiful lamps and curtains. I hung new pictures on the walls and put a chaise longue in the corner to make it feel like a retreat just for me. Down went the ceiling fan; up went a pretty light fixture. By the time I was done, the room was completely transformed. The chains to the past were broken! I had surrounded myself with beauty that made me catch my breath each time I walked into the room. More important, Randy’s ghost wouldn’t haunt me in here any longer.

  Next I turned my attention to our bathroom, with its double sinks. Even after I removed Randy’s toiletries, I could still envision him at his sink brushing his teeth and putting in his contacts, leaving toothpaste residue in the bowl and contact lens solution seemingly everywhere. The empty counter and useless double sink were a powerful visual reminder of my husband, who was no longer there to greet me in the morning with a smile and kiss in the continual dance we call marriage.

  I’d always wanted a place to sit down to put on my makeup, so I wouldn’t drop my eye-shadow applicator or mascara wand in the sink. I had gotten pretty good at basic plumbing, having put in new single-lever faucets in the children’s bathroom. So I decided to rip out one of the double sinks, cap off the pipes, and cut down the cabinet with the help of a neighbor. I was going to make a vanity table for myself.

  I had a long to-do list, which is still not complete.

  Many people who lose a loved one choose to move from the house that holds so many memories. My friend with two young children sold her house about a year after her husband died. She told me of the pain visual reminders caused her—the flooring they had put down together or the deck he had built. I was lucky that Randy and our family had moved into our house in Virginia only eleven months earlier. Our house couldn’t tell the same kinds of stories. I also couldn’t move because of my children. Randy and I had talked at length with our cancer counselor and to a child psychologist before we decided to move to Virginia. We wanted to know what effect moving would have on the children after Randy died. Should we move closer to family before he died or stay put in the comfort of the only home they knew? Randy felt very strongly that it was important to be closer to family so I could have a support network to help raise our children. And both professionals said it would be better for our children if we moved before Randy died. Being in the same house after he passed away would give them stability and a sense that their father knew where they were.

  Many books advise grieving spouses not to make any major changes during the year following the death of their beloved. I can appreciate the idea of a year as being the yardstick to measure how long it might take to get one’s emotions better in check. But I don’t think it should be a hard-and-fast rule. We all grieve in individual ways, with different degrees of emotional intensity and varying needs. I found I needed to get control over the space I had inhabited so it wouldn’t cause me to tear up every time I rose in the morning. My son, on the other hand, wanted memories of his father associated with various rooms throughout the house to remain. I tried to find a time frame that worked for both of us, recognizing that we were sharing the same space and missing the same person.

  So I didn’t always follow the “wait a year before you make major changes” rule. For example, I asked Randy’s friends to help me clean out the clothes, shoes, and sporting goods from his closet while they were in Virginia for the funeral. I didn’t need twelve months to give away his clothes to people who could use them. Not all of Randy’s possessions went to Goodwill. A hospice volunteer took three of his shirts and cut and sewed them to fit cute little teddy bears, which she then gave to our children.

  Furthermore, not all memories are bittersweet; some are just plain bitter. Like any normal couple, Randy and I had our disagreements. One issue arose over deciding on a new car to replace his thirteen-year-old Volkswagen Cabriolet. This coincided with his finishing the trial chemotherapy treatment in the spring of 2007. That was before the cancer had returned and metastasized to his liver and spleen—a time when we were hopeful he would beat the disease. I encouraged Randy to take this opportunity to buy a new car as an affirmation that he was going to live. I wanted him to drive this new car into the ground over many years, just as he had his Cabriolet. He agreed but said we should choose this car together. We had several fun outings test-driving convertibles, for Randy was a ragtop man. It gave us something else to think about besides the cancer and what might happen next. We could live in the moment, without worrying about tomorrow.

  But independent of my input, Randy narrowed the field down to two cars. I no longer felt that this was a couple’s decision or that I was really part of the process. When it came down to deciding, I expressed my feelings and said I felt my opinion on the final selection should carry more weight. Randy disagreed. Maybe he felt this would be the last car he might ever get to buy if his cancer returned. Maybe he thought he deserved to have the ultimate say, since he had suffered so much in fighting cancer. I don’t know exactly what was going on in his mind; he rarely articulated what emotions or thoughts were driving his actions. Finally he told me I could sell the damn car after he was dead and go buy whatever I wanted. That ugly statement just hung in the air for a few minutes. I held my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything I would regret. I was so disappointed in Randy, not only for the comment, but also for the way he had acted during the whole process. I ran through all the unhelpful things I wanted to say in return, but I didn’t vocalize them. Instead, I told him that if the car meant that much to him, he should pick out what he wanted, and I would step aside.

  Randy went on to buy his first choice, and for obvious reasons, I never did like the car. He loved driving around with the top down, enjoying the fresh air. Ironically, he wasn’t able to drive or even ride in the passenger seat after the cancer had spread through his system. The car had too hard a ride. Given the damage that had been done to his organs, every bump in the road caused him pain. So the car sat in the driveway, and it was rarely used after Randy passed away.

  The car became a negative reminder of our argument and the uncharitable feelings I had had. I didn’t wait a full year to sell it—just a couple of months to make sure the children would be OK with Daddy’s car going to a good home. Then I followed Randy’s orders and went out to buy what I had always wanted—a Mini Cooper Clubman with really good gas mileage and a backseat big enough for two children’s car seats. It’s bright yellow with white racing stripes and white and black flames on the side. My brother calls it a clown car, but it makes me laugh every time I see it and smile each time I drive it. I’m glad I didn’t wait a year to bring a little joy into my life. And I needed a daily laugh, especially as the burden of being a single parent became greater with each passing day.

  Single Parenting: My New Frontier

  NEAR THE END of Randy’s battle, our house was a three-ring circus, and I was the reluctant ringmaster. In ring number one were the kids, whose activities were supervised by our nanny, Rachel. In ring number two was Randy with his health issues and emotional needs. Finally, in ring number three was the endless stream of visitors, from family members and friends to hospice care workers. Rarely was I ever in the house alone with Randy and the children. We had so much support, so much help to make it through the worst of times, for which I am forever grateful. But all of the activities made our household chaotic, to say the least.

  Then suddenly the merry-go-round stopped spinning. The children and I felt a little dizzy, a little unbalanced in the aftermath of Randy’s death. The buzz of activities we were strangely used to was now a hum instead of a roar. Visitors stopped coming to our house. The phone didn’t ring quite as often. This slowdown naturally happens after someone passes away, but it is an adjustment phase for the family le
ft behind. Ours was no different. We were living in transition, trying to find our new normal.

  Transitions are always difficult, whether you’re adjusting to a death in the family, unemployment, retirement, divorce, or any other major life change. For me, the transition was multilayered. I was grappling with widowhood, grief, single parenthood with three small children, and my new unemployment as a caregiver. I know unemployment sounds like a strange word, but caring for Randy had been my job, my focus, and a large part of my daily routine for two years. During this time, I had a lot of help with the children. Now that role and routine were gone. What was left was a void I had to face and fill. I had to create a new routine with my children, just as I was doing on a larger scale with my life.

  Though I was grieving for my husband and reeling from his absence, I never let our everyday life come to a standstill. I didn’t feel I had the luxury of lying in bed, nursing my sorrow and focusing only on myself. For Dylan, Logan, and Chloe, I kept putting one foot in front of the other, balancing my needs with theirs. This feeling of responsibility for them has had nothing but an upside for me, keeping me anchored in the world of the living and able to feel their love and experience their joy. I’ve never lost sight of the fact that my children are one of my many blessings. Because of them, I have learned how boundless love can be. My love for them makes me want to be the best person I can be, as well as a good parent. In teaching them kindness and how to be courteous to others, I’ve relearned these essential lessons myself. I feel highly motivated to help them be happy and well adjusted, to give them experiences that allow them to learn about their world, and to instill in them the values Randy and I shared. I could not—and would not—let them down as their only parent in the wake of their father’s death.

  My children challenge me to meet my lofty parenting goals every day. As a rule, my kids wake up ready to go at six o’clock in the morning, if not earlier. They’re energetic and physical, so we get moving and do a lot before most people are out of bed. The downside to their energy is that they totally wear me out, especially when I’m in the backyard playing hide-and-seek and other games with them. There isn’t a second parent to tag team with when I get tired.

  After a full day of activities with me, the children no longer had Randy’s homecoming after work to divert their attention. They missed having him come home and take an interest in their day, talking with them and looking at their art or schoolwork. Instead, the children vie aggressively for my attention. Dylan and I were talking recently when he was home from school sick and no one else was around to interrupt us. I asked him what it was like from his perspective to have one parent raise him. As he put it, now “There’s one source of energy in the family: Mom. The three power plants want the energy. We have to share. If it’s not distributed equally, the power plant needing more energy would send out calls and Mommy would notice because of the fighting.”

  Dylan speaks just like his father—he even uses analogies like him! More to the point, he realizes that fighting with each other is a way to get my attention. Sometimes children will make bad choices to force an adult to interact with them, even if that interaction is negative. Perhaps they wanted my attention because I had been so caught up in Randy’s care that they felt neglected. Perhaps they were dealing with the loss of their father and the changes in their lives by acting out with each other. Regardless of the reason, it made parenting even more difficult. One of my family members even took me aside and told me people were talking behind my back about how ill-behaved my children were. Well, that didn’t make me feel very good, to say the least! I could blame myself and lose faith in myself as a parent, but I realize those folks only see my children for a fraction of the time I do. To the contrary, I’ve seen a huge improvement in their behavior. The trauma they went through obviously had a big impact on them, but they’ve readjusted and acclimated. They’ve also matured as they’ve aged, which has helped as well.

  Another big help was Rachel, who stayed with us for about six months after Randy died. This gave the children a sense of continuity. It also enabled me to adjust to my new situation. However, the time finally arrived, the day I had dreaded, when Rachel was ready to move on with her life. She had come to help us while she was in a period of transition herself, trying to figure out a different, more fulfilling career. We assumed we would need her help for about a year, given Randy’s three-to-six-months prognosis. But when Rachel told me she had decided to be a teacher and was enrolling in education classes, I found myself both scared and shaken. I wasn’t prepared to lose yet another person in my life, as well as the only partner I now had in raising my children. There were several issues in play here. It wasn’t a question of finances. Randy had encouraged me to keep a nanny for some time after he had passed, just to make our lives more manageable since he would no longer be there to help out. We looked at our finances and budgeted for the child-care expense. The real issue for me was that someone to whom I had become close was now leaving our daily lives. I was experiencing another loss. I didn’t have the heart to try to replace her because I couldn’t bear to bring another person into the privacy of our home to become close to us and then leave us after a while. I didn’t want to be hurt anymore by people coming and going from my life, and I definitely didn’t want the children to go through a series of caretakers coming in and out of their lives. I worried about attachment issues for them. Then there was the blatant criticism I got from friends and family; the message I heard was that I was a bad mom for having child-care help.

  With my decision made, I still worried how I would manage alone. When would I get a much-needed break or a little time for myself without regularly scheduled child care? I questioned how I would manage when the children got sick and needed extra attention and I had to function sleep-deprived for days. In the fall of 2008, for example, the children came down with hand, foot and mouth disease, the stomach flu, and a random virus that brought on high temperatures. And that was in the three months before winter set in and the cold and flu season officially started. I wasn’t sure I would have the endurance and energy during those times to care for them without a partner or regularly scheduled help. Of course, I still had my family and friends to lean on in emergencies, which I did. Once I had to call my brother Bob at six o’clock in the morning after stomach flu traveled through everyone in the house and finally made its way to me. To his credit, Bob was at my house in fifteen minutes and stayed with us for most of the day, allowing me to rest and recover. But helpful friends and family were there for emergencies, not for me to call when I needed a nap because I had been up all night or when I wanted to go to the gym to work out. With our nanny leaving, yet another aspect of my life was in transition.

  Shortly after Rachel left, I found a woman who could come every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon to watch the children for me. I also developed a long list of high school and college students whom I could call on, though I quickly learned that trying to find a high schooler who was free on a weeknight so I could attend a parent-teacher conference was a project in and of itself. Another downside was that my young children had to adjust to many different people, with different personalities and ways of doing things. And that would not bring out the best in their behavior.

  Moreover, I was struggling with the extra demands that complicated everyday life. I felt like a sailor who had learned the basics of sailing and then went out on a boat and battled stormy seas. I needed calm, stable waters until I had my sea legs under me. But life doesn’t wait, and I had to meet whatever challenges came my way. One of the earliest and in some ways most common challenges was juggling the children’s schedule. Making sure everyone has their homework done and done correctly, plus staying on top of the extracurricular demands—special projects, field trips, and sports—takes a great deal of energy and attention. In the spring of 2008 when Randy was very ill, Dylan started playing soccer. He played the next season after Randy had passed away, but I found it too draining to try to watch him while enterta
ining the two little ones on the sidelines. Logan wanted to play a sport as well, but I didn’t know if I could manage the usual schoolwork routine, plus two different practice and game schedules. Luckily, we found a compromise by choosing an activity both boys could enjoy: Tae Kwon Do. By now, in the spring of 2010, Chloe was three and was content to play for forty-five minutes while the boys practiced. Soon, though, the boys were at different belt levels, which meant different class schedules. We were now struggling to make the recommended three Tae Kwon Do classes a week, which was difficult and stressful for everyone. Dylan had also added violin lessons to his schedule, which were given at his school after classes were over. Once a week, Chloe and I would drive the thirty minutes to school and meet the boys. On days with good weather, they would have a snack and play on the school playground. Dylan would have his thirty-minute lesson while we remained outside. After his lesson was over, we would pile into the car and get home by five p.m. Tasked with getting the children to school in the morning, picking Chloe up by one p.m. and the boys by four, and then starting the after-school activity schedule, I felt I was constantly on the run. By Christmas 2010, I found myself losing my temper more often and feeling depressed. I struggled to keep my head above water. My brother suggested we cut out some commitments to reduce the time demands. Dylan put violin lessons on hold, and the boys went to Tae Kwon Do class only once a week. I felt so guilty that I couldn’t give the children the opportunities to play sports or learn musical instruments. It made me feel like a failure as a mom.