Cleaning out the closets and chest of drawers

My closets are still full of Tim's clothes, his shirts, slacks, blazers and neckties. And his windbreakers, jackets, rain ponchos and all-weather coat. His chest of drawers is still full of his tee shirts, underwear, golf shirts and sweaters. I actually sat an empty box in front of the chest of drawers, thinking if I left it there long enough I'd be able to start moving Tim's clothing out of that chest. But I just can't do it. I'm not ready.

Some of my own clothes are stacked atop a bookshelf in the bedroom, others folded neatly atop the clothes dryer. I've gained some weight this past year, not adjusting my eating quite enough while unable to exercise due to hip and foot problems. Not good. After losing a battle with bluejean zippers, I finally purchased some new ones that fit. But of course I have hopes for the future, that returning to peddling my exercise bike and eating smaller, healthier meals will result in a reversal of this trend. Therefore, I haven't thrown any of my smaller clothing away. (That is, donated somewhere, which is what I always do.)

It made sense that after a year plus three months I'd be able to donate Tim's things to the boy's home in Darlington, or to the Hispanic ministry. He and I did that in the past whenever his own clothing size changed. Then I'd have more space to get my own shirts and pants off the tops of furniture, right?

But I can't do it. I bought most of Tim's things, especially the neckties. I love neckties. Tim only wore one a week, but he had enough to wear a different one every day for several weeks - back when we worked from an office downtown, that's what he did. How can I part with those?

I've taken a photo of my favorites, some new, some old. I especially like the Norman Rockwell Christmas one, the horn player rehearsing. That's the one Tim was wearing the Sunday before he died, the one in the photos I took of him that day. In those photos you don't see the horn player, but you do see a french horn - Tim's instrument - showing above the vee of the blue sweater vest he had on. See the photo below.

And the shirts! I can't part with them, not just yet. Tim looked so good in those colors, the burgundy sweaters, navy blue golf shirts, solid or striped pullovers, baby blue or red and white striped dress shirts. Now and then I pull something out and just smell it. Most things smell a little like dryer sheets, but some of the heavy sweaters haven't been washed. They still have a lingering fragrance of Tim's Pierre Cardin cologne.

He kept one cologne bottle in the pocket of the car, another on top of his chest of drawers with his hairbrush. He always put a little on when we went to church or out to lunch, to visit somebody or attend a meeting. He'd always lean over and ask "Can you smell me?" knowing how much I liked it. I'd sniff real big and tell him how good it smelled. And it did. I had bought him a new bottle of the same cologne recently so it's mostly full. Now whenever I want to wear fragrance, that's what I choose. Who cares if it's not a "woman's scent." It's Tim's and that's what matters to me.

I remember too many occasions, too many times I saw Tim smiling, heard him laughing while wearing a particular shirt or sweater. And that hat! His "Indiana Jones" hat, he called it. It's a waterproof khaki hat I'd bought years ago to go with his long all-weather coat. He wore that hat all the time when the weather was cold, rainy, or windy. I wish I had a picture of him wearing that hat - but I still have the hat, and I probably always will.

Because the hat was a little wrinkled from having been sat on by accident, and a little dirty from having been rained on, I had bought him a new almost identical one for Christmas. He never got to wear it or even "see" it - that is, feel it and examine it with his hands. It fit Tim's brother Dale, so I gave it to him. After all, I had the one that counted, the one Tim had always worn.

Angie wanted Tim's button-up sweater of many colors that he wore the most. She put it on after he died and wore it that whole weekend. She asked to keep it and I didn't have the heart or selfishness to say no. She wore it home.

I did give several articles of clothing away, especially to Dale, things I knew he could wear and would probably like to have. But that's all. Everything else I kept. There's still too much of Tim in all those shirts and ties, slacks, pullovers, tee shirts and sweaters. And hat.

As I was writing this, I could hear the Lord (and Tim) point out that he doesn't wear that style of clothing any more and he won't need those items ever again - he has a whole new wardrobe now which I would love, if I could see it. I'm sure that's true, but they understand. I'm not ready to part with Tim's old wardrobe. Not yet.

So, for the time being I'll still stack some of my own stuff on top of the bookcase in the bedroom and clothes dryer in the hall. And I'll still pull out a shirt now and then for a good smell, and wear his cologne when I go out.

March 25, 2008

Reading old prayer lists and remembering

I rummaged through a stack of stuff in the china cabinet I use for a bookcase this afternoon, and pulled out an old composition book. Curious, I started reading. The first pages were Bible study notes for a class I was teaching back in 1986. As I flipped through the pages, I came to notes on the first meeting of the Board for Tim's Transplant Fund in October, 1988. I had taken pretty good notes on the discussion, which covered a lot of financial and legal questions.

Then I came to prayer meeting notes. Back in the days after Tim's transplant surgery, we had a Friday night prayer group at the house on Hobart Drive. Most of the people went to the same church we did, but not everyone. Every week we prayed for each other, the church, friends and family, and the moral / political / legislative issues in the country.

I stood at the kitchen counter, determined to read through those notes, despite the fact that it was hurting me to do it.

I had forgotten so many things, so many of the people and situations. The names mentioned - some of them are dead now, like Tim. Others divorced from each other, moved away from Florence or even out of state. As I read, I hurt. Anger, sadness, disappointment, frustration, regret, loss, all washed over me. Occasionally there was gladness and joy but all too rarely.

The last prayer group notes stopped the end of 1989 when the group stopped meeting at our home but I had continued writing my own prayer requests in that book for some time. The last item is dated 1997 but it's just one page and just a few lines on that page.

I have other prayer and Bible study notebooks stored in the bottom of that china cabinet, but I don't want to pull them out to read right now. Maybe later. I still do some prayer lists and some Bible study, but not much writing in a composition book. Most of my writing these days is on computer. I don't usually even print those pages out.

But those composition books contain a treasure, a tangible record of the years of our lives, Tim and mine. Reading those notes takes me back and I remember, and then I begin once again to miss him so very much.

And once again I hear the Lord gently, patiently, repeatedly remind me that Tim's life is so wonderful and fascinating and full, that it would be a dreadful thing for me to pull him back here with me. I just ask him to patiently forgive me again.

I know it's selfish of me to miss Tim that way, and I get over it pretty quickly once my attention is refocused off the past and onto the present - the heavenly present, especially. "Look forward, not back," the Lord reminds me. Maybe I should write that in big letters on index cards and tape them up around the house.

"Grieving Alone" (re Dear Abby 3/2/08)

I'm an avid newspaper reader. First thing every morning while a cup of instant coffer heats up in the microwave, I go to the front door and collect my two daily newspapers, The (Florence) Morning News and The State. As I sip my coffee, I flip through the pages of The State paper first, skipping the sports sections and advertisements, but never missing the news, editorials, comics, or Dear Abby.

This morning's Dear Abby column hit me hard, making me a little sad and a little angry, and it opened my eyes a little. So I'm not the only one, huh. Here's a quote:

"Dear Abby, could you please share suggestions on how to offer support to someone who is grieving? Well-meaning friends have used my loss as an opportunity to relive their past losses with grisly and sad details. Perhaps these people are trying to relate, but it's torture. I have a feeling I'm not the only person who has suffered through this ignorance."

No, you're not the only one. In the months after Tim died, several people called me to "express their sympathy," but after one or two sentences they spent the next thirty minutes or more dumping on me all of their own troubles and grief, grisly details included. They weren't interested in me. They were using me to vent.

Two of these people were women Tim and I barely knew. But one had been a good friend of Tim's in their youth and over the years since, and she was genuinely grieving the loss of his friendship. Yet she too spent only a couple of minutes talking about Tim, and nearly an hour talking about herself, her many ailments and her multiple other problems.

And it's not just women. A couple of men who were friends of Tim's have called me this past year to see how I'm doing, or so they claimed. After I said, I'm okay, how are you? they spent many minutes telling me how bad off they are, how broke, or sick, or troubled in some other way.

Maybe they wanted me to know they understand my pain. If so, they could have said so in one of two minutes, surely, and then added something positive, uplifting, helpful. There was no comfort in what they said, no real concern or caring for me.

Maybe they thought I was such a "rock," so strong, so close to the Lord, that I didn't have any real need for their comfort, concern or caring. If that's how they felt, they were wrong.

As I think back, I realize that if they had called Tim, he would have helped them get through their current crisis situation, with his humor, his genuine friendship, his listening ear and "shoulder to cry on." In his absence, I was a Tim-substitute to them. I listened, and where appropriate shared scripture verses, or my own personal experiences of the Lord's comfort, strength and grace. I promised to pray, and in some cases I prayed right then, over the phone.

After all, I did ask How are you, and I did want to know. I did care. But at the same time, I hope I remember what it felt like to get those non-comforting sympathy calls and never treat someone else who is grieving that way.

Thanks, Dear Abby, for running that column today.