The Size of the Cloth

073

“Who am I?  Why am I here?” was an uncomfortable rhetorical device at a 1992 Vice-Presidential debate.

Today we bloggers have been asked to address that question.

Jean Valjean posed the musical question.  Just weeks before my husband Jim was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, we had listened to the song with our daughters in a London theater.

Who am I?  What am I doing here on a blog about love and loss?

I’m a mom of sons and daughters, a widow at an age at which I never previously could have imagined losing my husband.

I’m a friend, a teacher, an attorney, a quilt designer and maker.

I’m a terrible, verging-on-dangerous, cook–not so much for the content of my frequently failed culinary creations, but due to inattention: I am likely to wander off with water or worse boiling on the stove or something blackening to an unrecognizable state in the oven.  Not much of a domestic goddess either.  And I can’t do math.

I started out here almost two years ago, mainly for therapeutic reasons.  I discovered early on that I needed to write about our family and about our loss.  Most important, my husband entrusted me with his story.

Writing helps me remember and preserve what is important.  Like a first-to-fall domino, a flash of a single scene with all of our younger ghosts can lead to a cascade of the extraordinary ordinary, thoughts and feelings recaptured, pieces reassembled.   Wanderers returned home.

Sure, I could have kept my own grief’s open wounds to myself–perhaps hand-stitched quilts in shades of black; stayed in a darkened room and sipped amber tea; and in wee, sleepless hours scratched my illegible looping script thoughts in journals for my eyes only. With a house full of children and beagles, that wasn’t really a winning option.

I certainly could have kept to myself the shame of having fled a surgeon’s office in panic when he and my husband began animatedly discussing his labyrinthine pancreatic tumor, pointing to it on a laptop as if it were a piece of abstract installation art and not a killer poised to take my husband from us.

I need not have travelled to more than thirty hospitals to talk to health care providers about what it is like to receive such news and to live and love in the space between diagnosis and death and thereafter.

But then no one who didn’t know my husband–with the possible exception of the medical and dental students who knew his first name as they worked with his body–could have learned from the remarkable way he lived his too-short life.

The people who travelled those three seasons in hell with us might not have known how important they were, or appreciated the many things they did which were so important to us.

So here I am.

I like to think I’ve evolved a little over the time I’ve been blogging, pressing the “publish” button on more than 260 posts.

Now I think I’m here at least in part because writing, and receiving feedback from people all over the world, has helped me see both the “size of the cloth” of sorrow and the persistent presence of kindness.

Jim had his own way of sending me on this path: “You’ll get through this,” he told me. “Lots of people do.”  He, of course, knew I would have unflagging help from our friends and family.

He saw the whole.

It’s easy to get consumed by one’s corner of the cloth, wrapped tightly in an overwhelming loss.

It can be daunting to rejoin the world still out there, whether it’s the front path or the internet blogging community.  Above and below are pictures I took near my front path today, in a gathering blizzard.  I’m glad to be in both places.

045

About Stephanie

In her spare time, Stephanie works full-time, and then some, as an attorney. She has published articles and delivered talks in arcane fields like evidentiary issues, jury instructions, expert witnesses, and forensic evidence. She also is an adjunct professor at a law school on the banks of the Charles and loves that dirty water, as she will always think of Boston as her home. You are welcome to take a look at her Facebook author page, or follow @SMartinGlennon on Twitter. All content on this blog, unless otherwise attributed, is (c) 2012-2016 by Stephanie M. Glennon and should not be reproduced (in any form other than re-blogging in accordance with Wordpress protocol and the numerous other wee buttons at the bottom of each post) without the express permission of the domain holder.
This entry was posted in Love and Loss and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to The Size of the Cloth

  1. buildermaker says:

    I am so sorry for your loss…Loss however is universal, anyone who lives any length of time will loose someone close to them. My first wife died of leukemia when my son was only seven years old. We were divorced but I never stopped loving her (she left me because I was too immature to be a father and husband at the time) What really killed me was the loss my son experienced. To look into his eyes knowing that he didn’t have that one person who is supposed to always love you no matter what…….I just can’t put it into words. Today he is 27 and in the Air Force, but when I do get to see him, I can still see that loss in his eyes. About a month ago he asked me to tell him what his mother was like. So I have spent the last two months trying to remember everything about her so I can tell him next time he comes home. By looking back, it brings all of that pain and loss right back to the day we lost her. The pain never goes away……never. Sometimes you go days or weeks without it….then something happens, you see someone who you think looks like her, or someone says something the way she would say it…..and it all comes flooding back. So, I am sorry for your loss, I have to go now…………LRGII

  2. Lauren Kells says:

    Stephanie, this is such a wonderful and real introduction. Thank you!

  3. When I read your posts you’re such a writer and I’m a reader – simple as that. I’ve loved getting to know both you and Jim through this blog.

    Great response to the question of the day…I might get to it 😉

  4. koharjones says:

    Beautiful post. Your front walk is lovely, and thank you for sharing your loss and your learning.

  5. mavic says:

    “I’m glad to be in both places.” – I love that you end this post with this line. I was never that inspired to pursue Law school until I saw your blog featured on Freshly Pressed. Thank you for sharing your wisdom with us. 🙂

  6. As always your post is poignant and moving. Thank you for sharing not only your sorrow, but the obvious love that envelops you even after Jim’s passing.

  7. A M says:

    Beautiful post from a remarkable person. Thanks for sharing with all of us. Love, A

  8. As always you write with such tender openness, thank you.
    I a iso have to tell you how much I love those shots of the birds….beautiful.
    That path between our safe home and the outside world can sometimes feel miles long.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s