Tuesday, October 15, 2013

5 months.... and a spark.

5 months.  That's how long it has been since I lost Shelia.  Well, technically, I did not lose her.  She died.  She just plain died.  But 5 months is how long it has taken me to say "She died - she's dead."  Technically, I still don't know what she actually died of.  But I am coming to the realization, that it truly does not matter.  At the end of the day - she's dead.

I still hurt, but nothing on the scale of those that had known her all of her life.  And nothing on the scale of her family.  My loss is a small blip on the emotional scale of losses but it was still big to me. 

I've tried to make sense of why I was affected by a death of someone who I had only known for such a short period of time.  My guess is that in the short years (I think it was from 2005 until 2012 - she was completely incapacitated by this year), we did so much together.  In those short years, we rode through more states and miles than I can count.

We went through surgeries, deaths, loads of laughs and many arguments.  It was if time somehow knew that our relationship was on a short track and that we needed to fit as much as possible in those years to last a lifetime.  Yet still, I somehow expected more. 

I thought I would still feel her presence.  That I would be fortified by the fact that now, we could still ride together, we could go and see all the things that we still wanted to do - that I would be able to find the feet that I had lost so long ago when I got on that plane to the UK.

I think that is why I was listening so hard to try and hear Shelia.  I wanted someone to be my ground, to be my support, to give me purpose.  Since May of 2009, I've given up a career, graduated a child from college, another from high school and lost my best friend.  And I see nothing that gives me the light I need to find my feet.  I wanted Sheila to let me see.  I was wrong.  Shelia's dead.  She is gone and I know that she is not going find me.  I'm trying to make someone who is dead find me. 

I also know, that is impossible.  No one can "find me".  That is something that lies within myself.  I cannot pin my existence on "being" something other than what I become.  For me, "being" was defined by another person: a child,  a parent, a sibling, a coworker, a spouse, a friend, I have been depending upon someone else to define me.  This realization is the first spark I have seen.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I am beginning to see a small light.  Right now, that light is a bit like a distant star, it's flickers and ebbs in the night.  It doesn't wink, it doesn't glitter, it just appears and disappears in a black night like a memory that you can't quite grasp.  But, nonetheless, it is a light.  And with luck, it will move from a spark, to a distant star, to flame, and to a fire.  One that will light the ground up so much that I am able to see my feet. 

No one is going to find me.  My feet are already on the ground, I just need to move them and hope that the light will follow.




Thursday, May 9, 2013

The next stage....




I have not done well with losing Shelia.  I miss her desperately, and have been doing so for a very long time.

I think that those around her were so much stronger, so much better that I could have ever been.  Her family was amazing and I am grateful that she was surrounded by them when she died.  

Truth be told, if I go back and look at history, I realize that she was very ill on the trip across the country.  While hard, going to the UK, was probably the very best thing for the both of us as it enabled her to reconnect with old friends, family and the ones that were ultimately there to take care of her.  

I've never known anyone that died a lingering death.  As such, I never accepted the fact that she was dying.  I truly believed that if she just got up, she would get better.  It was not until the services yesterday that I finally started to admit that she was ill and that in the end, there was nothing I would have been able to do.  God works in amazing ways that way. 

But, I still find myself holding my breath waiting for something to happen.  I'm going to go and talk with my pastor today to start the road to healing.  I now know it is time.  Now, I have to learn to move on and learn to be on my own again.

For those that follow this blog, pray for me.  I know that may sound selfish, but I want to know what it is like to breathe again.  Right now, I feel like I never will. 



Shiny Side Up
-RoadRunner

Monday, May 6, 2013

Sweet Dreams Jose....

Yesterday I lost a mother, a friend, a confidant and a very large part of me.  After a short but vicious illness, my friend Jose left this world surrounded by family and long time friends.  For those that have followed this blog, I wish I could say more.  Truth be told, I could never wrap my head around her illness.  I wanted to believe that if she could just get up, that she would get better.

I would insist on her trying harder and pushing through.  Not until she was bedridden, unable to talk, move or much of anything else, did I accept the fact that she was ill.  Even then, while I said that she was dying, I never really accepted it.  When I heard of her passing yesterday I was numb.  To be fair, I'm pretty sure that I still am.

I find it appropriate that she left this world on Cinco De Mayo...  She loved her margaritas and the small group of women that would meet about once a month to socialize, laugh and personally give me strength (the Posse) met to drink to her passing, laugh about our lives and start that long, painful process of building a life without our Jose.

For me, it means moving on with the knowledge that I will never see her behind me when I ride.  I will never visit the stores, eat at the restaurants, or see the silly way her cheeks would turn red when she had a drink.  I will miss my frustration that she would choose Dr. Pepper over water (even in the Mojave Desert!) and the way that we would "talk" with simply hand signals when we rode.
 
My salvation is that now, she will be with me whenever I start up Baby.  I hope and pray that she will be there urging me on saying "okay - I can ride now, get up and  go". 

I will miss you Jose, I will miss you Mrs. Shelia Douglas.  I will love you always.  I hope that now you are riding, fully geared, with the road ahead of you and the wind at your back.

- Road Runner



Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Happy New Year (Or Baby we need to get a life!)

Wow, another year has passed!  Now is the time for that myopic, sometimes tainted introspective of the past 12 months.  Often this can be tainted with not only emotions, but history.  I have decided not to do that as much this year.  In the year 2013, I have only one resolution - to be happier.

What it will take to do that - I'm not sure.  What I know that will prevent it - is absolute.  No dwelling on things you cannot change.  No worrying about those that have chosen paths you cannot control.  No wishing that things could be different.   I guess you can say I want this to be a "No free" year!

I want to embrace the life that I have.  This year, I don't want to look back over my shoulder and think "Is that all there is?".  This year, I want to look forward and see a path.  To be sure, this year, that path is blank.  But I would prefer to think that this blank is not a cave or dark unknown.  This year, it is a canvas that I will paint with memories and experiences that will take my breath away.

To all those "Gray Lady" riders, I wish you a very happy New Year.  I wish you happiness, peace and great rides on whatever moves you



Shiny Side Up!
Road Runner