Getting Older And Grieving

7:30 am, Thursday

May 31, 2001

Dearest Darling,

First Methodist Church of Waverly, after the building
renovations were completed (elevator included)

I just woke up. I  am missing you and thinking about you. You are the first thing that I think of in the morning and the last thing at night.

It has been cooler all the past week. In fact, I don't even have the air conditioning unit on, just running the ceiling fans and it's very comfortable.

Last night, Chairman Jim Williams presented the plans for an elevator and "Life Center" building to the church after a potluck dinner. I wondered how you would have felt about it and what questions you would have asked. It will be expensive, about $500,000, and I don't know if our congregation will pay for it. We do need the elevator for three people now, and probably more as time goes by. A better kitchen is needed, too.

Today, I am having lunch with Bob and Sue. It's the last chance to be with them between their trip to Georgia to be with their son, Brad, and mine to Dearborn with the Frensleys. We are going to meet at Carol's Restaurant for her Sunshine Salad (chicken and fruit). 

Barbara DeBoe called yesterday as I was leaving for church and I called her back when I got home. Bill had another ministroke and Barbara is scared. I know the feeling. Bill had a stroke two years ago. The handwriting is on the wall: AGE. And will Bill will be retiring this year, in October or December. Yes, I plan to see them in June. 

Ben Vaughn is better from his stroke. He still has to go for physical therapy, but he can get in the car, can play cards. Barb said Ben has difficulty talking, still.  But Ben has come a long way.

I hadn't cried until now and I am again. I was beginning to think that I was "handling it better," but I'll never stop mourning my loss of your company and your love.

I know you are here in spirit (at least I believe that), but I want more. I loved and lived with you too long to suddenly let go. I read articles about grief and listen to speakers and it all sounds good. But I think the utter loss of your presence is something more than my heart and mind can bear. 

I love you so much. The past 50 years has been all about you. I can't change now. 

All my love always, 

Norma

Sundays Are Not The Same

April 8, 2001 Sunday 7 PM

Dearest Darling:

I have been thinking of you and missing you all day.

Jim Parker, August 13, 1963, en route to the Great Smoky Mountains

Honey, it's so difficult to go to church without you being with me, to sit in church by myself. I'm still sitting in our pew, but it's not the same. Every Sunday, little Cannon ("Boom Boom," you called him) comes and gives me a big hug. He is so sweet, tender-hearted, and sensitive.

I need your advice. You need to be here -- the car is acting up. I need to dispose of your carts and have to have them fixed first. The batteries are low -- I'm sorry.

I can't stop crying. I thought I was doing better, but I'm not now. I went to talk to a social worker at Baptist Hospital in Huntington and I felt better, but it only lasted four days. I can't stop loving and missing you. My heart aches. Nothing can compare to losing you, sweetheart. I just want you to be coming home, like you're still in the Navy.

I re-read your letters and I want you to be coming home to me, that it is 1953 when our love was new and strong. Life was good. I knew it then and in 1999, too.

I just love you and miss you so much.

All my love always and forever,

Norma

Notes:
Norma was 67 when Jim died in 2000 and, for the first time, she was living alone. The adjustment to being single was difficult for her and she hated the word "widow." She wasn't interested in moving north to live near friends and her daughter. She stayed in the house they shared in Waverly Tennessee, the one he loved, with a view of the creek running behind his back porch. She was lonely and alone but she wanted to stay close to Jim's grave and she spent time with his family who were always ready with a story about him. Talking about him helped a lot.

Like many people who grew up in the '30s and '40s, Norma and Jim had clearly defined ideas about household responsibilities. Taking care of the cars was Jim's job. I remember one conversation between Norma and me that may have taken place around the time she wrote this journal entry. Norma was furious with Jim.

Why? I asked with surprise. What could he have done from beyond the grave to make her so angry?

Connie (left) and Norma, June 1960, near the family car

Norma's car needed to be repaired or replaced, she didn't know which would be best, but making that decision was Jim's job, not hers. Damn him for dying. He needed to be there to fix the damn car.

This outburst was extraordinary for two reasons. First, Norma was not prone to hissy fits and second, she rarely swore. Saying "damn," and saying it multiple times to her daughter, was a real eye opener.

I channeled my inner dad and told her that, given the choice, Jim would probably opt to take care of the damn car over his current circumstances.

Norma gave a weak laugh and we discussed people she might speak to who could help her make a decision with more confidence, but the bottom line was that she wanted life back the way it used to be. I could not blame her.