July 21

Four years ago, early morning, I awoke, exhausted, in a small sparse room in a hospice center where I had stayed round the clock for several days, realizing this would be the last day I'd have with my beloved husband who was transitioning to a better place, leaving me to make it on my own. I remember sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch afterward waiting for others in my family to come and wrap me in their love, take me home with them, and let me sleep.

Four years and still this day brings back such sorrow and so many memories. 

A BALMY DAY IN JANUARY

like none I've seen in years. In the park,
sunshine heals like days I waited urgently
to be free of walls, to tear across the pasture
on my mare, rushing toward fulfilling childhood dreams.

I stroll with Rocky this winter day, warm enough
to over-heat his black fur, his weakened bones.
His unconditional love fills a tiny part of that left empty now.

Women in tennis attire stride toward the courts,
new bags on their shoulders, swinging rackets,
tossing hair, wearing trendy shoes. Love – one.
Love-two, their happy voices sing on brisk air.

Tennis was once our game, long ago,
when a simple quarrel over a match seemed
the end of our world; a gentle world we did not
properly nurture, because we didn’t know
what we didn’t know.
                           --- Glenda C. Beall

Published by Wild Goose Poetry Review, Spring, 2013

http://wildgoosepoetryreview.wordpress.com/2013/05/13/glenda-beall-a-balmy-day-in-january/

Glenda on family tennis court

On Our Own, Widowhood for Smarties, anthology by writers and poets who have lost someone

One day this week I stopped by Curiosity Books in Murphy, NC. I noticed an anthology, On Our Own, Widowhood for Smarties, was in the window. That book was published by Silver Boomer Books last year. Two of my poems, Sleeping Alone and Solitude, were selected for inclusion. I am proud of this book and wish we had more books of this type. A number of excellent writers, widows or people who wrote about widowhood sent in stories, essays and poems. The book has a nice cover and I’m sure has sold well. Linda Ray, owner of the bookstore asked if I get any kind of royalty when a book is sold. I do not, but I sold first rights to my poems so I was paid at that time.

I took the book over for Linda to read and she said she would let a grief support group see the book.  She evidently had good feedback and now carries the book in the store. While she and I were discussing it, a woman came in and asked for it. Linda told her we had just been talking about it, and I had the opportunity to tell the customer more about the authors.

She glanced through it and said she wanted to purchase a copy. Linda said, “Glenda can autograph it for you, if you want.” 

The woman smiled and said she would like that. As I wrote my name on the pages with my poems, I asked her, “Is this for a friend or have you lost someone?”

She couldn’t speak as tears filled her eyes. I had my answer. I put my arms around her and my heart ached so badly for her pain. I told her I knew her journey. She just took the book and left. 

I hope On Our Own, Widowhood for Smarties brings her some kind of peace as she reads the stories, some funny and some sad, some inspiring and some uplifting. If anyone wants to order the book, go to Amazon.com 

I have a few copies I can autograph and sell at a little discount. Contact me at nightwriter0302@yahoo.com or you can buy it through PayPal. See the side bar. Below see one of the poems in the book.

Solitude

I’ve always needed time alone.
To gather meandering thoughts,
musings on life, mine and yours.
I snatched my moments
where I found them.
But now the stillness whispers to me.
Careful what you ask for.

Waking in our quiet house,
no one greets me with, “Hey, Hon,
Get me a cup of coffee, will ya?”
No one sits in your chair,
No one speaks but the dog.

Hours pass while I make
eggs and toast – no coffee-
not for one. Feed the dog
and cat, answer e-mail, fewer
now it seems.

Slowly I learn to use the quiet,
to ponder my future, to cry
when I am stabbed with memories
so precious I can’t bear the pain,
to face the hard reality that you
will not return.
I am alone inside the
silence that I craved.
           by Glenda C. Beall,
                       first published by Wild Goose Poetry Review

On Death and Dying Alone

When we lose our loved ones, especially after we begin losing our siblings, our mortality rears up and roars at us. How long do we have left? How will we depart and how long will it take?

Reading the book given by Hospice on what to expect from your loved one as they begin to transition from this world to the next, is almost ghoulish, but I suppose it is something we need to know as we sit with our dying person. They tell us the rasping sounds emanating from the person we love is “normal.” 

Nurses at Hospice know when to call in the family as the last stages of life leave the patient They know when we need to be there to say our last good-byes. They can’t help us with this chore, and they can’t tell us how to do it to make the passing easier for our dear one. But they know all the symptoms of life leaving the body.

My question is how do the writers of this book know? 

As I spoke in my sister’s ear and told her I love her and urged her to sleep well, her breathing became faster and her eyes opened, unfocused, for a moment. I was sorry I spoke to her and wakened her from her journey. Perhaps it is best to leave the traveling to the dying because no matter how many people gather around, we still die alone. 

Even the little book says we withdraw from this world, gradually losing interest in reading, TV, news of the world around us, children and grandchildren, and we become totally self-absorbed. I imagine I would not be interested in the noisy television that seems to be a necessity in every hospital room. My sister said to turn it off.

When read to, she already seemed to be away, just smiling at the reader. My sister June had the nicest smile and the kindest heart. She would not be rude and say, “Stop reading. I don’t want to hear it.” Her smile became a sad expression in those last days as the hopelessness became more apparent. 

After watching death claim my loved ones, I understand that the process of dying is strenuous, is all consuming, and requires total self-absorption. 

Those of us left behind and grieving are just in the way. 

I think my sister would have liked to say to me, “Leave me alone. Go home now. I’m busy dying.”

And she completed that task only fifteen minutes later. 

Three sisters, Glenda, Gay and June in chair