Take Life by the Lapels and Shake It

November 3, 2010. Today my late husband, Robert (the) Bruce MacRury, would have been 62. This is his fifth birthday since his death on June 14, 2005.

This birthday is a lot different from the first birthday. One of the things any widow(er) can tell you is that the first of anything is hard. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. Weddings, baptisms, funerals. The first car accident. The first time you have to figure out how to turn on the sprinklers. The first date. Some of those you see coming, some you don’t. But it’s still the first time you have to go through it without him. (Or her.)

One of the things I learned pretty quickly is that the anticipation is usually worse than the actual event. After dreading the event for days (or weeks) in advance, it was almost anticlimactic once it arrived. But perhaps that is because I also learned to be gentle with myself on those days. Although there was little planning I was able to do in those early days when all I could do was take each day one at a time, I did plan what I was going to do on those days. Even if it was only to plan to do nothing, or to play it by ear.

On Bruce’s first birthday after his death, I took the day off from work and went to a local park with a big lake. Bruce loved lakes and lake life, and if we didn’t live near a lake we would always find one near us and go hang out there whenever we could. So I honored the day by keeping some traditions, such as getting the first carton of eggnog of the season and a cranberry-orange muffin, and I went to the lake.

As I drove into the park, fairly early in the morning, the woman in the gatehouse asked if I was there to go fishing. “No,” I told her, “It’s my late husband’s birthday so I’m here to have a talk with him.” And she said, “Cool. Tell him I said Hi.” So I did.

I sat on the dock and drank eggnog and ate half the muffin and threw the other half in the water, along with a rose. I just sat and enjoyed the quietness of the lake, and talked to Bruce, and missed him. Then I made a little spirit bundle of autumn leaves and feathers, and went home.

The next year, when I was no longer living so one-day-at-a-time and was able to plan a little further in advance, I went to Yosemite for four days. By myself. We had been to Yosemite twice together, and it was a special place. This was also a special trip, symbolic in that it was my first trip by myself.

Every year it gets easier, although it is never Easy. I still miss him. He was smart, and courageous, and funny. He could always make me laugh. (When I showed the slide show for his memorial service to the minister who was to lead it, she said, “He was goofy, wasn’t he?” Yes, he was.) He was always up for an adventure. He watched cartoons on Saturday mornings. He would go out of his way to help people, and he was a teacher and mentor. He was my favorite person. And he believed in me.

I was talking to two girlfriends a couple of years ago, and I made the comment that I was very lucky. “You’re still lucky,” one of them said. She’s right.

It does get easier. It is a process. The third year I went back to the lake with a friend, and I can’t remember what I did last year (which says something). This year there was very little anticipation, and I am writing this post.

It does get easier. It is a process. I have reconnected with the wonder and sense of adventure that was part of our lives before. It’s part of what helped me commit to being here once I started to come up for air. I have learned not to drive myself crazy with guilt and what-ifs. I have learned not to ask, “Would I do this if Bruce were here?” He’s not here, so that question doesn’t have a place here either. I do sometimes ask, “What would Bruce say?” and that’s another question entirely.

I look at life differently now. I appreciate it more. I live it more. Not by going skydiving; I notice it more. I choose it more. And sometimes I have to grab it by the lapels and give it a good shake. I was thinking about that image last night, and how it’s not exactly a very Zen image. And yet it is a completely Zen, in-the-moment-right-now thing to do.

I have fallen in love twice since Bruce died. Neither relationship turned out the way I had hoped, but we are still friends. Those relationships do not diminish what I had with Bruce, nor does what I had with him diminish other relationships. I am writing, and singing, and taking photographs, and starting my own business. I am living a life I could not envision in the first months after he died. Life is good, even when it’s hard.

It is really too bad that it takes something significant like this to wake a person up, to make a person choose life. Maybe it doesn’t have to; maybe I can help with that. You can live. You can choose.

Yes, I look at life differently now. And I’m ok. I think Bruce would be happy to know that. And he’d be proud.

Happy Birthday, Bruce.

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17 Responses to Take Life by the Lapels and Shake It

  1. Michael Broom November 3, 2010 at 3:33 pm #

    Well and powerfully shared. Thank you!

  2. Susan Walls November 3, 2010 at 5:38 pm #

    Wonderful blog post, Susan. Thanks for sharing!

  3. Susan November 3, 2010 at 6:49 pm #

    Thanks, Michael!

  4. Susan November 3, 2010 at 6:50 pm #

    Hi Susan, you are so welcome. Thanks for visiting and for taking the time to comment! I hope all is well with you.

  5. Lisa MB November 3, 2010 at 7:06 pm #

    Happy Birthday, Bruce.

    Oh, Susan. Thank you for writing this. For choosing to take life by the lapels and shake it. For allowing what you shared with Bruce to keep you moving, living, loving.

    My mom used to tell the story about the 1st day she went out to feed the dog after my dad died. The dog was scared of her, so usually he retreated to the dog house we she came out. But on that day, he came out and licked her hand as she poured the food. He looked up at her as if to say, “we’ll get through this together.” And they did. She felt from that day on, Dad was always with her, cheering her on.

    “Life is good, even when it’s hard.”

    Thank you for that reminder. And most of all, thank you for loving Bruce enough to share him with us.

    xoxo, Lisa

  6. Susan November 3, 2010 at 7:16 pm #

    Thank you so much, Lisa. For your mom’s story, for the encouragement, for happy tears.

    You know it’s funny, I used to joke with him that I wouldn’t share him, and now that’s what I must do. In a different way, of course. 🙂

  7. Jayne November 3, 2010 at 8:06 pm #

    Beautiful post Susan! Very thought provoking and touching!
    Blessings for having the courage to share.

  8. Julie Daley November 3, 2010 at 8:27 pm #

    Where do I begin? Your post is so beautiful, so real, so full of the path of grief that we walk when our beloved passes. Yes, what a gift it is when you share Bruce with all of us. I’m touched by your vulnerability and your strength, and by the wisdom you’ve gleaned from living consciously and with great love for Bruce, for life, and for your very own self.
    Happy Birthday, Bruce.
    With love and many blessings,

  9. Jesse November 3, 2010 at 9:02 pm #


    You write beautifully of a real blessing.

    Happy Birthday, Bruce.

    Happy Life, Susan.

  10. Susan November 3, 2010 at 9:11 pm #

    Jayne – Thank you, my friend. But sharing was the easy part.


  11. Susan November 3, 2010 at 9:12 pm #

    Julie, thank you! Your own posts have touched me as well, and I am honored by your comments.

  12. Susan November 3, 2010 at 9:13 pm #

    Jesse, thank you so much, for your visit and your lovely comments.

  13. Casey Blake November 4, 2010 at 11:34 am #

    I was thinking about Bruce (and you) yesterday. Having seen (and sometimes walked with) you on this path over the last 5 years, I can attest to others that this piece is 100% true. It’s a beautiful tribute to yours and Bruce’s ongoing relationship, and an inspiration to others, I’m sure.

    Your Big Sister Casey

  14. Susan November 4, 2010 at 12:37 pm #

    Thanks, Casey. 🙂

    Your Little Sister Sue

  15. Beautifully said. :>
    So glad you linked to this – this is a story to be shared and reshared. 🙂 :>

    As an addition, I would add that it’s not just the death of a spouse that puts one into such a loop.

    I’ve experienced a similar process learning to live with my Mom’s death as well.

    Bright Blessings to you both! 🙂 :>

  16. Susan November 21, 2011 at 8:49 am #

    Hi Birdy, thanks for the lovely comment. Yes, that’s a very good point: The loss of any important person in our lives is a major event. Thanks for sharing that!


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