Autumn arrives

There was no mistaking the arrival of autumn this year. One day, you're enjoying sunny weather as if it were the Banana Belt. Next thing you know, the heater is kicking on and you're pulling on a light jacket to start the day.

I'm not one of those who laments the end of summer because fall has so much to offer -- crisp mornings and cool nights, college football, the turning of the leaves, a chance to wear my favorite sweatshirts. This year, though, it felt a little different. Maybe it's because we've had such a busy year. I look at the calendar, with just three months remaining before 2010 arrives, and I'm amazed at how the days fly by.

The change of seasons was on my mind this week when I met a new friend named Lynn for coffee -- or at least that was the plan. I suggested we meet at 10:30 at a dog-friendly restaurant in Southeast Portland. Turns out the place didn't open till 11. Fortunately, Lynn was content to sit at a bench under the covered outdoor patio and get acquainted.

We struck up an online conversation earlier this year, when Lynn wrote a letter to the editor lamenting her first Mother's Day without her mom, who had died unexpectedly when Lynn's attention had been focused on caring for her ailing husband, Jim. Eventually, he died, too, on Sept. 2 after a painful ordeal with pancreatic cancer.

Just like that, after 30 years of marriage, Lynn finds herself alone at age 54, struggling to fill the hours of the day, unable to sleep in an empty bed, at a loss of how and where to make new friends. She and Lily, a terrier mix who was Jim's constant companion in his final days, passed a pre-evaluation at the Oregon Humane Society so they can begin training that will lead to Lily working as a therapy dog. So that's a start.

Still...losing your mom and your spouse in less than four months? I can't imagine the grief, nor the loneliness. And now that autumn has arrived, bringing leaden skies and intermittent rains, it can't help but compound those feelings. Yet I sense that Lynn is stronger than she realizes, that time will help soften her losses and that, in the days to come, she and Lily will take great comfort in bringing a soothing presence to someone else in need.

With her permission, I'm posting Lynn's Sept. 30 journal entry below:

It was cold this morning. The house thermostat read 64. I need to find the energy to switch to the flannel sheets today. Autumn came quickly to Oregon this year. Quite literally the change occurred over 24 hours. When I'm cold I think of how much Jim would have hated it now. A week or so before he died, he lay on the hospital bed, wearing sweat pants and a sweat shirt, covered in a blanket, with a knit cap on his head. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

I've never faced autumn with such dread. The days are short in Oregon's winter, damp and dreary. I've not been affected with Seasonal Affective Disorder in the past, but I'm anticipating a massive dose of that overcoming me this winter. I remember fearing that Jim might die in the spring and "ruin" my favorite season forever, but now I know it would not have mattered when he died, for the ruin would lay before me regardless of the season. But still, this cold and damp and these rapidly shortening days... they only seem to be adding to my sadness.

Last night I dreamed of Jim. He had died. It was all very strange in the dream and with the realization that he had died, my eyes flew open. It was 12:30 am. The rain was falling on the roof. I was alone and Jim was dead. I thought about how in 24 hours, it would be exactly 4 weeks since I had sat, exhausted, 1.5 hours after Jim had died, awaiting the van to take him away, and leaned my head against our bedroom window and heard the rain fall. I thought then of Jim and how cold he had been for so many months, barely even wearing shorts more than a couple of times all summer, and nearly the entire time only long-sleeved shirts, and I was saddened that he would have to be taken out in the rain in the middle of the night.

Today is the 4-week anniversary of the day Jim died. Here is a line from a poem in my inbox this morning.

When you look at a body you see a history.
Once that body isn't seen anymore,
the story it tried to tell gets lost—

Lynn, thank you for letting me share that. And may you find peace and comfort in the days, weeks and years ahead.

Photo of yellow leaves by Constant Walker.
Photo of creek by Fotosearch.com.