Feeding wildlife reminded me what’s important in life after ALS
Carrying on my late husband's tradition is one way I can honor him
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Over the past few weeks, it’s been unseasonably and brutally cold here in Maryland, where I live. A severe storm coated much of the state with fluffy snow, then several inches of hazardous ice that hasn’t melted. This might be pretty if it weren’t so treacherous, leading to more accidents and falls than usual for this time of year.
For that reason, I’ve been spending a lot of time at home, doing some early spring cleaning, sorting through boxes and bins, determining what should go and what can stay. No matter the season, this is always a tough job because I am confronted with physical memories of ALS, the terminal disease that claimed my husband, Jeff, in 2020.
During the time that Jeff was living with ALS, I found myself saving everything — every set of clinic notes, medical equipment brochures, and caregiver schedules and notes. I’ve written before that doing this helped me feel some semblance of control in a time when things felt decidedly out of control.
After Jeff died, I believed that getting rid of these reminders was bad luck, disrespectful, or worst of all, it meant I was somehow forgetting him. Logically, I know that none of this is true, but living with terminal illness and subsequent grief can play havoc with our emotions.
Taking an active approach to honoring Jeff
In the past year, both on my own and with the help of an insightful and compassionate therapist, I’ve shifted from worriedly saving every physical memory to something more active: embodying what I loved most about Jeff and who I was when I was with him. Doing, rather than saving. Living, rather than archiving.
Something that Jeff loved deeply, and I loved about him immensely, was taking care of animals. He was a true pet lover, building ramps for numerous dogs, planning vacations where we could bring them along, and making gourmet breakfasts for them on many occasions. He named all of the wildlife that visited our yard, and was unfailingly diligent about setting out appropriate food for the squirrels, ducks, and songbirds that visited our home in large numbers. His reverence and care for animals was touching and charming, especially since he was such a big, sometimes gruff-looking guy. I loved it.
After Jeff died, I promised myself I’d continue feeding the wildlife in his honor. Over the years, I’ve had the best of intentions, but have run into difficulties. The squirrels eat the birdseed and then claw through the heavy containers to get the corn for the ducks. My backyard becomes scattered with sunflower shells and corn, and the squirrels seek refuge in my attic. I scaled back my efforts, and sadly, over the past year, I have not fed the wildlife much at all. I’ve missed this sweet tradition, and it feels like yet another loss.
When the ice arrived in January and didn’t melt, our local weather resources reminded residents that wildlife was severely impacted by the frigid conditions. Birds were unable to find food or fresh water at their usual sources and were perishing in alarming numbers.
Learning this fact — on the very same day I was going through old boxes that included ALS memories — brought an epiphany for me. It isn’t what I am keeping, but what I am doing, and how I am living, that is how I honor and remember Jeff. I cherished how Jeff cared for other living beings, and I have the gift of being able to still do this in a way that he would’ve loved and wanted.
That same day, I ordered my first bag of birdseed in a long time. I’ve since filled my feeders and laid out bowls each morning for the squirrels. It didn’t take long for them to find the food and come back home. This simple act has brought me immense joy and beautiful memories in the past few weeks.
I live in other ways he would want, too — staying a part of his family, which has become mine as well; playing music at home; keeping up with my smoke detectors. When I do these things, I am reminded of the incredible gifts he gave me and the impact he had on my life, both while he was alive and in the time since he has died.
When I feel sad about all that ALS took from our family, and what it’s still taking from my friends who are living with it, I have to acknowledge a few things. One, memories don’t have to be physically tangible to be meaningful, and two, we learn anew every day from those we miss how to live and love.
Note: ALS News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of ALS News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to ALS.
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