PhilJet09
Nondescript FJR Hierarchy Displayed
We could only be so lucky to find the love that you had. What a wonderful tribute you have shared of your soul mate. God bless you.
"I want you to enjoy your bike."
- Thread starter mcatrophy
- Start date
Help Support Yamaha FJR Motorcycle Forum:
SacramentoMike
Not Safe For Work
Too bad we over here couldn't have known her. Both of you.
Try to get hold of Neil Peart's "Ghost Rider" on one rider's way of dealing with a huge loss. And thanks for that nice tribute.
Try to get hold of Neil Peart's "Ghost Rider" on one rider's way of dealing with a huge loss. And thanks for that nice tribute.
Last edited by a moderator:
Uncle Hud
Just another blob of protoplasm using up your oxyg
With respect, sir, your wife was a hottie. I can also see tenderness in the photos with children. You were blessed.
Mac, what a fortunate man you are, to have met and known her the way you did. A real blessing.
My most sincere condolences to you, your family, and all who was lucky enough to know her.
Rob
My most sincere condolences to you, your family, and all who was lucky enough to know her.
Rob
Last edited by a moderator:
YummYam
Well-known member
+1.
Steve
Steve
mcatrophy
Privileged to ride a 2018 FJR1300AS
I was going through some things, including her cellphone.
A little background: she has always liked to keep her hair brushed. This wasn't simple vanity, just part of her liking to keep things clean and tidy, and probably as an example to me because of my unruly mop (or what's left of it). Also, for her last weeks, she's always liked to hold a tissue in her hand, partly to use, partly (I suspect) as a bit of a comforter.
Anyway, as I posted earlier, she passed away at 4:57 in the morning, and we each spent a few minutes alone with her saying our goodbyes. In her phone I find that, later that evening, our daughter sent her a text message, which has me sobbing.
"Well there we are. I brushed your hair for you and put a clean tissue in your hand. You looked beautiful as always, this morning. Absolute privilege to be with you today and have you as my mummy always. Good night. Love xKx"
A little background: she has always liked to keep her hair brushed. This wasn't simple vanity, just part of her liking to keep things clean and tidy, and probably as an example to me because of my unruly mop (or what's left of it). Also, for her last weeks, she's always liked to hold a tissue in her hand, partly to use, partly (I suspect) as a bit of a comforter.
Anyway, as I posted earlier, she passed away at 4:57 in the morning, and we each spent a few minutes alone with her saying our goodbyes. In her phone I find that, later that evening, our daughter sent her a text message, which has me sobbing.
"Well there we are. I brushed your hair for you and put a clean tissue in your hand. You looked beautiful as always, this morning. Absolute privilege to be with you today and have you as my mummy always. Good night. Love xKx"
Last edited by a moderator:
A few pictures. They will mean a lot more to me than to you, but you may like to see a little of her.
(Click on any image for a larger view, click on that for the original)
On our honeymoon. Just as I press the shutter release, she decides the view over the lake wasn't pretty enough.
One of the very first photographs I developed and printed. Taken about a year after we were married, this copy was in my wallet for many years.
With our son, a few weeks old
With daughter, aged about 3
On the London to Brighton veteran car run
On our (sorry, her) 40th wedding anniversary (long story about the pink paint)
On a holiday in Japan, we go into a wedding dress shop, where she wants to look at the various materials. The assistants insisted on dressing her up in a kimono, even though they knew we wouldn't be buying anything.
On the beach of one of the Galapagos islands. This is a fairly typical pose, staring out over water.
A lake in the Lake District National Park. There's that pose again.
With our granddaughter, who, a week before, she had delivered at the top of our daughter's stairs when daughter decided to give birth a little early and too quickly to get professional help.
Her 70th birthday, daughter cooks us a meal.
Teaching granddaughter to embroider at three and a half. Only eighteen months ago.
I might post up a few pictures of her embroidery to show off some of her skills.
A taster (we used this as a motif on her funeral Order of Service). The original is about 3 inches by three inches.
Mac,
Thanks for sharing the photos. We now have even a better understanding of the beauty of your wife.
Art
mcatrophy
Privileged to ride a 2018 FJR1300AS
We came to a decision about what to do with her ashes. We had thought to spread them round her garden, but in the end decided to bury them. I think Daughter will want a focus so she can talk to her. They were very close, could talk together for hours. Now it'll be (mostly) one-way conversations.
I dug a hole under an acer (Japanese maple) tree. This is the first shrub we bought after we moved into our first house, a few months after we were married. At the time we really couldn't afford it, but she wanted it. How could I refuse? It's followed us through three moves to our present home. It has always been a favourite of hers.
(Click on image for larger view)
Son, daughter and I placed the ashes in the hole, filled it in, and put some flowers over her. These are some she got fairly recently, their colour she loved. Blue-eyed Grass (Sisyrinchium Bellum). Past their best this year, but they should come up next year.
Closure? No, not yet. I think that is a long way away.
Meanwhile I'm dealing with inheritance and tax issues, which to some extent distracts from thinking too much about what I/we have lost, but it does add to worries. Oh, well, it's got to be done.
A little light at least part-way down the tunnel, a motorcycle trip possibly to the Alps or maybe to Scotland is in the planning stage (by my Guernsey friend) for September or early October. Something to look forward to.
And I came across another picture of her, taken when grandson was 4y 7m. (You can see a bit of the acer through the window.) She was obviously holding a serious phone conversation at the time. I think the picture shows something of the grandmother/grandchild relationship.
I dug a hole under an acer (Japanese maple) tree. This is the first shrub we bought after we moved into our first house, a few months after we were married. At the time we really couldn't afford it, but she wanted it. How could I refuse? It's followed us through three moves to our present home. It has always been a favourite of hers.
(Click on image for larger view)
Son, daughter and I placed the ashes in the hole, filled it in, and put some flowers over her. These are some she got fairly recently, their colour she loved. Blue-eyed Grass (Sisyrinchium Bellum). Past their best this year, but they should come up next year.
Closure? No, not yet. I think that is a long way away.
Meanwhile I'm dealing with inheritance and tax issues, which to some extent distracts from thinking too much about what I/we have lost, but it does add to worries. Oh, well, it's got to be done.
A little light at least part-way down the tunnel, a motorcycle trip possibly to the Alps or maybe to Scotland is in the planning stage (by my Guernsey friend) for September or early October. Something to look forward to.
And I came across another picture of her, taken when grandson was 4y 7m. (You can see a bit of the acer through the window.) She was obviously holding a serious phone conversation at the time. I think the picture shows something of the grandmother/grandchild relationship.
Last edited by a moderator:
I can relate to what you mean by "wanting a focus" place. When my father passed away many years ago now he forebade us from any burial, (god forbid) wake, or funeral. He wanted to be cremated. So we had a celebration of his life at the Lutheran church that they were members of in Portland, and then a few weeks later drove together to bring his ashes up to his favorite place on earth, a rocky piece of shoreline on Mount Desert Island in Maine. That is now "our place". I like to visit there as often as I can. It's not like I think he is there, but it still gives me a good feeling being there and good reason to contemplate. I'm sure that your spot will do the same, perhaps even better since it is so close you can be there more often.
hppants
Well-known member
I think a motorcycle trip to the Alps or possibly Scotland, or just about anywhere for that matter is just what you wife would want you to do. After all, we are all witnesses to her exact testament in that regard.
I hope you find peace, and find it very soon.
I hope you find peace, and find it very soon.
Uncle Hud
Just another blob of protoplasm using up your oxyg
A moto-trip would certainly align with her request "to enjoy your bike".
BigOgre
Well-known member
FWIW, I too think you did well with your decision about the one place. Sparing all the details, upon my father's passing several years ago my immediate family has been denied a place to visit and mourn alone with him. My own feelings aside, I'll never forgive how this was taken from my two son's who still today fondly remember Papa. I believe your children and grandchildren will always be grateful you did what you did.
Hudson
Well-known member
Thanks for sharing pix and memories which though painful for you are also beautiful and touching. Time helps. When you are in a sad place, take a ride and remember the great times.
mcatrophy
Privileged to ride a 2018 FJR1300AS
Emotions.
Five weeks on.
I've never thought of myself as an emotional person. I enjoy seeing/doing/meeting, but have no need to enthuse. I see terrible events on the news, come across situations that are upsetting, but I don't get wound up about them. I've had losses of people I know, friends, some non-immediate family, my mother (I've not seen my father for probably 60 years). Yes, I've been sad, and seeing others in their grief has upset me. Politics and religion certainly can make me angry (one reason why I like this forum), but I can easily deal with these. Yes, I've yelled in my helmet at perceived attempts to kill me on the road, but I forget these in any emotional sense in seconds.
Grief. Loneliness. Sadness. Fear. Inadequacy. Guilt. Others I can't find words for. All these merging into each other, in no particular order or relative significance.
Grief for the obvious reason; I've lost my partner, friend, companion, confidant, helper, advisor, lover, homemaker (as she always called herself), nurse, boss, servant - all of these things and more. And, as is often the case, the whole is so much more than the sum of the parts.
Loneliness is obvious, she is no longer there. We've spent time apart before, she would go off to some embroidery class for a week or so, I would be left at home. Or I would go away on a motorcycling trip, usually with others, but without her. However, I always knew she was there. When possible we would usually talk daily, on the phone or by email. Now, she isn't here, nor anywhere else. I find this loneliness strange. When out on my own, particularly on the bike, I like lonely places, bleak moors, Scottish highlands. Now, lonely and bleak have taken on a whole new meaning. I feel a huge void. No longer will she say to me, "Come on, we're going shopping". I hate shopping, but I loved being with her. No longer will she walk past my chair and flick me on my ear - yes, it hurt, but from her that was perfectly ok. No longer will she snuggle up to me in bed on a cold night. Or, if I was really lucky, on a not-so-cold night.
Sadness. Because I miss her. Because of what we haven't done yet, we'd plenty of plans for what we would do, where we would go. We'd already booked to go to America in November, including going to the Grand Canyon. Had to cancel that when we knew she was very ill. There was plenty more we would have done. Sadness that she will never be with me again. Sadness that I never told her how much I loved her. Maybe it was because, until now, I never realised how much I loved her.
Fear. Strange. I've really nothing to be afraid of, but I am. Afraid of being without her for the rest of my life, of making wrong decisions because she isn't there to say what I should do (I originally wrote "what we should do", had to change it), of being unable to cope. Even though I know that I will cope, that life will go on, that I am in no way the only person to go through this.
Inadequacy. I can't help our daughter with the grandchildren like she could, I can't give advice to our son and daughter like she could. I can't look after the house and garden like she could, I can't prepare meals like she could, I can't entertain like she could. And, of course, sorting all the legal stuff is well outside of what I am comfortable doing.
Guilt. In all sorts of ways. For being selfish in my grief. For feeling sorry for myself. For not supporting our children as I should. For not thinking about the feelings of her family and friends as I should. For not looking after her as well as I might have during her illness. For not being a better husband to her during all our years of marriage. That really hurts, there is no way I can make anything up to her.
Curiously, no bitterness. It's nobody's fault that she's gone. The medical profession did what they could for her, but were candid in that, right from the start, they knew they couldn't cure her. It was just the one chance in several thousand that she got the disease, from then on it was just a matter of time.
That's enough rambling.
Maybe put in another of my favourite pictures:
(As usual, click on it for a larger view, click on that for the original)
Five weeks on.
I've never thought of myself as an emotional person. I enjoy seeing/doing/meeting, but have no need to enthuse. I see terrible events on the news, come across situations that are upsetting, but I don't get wound up about them. I've had losses of people I know, friends, some non-immediate family, my mother (I've not seen my father for probably 60 years). Yes, I've been sad, and seeing others in their grief has upset me. Politics and religion certainly can make me angry (one reason why I like this forum), but I can easily deal with these. Yes, I've yelled in my helmet at perceived attempts to kill me on the road, but I forget these in any emotional sense in seconds.
Grief. Loneliness. Sadness. Fear. Inadequacy. Guilt. Others I can't find words for. All these merging into each other, in no particular order or relative significance.
Grief for the obvious reason; I've lost my partner, friend, companion, confidant, helper, advisor, lover, homemaker (as she always called herself), nurse, boss, servant - all of these things and more. And, as is often the case, the whole is so much more than the sum of the parts.
Loneliness is obvious, she is no longer there. We've spent time apart before, she would go off to some embroidery class for a week or so, I would be left at home. Or I would go away on a motorcycling trip, usually with others, but without her. However, I always knew she was there. When possible we would usually talk daily, on the phone or by email. Now, she isn't here, nor anywhere else. I find this loneliness strange. When out on my own, particularly on the bike, I like lonely places, bleak moors, Scottish highlands. Now, lonely and bleak have taken on a whole new meaning. I feel a huge void. No longer will she say to me, "Come on, we're going shopping". I hate shopping, but I loved being with her. No longer will she walk past my chair and flick me on my ear - yes, it hurt, but from her that was perfectly ok. No longer will she snuggle up to me in bed on a cold night. Or, if I was really lucky, on a not-so-cold night.
Sadness. Because I miss her. Because of what we haven't done yet, we'd plenty of plans for what we would do, where we would go. We'd already booked to go to America in November, including going to the Grand Canyon. Had to cancel that when we knew she was very ill. There was plenty more we would have done. Sadness that she will never be with me again. Sadness that I never told her how much I loved her. Maybe it was because, until now, I never realised how much I loved her.
Fear. Strange. I've really nothing to be afraid of, but I am. Afraid of being without her for the rest of my life, of making wrong decisions because she isn't there to say what I should do (I originally wrote "what we should do", had to change it), of being unable to cope. Even though I know that I will cope, that life will go on, that I am in no way the only person to go through this.
Inadequacy. I can't help our daughter with the grandchildren like she could, I can't give advice to our son and daughter like she could. I can't look after the house and garden like she could, I can't prepare meals like she could, I can't entertain like she could. And, of course, sorting all the legal stuff is well outside of what I am comfortable doing.
Guilt. In all sorts of ways. For being selfish in my grief. For feeling sorry for myself. For not supporting our children as I should. For not thinking about the feelings of her family and friends as I should. For not looking after her as well as I might have during her illness. For not being a better husband to her during all our years of marriage. That really hurts, there is no way I can make anything up to her.
Curiously, no bitterness. It's nobody's fault that she's gone. The medical profession did what they could for her, but were candid in that, right from the start, they knew they couldn't cure her. It was just the one chance in several thousand that she got the disease, from then on it was just a matter of time.
That's enough rambling.
Maybe put in another of my favourite pictures:
(As usual, click on it for a larger view, click on that for the original)
Last edited by a moderator:
Redfish Hunter
Gone Fishing
Feel free to ramble here as much and as often as you like.
You can add another item to the list under "Guilt". You have just made a grown man cry like a child half a world away from you.
If you decide to schedule a trip for yourself to America I hope you know that there are FJR folks all over this country who would be honored to host you for a night or two, feed you and show you around. You don't need to be on a motorcycle to visit your motorcycle friends.
You can add another item to the list under "Guilt". You have just made a grown man cry like a child half a world away from you.
If you decide to schedule a trip for yourself to America I hope you know that there are FJR folks all over this country who would be honored to host you for a night or two, feed you and show you around. You don't need to be on a motorcycle to visit your motorcycle friends.
dcarver
Well-known member
MCA, that was beautiful.
exskibum
~<>~<>~<>~<>~
. . . and thought provoking. A profound exposition about the emotions that are just around the corner from where most of us live behind a thin veneer of "security."
Nothing but the best to you in navigating and going forward, Mac.
Nothing but the best to you in navigating and going forward, Mac.
Last edited by a moderator:
Uncle Hud
Just another blob of protoplasm using up your oxyg
I'm in. Fly to Atlanta, stay a day or so in our home, and let Aunt Kelly and me introduce you to the finest combination of heat and humidity. Seriously, brother.
You'll have to work a clutch and gearshifter if you ride my FJR.
hppants
Well-known member
I think what you are going through is expected. It's good that you are allowing yourself to grieve without fighting it too much.
When you're ready, I think a good ride is in order. Don't worry, no matter where you go, she'll be right there with you.....
...and so will we.
When you're ready, I think a good ride is in order. Don't worry, no matter where you go, she'll be right there with you.....
...and so will we.
SacramentoMike
Not Safe For Work
+1 to the last few posts. We'll let you ride some of our American model FJRs--the ones with the brake on the left side and the shifter on the right. You'll get used to it in no time.
It might even help, starting to think about doing something really different like that. And the Grand Canyon is still here.
It might even help, starting to think about doing something really different like that. And the Grand Canyon is still here.
