"Screw" You, IKEA!

So, my new roommate and I took a trip to IKEA last weekend so that we could begin the process of furnishing our new apartment. For me, specifically, I was in desperate need of a small computer desk, because up until now, I had been typing with my keyboard and monitor sitting on top of boxes and things. Now, my only memories of the hell that is IKEA, are from the apartment that my best friend Sarah and I shared together in Forest Hills about 14 years ago. I remember we bought, among other things, a tiny end table called “LACK”, and it lived up to it’s name in every sense of the word. We also purchased a small dresser for Sarah’s bedroom, which she was hoping to use to put her clothing and undergarments into. Well, since IKEA specializies in crushing people’s hopes and dreams, the dresser turned out to be about as large as a Weeble Tree House, and I think Sarah was able to fit her nailfile and one sock into the microscopic, horribly designed drawers.

For any of you who have not had the honor of shopping or buying from IKEA – you should know that almost everything you buy there has a sign that reads “some assembly required.” Anotherwords; what you are sent home with is a large cardboard box filled with endless screws, european pieces with names that you’ve never heard uttered or printed anywhere ever in your lifetime (it’s a Swedish company), instructions that have NO WORDS IN THEM but only pictures that involve lots of circles and big X marks drawn through things, stick figures of people with question marks above their heads, and endless arrows that lead to absolutely nowhere. It is a cardboard box filled with confusion and mind-games, that leaves you a baffled, frustrated, manic-depressive mess on your floor, screaming at the universe to please let lightning strike you now, so that you dont have to put this goddamn desk together. It taunts you and it laughs at you and it mocks you with it’s Swedish pieces with names like “divet”, that are supposed to somehow fit into other pieces that they never actually fit into at all.

So there I was – in my new bedroom – the pieces of my new, tiny corner desk and all it’s assembly parts scattered across my bed – trying to decifer and make sense of these directions. I think it was somewhere around the time that I saw the big square with the X through it, next to the other big circle with the square with an arrow through it, next to the smiling stick figure guy with a cartoonish-looking hammer in his puffy hand - that it really started to hit me. My husband, who was soooooo good at this kind of stuff, will never again be able to do this for me. He will never again take care of the stupid instructions that don’t make sense, or change the oil in my car, or check to see what that noise is in the other room, or find the mouse and get rid of it, or kill the cockroach without pause, or take out the smelly trash, or open the door for me, or hold his umbrella over me or give me his coat to wear when its cold, or make sure Im safe and lock all the doors at night, or send me a text to let me know he arrived at work safely, or hold my hair and put a washcloth on my forehead when Im sick from a reaction to percacet. He would never do any of those things, and so many other things, ever again.

Of course, I already knew this. I already knew that he wasnt ever coming back. But somehow – sitting there attempting to put together this stupid desk in this stupid new life that was forced upon me because of his stupid death – I really felt it. And suddenly, without warning, the emotional breakdown came. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, and then sobbed some more, like I havent done in a long while.

It wasnt the organ donation reception honoring my husband that my mom and I attended a week earlier, or the moving for the 2nd time in 7 months, or the rejection from my ex-roommate, or the sheer stress from the past few months of my life that brought me down. No. It was IKEA. It was those damn Swedes and their “do it yourself” furniture that finally did me in.

7 hours later, and with the help of a fellow widowed friend who very sweetly walked me through each step of the idiotic instructions on the phone, my task was complete. I now had a desk. And if anyone reads this and says some shit about how I should feel empowered because I did that all by myself and “Wow! Look at what you can accomplish all alone!” or any of that type of bullshit, please dont. Just dont.

I was 28 when I met Don. I was 35 when I married him, and I was 39 when he died. For all of those years before meeting him, I did everything by myself. I moved out of my parents house when I was 18 years old, and came to NYC to become an actor/performer. So, I have had decades worth of “empowerment”, and by the time Don and I moved in together, I was so grateful and so ready to have this partner, this teammate in life, and to no longer have to do every goddamn thing by myself. Now there were two of us struggling through this mess called life instead of just one. Two of us to pay bills, get groceries, talk about having kids in the future, buying a house one day, figure out the logistics. And then it was ripped away – just like that – and suddenly, I was back to doing every goddamn thing alone again. Im sorry, but when you have the right person, two is sooooo much better than one. It just is. There are just so many things in life that are so much harder to do alone, and so much easier to do with two of you.

Things like:

Parallel parking. Changing the litter in the litter box. Carrying a large box or other large items up the stairs. Having someone to shut the light off. Sitting in the car when you have to double park it in a city or busy neighborhood. Brushing the kitties teeth like the vet instructed. Clipping their nails. Locating a foreign “thing” that appears on your body in a place where you cant see it. Scratching an itch on your back. Say

Saying your vows. Then repeating. It takes two people to look into each other’s eyes and feel love. Two people to make love. Two to dance a foxtrot that you spent 8 weeks of dance lessons getting it choreographed so you could have a lovely First Dance at your wedding.

And it takes two people to figure out how the fuck to put together a crappy computer desk from IKEA. One to hold up the piece of wood, and one to screw in the weird-plastic-looking-screwy thing. One to decifer the picture instructions, and one to put them into action. One to light the match to set the whole damn thing ablaze when you finally lose your mind, and one to call the police and make it look like arson.

So, Congratulations IKEA. Because of your unbelievable incompetence and inability to create items or directions that humans with brains can follow, you have forced me to start feeling my feelings again. You have  made me sob like an infant again, and shoved the grief back into my life, much like you shove those divets into the holes that are way too small to fit them.

Are you happy now, IKEA? Have you had your little fun with the widow? Good. Glad to hear it. You should know that your desk sucks and it’s a bit wobbly and thats not my fault. It’s your fault, cuz your furniture is questionable and shady on it’s best day. Screw you.

Pictures In order: 1: IKEAs stupid picture directions. 2: my desk, in pieces, ready to be created. (cat not included. Although if he was, some assembly would be required.) 3: Our first dance Foxtrot from our 2006 Wedding. 4: The piece of crap tiny desk, finally finished. I need a drink ....... or six.

Thank you

source

Today, I just wanted to say thanks.

Last week, I was hesitant to share my fears and also my joys of being pregnant and all that comes along with that when it's attached to grief. But I don't know why I was so reluctant, because I was overwhelmed with the support of so many.

So I needed to take the time and share my appreciation for this community on Widow's Voice. I'm so thankful that I have a space filled with people from all different stops on their grief journey, but who all come together to support, encourage, and bring hope to one another. Whether I'm struggling through my grief, or sharing the often guilty joys that come in the aftermath of loss, I know there is someone out there connecting. Someone who needs to hear what I have to say, or someone who brings me hope. That's the magic of this place.

Thank you for allowing me to continue to share my journey with you all. Good & bad, I have a place here. That really means something.

You guys rock.

No One Ever Said ......

                                                            source


...... that life was fair.
But damn, sometimes the scales seem to just get stuck over there on the unfair side.

My youngest child went to a funeral last night.
The funeral of a friend.
A friend who was also a senior in high school.
A friend who was not the only high schooler in our community to die this year.
And that beyond sucks.

My son has seen too much grief in his 18 years.
He, along with the rest of my children, grew up in ways that children should not have to grow up.

Life is not fair.
And death does not discriminate.

A family that planned to watch their son graduate this Saturday ...... has had its dreams cut short.
The future will not be as they had planned.
Or hoped.

And though I have not experienced the pain of losing a child, my heart hurts for them.
And it hurts for my child.
My heart hurts for all of our children.
Because most of them learned, at an earlier age than we did ...... that life is not fair.
Their care-free days of childhood ended too soon.
Cut short by a fact of life.
And death.

Sometimes that fact gets re-enforced ...... over and over again.
And grief comes raging in like a tsunami.
Relentless.
Pounding.
Deafening.
Leaving so much damage in its wake.

No one ever said that life was fair.

But I wish someone would've told me ......  how hard I'd have to swim.

Unlocked...

Two nights ago,  I lay down to sleep and cried for an hour straight.
I haven't cried that hard for some time now.
I haven't felt the immense unfairness of my loss so hard for ages.
That bewilderment that he SHOULD be here, but isn't.

....and I went back to that locked room in my brain.
The room that contains the memories from of that afternoon when I found out that Greg had died 5 hours earlier.
I turned the key.
I unlocked that door.
...and was swamped by the intense grief as that pitiful wraith in my head was unleashed,
her screaming ... no
....  her keening howls drowning all other thought
drowning all other feeling.

Her shrieks so loud that I am not entirely sure that my head can contain them.

I know her screams too well.
Her screams are the echo of mine from that day that is forever etched into my mind.
They are the ones that came from my every pore when the policeman tried to tell me that Greg had not survived the accident.
They are the screams that started that day and which have never really stopped.

Most of the time, the door is locked and those screams are muffled.
Most of the time, the screams are quiet.  Whispered screams....
Most of the time, things are OK.

But sometimes, I revisit that day and it knocks me down.

....yet I know that each time I am knocked down, I get up again,

Shining Beacons

source

This summer will be the third summer since Dave died.

The part of my brain where I store the memories of that day in June, 2011 is as tender as it always has been, and occasionally, I dip into it to see if it still hurts as much to think of it. Not because I want to torture myself, but because it is what a brain does. Or at least my brain.

The other day I had to read an account of Dave's last day on earth written by a stranger. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. I felt waves of nausea and cold and hot all at once as I read, feeling the story carry me unwillingly to the conclusion. The conclusion that I still can't quite believe is fact. The final words ended with "...he was pronounced dead on June 4, 2011." Upon reading them, a wail escaped my lips before I could realize what was happening. The intense wave of despair only lasted a few moments, but the feeling is the same as always - a mixture of shock, fear, dread and disbelief.

He died. His heart stopped.
People die. They die when they're old and they die when they're young.

We don't do a great job in this society of understanding it. We ignore the truth until it arrives in our life. It's an "icky" topic. It makes people bummed out and it makes them shut down.
But those of us who've been around as a spouse left this earth, have seen it close up and will never be the same.

It changes us elementally. Our brains are wired differently, our hearts battered and tired. It makes us understand finally that we are all really really going to die.  It makes life look different.

Seeing life through the filter of It Can Happen to Me changes everything.

Hanging out with the lucky people who haven't experienced it is always an interesting experience. It's a little like watching the old me, not expecting grief to arrive in my life, excited about the future without picturing what was coming my way.

I can never again be that person. That's as permanent as Dave's absence.

I'm grieving the loss of both of us.

I miss both of us.

Part of what helps me the most is to attempt to not be so attached to that outcome. That future is not to be. Wishing it back is natural but not helpful for me to get mired in day after day.

That future ended on June 4, 2011 and a new future began. This future is murkier but as I know now that old future was as clear and as a known as could be and still evaporated like a mirage.

I don't have the future. I only used to think I did.
I only have today. And maybe that's a lesson that I should be more proud of. Not everyone gets that insight. It's not something I'd wish on anyone else, but it's something hard-won and gives me depth and wisdom, even though I mostly feel neither deep nor wise.

That last paragraph is an attempt to feel better and maybe make you feel better too, so I almost deleted it but then I realized that that's what I've been doing since Dave died. I've been trying to make myself feel better. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but it's better than not trying to find a silver lining.

My silver linings have kept me from falling forever into a pit of despair.

They don't change the future or the past, but they can make the present more bearable. That's something else about this new life that I've noticed. Making the present more bearable is now a big deal. Tiny beautiful moments, simple pleasures and seemingly insignificant kindnesses are now shining beacons.

Often they were all I had and I'm grateful for them. 

The Good Times Are Better Forgotten

Source - a facebook friend

In two months and 8 days, I will be forced into the 3 year anniversary. I have been treading lightly, trying to come to terms with the 3 year, and well.. I haven’t accepted these terms.

I never signed on a dotted line. I never accepted “You are widowed, sign here”, some crappy contract I got stuck with. I didn't sign up for some service, that would throw me into the widowed club, yet, I’m stuck with it.

There are times (like today) that I think “Holy shit, I am widowed!” Then comes the “I didn't sign up for this shit, it was Seth’s decision to leave this world, not mine, he should have to live in this hell, NOT ME!!”

Yes, I’m a tad angry. Every year before the anniversary, I start falling into the anger stage... And it’s here, sitting next to me, slowly swirling my hair, and saying oh so softly “Let’s be angry, it will be fun!”

What the anger stage doesn't realize is I hate it. The anger stage scares the crap out of me every time. There is nothing worse than being stuck in this hell, and pissed off at the whole world around you.

I can finally see that every year I fall into the anger stage shortly before the anniversary.

Stupid anger and stupid widowhood.

Did I mention I’m a tad angry?

Yes, just a tad. My really angry posts don’t get posted here, because let’s just say, that are above and beyond R rated.

Lately I have been flooded with good memories of my life with Seth. Up until this point, I had very little good memories with Seth.. at least, I couldn't remember them because of my pain and widow brain. The memories are slowly starting to leak in.. and I’ll find myself smiling at myself at the most unacceptable times. Some days it’s almost easier to not remember the good times. Remembering the good times makes it hurt worse. Makes me miss him more. Slaps me with “look what you lost, ha!” And gives me a case of the “I wish.” I wish this wasn't my life. I wish this wasn't my husband’s life. I wish that tomorrow I will wake up and this will all be gone. I wish there was a magic pill to wipe away the pain and anguish.

So it’s almost easier to remember the bad times then it is to remember the good times.

The good times hurt.. hurt really bad. Looking back at the times gone by, leave me confused, hurt and feeling alone. I have been tip toeing into the past, for very short time spans, but trying to allow the good memories back into this poor brain of mine. (I’m starting to wonder when this brain of mine will have enough of my crap and leave me.)

I've been thinking about the upcoming 3 year anniversary and I am honestly really scared. I have realized with each anniversary, birthday and holiday, I step into the events in sheer fear..

Fear because I don’t know how I’m going to handle it.. and fear that there will be one last grief breakdown that I won’t be able to get up from. What if this is the one that makes me snap and I never recover?

I think because I have fallen into the deep hole of hell and depression before, I am afraid of going there again.. if I go there again, I doubt I will reemerge. I doubt I will recover.   

But I realized the fear of upcoming events, is actually a good thing.

That means I am fully aware how bad this is going to hurt. I am fully aware that I might need 4 days in bed, or a bottle of wine. I am fully aware that I am walking into a trap. And I am fully aware that the lining between life and that black hole of hell is really thin. One miss step and I could be in the hole.

It means, that I finally have self awareness. Awareness of what I’m walking into, and caring enough about myself to fear what this anniversary could bring.

I’m sure come the 3 year anniversary,  I will be able to give you a whole list of what I've learned.

But for now I have learned the good times hurt and it’s okay to care enough about myself to know (and be prepared) for what is coming up.

India

“Your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again.”
— Joseph Campbell

Since getting my Firewalk Instructor Certification, meditation has become a part of my life.

What started as 3 times a week with a tiny spot in my room, is now a daily practice with its own room.

But more than that, what became a specific time that gave me a short time of awareness, acceptance and peace...

Has extended far outside my time on the cushion, to be a huge part of every waking second.

Without a doubt, meditation and Buddhist concepts are a huge component of my life.

I know you may be wondering, "What's up with the meditation speech?".

Well, it is meditation that led me to choosing this year's "Once in a Lifetime Trip, Once  a Year" trip that I wanted to share with y'all.

In less then 2 weeks I'll be heading solo over to Bangalore, India, to deepen my practice and invest a bit more into one of my greatest assets...my head and heart.

My mind and soul.

Namaste.