My Forever Valentine

The cover of the last Valentine's day card I gave my husband

I've been back home, in Brisbane, Australia, for a couple of days now.  As it seems to go with most vacations, it's so good to go away and then it's so good to get home.  Getting off the plane after the 13-hour flight from LA and walking in to the arms of my wonderful parents, who came to town to collect me from the airport, was a good feeling.  I had a wonderful time, both in New York exploring a new city, and at Camp Widow.  But I felt ready to get back to my bubble.

It was emotional to come home.  I was very tired and jet-lagged, I had missed my family, my friends, my house and was happy to be reunited with them.  I had missed my routine and the little world I've built for myself since Dan died.  But returning home, I missed my widowed friends and the safe little world that exists when I'm around them.  I felt lifted by the people I met at Camp Widow, the wonderful spirit of the weekend, the bravery of the men and women I met.

You'd think that a conference for widowed people would be a pretty miserable event, but it's actually so uplifting and fun. Everyone is full of camaraderie, there is constant laughter and hugs and celebration of love. To meet people who have been through the darkest of times and can still find light in their lives is indescribable. My widows are some of my favourite people in the world.

So I have felt like I'm in a strange place... floating between wanting to run back to widow-land and wanting to re-enter my real life. 

And then, smack bang in the middle of all of that, we have Valentine's day today.  Bleugh.  What a crappy day this is for us.  I have been lucky enough to have avoided most of the commercials and hype because I've been travelling, and THANK GOD it fell on a Saturday this year, so we were spared the parade of flower deliveries throughout the work place.  But still, here it is.  

When I woke this morning, on Valentines day (in Australia, we're 18 hours ahead of Los Angeles, so I write this on Saturday afternoon to be published in the USA by midnight Friday), I immediately started missing Dan.  I pulled out our old cards and read the beautiful messages we had written each other.  We were not yet married, on our last Valentine's day together, so they were all full of hope and excitement about how we couldn't wait to be husband and wife that coming June (he died six weeks after our wedding), and how we were so blessed to have each other.  

Of course the tears fell.  I couldn't lay around in bed and cry for too long though, because I had booked a hair appointment for 8am and had errands to run.  

As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Dan, and this stupid day, and what I was missing out on because he wasn't here.  And I realised something.  Yes I was missing my husband today... but do you know what?  I realised, I wasn't missing his love.  Because it was still all around me.  

It hadn't gone away.  The words he wrote in his cards still held the same meaning today, as they did two years ago.  I was still the most important thing in his life.  The gratefulness that he felt at coming home to me every night was still real.  I was his eternal love story. We are Forever Valentines.

It's hard to explain and didn't even make a lot of sense in my own head, but I actually felt like I could feel a warmth around me, almost like a full body hug that enveloped my whole being.  I was still carrying his love with me today, even though he's been gone 18 months. 

The gifts that he brought to my life are still here and will be with me forever.  The person I am today is because he loved me.  

Maybe this realisation was partly because of the inspiring messages I received at Camp Widow.  Actually, I think this had a LOT to do with it.  But I also feel like maybe I am growing.  Maybe I am moving through my grief, so that in this moment I was able to see past the pain and the agony at being separated from him and see some of the joy that is still here, because of the time we got together. 

It's an incredible feeling when you can see this growth in yourself.  It's a bit scary, and I almost still don't fully believe it is possible.  But it's nice.  It's a relief.  And I know Dan would be proud of me.  Because I'm proud of myself. 

My love for Sydney

A happy Sydney moment - our engagement party in 2012.

Today, I'm writing to you from Sydney, Australia, where I'm in town visiting my in-laws for an early Christmas celebration.  I'm one of those lucky widows who has wonderful, supportive parents-in-law. Our already healthy relationship only grew stronger after Dan died, as we found comfort, strength and support in each other.

Sydney has always held a special place in my heart.  I was born here and even though we moved to Queensland when I was only five-years-old, I've always loved visiting family and holidaying in this beautiful city.  When I met and fell in love with Dan, who had moved to Brisbane for work, I was very excited that I would have an excuse to spend so much more time here and was welcomed into his Sydney life by family and friends alike.

I have some beautiful memories of being here in Sydney with Dan, including cruising around the harbor on a ferry for his 33rd birthday; our engagement party in a beautiful old pub; Christmas Day and New Year's Eve in 2012.  He loved this city, it was part of him. I know it was a difficult sacrifice for him to settle down in Brisbane but I'm just lucky he loved me more and, in his words, his home was now in me.

Like most of Australia, I was going about my day on Monday morning when I heard the news bulletins about the gunman who had taken 17 hostages in a popular cafe in the middle of the city.  My first reaction was to run through mental check list of all our family in Sydney and work out if any might have been in the area that morning.  I had spoken to Dan's parents the night before and quickly worked out that they should have all been safe.

I then sat glued to my computer for the whole day and late in to the evening, flicking between the live stream of commentary from different news outlets as I tried to understand what was going on and how such a terrifying situation could have occurred.

When I finally switched off and went to bed, I laid quietly in the dark, with tears running down my face, while I thought about those families who wouldn't sleep that night, as they waited with heavy hearts for news of their loved ones inside the cafe.  My heart broke as I wondered what news I'd wake up to in the morning.  I felt so very scared, not only for those hostages but for our country.  How would this change us?

I know that many parts of the world live with this kind of fear constantly.  Terrorists and extremists kill innocent people every day. I am lucky to live in Australia where these feelings of fear are so alien and strange but this thought didn't make me feel any more ok - it only made me sadder.

I couldn't stop wishing Dan were here.  To hold me and make me feel safe. To talk to about what was going on and what this would mean for a city we both loved. Dan was the most open-minded and tolerant person I'd ever met. Not only did he not care about people's colour, culture or religious beliefs - he didn't even notice they were 'different' to his own. He was the personification of love and acceptance of fellow man - with the kindest of hearts and purest of intentions.  He was everything right with the world and everything I wanted for our future.

I tried to think of what he might say about this siege in Sydney and I knew his heart would be aching with pain and confusion too.  We would have probably clung to each other and cried together when we woke on Tuesday morning to hear that two innocent lives had been taken over night.

One thing that would have most definitely been different if Dan were here is that I wouldn't have been able to understand or relate to the grief of the families of the two victims who wouldn't be home for Christmas.  Because I wouldn't have been through my own traumatic life-altering loss.  I would have felt deep sorrow for them in a 'Oh gosh, I can't imagine what they must be going through right now' kind of way.  But, I wouldn't have really been able to empathise with any meaningful emotion.

Instead, I was able to very easily put myself in their shoes and recount some of the first-moment grief they would be feeling.  That numbness and physical sickening. The thoughts of how unfair it was that their wife or son were the ones to be killed.  How random that this murderer had walked into the same cafe where their loved one happened to be working or enjoying a morning coffee.  How quickly their lives had been torn apart without any chance to say goodbye. The strange, almost trivial things that pop in to your mind in those first moments of shock - 'what will we do with her Christmas presents'?  Or 'but he has an appointment with the doctor/hair-dresser/accountant next Tuesday that he's supposed to go to'?

As their hearts tore open, I held these families in my own battered heart and thought about the long painful road of grief that lay before them. And as my plane touched down in Sydney on Thursday night I hid my own silent tears behind my sunglasses.

When I walked out of the terminal to meet Dan's parents, I clung to them when they embraced me, taking in the feeling of their arms around me. I had been looking forward to that hug, that connection with another heart that shares your pain and beats with the same ache for the person you're missing.

I hope that the families of the two Sydney siege victims at least find some comfort in the arms of those who share their pain. Because there are hundreds of thousands of arms reaching out to them from all around the country today.

Surviving Christmas

 I am finding it hard to find any Christmas spirit this year.

I have no idea if I have bought the children presents that they will enjoy... just a couple of small gifts to keep up the pretense of Santa.
 
I have not sent a Christmas card in years ... they remind me too much of all those funeral "thank you" cards that sat on my dining room table and mocked me for months after Greg's death before I threw the lot of them in the bin and decided I just wasn't going to do it and if anyone was offended, tough luck.

I am no longer a Christian, so there is no religious element to lift my spirits.
I don't sing carols anymore: I used to enjoy singing so much.  They are now meaningless to me. 
I sit through Christmas services at the church where I was married and where we had Greg's funeral service. I go for my children. That they still have any faith is incredible to me when mine has gone.
I love the minister as he is a truly lovely man, but the words he speaks don't reach my ears.  My heart is closed to the words that used to fill me with joy.
I smile at the people who look at me, wondering why my mouth does not open to sing and why I remain seated instead of taking communion.
None of it feels real to me anymore.
None of it has any meaning.
None of it gives me hope or joy or peace.

(Side note -  if  religion gives you peace, that's great!  It just doesn't do it for me).

But I have found something else that smoothes a balm onto my jangled nerves.
Another source of comfort when it is all I can do not to try to scratch my skin off so that I feel something.
A way of making things bearable when they are definitely not OK.

....and it comes in the form of other widows and widowers who don't try to make everything joyful or happy or peaceful.
Who know what it is like to choose life and light every morning when there are days that you can only see the darkness.
Who laugh at how absurd it is that we have both found ourselves here (How the hell did we get here? Really? here?  He's dead?  dead!   How did that even happen? How is this even possible?).

Each and every widow who looks around and wonders how the hell they arrived here and reaches out to another person wondering the same thing  makes this season bearable.
They don't knit Christmas decorations and coat the house in tinsel and fake goodwill and love to all humans...
... they actually mean that love.


I hate that you guys have to be here with me, but I thank you for being here.
You are definitely making a difference.
Thank you.

How I got ... here

My crazy, active son

(link is to the pro photographer who took it - this was an 'outtake' shot)

To catch up, it's about four weeks after Ian's had heart surgery, and I've rushed him to hospital where he collapsed on arrival.

Once Ian was settled and awake again, we opted for me to head home and be with our son.  We were used to Ian being in hospital, so it was no biggie to either of us at the time for me to head off.  I had been advised he’d probably be moved to a high care ward as they weren’t sure what was going on.

At 3am I got a phone call to say that he was in ICU.  So I drop our son off at my parents (who were very conveniently located between our home and the hospital), and head into the hospital.  I was there for a couple of hours and he was scared, but still quite chatty. 

I went home for breakfast, then headed back to the hospital.  While Ian was relaying John’s antics to the nurse, he crashed.  At this point I thought I’d be a widow by the end of the day.   His cardiologist was interstate for the weekend, but flew home to manage his case.

Later that day, I wound up in a meeting with 5 heads of department from the hospital.  The first thing I was told is Ian had suffered a massive stroke, but they didn’t know the impact.  Then I got told, as they had suspected, Ian had the rarest of complications from his ablation – an atrial-oesophageal fistula.  A hole had formed between his heart and oesophagus.  This would kill him unless it was repaired, but the scar tissue from his past surgeries made everyone really nervous to try the usual repair options available.

Except the one specialisation that apparently gets everything that everyone else doesn’t want to touch – the radiographic surgeon.  They planned to insert a stent to block the hole under x-ray, and without inflating the area with gas to reduce the risk of a further stroke – a strategy they couldn’t find other records of.  And there was no guarantee he’d survive the surgery.

Our Minister and my step-mother kept me company while Ian was in surgery.  I was really relieved when I got the message he was back in ICU. 

Then started a three week battle to beat the various infections he had developed. 

Once he woke, we learned the extent of his stroke – language was gone, as was his left side mobility.  And he’d developed an interest in Australian Rules Football, which he’d detested prior (he was a soccer man and a Birmingham fan). Thanks to the efforts of staff, a stubborn personality and I’m sure his son, we managed to get to a good point medically, and he was released to the stroke ward.  

He did pretty well for the next 4 weeks or so, and then we found his oesophagus was growing through the stent and bleeding.  Back into ICU and yet more procedures.  The upshot- the stent could not be removed, and he’d likely die on the table during any attempt to do so.  So it had to stay put.

A few days later, Ian had his first seizure. 

Then we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. 

A few days later I was finally told there was no hope and given two options – either let his oesophagus rupture, which would be a traumatic end, or let infection win and give him a peaceful end. 

I chose the latter.

Ian passed away about a week later, on 14 June 2012. Ten days after our first wedding anniversary. 

We’d crammed more in 3 years and 3 days of knowing each other than many do in a lifetime.

Now 18 months later, I’m raising our crazy, active son the best I can, and facing my 40^th in 2014 with a life experience I never thought I’d have at this early in my life.

Can I play my immunity card now please?

I don't quite know why I haven't worked this out yet, but being a widow does not mean I am protected from Life parking its enormous derrière over my head and emptying its dysenteric bowels.

If life was remotely fair, it should protect me from further heartbreak.  
It should also deliver me a million dollars, a permanent job, a full home renovation, an overseas holiday, and after a time, a hot, intelligent man who can look at me and all my baggage and still say "Phwoar, what a woman!" 
....and yet none of that has happened.

I find myself back in a place of uncertainty.
The hole that I have been trying to climb out of since Greg died and left me on this shaky, moving earth without a still-point, a protector, a person to say "Everything will be OK." 

So much of my current angst comes from not having job security and having a misguided right-wing State government who is hell-bent on austerity measures that include sacking a whole heap of public servants ... and I expect that they will then poke about in the left-wing Federal government's unemployment figures and decry their terrible management of the country's economy and jobless rate.

Surely there's got to be some law of nature that protects widows  from further harm??  Some sort of immunity card that I can play when Life insists on throwing curve-balls.

Except there is not, nor has there ever been. 

So I guess it is up to me to rescue myself......  Which I'd gladly do if only I knew how.
I am trying to be my own hero.  I am proactive at looking for work.  I strive to make a better life for my children. Perhaps I have given up on the hot bloke with the big brain ... for now .... but I haven't given up completely.


...and short of finding some armour and a unicorn, I shall just have to keep trying everything I know to get The Universe to shift its great posterior to another location. (In other words- I shall have to suck it up and plod on).

...at least plodding is moving right?

Misconceptions from the ill-informed

 

I wrote the following on my facebook page after I attended my high school reunion last Saturday night, where it quickly became apparent that the "cool kids" were still trying to tell the rest of us what we "should do".  A few facebook friends asked to share it, so I've reposted it here as I think we all have had days like this, or people who think they know what widowhood is like when they have no way of actually *knowing*.
(I looked awesome and totally HAWT at the reunion BTW, thanks for asking:) Despite the idiots, I did also manage to have a great deal of fun with some truly awesome people (including two other widows) who have always been there for me.
 .
.
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I need to be clear about something before I next feel the urge to scream at someone: grief is not something you can just "get over".

Grief is NOT the same as depression, although the two can often be found seeping through the neural pathways, hand-in-hand.

Telling me that you know how I feel because your dog /  Great Uncle / axolotl (yes, I know!)  died is NOT helpful.
Neither is comparing widowhood with divorce: they are not the same.

It is OK to still be sad 2.5 years after the death of your spouse.  For that matter, it is OK to be sad 50 years later too.  Grief is like a roller-coaster ride where there are dips and turns in the most unexpected places, but the thing is, you either learn to live alongside it, or you don't.
Literally.
(and the latter option is where the depression kicks in).

Telling me to "get help" because I say that I still grieve the loss of my husband is ludicrous. The Actual Professionals (as opposed to armchair psychiatrists) agree that my mental health is worth bottling because I realise one truth: I will never be truly "done" with grief. 
But I also realise that for every wave that knocks me to the ground, I will get up after it passes because I am made of strong stuff.  And the surf isn't as wild as it used to be so I don't get knocked down as often or for as long.

So - how do widows deal with grief?
We talk.
We cry.
We laugh.
We joke.
We hug.
We compare notes.
We laugh at daaaarrrk humour.
We roll our eyes at each at ill-informed comments.
But above all, we talk.

Because by talking, we realise that we are not alone and we can draw strength from this realisation.

More like him

I am, at heart, a homebody.
An introvert who is too fond of her own company.

Greg was gregarious (in joke) and loved to explore different places and meet new people.  He talk to anyone about anything.  He was one of those blokes that everyone loved within 5 minutes of meeting him.

My idea of a relaxing evening was an easy (but healthy) meal, kids bathed and settled in bed then cuddling-up on the couch and watching TV; Greg would be the person itching to take the kids to the beach for a swim at 6pm when he got home from work.
He'd get annoyed when I wouldn't want to put dinner on hold, rug everybody up to go out.

I'm sad to say, I won more often than I should have ...

.... but not always.

.......Friday afternoons were fair game for anything - a walk in the park, bikes down the hill, pizza picnic at the beach - whatever.

The kids loved it, Greg loved it, and I'd tag along just because..... but I always did enjoy it.

But now ....
 ............now I am the one who does random bushwalks in the afternoon.
....meandering beach walks after school, sometimes followed by an early dinner of fish and chips from one of the cafes along the waterfront.  After all, the beauty of the bay is literally 1 km away and we don't make enough use of it.

We've discovered new places as well: the bird hide circuit and mangrove board walk are now regular haunts;  a new playground at the other end of town; a back way to our local park.

....and I like it. 
....I LOVE it.

It blows the cobwebs from my head and I can breathe deep from the sea air.  Making memories with the kids as we race to the top of the hill overlooking the bay.
I will admit that I do derive an inordinate amount of pleasure from bringing my camera along and taking shots like the above.

But part of me is sad for all of those lost afternoons when Greg could have been walking alongside us, discovering these fantastic places right outside our door.

Yet I am glad that we are now regularly leaving the house to investigate the beauty of the local area, just like Greg.

....and I love that I am becoming more like him.

Grounding

I'd never describe myself as an "outdoorsy" person.

That's not to say that I'm a princess.  I am happy to get dirty in the garden or go fishing and smell like the sea all day.  I love the feeling of sand between my toes and the winter sun on my back.  I love to walk through the bush and I love to stroll along the beach. 

.... just so long as I can come home to a hot shower, a fresh coffee and a flushing toilet.

Perhaps it is because my first career involved days and days of walking along snake-infested tracks in the rain to measure trees in plantations.  It kinda takes the shine off bush-walking and being "at one with nature" when you HAVE to do it everyday.

Greg loved to be outdoors.  When given the choice, he would always rather be outside. He was from a long line of farmers after all, and lived for the days he could spend riding a  motorbike or tractor around familiar paddocks and lane ways.
He loved camping, he loved gardening, he loved bush walking (he climbed Queensland's highest peak in 1day when most people take at least 2 days), he loved native birds and insects.  A year after we met, he and his brother spent a month on dirt bikes loaded with swags and camping gear and rode and camped their way along dirt tracks and make-shift river crossings, right to the northern-most tip of Australia ....

He felt at home in the bush.

Lately, the kids and I have been walking around the local bushland area.  It is a very calming and grounding place to be.

...and somewhere I feel very connected to Greg.  To the point where I *know* I am not alone in my meandering along bush tracks.

...and while I am still not keen on camping, have no desire to measure a plot of 5 year old saplings in the rain during snake - mating season Spring, I am starting to realise that just *being* outdoors brings such a calmness.

A connection with the earth, with life, with love.

I feel as though my nature-loving boy is walking right alongside me. 
In fact I *know* my nature-loving boy is walking right alongside me.

....and I am better for it.

Processing

The dark mark on the fence marks The Spot.

For a while now, I have been able to get through every day with only missing Greg and not get caught up in HOW he died.

But then up until recently, I avoided most of  the details on the HOW and limited myself to knowing the barest facts of the accident: Greg was the passenger; neither speed nor reckless driving was a factor; and he died instantly.

But.....

On Sunday, through a cruel twist of fate and an unholy bridge closure which meant I had find an alternative way home.

But while "following my nose" along half-remembered routes from a former job and a former abode, I was more intent on avoiding the aforementioned unholy traffic nightmare on the "closed for maintenance"  freeway and so the fact that I was fast approaching The Bad Place snuck up on me. 
As I stopped at the lights at the top of the hill (just around the bend at the top of the picture), I looked ahead and realised what lay 250m in front of me.
Thankfully the traffic was light and I turned down a side street and avoided it.

I have successfully managed to avoid being anywhere near The Bad Place ever since the accident.  Its not hard - it is half-way across town and on a road that I rarely ever used anyway.

But coming so close has really shaken me to the core ....  but it is done: I've now driven along the the road that Greg and J drove along seconds before they died.
Another first out of the way.

....and so I now process this next bit if grief that has been far too hard to even think about up until now. 

 I will be stronger for it.

Little steps.

The Luckiest

I have music on a loop that I listen to in the car.  There is one song that never fails to reduce me to tears: Ben Folds, The Luckiest.

I don't often feel lucky.
(I mean, who here really feels that luck has been shining on them?) 
Sudden death really doesn't count in the "lucky" stakes.

In fact, in the three years leading up to the accident, we lost both Greg's parents to the most hideous of cancers.  This left he and is siblings at odds over the will with Greg the person in the middle trying to make everyone happy, whilst making himself miserable in the process.

...and he'd just managed to get everyone to a shaky agreement, but was dead within months.


Suddenly
Brutally.
Dead.

"Lucky" was not a description I would have used to describe our lives.


Until I started to think about it.

Because Greg and I, we were The Luckiest.

Not many people get to marry the love of their lives. 

Many never even get to meet them.

But we did both.

Inseparable from the moment we met and fell in love.



We had a love that was real and solid.
Never wavering.
Never faltering.

We finished each other's sentences and could tell what the other person was thinking with a look.

We laughed at the same things and we cried at the same things.

We were are soulmates who balanced each other perfectly.

We loved.

Deeply.

Completely.

Soul-shaping love.

...and what we had (still have) was so rare and beautiful, that we really were among  The Luckiest people on the planet.

I've seen better days

Things aren't awful.

We have everything we need.

Despite weeks of illness of one kind or another, we are basically healthy.

But the longing for my soulmate is as strong as ever.

I think part of my problem is that I never got to say goodbye.

In fact, we'd had a tiff the Friday before as he went to the farm to work for yet another weekend and I was starting a new job on Monday morning and would have really appreciated the moral support / family time / him taking the kids so I could prepare lessons etc. 
I was so upset that went as far as not getting out of bed to welcome him home at 11:30pm Sunday night when I finally heard his car pull into the driveway.

I know.

I am thankful that our tiffs were never big or long-lasting...... I could have remained pissed off at him on the Monday morning, but his tired little face melted me and we held each other for for a few minutes before we went on with the rush of the day.

Then we were making breakfasts and lunches and having our ritual morning family cuddle before Greg drove off to work.

I didn't realise that would be the last time I ever saw him.  

At all.

Unsurvivable head injuries meant that I took the advice of police, chaplains, morticians, relatives and friends that I shouldn't see him.  At the time, I took their advice.

But one thing I wish I had been able to do was to spend time alone with him (even if he was inside the sealed coffin) before the funeral. 
Nobody watching me in my grief.

I was so self-conscious of the 300+ eyes on me during the service that instead of kissing his coffin like I wanted to, I laid my head briefly on it.  I could feel 300 pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head.  ....and being an introvert, I couldn't breathe with all those eyes watching me, leave alone watching me at my worst.

I wish I could have spoken to him without those eyes watching me .

If I had a re-run, I would have insisted upon it.

But then again, if I got a re-run, I wouldn't have let him go to work that day.....

So yeah, right now, I've surely seen better days..... but I have also seen much, much worse ones.

...and so I keep plodding on in the hope that the days are better.

The small things

When Michele asked me to write here, there is only one thing I clearly remember her saying in the brief - write as honestly as I can from where I am NOW.

So that's what I try to do each week.... write my now.
my truth.
As honestly as I can.
My soul stripped bare.

Some weeks, I am OK.  Good even.  But other weeks, I am not so good.
This is one of those weeks.

I am sick.  My chest rattles as I suck air in and out. My head pounds.  My eyes leak. My energy has evaporated and I am light headed whenever I try to do anything.
I am tired.
I am sick of the petty squabbles over who farted on who's pillow.
I am tired of cooking and cleaning when I am not working or preparing for work.
I am sick of being in charge of everything.  All the big things and all the small things.
I feel like I'm sinking under the weight of a life that was meant to have two parents involved in bringing up the children.
I am angry at a God I no longer believe in (I said I was being honest - I didn't say my thoughts had to make sense to you).
If anyone had told me I'd still be feeling this aching pain 26 months later, I think I would have given up right then and there when I first heard the news that he was dead.

I feel like I am going backwards into my grief when I have been trying so long to move forwards through it.
This is not like me at all.
I am a do-er.
A pick-yourself-up-er.
A set-your-goal-and-go-for-it-er.
A great believer in the almighty I CAN do it.
And I always achieve what I set my mind to.
Except when I don't.

Early this morning, I sat on our my bed and the tears just ran in rivers down my face. I wanted to be held by his arms.  I wanted someone to look at me like I was the most beautiful and precious jewel they'd ever seen.  I wanted someone to tell me they loved me above all else.

....and then my kids came in with their hilarious home-made Mother's Day gifts.
The small things they had painstakingly made out of bits and bobs they had collected.
....and they hugged me, and told me I was the best mother in the world (they are easily pleased).
...and I realised....
I am loved.

Life still sucks beyond the telling of it, but I am loved.
These two little souls are here, in front of me, looking at me like I am the most precious jewel they have ever seen.
Holding me in their arms.
Telling me that they love me so much.


....and I say a silent prayer of thanks to the God I no longer believe in.
The God of small things....

Handmade jewels

It's gonna be alright

It is school holidays here and to get ourselves out of the house, we've been frequenting the local mangrove wetlands to sit and watch the birds.  There's a safe - yet - quiet walking path to an elevated shelter shed where you can sit and look over a large lagoon full of migratory birds.  Some with chicks, some loud and cranky, some funny.
It is a very peaceful spot and the bird life, along with a couple of pairs of cheap binoculars has kept us entertained on quite a few afternoons.

After walking around the lagoon and onto the nearby boardwalk one afternoon, the kids and I sat in the late afternoon sunlight and gazed down to the lagoon, teeming with birds and not another human being in sight.

Peacefully.

 Quietly.

 ...and just as I was thinking that Greg would have loved this place had we known it existed, and wishing he was there to share the experience, almost feeling his hand on my shoulder as we stared off towards the sparkling water when my darling daughter put her head on my shoulder and whispered ...

"It's going to be alright Mum.  I promise.  It's going to be alright"

...and I held her while silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

...and I knew Greg was there with us.

....and I just know I'll return to this magical place, week after week.  
Just to sit and stare at the water and feel like he is really with us.
Just for a while.

SPEAK!

I am sad today.
I just heard news of another new widow ... this one, with a little more sting than most.
You see, her son died a month ago. 
He was 21.
But there was worse to come.....

Her husband could not cope with his grief and instead of speaking about it, he ended his own life instead.

This leaves another new widow and a teenager without two people in their family.

....and it makes me want to scream for them.

...and echo the words of Lori Dwyer, when she told the men at the funeral of her husband to SPEAK dammit.
Speak about the pain.
Speak about your feelings.
Speak about your suicidal thoughts.
Speak to someone.
Anyone.
Because, as Lori also points out .... the world is not "better off without you".

Grief is hard, intense, dark and frightening.  If can make your mind go to places it has never been before.

But the "alternative" ... well it isn't really an alternative is it?  It is an exit from the world and it just exponentially multiplies the pain for those that are left to pick up the pieces.

So if you are reading this, grieving so hard that you think there is an "alternative", please, PLEASE  

SPEAK.

International Suicide Prevention Wiki: http://suicideprevention.wikia.com/wiki/International_Suicide_Prevention_Directory

The funeral revisited

Image via Wikipedia

She sat at the front of the church with her mother.
Swathed by relatives.
Confused between the false smiles of mourners  when they spoke to her and the shaking sobs of her mother in the seat next to her.
I watched as this little girl, dressed in pink tulle looked into the faces of everyone who came near her.
Bewildered.
Watching as her mother, grandmother and aunties dissolved into tears before her, and her cousins displayed emotions ranging from nervous frivolity, to shock, to grief as they watched their mother's cry their way through their eulogies.
No doubt, wondering where her father was and exactly what was happening around her.

I looked into her five-year-old face from a distance.  Willing her to see me.  So she would know I was there.... that her teacher had come to her father's funeral....because I know how much it will mean to her later.

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.
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I went to the funeral of the father of my tiny year 1 student last week.....exactly 1 year, 11 months and 29 days after the kids and I sat huddled in the same position under similar circumstances: a car accident; a  father suddenly gone.

I remembered holding the hands of our children who had that same bewildered look on their little faces..... my son even younger than this little girl, my daughter only 1 year older.
I remembered smiling through the memories of his life as they played on the screen before us and wishing we'd taken more photos of each other.
I remembered trudging behind the casket as we followed six of his best mates out of the church, his body held shoulder high.
I remembered staring at my feet as they walked out of the church and watching as the casket was loaded into the hearse, not glancing up lest I see the faces of the hundreds of people who came.

....and I remembered how thankful my children were that their teachers had come to their Daddy's funeral.  Teachers who would soon become my colleagues and help hold me together as I began working again.  Teachers who would hold my kids together when they were angry at the world, and teacher who pushed them into learning and achieving.

...and I made a silent vow to this dead father whom I'd never met: I promise to look after your daughter to the best of my ability.  I promise to show her compassion when she needs it and I promise to push her forward and onward. I promise to be there for her for as long as she needs.

I promise.

A very bad day

Last week marked two years since I was widowed.

It was not a good week.....worse than I could have imagined. ....
I arrived at school on February 29 to the news that one of my tiny little students had lost her father in a car accident the night before.
Horrific.
I did not cope well.

So I hope you'll forgive the repost of my own blog entry for March 1 ..... a letter to my husband....



2 years.

Two whole years that simultaneously feel like two minutes and two centuries.

The fog and numbness have gone this time – it’s just pure loneliness and loss this year: I miss you so badly.
I took the day off work …. I got some raised eyebrows when I did this, but thankfully not from my boss. (He is an odd boss – simultaneously infuriating and marvellous).
Plus I needed it after yesterday…

I took the kids to visit your grave.  Finally.  They haven’t been since you were buried.  I haven’t been because I don’t think you are there…..

I didn’t expect the reaction they had.
H cried.
K was quiet.
They sang a song in the car on the way “Our Daddy died on the first of March.  It’s the first of march today”.
sob.

They brought some stones they had decorated and carefully placed them on your (our) headstone.
…and we put in a solar light with a dragonfly on it.
Then we left.

I feel completely wrung out.
Too much sadness around me.
....and missing you more than ever.

I long to lay my head on your chest and fall asleep in your arms.
...and feel safe again.
even if only for a minute.

We miss you.
We love you.
XA

Lost

Photo from here

There are days when I am still astounded that he hasn't come home.

6:30 pm rolls around and I find myself listening for the distinctive note of his car pulling into the driveway.

I find myself looking for him in the shed, expecting to see him fixing something on his workbench.

My brain hasn't worked out that he is gone.

I am like Red Dog, searching high and low for the one he loves. Searching faces and seeming to ask "have you seen him?" Going from place to place, determined to find the person who he loved above all others. Never stopping.

On the day Greg died, I looked for him in the faces of the policemen, expecting them to tell me where he was ... when they had already told me where he wasn't.

I searched the faces of his friends.

I search for him every night in my dreams .... and sometimes I find him.

I found him in my dreams last week and I asked him WHY he had to go. (That question that we all wonder: WHY did they die, WHY are we left here without them, WHY they were taken long before their time???)
In the dream, he just carried on making a sandwich and explained (as though repeating himself for the umpteenth time) that "there was a car accident".

....and even though that is the truth of it, it doesn't seem to stop my subconscious mind from searching for him every day and every night.

Because I have lost him, and I still have this desperate need to find him.


.
.
.
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... I know the word "loss / lost" annoys a lot of widows and I want to assure you that I do know exactly where his body is, but "lost" is a word I often use because it describes how *I* feel as well.

Uncontrolled Release

I wrote this post almost a year ago after some of the scariest days I have faced as a widow. Neighbouring towns were ripped apart by what was described as an "inland tsunami" a year ago today. Then, all that water had to continue down the catchment into MY town. My city flooded. Big Time. Many homes and possessions were lost but thankfully fewer deaths than our neighbouring towns. But scaremongers were saying that our dam may collapse which would have meant complete disaster and many, many more deaths. Today, I remember those frightening days and the lives that were destroyed during the floods of 2011. I hope you'll forgive the repost.....

There is no doubt that Wivenhoe dam saved Brisbane from greater flooding in January 2011. But it only covers about a third of the total catchment for the Brisbane River, so Brisbane still flooded.
I heard a hydrologist on the radio, speaking about the way in which the dam operates….. it is designed so that hydrologists can operate and control the release of water in such a way to both minimise flooding downstream while preserving the integrity of the dam wall.
If the inflow of water became so great that the structural integrity of the dam was compromised, the dam is designed to regulate itself and perform what’s called an uncontrolled release.
This is not the scenario that we ever want to see because the dam can’t tell what the tidal river is doing and will dump enough water to preserve itself with little regard to the river conditions. Specifically, the flood which has coincided with some of the biggest king tides of the year. Tides which needs carefully planned controlled releases of water to minimise damage downstream.
….and all of this made me think about grief…
I find I have to regulate the times during which I allow myself to wallow in complete despair, cry out in pain as the hot, angry tears course down my face. I have to swear and scream and tell God exactly what I think of him. I have to feel sorry for myself and rant and rage about how utterly horrible my life is.
Because when *I* regulate the spillway of grief, I get to do it when nobody can hear me scream.
The last thing I want is an uncontrolled release at school, or near the kids, with friends or while driving the car.
…and it sucks when it hits as I lay in our bed and see the empty space and that voice in my head keeps saying don’t go there, don’t think about the “multiple injuries”. don't do it now, you need to sleep, find a happy place, find a happy place, find a happy place….
Except all of my happy places have Greg in them. They are happy places BECAUSE he is there.
So I need to find another way of controlling the release. Of controlling the uncontrolled release.
Of controlling the other two-thirds of the catchment not covered by the dam on my grief.
and that is a hard thing to do.