Birthdays & Beginnings

Today was my fiance's birthday. The third year without him here. You always think it's going to get easier. And you never really have any clue how it's going to hit you. That's no mystery to me. I've been dealing with the milestone of my mom's birthday for over 20 years now since she died... and some years are just harder than others, for no real reason at all. I gave up long ago trying to understand the "why" of all this.

I feel like this 3rd birthday has been even harder than the 2nd without him. Maybe this is because it is the same amount of birthdays I shared WITH him... we only had 3 short years together. As I'm writing this, I'm thinking it has a lot to do with it. This officially kicks off the first of many milestones this year that are going to be even harder than last year, for that one reason. By June, I will officially be entering into having lived more time after his death than I actually had with him. It's heartbreaking, even now just thinking of it. And it's weighed so heavily on my heart today that I've scarcely even had words.

There were some highlights to the day. My mother-in-law and I went to get pedicures in the morning. Cute toes always make a day better. We did a little shopping and then had a blast out on the ranch ridiculously exploding a pink pony piñata - because sometimes you just need to blow some shit up. I will admit, that felt crazy good. And afterwards, my in-laws and I went out for a really nice dinner. There was a lot of good in the day actually, I have to admit that.

But still... under the surface has been that feeling of the lurking 3 year mark. And that's not the only new thing that's entering into my life right now either. Simultaneous to this whole 3 year milestone, I have also met someone.... new.

There has been wonder and joy and excitement again with this new person. And warmth and support and understanding. It has been so beautiful. He cracked a beer at midnight with me last night - just to celebrate Drew's birthday. He gets me. And I have laughed more in a few short months than I think I had in the entire past 2 1/2 years.

But there also days when I've just had to run off, and create distance from this new person, because being vulnerable feels too hard. And moments when I've been paralyzed by the fear that I will let this person matter so much, and then he will die too. There have been times when I've wanted nothing more than to fall into this new man's arms... And times when I have wanted nothing more than to fall into the arms of my fiancé again - not this new person - because that is truly where I feel the most safe. All of this, the great stuff and the hard stuff, its a lot to take in. To put it plainly, goddamn, this shit is just terrifying.

One of the worst aspects: I hate knowing that - for the rest of my life - I am going to have this fear of the person I am with dying on me. I really, really hate this. I miss the innocence of believing blindly that the odds were in my favor. Now, I know different... and I wish I didn't. I wish none of us did.

This post is really sort of a rambling mess, I didn't plan what to talk about or think through this at all. It's just whatever is going on in my head right now. I am confused, and a bit scared right now. About life. About death. About what lies ahead.

In a few months, I will be exactly as far away from his death as I was the day I met him... and I think this realization has been bubbling up under the surface for a while now. Well, I know it has, I've feared it since he first died. I still cannot even fathom hitting this landline of a mark in June. I cannot even fathom how difficult a time it is going to be... and how much I may regress back into my grief - which makes me want to distance and turn off from the world and be alone. And then I think of this new person, and how much I'd like him to keep being here, but also how scary it is to bring someone else into my world at a time when I may really need a lot of space. I'm confused, and sad tonight. And all I really want is to talk to my best friend, to tell him Happy Birthday, to talk about this new man with him, and to express how scary this year's milestones are going to be. God, why can't we just pick up the phone and call each other?

Doing it for Myself

Marking my husband's birthday with a cupcake and sunflowers

As far as the 'ups and downs' of grief go, it's been a pretty tough week.  It started with what would have been Dan's 36th birthday on Monday (the second since he's been gone).  Despite coming up with a plan for the day and preparing as much as I could for the inevitable roller-coaster, the rug was well and truly pulled from underneath me.

I was ready for the pain, but not so ready for the loneliness, the sense of isolation and the anger.  I was so damn angry at him.  I haven't really felt much anger towards him throughout my grief, and it's a terrible feeling. One that, to be honest, I'm still not really ready to explore.  This might be something to go more in depth on another day.  But I was also really angry that the people still here in my life hadn't been more present for me this week, and that didn't feel very nice either.

I unpacked it with my grief counsellor yesterday. Where did this fury come from?  Why was I so mad at my friends?  Was I angry that they seemed to have forgotten me - what I was going through?  Was I angry that their partners were still here and mine wasn't? Was I just angry full stop, and they were an easy target?

I had talked about Dan's pending birthday a fair bit, so assumed that those close to me would know it would be a difficult day.  But I was surprised that only three friends sent 'thinking of you' text messages and none called, offered to visit or followed up that evening to make sure I was ok.

Quite a few of my husband's friends (who have become my friends) called or sent messages to share the day with me, some sent photos of the activities they were doing to remember him, like making a cake and talking about happier birthday from the past.  That was really nice, to know he wasn't forgotten and I wasn't the only one missing him.

My feelings were really hurt that my own friends hadn't been more involved.  It was a stark contrast to the year before - the first 'after' birthday - when everything was very raw.  I honestly felt like those around me had started to think 'well, it's been over a year and a half, she must be doing ok by now' or were, quite frankly, just bored of the same conversations about how I miss him and what we'd be doing if we were here.

I mean, hell, I'M bored of it!  Of course I'm tired of my grief, it's tedious and exhausting and not fun in any way.  So I get that my friends might be feeling a bit over it.  But there's nothing I can do about that.  This is my life now, his loss is part of me.  I'm not some miserable thing who NEVER enjoys life or looks forward to anything or who can't have a laugh, but I also can't pretend that it never happened and it doesn't still affect me.

With some hindsight, I don't necessarily think that my friends were a bit less involved on Monday because they're bored with me.  They most likely just didn't know what support I needed, didn't know how to help or what to say.  They also don't miss Das as much as I do, because they weren't his wife.  They don't feel my pain and there's no way they can know what to do with it.

But this all got me thinking about how, when I'm struggling with the grief, I have a tendency to look to the people around me to pick me up and carry me through.  What a lot to ask of them.  Not necessarily the support bit, but the fact that I seem to expect them to be able to mind-read and figure out what I need without me having to say so.  To call at the right time, or to give me space when I don't want to talk.  To talk about him - or to distract me when I just can't face it anymore.

This need to be saved almost always leaves me feeling let down, abandoned or misunderstood and that's really unfair to the people who love me and are trying to be there as much as they can.  So I need to get better at looking after myself.  At self-soothing.  Instead of looking to others for comfort or validation that my grief is 'ok' and I'm doing the right thing, I need to trust myself more, love myself more and back myself more.

I wish I could click my fingers and become this zen, chilled out, self-loving guru who sees the peace and light in everything and never doubts herself or her place in the world.  But I doesn't work like that.  The therapy sessions are helping, as is meditation, yoga and working with essential oils.

If Dan were still here I probably wouldn't have had to look this closely at myself and think so much about my lack of self-belief and insecurity.  Because his love gave me validation, his words gave me the reassurance that I now need to find within.  I know his love is still with me, but I need to look inside to find it.  I'm searching for this place of peace.  It may take me the rest of my life to reach it but, hey, I've got time.  It's not like I've got much else going on right now anyway.

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was my fiance's 30th Birthday. I don't say "would have been" because it doesn't make me feel like I am allowed to still celebrate it when I saw that. So instead, I say that it was, and is, the day he turned thirty. Even if he isn't here physically, saying it that IS his birthday helps me have permission to still celebrate.

The morning began with a thick, heavy fog - a very rare sight on the Texas coast. His family and I came down Thursday night to spend the weekend at their beach house. It's one of our go-to places to get away together on the hard milestones like this one. After some coffee, we headed for breakfast. Being a photographer, I couldn't resist the desire to drive the mile down the road to the beach before eating and capture some images of the pier in the fog. Drew's mom and I made a quick trip there, and the scene was utterly surreal. I've scarcely ever seen such thick fog, especially approaching nearly 10am. I grabbed my camera and went to work. The horizon was totally gone, lost in a milky white haze that waves drifted out of. The pier disappeared right into the fog, seeming to go on forever. Surfers dissipated into an abyss of white. It was a photographer's dream. I couldn't help but think, he knew exactly how to pull me out of my sadness that morning. To give me an unreal photo op. No matter what else is happening, when I am behind a camera I go into another world entirely… present in the moment, focused, and fully alive.

After getting my shots - and giddy with excitement - I returned back to the car with his mom to head for breakfast. As we approached… we stopped in our tracks, our mouths dropped. There in front of us on the beach, right in front of the car, was a toy helicopter. And not just that, but a yellow toy helicopter that was wrecked and broken, with the rotor blades missing. Speechless. If you don't know my whole story… Drew was a pilot, and he died in a crash. In a yellow helicopter… which hit power lines… and when we viewed the wreckage the rotor blades were cut off. Whoa.

I think I'm still speechless about this one. It's weird, it's downright creepy - but then again he always had a dark sense of humor, so this is SO him. He has never been subtle about sending signs. Especially on birthdays. For my 30th birthday - the first without him - I found his name drawn three feet wide into a rock wall in the middle of nowhere in Arizona…. right after a helicopter flew by. How do you explain that? I couldn't. I decided, I know, it has to be him.

And the eerie thing was… as we looked up and around us, we noticed that the fog had started to lift suddenly. Now I know it's not possible that my dead fiancé controls the weather, logically, but still I couldn't help but feel like he'd had a hand in keeping that fog there just long enough to drag me out to the beach. He would have known more than anyone that a thick fog or big thunderstorm would have had me scrambling for my camera. And he would have known I'd go right to the beach, and right for that exact pier. Had it been a sunny morning, we'd have gone straight to breakfast... and we'd have never found that helicopter. And really… that thing could have been anywhere on the miles and miles of beach that span Padre Island. Or in a trash can. But it wasn't. It was right exactly where I would happy to be led by this mysterious fog. And exactly where his mom decided to park the car, despite a mostly empty lot. I can't believe it as anything else put purposeful.

And it turns out, that little yellow sign helped get me through the day. It felt like a hello from him. Reminded me of his sense of humor, which I miss so much, and made me feel that perhaps him and his dark humor are very much alive and well in some other way. I kept me imagining his bright, playful spirit… happy, light, joking around with us, ready for a party. I had hoped for a sign from him, but I sure didn't expect one like that.

There were two other things helped me be able to celebrate this day. One of those is the people in my life. My friends and family from far and wide texted me, called me, and made it very clear that I was not going through this day alone. They left birthday messages online to him, just as if he were still here. That's an important one - for loved ones to wish him a happy birthday like he never left us. Because they get it, he never did leave us - not entirely. For them to wrap me up in their love and support not only made me feel safe, but also touched my heart so deeply because I am also watching them continue to take care of the most important person in his world for him. I know in some way, they are bringing him joy and comfort, which does the same for me.

The other thing that helped a lot was making something to honor him. I decided the best way to do that would be to get his family to help me create a special birthday message to him. We went out to the beach after dark and had a bonfire and a few beers in his honor. After a while, I got my camera out, and - using hot coals from the fire - we each took turns writing out part of a birthday message to him in the air. This morning, I compiled them all together in the computer into this:

I had thought of the idea to do it the day before… and I really gotta say, just knowing that I had some kind of plan for a way to honor him helped me a lot. It gave me something to look forward to on a very very hard day. I just kept clinging to that. I think having even some small kind of plans for days like these really help. I also warned my closest family and friends that I may need to call them and have a total breakdown this weekend. Of course, they already knew that, but it was more for my peace of mind and security to know I had people ready and waiting to pick me up. That's just me, I need to make my needs very clear so that I can feel safe and free to relax into whatever comes, joy or pain. It really helps.

All in all, it was a beautiful day. It was full of love, incredible surprises, and natural wonders. I feel like I honored him to the fullest. I feel like he knows it. I still cried. Of course. Tonight I had a pretty bad breakdown. But you know, that's okay I think. Because the good outweighed the bad on his day. For me and for his family and everyone close to me, it was really a pretty beautiful day of being together and appreciating each other deeper than we ever knew how to before he died.

Weighing the Days

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Yesterday was a hard day. Exactly a week until Drew's birthday, perhaps I don't remember how hard it was last year… but I could swear it's hitting me harder this year. My body seems so much more aware of the lack of his body, but also just the feeling of him in the space is far more distant now. I downplayed that first sentence… it was a hard week actually. And next week I'm sure will also be hard.

There are some good things though. The first time I had to face his birthday (and all the other special occasions) after he died, I was filled with anxiety for weeks beforehand. That horrible tight chest and the racing racing racing thoughts that just wouldn't stop. I have noticed though, as hard as the second year has been, when those special days come… this part no longer comes. There is still sadness and still a broken heart and a broken life to try and hold together, but there is no longer the paralyzing fear. I first noticed it last Thanksgiving, and went around like a weirdo expressing how happy I was to JUST be sad. Yeah! What a messed up statement… I'm happy to JUST be sad. But yes, I really am actually.

This really got me thinking about relatively and just how much we can change our perspective on certain things by what we choose to relate to it. It's like measuring your day up in one of those old balance scales. When you choose to relate today to one of your best days, it just adds weight to today. But when you choose to relate today to one of the really hard days - or perhaps even THE hardest day - we add weight to other side, and suddenly today might not seem as heavy as it did before.

In relation to a week before his birthday in 2012 - when he was alive and perfectly fine - this week has been unspeakably horrible. A hell no one should endure. But in relation to last year, when all the anxiety and fear and rawness twisted itself around inside me… this year  the coming of his birthday is so much better. I know I won't always be strong enough to choose to weigh today against the heavier days… but somehow I think this visual might help me remember better. And hopefully it'll help someone else out there too.

Luck 'o the Irish

Us at the family birthday lunch for both Ian and my sister,

the week before Ian got sick. I have a clearer photo, but I look like a doofus in it.

Ian loved celebrating his birthday with his friends, so last year, on his birthday, we marked the one year anniversary of him getting sick by going back to the restaurant we had to leave so quickly in 2012.

Earlier this week I got a call from one his mates looking to see if I was planning to repeat the lunch for the second anniversary on St Patrick's Day, March 17 (Ian was very proud of his Irish heritage, and his birthdate).  We did it for the first anniversary, and it was a nice way of marking the day.  Many people were not up to attending as it was too raw for them, and others that couldn't come for Ian's lunch in 2012, came last year.

But this year, I opted not to repeat.  It's a great opportunity for his mates to get together and remember Ian if they choose to, but it just didn't feel right for me.  

So instead of me joining them, a couple of his friends chose to come to church with us over the weekend, and the anniversary of Ian's birth (which I suppose is the technically correct way of putting it) was acknowledged by the community.    The pews are not overly comfortable, and during the sermon one friend had to step out to stretch his back.  And found a stray dog wandering around, at risk of getting run over.  It had no collar, no id. 

They took this as a sign, as this particular group of friends called Ian by is nickname "Doggy".  I've had a couple of instances where Ian has come out of my mouth, not me, but no real signs like this. 

This morning was filled with medical appointments for John and I, and we went for a play in a playground, which John loved.  The day's gotten harder as it's progressed, but it's not been unbearable, just 'there'.  So the other grand plans for today, homework and housework are even less appealing than usual (and the housework never appeals highly!).

I did contemplate calling the church to find out if they found the owner of that dog, but if they haven't, I'd be tempted to take it in.  The other reason I didn't call was I also don't want to find out what sort of mess it made of the Minister's office - the only place staff could think of to put it where it would be safe!

First Thursday

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February 11 is a happy day for me (also marked with some trepidation) ... it's my son's birthday.  He who is so much his father, is turning three.

But since I generally write ahead of time, making use of the time I can sit in front of a computer screen uninterrupted while he's in child care, and I'm writing on February 7, John's birthday is not at the forefront of my mind. 

Last night is.

I love my first Thursday of the month.  But I don't like why I have it to look forward to.

It's when my local younger widows group meets.  Usually we meet for a discussion or workshop, but sometimes we take the opportunity to go out for a meal with adults that get why sometimes a sadness or silence comes over the conversation (and aren't phased by that lull swinging quickly to laughter and chatter again). 

We talk about how and/or when we struggle with our grief, get angry or indignant for each other as we deal with the bureaucratic or family/friend issues that arise, cheer each other on as we tentatively or boldly take steps into exploring our new lives, gripe about the things that our partners did that drove us batty, talk about what we've learned from our loss and grief - about ourselves and life in general, and we nod in agreement or recognition of similar experience so much, you think you should be a bobble head on a car dashboard.

You know when you don't see a young child you know for a little while and your usual response is 'they've grown/changed so much'?  I find I have a similar reaction each month, particularly those who came for the first time after me, initially came in the depths of their grief.  Month on month, I can see the grief-fog lifting, the smiles and laughter become more frequent, the reaching out to someone not as far on the journey and connecting them to the group. 

I can see what maybe I couldn't/can't see in myself, but in acknowledging how far they've come in their journey, I can see how far I've come in mine.  And maybe can identify where some of the brick walls blocking my path are.

One thing I've learned is reaching out and connecting with others in person for peer support has been invaluable on this journey.

And I've also become conscious that good days for me may well be difficult or bad days for someone else.  So while I celebrate John's birthday, I also send hugs, prayers and positive thoughts to one of our group who today marks one year since her loss. 

Symbiotic Comforting

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I turned 37 on the 2nd and simply didn't care or want to give my birthday a bit of acknowledgment.

My life right now feels a bit unsteady. It's as though it's on the cusp of something. What, I don't know. The unsteady feeling is rough on me and my anxiety levels have been high lately. The weather is all weird and I'm restless and anxious and irritated.  I'm infinitely sad that Dave isn't here and lately reminders of him abound.

I saw an Ellen episode tonight that featured a scientist. The guy did some fun and flashy science experiments that I know just over 21 months ago, Dave would have gotten so thrilled about and would have doggedly gone to work creating those demonstrations for his middle school science students. He then would have come home and shown me a million pictures of his students lit up over science because of the hard work he had put into the lesson.

I sat on the couch watching this guy and wanted so badly to turn to Dave and start discussing how we could make the demonstration work in his classroom. I wanted to cry and I couldn't. I can't quite freely cry right now as I type this, though I want to. It feels like I need a good cry but it's stuck within me.

Replacing the crying is worrying. I worry about so much these days. I don't quite know where the worrying has come from. I haven't felt this consumed by anxiety since the days Dave was in the hospital and right after he died. It is beginning to get even harder to be alone for so long. I've been longing for someone to just come over and stay the night with me. Just to know another human is in the house with me. I'm suddenly afraid to be alone and I haven't felt that since right after Dave died.

And yet, I still have much to be grateful for. I did get to have someone stay the night last night, my beloved girlfriend who was also there for me right after Dave died. I slept better because she was there. The other girlfriend who was my constant companion after Dave died got me a beautiful rose for my birthday to plant in a big planter for my balcony. The name of the rose is New Year. A new year of hope. I can't wait to watch it grow.

There is someone very new in my life, who was also widowed, who feels like a special gift I was lucky enough to find.

I have choir which lifts me up like nothing else and I have these sweet cats who shadow me everywhere I go, even more so when I'm feeling bad. I have a big trip to look forward to. I have life to live.

I just can't wait for this fog of worry and anxiety to pass so I can once again breathe deeply and enjoy the little things again. I can't wait to feel at peace again. 

I guess more than anything I wish I had someone with me right now to hold me and let me be really weak for a few hours. To cry while supported by loving arms. To hear reassurances from a voice other than my own. I get so tired of reassuring myself. It feels better to hear it from another source, somehow. I feel like maybe I've been so strong for long and I've simply run out of strength.

If anything, the last week or two has shown me so clearly, once again, how I have to reach out for help, earlier on rather than once it's reached a level of complete breakdown.

I need to allow myself to take a break from holding myself up and ask for someone else to do it for me just for a while. It's also shown me that at times, I still have to retreat to a deep grieving place where I simply need to treat myself like I'm in intensive care again. All but my most basic needs have to be put aside until my strength returns and I must get used to claiming that rather than pushing it away as something that is weak. It's damn strong to admit you've run out of strength. It's brave to say "help me because I can't help myself right now". I just forget that sometimes.

If you get to the point where you feel as though you don't have any strength left and even the normal little things that usually bring you comfort don't, I know. I know how hard it is. I know how scary it is. It won't always be. Things never stay the same.

I suppose I'm reassuring myself as much as I'm attempting to reassure you right now, but that's the great thing about this blog. It's symbiotic comforting.

A birth day to remember

A very special Cars cake made for a very special birthday boy.

How can it be possible? This little man that changed everything is turned 2 on Friday.

Holy Moly.

In some ways, watching him grow is going by way too fast. Gone are the days of baby snuggles and gibberish....he is now a full-blown Cars lovin', running and jumping, never stops talking, knows what he wants, stubborn red-headed tempered, loving and laughing toddler.

In other ways, though, his birth could not seem further away to me. If my reference of time was based solely on that day, I would swear Carter was an adult. Perhaps because I have suppressed that day in my mind and my heart....sure it was a day of joy that Carter safely made it into the world in spite of tragedy going on around him, but it was also the second hardest day of my life next to losing his daddy. It's one of the few pieces of grief I haven't fully come to terms with and I have a hard time talking about. Ashamed that giving birth to this beautiful was a painful experience. Thinking about that day always leaves me in tears. 

Perhaps it also seems so long ago because so much has changed since then. So much life has been lived, so many milestones have been celebrated, created, and passed. And I have changed since then. I'm not the same person who birthed this beautiful boy two years ago. It's crazy to think that so much could change in such a short amount of time. Maybe that's why it doesn't feel like a short amount of time.

The only thing that gives me the ability to speak about the pain of Carter's birth is the knowledge that out of those ashes came the beauty that is my son. The child that forced me to keep going, robbed me of my selfishness, and brought to life another piece of Jeremy for me to hold on to. And the boy that saved my life. This little man is too full of life to keep me focused on the pain...he leads me forward and focused on living. Children have a funny way of doing that.

I would give anything to see Carter with his daddy, even just once. To see the look on Jeremy's face that I have burned into my heart....the look of falling into unconditional love with the life we created. I would do anything to give Carter an opportunity to know his daddy beyond the pictures and stories we tell him every day. I crave the sight of Jeremy on the ground playing Cars with Carter. I ache to see Carter give just one big sloppy, beautiful kiss to his daddy.

As much as it hurts to know I will never get to see these images in my life time, I also know that I do not want Carter's birthdays to be marked by tragedy. Today, I am reminding myself of how far we've come and how much love and happiness Carter has added to my life just by being in it. And I smile knowing Jeremy is watching, beaming with pride that his little man is happy and healthy, despite my shortcomings. And I look forward to seeing where the rest of his birthdays take us.

Happy Birthday, sweet baby boy. 

I love you always.

I'm 21 Again

It was my birthday last week..
I did not want to celebrate.
I did not want to do anything but have a non-day.
A doona-day.
A day of not talking to anyone or even getting out of bed.

I think I am depressed.
If you can get intense depression that seems to last a single day every so often when life just sucks beyond the telling of it.
But in other ways, I started falling when Greg died and I've not stopped since.

There are just some days when it hits hard, and my birthday was one of those days.

I used to look forward to my birthday.
When I was little I would get so mad because Dad's birthday was 2 days before mine and that middle day just dragged on and on while the anticipation built and built.

...and then Greg came along and he was my birthday present.    I used to pinch myself that I had the best present of all "forever". I used to think how lucky I was to have found him so I'd never be sad or lonely ever again.

Boy was I counting some unhatched chickens there huh?

But now, I just see an endless stream of birthdays stretching out in front of me.  Another 21 years ... and then another ...and probably half that again (if you use a prediction based on the average ages of the women in my family when they died*).

...and that's too much for anyone.

I know I have to stop looking at the distance and just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.  staying upright. 
shuffling along.

But it's hard not to count those lonely birthdays ahead of me. 



*Yes ... I know nothing is certain and none of us know how long we will live - but I can make an educated guess.