Those Who Don't Know Grief

My husband's photo in the centre of the table for our Aussie back yard Christmas

 As I write this we're full swing into the holidays and I've survived Christmas Day, Boxing Day and am about to head to my parent's house for a large lunch celebration with 20 or so members of extended family.  I'm absolutely exhausted, but hanging in there.

I've heard many widowed people say that the second year can be harder than the first, because the shock has worn off and reality has set in. However for me, this Christmas has been slightly easier than last year.  I guess it just goes to show that everyone's time line is different and you shouldn't try and measure your grief against anyone else's. 

Despite being a bit easier than last year, it was still difficult and very sad.  Maybe I felt less raw, or just knew what to expect. The day started off quite well really, as I spent the morning with my parents, my sister and her family, including my three wonderful nephews.  We are all very close and they have all been with me every step of the way for past 17-months since Dan died.  When the tears start flowing freely, they are generally comfortable enough to sit with me and let me ride it out.  I know it hurts them, my dad usually chokes up when I cry and you can see the heartache all over my mother's face, as she feels so helpless to ease my pain.  But they know I need to cry and have grown strong enough to let me, which makes a world of difference.  So I was doing ok and was able to weep without having to remove myself from the activities or let it interrupt my day.

We exchanged presents and spent the morning snacking on oysters and cheese, my sister and I enjoying our traditional pina coladas while watching her husband and boys playing in their pool.  We placed a photo of Dan on the centre of the table and I felt happy and at peace.

When it came time for lunch, by brother-in-law's large extended family arrived and as the crowd started to grow and the mood grew more hectic with kids running around and babies crying, I felt my anxiety level rise.  

While Dan's photo still sat on the middle of the table, not one person commented to me about how nice it was to include him in our day or ask how I've been going.  The only time he came up in conversation was when I was asked about my trip to Sydney last weekend (to see his family).  When I mentioned that it was quite emotional because we had all felt his loss acutely, the topic of conversation was changed. 

Someone later asked if I had plans for New Years Eve and when I said I thought it would be too difficult for me this year, she suggested it might be a good way to distract myself.  I didn't even have the energy to explain how grief works or why counting down the new year with other couples wasn't the right choice for me.  I didn't bother, because I knew she didn't get it - and in truth, didn't really appear interested in understanding how every day was a fine balance between distracting myself and knowing when to push myself and grow through my pain.

There is something incredibly lonely about being surrounded by people who don't understand you or those who ignore the fact that an incredibly tragic incident has forever changed the person who are and the trajectory of your life.  No one seemed aware that I was there 'alone' while they all had their partners and children running around.  It became harder to connect with my family who got lost or diluted in the bigger group.  I started feeling like it was really wasn't ok for me to openly grieve or even talk about Dan.  I had to choke down my tears and hide my pain.

I understand that people don't know how to talk about death, I don't blame them for this - because I didn't know how to either before I was forced to face it front on.  Maybe they didn't want to dampen their own festive mood or maybe they thought that bringing him up in conversation might upset me.  That may very well be the case for some widowed people, who are just trying to make it through the day in tact, and talk of their departed loved ones makes it harder to do that.  But I was so deeply hurt that no one acknowledged that he was missing, or that I might be doing it tough. 

Yesterday Kelly wrote about how when people don't ask about your life and what you have been up to, you feel offended and ignored and unacknowledged. But then if they do ask, most of the time, you feel uncomfortable telling them about your life and what you have been up to, because they just wouldn't get it.

I felt like she was speaking from my own heart.  While being around this larger group of people made a difficult holiday even harder, I'm not angry or resentful about their ignorance to my grief.  It really is something that no one can understand until they have lost someone.  And even those who have, might have a different experience or personal view on the best way to endure tough situations, so their advice or approach might not work for me anyway. 

Today, at my parent's barbecue, there will be another group of extended family on my father's side who I don't see often and who won't know what to say to me.  They too might ignore Dan's death or they may feel brave enough to place a hand on my arm and ask how I am, or tell me they've been thinking of me.  If so, I will probably cry and things might get awkward - but that's my life now. 

I have become comfortable with the crying, I've had to.  As have the people close to me.  There will always be a barrier between me and those who don't understand.  I envy their ignorance or discomfort, because they don't yet know the deep pain of grief.  And that's just the way life goes. 

Complex Christmas and An Inspiring Story

Jayci at her grandfather's grave. Source

This morning I was watching the news and saw a feature about a young girl - 14 years old - who is working hard to achieve a very special Christmas goal. Her wish, is to put a wreath on every single grave at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery here in San Antonio, TX. To date, there are over 144,000 graves of fallen soldiers buried here. To say it is a big goal is an understatement. They have yet to reach that goal in a single year, but she is relentless. Partnered now with Wreaths Across America, she does 15 or 20 speaking engagements and fund raisers around the San Antonio, TX area in the fall to help raise money and bring in volunteers for this massive effort. The focus and resolve are nothing short of incredible to watch - particularly in someone so young.

I could not help but be completely inspired by the boldness and determination of her spirit. It allowed me to put my own pain aside for a moment and think about just how many ways on any given day there are to do something to remember or appreciate those who have died - whether as soldiers or otherwise.

It is one of those things that my fiance's death has changed in me for the better. Now I know first-hand what it means to the loved ones of the fallen for them to be remembered. My fiancé was not in the military - though he wanted nothing more than to do so, a back injury prevented him from being allowed to enlist. Regardless of that, I still know what it feels like when someone does something to show me they remember him - like leaving something at his grave, or sharing a memory, or donating in his honor. It means more than words can describe. You all get that.

I've been stuck in my own pain this past week - stuck thinking about how I'm sick of Christmas and ready for all this holiday mess to be over with. Year three without him is no better. Less scary for sure, less traumatic, but still I am able to muster only apathy for the entire affair. Even though I will be deeply happy to spend Christmas with his family - whom is now very much my own family - all the time leading up to that day is just an assault on the emotions. People talking about nothing but how behind they are on getting presents for everyone… when all you're thinking as you hear them is how lucky they are to still have all of their people in tact to give presents to.

I hate this. I want to be able to enjoy the season. I want to be able to just enjoy things the way other people do again. I want a simple holiday season where all I'm worried about is getting the Christmas shopping done and making sure food is cooked. But it is so far from my reality - Complex Christmas.

That's is why I am so glad I caught this feature on tv this morning though. This story about the wreaths got me out of my own pain and woke me up to the possibility that - if I pay attention and look for it - there are ways that I could use the holiday season to help me find meaning. If I make USE of Christmas as a way to connect to other folks who are enduring a complex Christmas - whether due to death, illness, financial strains, etc - maybe I could reclaim a bit of the good in this season. Maybe I could actually be able to find more than apathy in this time of year again.

There are all kinds of ways to do this… and even though it won't bring him back or make Christmas simple like it used to be, it would feel good, and make others feel good who might really need it too. That part of it I can get behind. I know that's not rocket science, but I think you get it. We get stuck in our heads so easily in the midst of grief and trauma. We have blinders on much of the time. And it can be hard see anything that can help it.

Today, I'm really grateful that a young girl doing big things helped me to take the blinders off for a while and begin to think about what I can do in the next few days that could bring meaning back to Christmas - not only for me, but for someone else. We'll see what I come up with.

To donate or find information about Jayci's Wreaths for Heroes project, you can visit her Facebook page.

Facing My Second Christmas Holiday Without Him

A friend called me yesterday to talk about plans for New Years Eve.  She had previously mentioned the idea of renting a house at the beach and getting a few people together for a fun night in.  While I had been quite keen to join them when we first spoke about it, I found myself feeling more and more reluctant as the conversation went on.

For a start, the house will have three bedrooms, all of which she had allocated to the three couples.  When I asked about my sleeping arrangements she suggested I bring along a blow up mattress and crash on the lounge-room floor.

Now, I'm not a princess.  Sleeping on the floor doesn't bother me and I've done it plenty of times before.  But this time I found myself feeling really upset at the idea.  As soon as we hung up the phone I burst in to tears and it hit me that I would be facing my second 'new year' alone and without Dan.  

I wasn't hurt by my friend or her plans, but I realised I was upset about the idea of not having a bedroom because it would mean that I wouldn't have access to a private 'safe place' if the grief roller-coaster took a steep dip during the event. 

I tried looking in to hiring my own hotel room nearby, so I could retreat if and when I needed - but everything was either booked out or had a minimum 4-night stay that would be way out of my budget.  

I thought about driving up to the beach in the afternoon and not drinking, so I could drive myself home when I wanted instead of staying for the night.  But I don't want to do that either.  

In fact, within about five minutes of hanging up the phone I felt myself going in to self-preservation mode.  I was flat out ready to hide from not only New Years Eve (I have invitations from other groups of friends that I could take up) but all holiday-related social events over the coming weeks.  

Instead, I decided, I would stay home alone and go to bed early that night, hide under the blankets with the cat and let 2015 crawl in unannounced.  And there it was again.  Dan was dead and I was on my own. 

It's so easy to miss him.  Even when the grief isn't the biggest thing in my life and I'm in some kind of place of peace about his death, the 'missing him' is there.  The happiest of moments can crystallise his absence and remind me of what he's missing.  What I'm missing. The smallest or most obvious thing can set me off at the most unexpected times.  

I can be sailing along in calm seas, feeling ok, planning my Christmas holiday... then suddenly realise that at midnight on New Years Eve I will have to stand there awkwardly while everyone else around me turns to embrace and kiss their partners. It was a classic light bulb moment.  I mean, Dan isn't going to be here for the holidays - how had I not thought of this already!?  

Then came the realisation of everything else he would miss out on this Christmas.  When I make the trip to Sydney to see his family next weekend, his absence will be incredible.  I can't wake up in his arms on Christmas morning and make him wear a silly matching Christmas-themed accessory with me. I won't be able to find the perfect present to make his eyes light up and bring on that gorgeous, excited grin that used to flip my stomach. 

He is gone and it sucks.  So today has been a teary day while I cry for the fact that my husband is dead and won't be home for Christmas.  When I'm ready and the sadness has been vented enough, I will get back up, brush myself up, and take another step forward into this widowed life without him. 

500 Days of Missing You

As of today, my husband has been dead for 500 days. That just sounds so utterly ridiculous to me.  500 days.  It might as well be an eternity.  During those first few weeks, each day felt like a marathon.  It was the greatest challenge to make it through every. single. day.  

I'd lay in bed at night with a heart heavy and a broken spirit, exhausted from feeling every second of time that had passed without him here. The days were long and sad. And now there's been 500 of them.

Here, in my 17th month of missing him, the days are definitely easier. There is still great pain and sadness at his loss but - I guess like an athlete who's body becomes conditioned to their sport - I move through them easier.

I have been thinking a lot this week about the passing of time and how it's softened the edges of the agony I feel at being separated from him.  Since his death, I have grown in ways that I can't even identify and measure.  The weeks and months have a tendency to blur and it's easy to believe that I have not changed or healed at all.  Until something prompts me to look back at a certain point in time - then comes the lightbulb moment. 

For example, my feelings towards Christmas are very different to last year.  I am actually looking forward to this holiday period.  I have been enjoying searching for gifts for my family and friends, I bought a tree and have find myself humming along to Christmas carols.

This afternoon, I'm having seven close friends over for drinks, we're doing a secret santa gift exchange, I've made them all gift baskets of fudge and rocky road and have even put together a music playlist for the party!  

I was speaking to Dan's parents during the week about this strange sense of excitement I've been feeling and was so happy to hear his mum say that she's been looking forward to Christmas too.  

We all wish Dan was here, it won't be the same without him and my mind still wanders regularly to how wonderful things would be if he hadn't of died and we were making these plans together.   I'll probably still cry myself to sleep on Christmas eve with Mariah Carey's 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' on repeat.

But while last year, Christmas was something to endure - a challenge to overcome that I would have gladly ignored if possible - this year there is joy in my heart and gratitude for the family and friends who fill my life with love.

I survived....

... Christmas, that is.

I won't lie to you, the week before Christmas, I was not feeling great.  The weight of another Christmas without Greg weighed heavily on my mind. 
I missed him.
I know I miss him every day, but last week I really missed him.

I missed sitting on the couch and snuggling, watching the lights on the tree flicker. 
I missed talking to him about everything. 
I missed his strong arms.
I missed his safe embrace.
I missed seeing the kids play with him.
I even missed seeing him stuck under a piece of machinery, tinkering away for hours on end.

I was sad.
Really sad.
Should-have-been-medicated sad.

But then on Sunday, I received an e-mail from my friend that made me feel less alone.

On Monday, we went to stay the night with one of my oldest friends and her family.  She is the friend that introduced Greg and I, 20 years ago.  Greg was best man at their wedding.  We drove to their resort-like house on the hill on the other side of the city and we swam in their pool and drank champagne while all of the children played.  I walked through the bushland at their house and smelt the eucalyptus. We laughed and cried and it felt so wonderful to be there.

On Tuesday, I got a phone call from my friend who lives too far away from me.  I haven't known him long, but it feels like we've known each other far longer.  He is a widower with a school-aged child: we understand each other. Talking to him put me on a high for the rest of the day ..... to the point that when I took the children to church for the Christmas Eve service, I actually sang every carol.  I sang the harmonies and the descants.  I sang for the love of singing, if not from the love of the song itself.  This is HUGE. This is the first time I have sung inside a church for the past 3 years and 9 months and 24 days.....

Christmas Day itself was so much better than I could have imagined last week.  Of course I missed Greg like crazy, but for the first time since he died, I felt some of that old Christmas joy float in on the breeze.  My children showered me with love and my darling parents came bearing food and gifts.
It was hot here (Australian Christmases usually are), but we feasted on cold meats and salads, enjoyed Mum's plum pudding and ended the day with a swim ....
.....and if you know me, you know that swimming is my path to instant happiness.  I don't want to sound trite, but some of the most peaceful and surreal experiences I have ever had have been when I was floating on my back, staring up at the sky, remembering how much he loved me.

....and so I find myself on Boxing Day feeling the best I have since Greg died.
Last week, I couldn't envision any way that I would feel this calm, peaceful and even happy.

Again, love has saved the day. 

Love never dies.

The Ghost Writer ......

                                                                             source


...... of Christmas Past.

I know that most of you out there wish this day was just an ordinary day.  Just the 25th day of December, no more, no less.
Actually, I know that most of you wish that you could've fallen asleep around December 22nd or so and stayed asleep until January 2nd.  Or February 15th.
I get that.
All too well.

In honor of all of us, I decided to go through my blog and give you posts of my past Christmases. Christmases that have occurred in my "after".
Maybe you'll relate to one or two of them.
Maybe you won't.

But here they are, for whatever they're worth.
I hope they help.

Year One:
12/23/08
"Let's Be Honest ......"

...... not everyone likes Christmas.

    Let me clarify.  It's not Christmas itself.  I mean, I'm thankful for Christ's birth.  I'm great with setting aside a day to be extra thankful for that and to remember that without this birth my life would be very black indeed.  I'm grateful that this birth gives me the gift of hope --- and the knowledge that I will be with Jim again.

     But I have oh-so-recently arrived on the "other side".  The "outside looking in" side.  And the people on the outside do not like Christmas.  Not the event, but the season.  Or more specifically, the way Americans celebrate the season .... starting before Halloween.  

     I've always been aware of the 'outside people', but since we're being truthful here, I didn't give them a whole lot of thought.  Of course we've donated to charities, we've worked for the homeless, we've bought gifts for families who had none, etc. etc. etc.  But once I'd done that, my attention shifted to MY family, MY shopping, MY celebrating, MY plans.  The thought that one day I'd be an 'outside person' never entered my head.  Never.

     Yet here I am.  Looking at the "joy" and the commercials and the shoppers and the commercials and the decorations and the commercials and the people who feel pressured to go out among the millions of crazy people shoppers to get one more gift.  Or maybe two.

And now I see, really see, for the first time, what a mess we make of this holiday holyday.  It's like my eyes had some kind of film over them "before".  The same film that millions of people have over their eyes.  Or is it thousands of people?  Or hundreds?  

     I'm not sure what's worse:  to have had the film and then have it torn away, or to never have had the film in the first place.

     My eyes now see how many there are of us on the outside.  I didn't see them before.  And now I am one of them.  And there are hundreds of them.  Or is it thousands?  Or millions?  There are more than you know.  Many of them clamp those masks on for this time of year, so they're harder to identify.  But I see them.  Most of them anyway. 

    I see the people who have no family.  No one to "celebrate" with.  No one that looks like the people in the commercials.  

     I see people who have "family" but cannot, choose not, should not spend time with people who don't deserve the title of "family".  

    I see people who have nothing -- who feel and see the pressure of "celebrating", but can't afford it.  And then feel worthless because they can't make their family look like the ones in the commercials.

     I see people who have only one thing in their life .... because that one horrible thing has pushed everyone and everything else out of it.  They don't want this thing, but don't know how to free themselves of the demon that it is.

     I see people who are angry.  I see that they were hurt first, and then became angry.  And that anger is their shield of protection to push everyone away.  They don't have anyone to "celebrate" with, but they also don't have anyone close enough to hurt them.

     I see the people like me -- the ones who's hearts are torn apart and hurting.  The ones who's bodies feel so heavy that smiling is exhausting, let alone "celebrating".  The ones who wonder if they'll ever want to "celebrate" again.

     

     But then I remember this holyday.  And what it's supposed to be about.  What it's really about.  

 I know that the film will never grow back over my eyes.  

But I think that's a good thing.

And I hope that my heart, though it will always hurt, will hurt a little less.

And I know that's a good thing.
****************************************************************************
Year Two:
December 27, 2009
"It's the Most Wonderful Time ......"

..... of the year.

Or not.

I wonder why we have three such huge holidays slapped right up against each other?  Who was in charge of that?!

I mean, really?  We (read: "outsiders") just get through the whole "being thankful" thing and then, a few weeks later we manage to barely get our head above the crashing waves of Christmas.  But we do.  We tread water and manage to survive the waves as best we can.

And then ..... just when we think the waves may be subsiding ...... the tsunami of New Year's roars in.

For us "outsiders", there is nothing ....... (well, other than that pesky 14th day of February) ..... worse than New Year's Eve.  

And I think that we make the "insiders" very, very uncomfortable.  They don't know what to do with us on those two days ..... so they don't.  

I can't say as I blame them.  

Really.

I envy them.  

I hope they realize how blessed they are.

I hope they don't take for granted how blessed they are.

And I hope they have a wonderful New Year's Eve.

And maybe toss a lifesaver out into the waves once in a while.
***************************************************************************
Year Three::
December 22, 2010

"You Should Be Happy ......"

.... is what someone told me last night.
Actually, the entire sentence was .... "All of your children are home.  You should be happy."
I felt like I had been slapped in the face.
I was on the phone, explaining to this person, through tears, that I was feeling sad.
And that sentence was the response I got.

Most people would probably agree with that statement.
But you who read this blog are not "most people".
Thank God.

My response was to almost yell into the phone, "Don't tell me that!  Don't tell me what I should be feeling!"
There was quiet on the other end.  But no apology.  No attempt at an explanation.
I said, "I AM happy that the kids are home.  But it's very bittersweet.  Yes, we're all together.  But we're not ALL home.  Jim is not here and that makes me sad.  Very sad.  Yes, even after three stinking years it makes me sad."

It's been a difficult week.  I'm content one minute, in tears the next.
I don't remember being this emotional last year, but then I AM a widow and so my memory is not what it once was.
I AM happy to have all of the kids here.  And so very grateful.
But the presence of seven of us is a huge reminder that there are not eight.
Just like the stockings that are hanging over our fireplace.
This is the first year that I did not add Jim's.
It just seems too painful to constantly see it there.
The stockings are such a visible reminder that he is not .... visible.

So yes, maybe in the eyes of some people I should be happy.
I am blessed.  My children are all healthy and they are all home.
I have many loving family members and friends.
I am financially secure.
I should be happy.

And I usually am now.

But this week, this month .... I am sad.
And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

Except ignore the ignorant, thoughtless words of people who don't know what the hell they're talking about.
Sounds like a plan .....
*********************************************************************************
Year Four:
December 24, 2011
"I Have a Love/Hate Relationship ......"

.... with Christmas Eve.
Actually, I'd love to say that I weigh in heavier on the love side, but I don't think that would be true.
And I hate that I hate some of it.

Every year we go to one of the Christmas Eve services ..... and then we go to dinner with friends.
And every year I sit there and cry through most of the service.

Every year at least one person stops me after the service and says, "Are you ok?"
And every year I say, "No."
Sigh .....

It doesn't get easier.
It just ..... is.

I dread going to church on this night.
But I can't imagine not going on this night.
It's part of Christmas.
It always has been.

Staying home wouldn't do anything ..... it wouldn't make me feel any better.
It would just make one night different .... one night that should probably stay as much the same as possible.

And so .... it does.
I hope one day I will love it again.
At least more than I hate it.
*******************************************************************************
Year Five:
December 22, 2012
"December 22, 2012 ...... A Date That Will Live ......"

...... in my memory.
Forever.

This is the day ...... the very first day in 5 years and 5 days ...... that I have truly, unquestionably and finally ...... felt 100% happy.
Happy without reservations.  Happy without "if only".  Happy without having to add "mostly".

I have all 6 kids under one roof (although only momentarily because Son #2 has to leave shortly and Son #3 just returned home).  And we have two additional friends here, spending Christmas with us.
Nine stockings have been hung by the chimney with care.  Two dogs are frolicking around our family room (and I'm good with that ...... I'll soon have two more here permanently).  The beds are all full, as are two additional air mattresses.
The pantry and the fridges are full.  The games are out and ready to play.  The packages are wrapped (don't get me started) and under the tree ..... almost dwarfing the tree this year.  (The problem with doing all of your shopping on line is that you sometimes lose track of what you've bought .... and who's been ordered what.  I'll have to do a much better job next year).

It's been a very good day.  We didn't go anywhere.  Or at least I didn't.  Daughters #1 and #2 left to get a couple of presents and to go to the airport to pick up Daughter #1's friend tonight.
We've watched great classic movies.  And Harry Potter #3, which I don't consider a classic.  Not for quite a few years.

Son #2 came over after he got off work.  We all had pizza for dinner.  And a little wine. (OK, we ALL didn't have wine ..... 2 of the 9 are too young, much to their chagrin).  And momentarily, as soon as HP3 is over, there is talk of doing something called "Irish Car Bombs", which is a hugely politically incorrect name of some kind of "shot".
But I'm a game girl and willing to hang in there with the young people ...... for at least one of them.
And then praying I'm not upchucking all night long.

Tomorrow we will meet at Son #2's apartment and then go out for lunch.  Then we'll attend a Christmas Eve Service, and then come home for a home cooked meal.  We haven't decided what that will be yet, but most likely, Italian.  And maybe the start of a new tradition.

I.
Am.
Happy.

And so happy that I'm happy.
It's about time.
It's beyond about time.
It's been 5 years.
And 5 days.

Yes, I wish Jim were here.  But he's not.  And I can't do anything about that.  So I will enjoy who I have, while I have them.  And remember him and treasure his love and him ...... in my heart, where he'll always be.
So, in a way, he's here, too.

It feels so great to feel 100% happy.
T.A.N.W.*

Thank you to all of my loved ones, who've waited for this day with me.
Thank you to all of my readers ...... who've rooted for me and for the arrival of this day.
Thank you to all of you who are on this path with me, both ahead and a bit behind.
Don't lose hope.
Ever.

While I know there will still be painful days, and still be tears that come from nowhere, I am still happy.
And that's very, very huge.
************************************************************************************************************
So there you go.  Five Christmases without him.  Today is number 6.  
And I can truthfully tell you, though while I wish with every fiber of my being, that he could be here, it's still going to be a good day.
He would want that.  As I would want that for him and for our children.
Christmas, just as every other day of the year, is not the same.
But that doesn't mean it can't be good ...... again.

It's been a long road.
A very long road.

For all of us.
Please know that today I am thinking about all of you.
And wishing you peace, love and contentment.
They might not come today ...... but they will come.
Please hang in there.  And hang onto Hope.
Because someone is on this road, right behind you, 
thinking, "If he/she can make it that far, so can I."


*T.A.N.W. = There Are No Words

Ornamental







Blessings to you, during this difficult time of year for many of us.

I've handled Christmas pretty well since Ian died.  Partly as we'd not really developed/embedded traditions before he passed, partly because I have a very young child who I want to experience and have memories of the childhood magic and joy of the season.

So I bring you my Christmas Eve musing...

Some have a trophy wife; I have an ornamental husband*.

Ian actually hangs on our Christmas tree.  Well, part of him, anyway.

He's up near the top (safer that way, with an active toddler and all).

At our Church's 2012 Christmas community event that we hold in early December, one of the stalls was run by the wife of a Minister from another parish.  Her hobby is glasswork, making jewellery mostly.

But she also makes small amphora for placing a hope or wish in, written on a small piece of paper.
I saw them on her stall, and immediately my mind went to work about Ian’s ashes.   I’d already had some preserved in a glass orb (or as our best man puts it, I’ve turned him into a paperweight), so I asked her if she thought placing some in the amphora would work.  She thought so, and very, very kindly gave me one as a gift.

About a quarter teaspoon of ashes fit into the vial, and I sealed it with some candle wax. 

And so John and I have a new tradition.  For the last two Christmases, we've hung daddy on the Christmas tree.  Ian's still a part of it all, watching over as our son grows in excitement around the season, and as gifts get placed and opened.

I like that.

*full credit for this line has to go to our Minister, and Ian would have absolutely cracked up at it.

Photo: the amphora with Ian's ashes hanging on our tree.

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.

Have a holly, guilty Christmas

Yesterday, after a full day of sitting at home with the kids, opening presents and playing with those presents, and then picking up after all those presents time and time again, we started to get all 5 children ready for bed. As I was helping my 6 year old, Faith, I asked her if she had a good Christmas. She nodded quickly with a smile and I added, “Best one yet?” She nodded again.

Suddenly, I regretted asking her that. And for a split second I was hurt by her response. Of course I did my best to give her the best Christmas I could, but Christmas will be forever missing her daddy. And that’s something I can’t give back. And, I’m thrilled that she enjoyed our first Christmas as a family of 7, with two new sisters and wonderful dad in her life that love her immensely.  But my regret came from feeling like I made her choose between her life before and her life now. Obviously, that’s absurd but that’s how I felt in the moment.

As a widow, I am always careful about using phrases like “best day ever” or “best time ever” because it always feels like that is somehow disrespecting the life I had with Jeremy.  Like if I say it, it means Jeremy suddenly means less to me. So I steer clear of theses phrases of absolutes. I surprised even myself when I asked Faith if she had the best Christmas ever. I got caught up in the joy of a child-like excitement and when I heard her answer, it suddenly brought me back to reality.

I don’t want that to bother me. I want all of our kids to be able to have the best Christmas ever. When I really sat on it, I realized that I, too, enjoyed Christmas this year. What a far cry that has been from my last two Christmas’ and I was so thankful to have a happy home this year and to make new memories and new traditions. Even though grief is always hovering, there was a lot of joy too. But enjoying it made me feel guilty.

I’d hate to think that my best moments are behind me.  I have wonderful memories, but I know I’m not done making them. And so, I smile knowing that I can make good memories still, even some of my best, without comparing the life I had with Jeremy.

I’m glad Faith had the best Christmas ever.  And I think Jeremy is glad, too. 

So this is Christmas

After a week of holidays, I have been doing well ..... all things considered.

I have lulled myself into the false sense of security that this, my third Christmas as a widow would somehow be softer than the previous two: seeing family and friends; wrapping gifts and preparing food; looking forward to next year with excitement. 

But its Christmas Eve as I am writing this and it has finally hit me - Greg still won't be here, again, no matter how chirpy and upbeat I am.
He won't open the present we bought him and he won't tuck into the smoked ham, salad, treats or plum pudding.
He won't rig up a paddle pool for the children to escape the summer heat and for adults to cool their feet whilst sipping icy drinks in the shade of a tree.
We won't tag team present wrapping with scooter assembly and we won't stifle giggles as we sneak about, drinking Santa's milk and eating his biscuits.
He won't kiss the foreheads of two sleeping children before heading off to bed in the hopes that the children will sleep in until at least 6am.

....but I don't think for even one minute that he won't somehow be with us, grinning as the children open their gifts and standing close as tears are shed. 


.....and I am sure that I will feel his love around me like a cloak as I get myself through another Christmas without him.

2 down, 48 to go...

Christmases without Greg, that is.




Given my long-lived female relatives, I know I can expect to see the age of 90 if not 100 years old. (Longevity seems to be a heritable trait in my family ... as does early widowhood.)

Which means 48 more Christmases to endure even with the more conservative estimate....

...and I don't want to do another single one, leave alone another 48 or more.
.
.
.
.

...and that's where my head is. Not pretty, and I know I should pull myself together because ... well ...
I didn't die ....

People who don't know me, or who don't have a basic grasp of psychology will tell me it doesn't help to keep thinking this way.

... but it does...

If there is one thing I have learnt in this mess that is widowhood: grief will always out.

Better to brood and cry and moan every so often, than to button it down, don't think those dark thoughts. ...and have it hit you full force at the most inappropriate times at a later date.

So, I'll spend a bit of time feeling sad and sorry for myself. I'll brood about having to live for so much longer without my man. I'll cry in the shower and I'll swear a lot.

But after that, I'll feel OK again and keep plodding on. I'll keep moving forward and not think about having to keep living long after my love died.

...and I won't beat myself up about not taking it all on the chin ALL the time. I'll allow myself to have a little wallow in grief and self pity every so often without feeling guilty.

So you'll excuse me while I go play some sad songs and have a little cry .... I'll feel better for it tomorrow, I promise.

I Think I Do

from here

It’s so strange how much easier the holidays were than I expected. Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been easy, just easier than expected.  I've been feeling almost spooked by the lack of horrific pain I've felt in the last week or so leading up to Christmas.

For one thing, Dave and I never made a big deal out of Christmas. We’d hit his parents’ house for Christmas day because they expected us, but we didn’t put up a tree (We gave up on a tree after the cat knocked the thing over and ate the needles) and didn’t wrap presents up for each other. We got each other gifts so frequently throughout the year, that at Christmas time, we’d usually just pick a joint gift for the house that we’d been wanting and call it done.


Because it wasn’t a special time of year for us, maybe I just didn’t feel his absence any more than I do on a normal day. I miss him every day, so this day was like all the others.  It was hard to see couples and families, but that’s always hard. It’s almost harder on ordinary days. Even couples and families who don’t want to be together often feel duty-bound to spend time together during the holidays. It’s the normal days when there’s no expectation to be together that the togetherness I see around me hits me hardest.

Dave was wonderful in many ways, but one way he was very different than me was that he didn’t need the company of many people. In fact, he was quite satisfied to be with me, and only me, every day. The thought of holiday parties or get-togethers made him very uncomfortable. Because of that, I spent holidays either alone with him, or attending an occasional party without him during the holidays. I never really thought I minded terribly, but a part of me I didn’t even know existed just soaked in all the time spent with my friends this year. The reason for that is tragic, but there it is. I can’t deny that I very much enjoyed all the socializing, even while feeling this giant hole in my life and heart where Dave used to reside. My friends saw to it that I'd be surrounded by them and their love during the holidays and this alone was the most incredible gift of all.

Also, since we don’t have kids, I didn’t have to pretend to be strong for their sake and I didn’t have to see them experiencing Christmas without their father. I can’t imagine that kind of pain. All I had to worry about was my broken heart and not theirs too, or about being strong for their sake.

Then, there's numbness. I'm pretty sure that it plays a part here. I think I'll know better in hindsight, but I'll venture to bet my mind is protecting me a little by going somewhat numb. 


I’ve also been feeling some  pride. I’ve made it 7 months. I have reached out for help and love from those who love me. I’ve begun building this new life from the rubble his death left behind. I’ve survived. I am stronger than I ever believed possible. And now, I’ve survived the holidays (well…almost) and can maybe, just maybe, see a ray of hope for next year. The chance to create new traditions and celebrate my survival of another year is there for me if I want to accept it.

I think I do.

Speaking to the Ghost of Christmas Past

The day Phil died, my world was irrevocably changed. No amount of crying, wishing, or begging could switch my new reality back to the reality of what seems like only moments ago. The first Christmas without him, I sat on the coach alone watching the kids open gifts that only I chose, purchased, wrapped, and stowed under the tree...barely able to keep from bawling all over their happiness. I swear I could hear my heart breaking again as reality slapped me in the face on what is touted as the merriest of days. I didn't believe the pain of missing him would ever lessen. I couldn't see how that was possible if Phil was still going to be dead...and unless there was some kind of amazing magic wand under the tree that could reverse my reality, Christmas seemed doomed for ever more.

What I know now is that the pain of missing Phil hasn't lessened. In fact, because the pain is part of my everyday life I have stopped watching it with a wary eye. So on occasion that powerful longing has the ability to sneak up behind me and sucker punch me in the gut...taking my breath for a moment in an unexpected swoop. But I now find this breathlessness bittersweet. Because missing him reminds me of how much I still love him. Temporarily being unable to believe that he really is dead oddly cements his memory over and over again. And each Christmas I find myself briefly visiting in my mind's eye the me that sat alone on the couch that Christmas morning in 2005, and wishing I could tell her that she will never forget the moments she is living.  In fact, she will revisit them time and time again. But not for the reason you may think.

So today, I'd like to share a few things with my Christmas 2005 self in the hope that if you find yourself sitting alone thinking that this will never get better these words may help you, too....

It's okay to cry. You won't drown, though I know you are afraid that you might. Let people love you. It really is the only thing they can do, on Christmas Day or any other day. Life could be worse. I know that is hard to hear right now, but it is true. Hold onto that. You won't forget. Even though the timber of his voice will fade, you will never forget the way he spoke to you or how his voice in your ear made you feel.

Life will keep moving whether you like it or not. And eventually you will move, too. It's okay. Phil did not take the best part of you with him when he died. No, he didn't. Don't argue with me. Forever does not apply to life, but it does apply to love. You will always love him. The holidays aren't the hardest days. Rainy days when he would have called you ten times hurt worse.

Ask for help. I know you hate appearing needy, but you can't do this alone. You need people who care. On that note, when you ask for help you give someone who loves you a gift. They want to help, but don't  know how. Help them help you.

Don't worry about always hating what has always been your favorite time of year. YOU will come back, it   just takes time. I know that patience is not one of your virtues, but this time you will have to wait it out. There is no shortcut.

This is not the end of the road for you. You have so much to do in this life, and so many opportunities to honor your love for Phil by living large. He would want that and deep down you know it. You will never be the same after losing Phil. Someday you will value this fact.

As the tears stream down your face many times today, know this: You can survive Phil's death. And you will.

The funny thing about the above list, is that even if I could have told myself all of these things, I doubt I would have believed them. But that's okay. I believe them now, for me and for you. One day you will value the tears you cry today. They are streams of love.

Merry Christmas, darling. Loved, and never forgotten.

Wake me up when December ends

It’s December 1, 2011.

I bought a new car today.

My very first new car ever.

The very first car I have bought all by myself.

Something bright and shiny and new to replace the old and falling apart, frustrating and faded.

I should feel happy.

But I don’t.

I am gripped by the worst grief I have felt in months.

“A new car – you are so lucky” she said.

“I am not lucky” I wanted to shout. “The only reason I have to buy this is because Greg is dead. If he were alive, he would have fixed the old car.”

“...and all that bright, shiny money I paid for the new car wouldn’t have been available because it would have still been sitting in his superannuation account.”

This conversation never took place though.

The second half of it ... my half of it... took place in the shower as I washed off the dirt of the day like so much armour surrounding my heart.

...and I broke.

By the time I dragged myself from under the hot water, big, fat, salty tears were plopping onto the bath mat at my feet.

I gripped the door frame for support as drop after drop fell from my eyelashes to puddle onto the floor.

My whole body was heaving with silent sobs as I crawled into our (my) cold bed, and as I lay down the tears ran in a steady rivulet down my face to soak the pillow behind my head.

...and I wonder if I am feeling this way because today marks 21 months since Greg’s head and chest were destroyed so badly by the bulbar of a truck, that I never saw him again.

... or am I feeling this way because I am having to face my second Christmas alone.
....my second Christmas as a sole parent.
...trying to put some sparkle into the children’s lives to make a semblance of a happy childhood.
...trying to fake a joy that I don’t feel and trying to summon a belief in God and goodness that has long since gone.

I don’t know.

Right now, all I want to do is to sleep through this horrible season and wake up when there is some light back in my world.

Just wake me up when December ends....