Wiping Away the Fears

For two years and nine months now... I have had one of those weird widow "things" that I have done. Or really that I haven't done. For all of these days, weeks, months, and years... I have not cleaned the bathroom mirror. Not once. The reason for this is simple, and anyone widowed will likely understand. When I shower every morning, I get out and look up at the fogged glass of that mirror... and across it are the faint streaks of a hand that once wiped it clean. A hand much bigger than mine.

For two years and nine months, I have been comforted by this... every time the mirror fogs up, there he appears again. For that moment, I can still believe that my fiancé is somehow right around the corner. I can believe that he is nearby even though I can't see him - just like his handprint on the mirror has been there all along, even when I can't see it. It has been a daily reminder to believe his love and his spirit still exist despite his body not being here anymore.

For two years and nine months, I felt right about leaving that mirror dirty. Covered in dust and little bits of toothpaste and soap down near the faucet. But then something shifted. A few weeks ago, when getting out of the shower and looking at it - the thought entered my mind for the very first time to CLEAN it. It came as naturally as could be. Just there, so nonchalantly. I didn't analyze it or force it to be there. Almost as if he was whispering to me, that it was time.

I stood and looked for long time, trying to decide if I would do it. Ultimately, on that day, I decided "not quite yet" and left it. For a few more weeks, each time I looked at it, I would think about it... "Not today". It was a gentle thought, and one I was able to hold without being upset. And then this past week, finally, after sitting with this idea long enough... I looked up and did the same thing I've done for the past month. As soon as I asked myself if I should do it, a sticker that said "broken hearts club" that I had taped to the mirror fell off. It's never fallen off before, and has been there for months. I decided, well, that was it then. He's telling me "just clean the damn mirror already!" And with that, I grabbed a clean rag and took a deep, thoughtful breath, and made a bold swipe across the mirror.

As I cleaned the fog and those final remnants of his touch off the mirror... I didn't see the erasing of him, but instead, I saw me. Instead of feeling like I was losing a piece of him, I felt like I was clearing away the things I had been clinging to and was able to see myself more clearly than I have in years. Without the dust. Without the dirt and grime. I marveled at the metaphor in front of me. How tightly I've been clinging to the tangible things that remind me of him these years. And how suddenly I am standing in this place... ready to begin to see myself more clearly. And ready to allow him to live in my heart.

It felt like a huge shift to feel unattached to that mirror finally - a release - because it means that I am beginning to trust that he is in me and with me always and I can never lose him again. He is no longer in that handprint on the mirror. He is everywhere, all the time. And as I'm beginning to trust more fully in that, the mirror became just a dirty mirror - without any power over me.

How bright everything looked once it was clean. How much brighter my own eyes looked as I watched my reflection looking back at me. I smiled, because now I have a clearer, brighter view of myself and I also have him - just as present as he has ever been. He didn't disappear like I feared. And with every one of these sorts of milestones of loosening my grip, I discover yet again that I can no more lose him from my life than the sky can lose its stars. It is just not possible, and not something I ever have to fear.

A Really Bad Night ......

...... and day.

I wrote this post for my blog yesterday.
I don't have the energy to write anything else at the moment.
So you get to experience what I experienced.
Buckle your seat belts.

I'm staying in NY an extra day, though I'd much rather be on my way to Texas than sitting here, feeling what I'm feeling.

Last night, at some time after midnight, Daughter #1's cat made his way into my bedroom, which I almost always keep shut so that he can't come in.  I was in the rest room, getting ready for bed and I suddenly heard the window shade make a loud noise.  I looked over there and immediately knew what had happened.  Jack had come in, jumped up on the window sill and either jumped or fell out of the window.  I couldn't see him down there, but a guy was looking up at me, not saying anything or pointing at anything, just looking.
I started praying out loud, grabbed my shoes and my keys and flew out of the door, down the elevator and outside.  I looked all over but couldn't see him.  Then I started to hear his meow.  I couldn't tell if he was in a tree, or down on the ground.  The more I called his name, the louder is meow became.  I finally dropped to my hands and knees and crawled around and between newspaper machines and parked cars and there I found him ...... underneath a car.  He wouldn't' come to me but just kept meowing.  I could tell that his mouth was hurt and that he was bleeding.  I spoke soothingly to him and petted him as I crawled as close as I could under that car.  Then I managed to grab his tail and started gently pulling to try to get him to back out.  All four feet were clawed into the ground as much as he could manage, so I had to pull harder on his tail, hoping that I wasn't causing any further injuries, and hoping that he wouldn't turn on me and use those claws and his teeth.
He didn't and I was able to get him out.  I cradled him close to me and went back into my building and up into my room.  I grabbed a soft towel and wrapped him in it and then walked into Daughter #1's bedroom to do what I dreaded doing ..... waking her up to tell her what happened.
That's when I started crying.

She held him and talked to him while I got on the internet and searched for a nearby 24 hour vet hospital.  I called one, left a message and was told that a dr would return my call in 15 minutes.  We both felt that was too long to wait so after a few minutes I got back on line and called the next place.  A woman actually answered the phone because they really were open all night.  So we got the address, jumped into a cab and headed over.

D1 turned Jack over to the nurse who let us in and said the dr would be up as soon as he'd examined him.
D1 and I sat in a small exam room and cried and cried, saying very little to each other, other than the "I'm so sorry" that came out every 5 minutes or so.  She wouldn't even meet my eye.

The vet came in pretty quickly and said that Jack's jaw had been broken in several places. Part of the bone under his cheek had broken and it seemed to have gone behind his right eye, which explained the bleeding we had seen there.  He said that he didn't seem to have any other orthopedic problems, so that was good.  He was breathing very rapidly, which we had known, but that could be due to the pain and the stress and hopefully not a lung injury.  He said that there may be neurological  damage but that we wouldn't know that for another 24 hours or so.  They had sedated him, and given him pain meds, which makes it hard to assess his neuro condition.  But at least he was out of pain.

Then he started talking about the cost that it would take to fix him.  He was a very, very nice man.  He said that it would not be inexpensive, but that there are programs we could apply for to see if we could get financial help for this.  The problem with that was the time it would take and he needed help that night.  The hospital didn't want to start spending a large amount of money on him if the treatment could not be continued.  He said that he'd work up an estimate for the cost for overnight and then we could decide what to do after that.
He also said that, if we could not afford it, another choice was to go ahead and put him down.  It would be humane and painless and he'd support that.
I think that's pretty much when D1 stopped looking at me altogether.
The dr. left to go get the estimate, leaving us alone in the room.
And even though we didn't have eye contact I assured her that Jack would not be put to sleep.

I paid the estimate for the overnight bill, we went down to see him for a bit.  He was asleep and pain-free, but still a difficult site for D1.
Then we caught a cab back to the apartment and still managed to not look at each other.

I just bought window fans that day.  I had installed 2 in the living room and one in my bedroom.  The one in my bedroom fits perfectly and leaves no room for a cat to get out.  The two in the living room are less fitted, but they seemed secure enough to me to not let a cat over them.
It wasn't one of those windows that he jumped from ..... it was my window that was open about 4 inches.
D1 had expressed her fear of the cat falling when I had told her weeks ago that we weren't going to run the AC when the air outside was cool.  It would be too expensive and just crazy.  She wanted me to install screens on the windows, which would be astronomical and isn't all that easy to find around here.  So I opted for opening the windows a crack, except for in my room, because the cat wasn't allowed in there and the door was always (usually) kept shut.

Then I saw the window fans at Beth's house and thought that those would work.  We could have the window open, yet blocked because a fan was set in it.

This morning, after D1 left for work, I removed the fans from the living room windows and went back to opening them a crack.  I'm sure that they'll be completely shut if and when Jack comes back.

So hopefully you can see why I completely see this as my fault.  As I'm sure she does.
Which is why, when she stopped by the hospital this morning to get the astronomical estimate for what the surgery and after care would cost, I said, "OK."
Because what else could I say?

I haven't stopped crying since this happened.  It's unbelievable how much guilt a heart can hold.

But you want to know the kicker?  The real heart-splitting thing that I canNOT get out of my head? The thing that causes just as many tears today?

The doctor said this: "We need to wait for the swelling to go down before we can operate."

And though this is in NO WAY the same ...... and very very INSANE ...... those are the exact words I was told 5 years and almost 9 months ago..
EX.
ACT.

And those words are killing me all over again.

It's not about the cat.  Or whether or not he lives.
It's about D1, and what this will do to her, and her partner, whom I care for very much.
And what it will do it us.

But more than that ..... it's about Jim.  It's about waiting all that damn day before taking him into surgery.  It's about not being able to wait, in the end.
And it's about none of that mattering ...... in the end.
Because it was the end.

It's about some things that never end.
No matter how much you wish they would.

My Chakras are Messed Up

source

When I quit my job after Dave died, it was for good reason. I had to move or stay isolated out in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, I didn't have it in me to continue to teach. It was too much for me to both teach and grieve.

Starting from scratch, job-wise, has been a test of my personality for sure. Having a steady job that I'd done for over a decade helped me feel settled and anchored in my life. It gave me an identity.

I've fought this lack of identity off and on in the last two years. A part of me gets that it could actually be seen as exciting that I'm starting over. I can technically do whatever I feel like doing (as long as I can continue to provide for myself). The rest of me longs for the security I used to feel. I thrive on security and routine.

And that's where I start to get in my own way. Instead of feeling okay with seeking out that which I love, doing that, and then seeing where it leads me, I fall back into the concept of "I need a job. Any job" and I begin to panic and then feel paralyzed and do nothing. I've put feelers out for a few part time jobs, but no leads yet and I'm vaguely relieved to not have to go through the interviewing and newbie routine at this time.

I've also played with going back to school over and over again since I resigned. Each time I hold one of these possibilities in my mind to see how they make me feel - I feel nothing but mild dread to numbness. Nothing in me says "YES". Is that fear talking or are all the options I've considered just wrong for me?

I saw an intuitive healer the other day. After she closed her eyes to connect to the divine for about a minute, she opened them and said "There is death all around you." Then she said "Someone died recently. Your mom?" After I corrected her and told her that yes, my mom died, but not recently, she went on to describe my chakras.

The crown chakra at the top of our head is supposed to be the place from which we connect to the divine. She said mine was like a storm, black, chaotic, crackling with lightning. She said "You cannot connect with anything bigger than you because you are in so much pain". She said my third eye chakra was "a flatline", meaning there was no way to get in touch with my intuition right now. Too much healing to do.

I don't have any actual experience with chakras. I can't see them or sense them. I have barely even read about them. I don't even yet know how I feel about intuitives or their powers but I was willing to give it a shot.

What I do know is that if I do have chakras, they probably do look or function as just she described them. I'm not able to connect to my intuition or a higher power because of the pain and grieving I'm still doing. So how the hell do I know what to do next with my life?

I understand that there is so much power in just doing. Taking the next step, even if you don't know what that actually is. That I could find a job, any job, if I tried and that I'm not trying that hard. I know that I'm getting in my own way when it comes to working, or at least believing that I can work again.

On the other hand, there may be a part of me that understands that my whole being - heart, soul, body, ALL of it - is under construction. And until the scaffolding is rebuilt (when will that be?!) I might have to think of THAT as my job. Beating myself up about not being back in the working world is intensifying my pain right now and I don't need that either.

I suppose what's really hardest for me is to feel purposeless and unproductive and to long for an identity again.

I feel like I'm taking the easy way out by not pushing myself to do something.

But I am doing something. I'm taking tiny steps. They're tiny because I'm just learning to walk again. When Dave was alive I could leap forward. Now I shuffle along, making progress too gradual to see in my daily life. There isn't a checklist I can work my way down to get me back to where I was before he died. It won't work that way. I'm not the same person.

I'm going to be okay and I'm going to find the right path, including in my career. I'm more than what I do for a living.

One day when I'm working full time again, who knows. Maybe I'll wish for this kind of freedom again.

Right now though I'm stuck and I feel like I'm blocking my own way. Though, maybe that's for good reason. Something in me knows I need a rest.

Sometimes ......

                                                                      Source

...... I still cry really, really hard.

Sometimes ...... I cannot seem to stop.
Not often.
Not any more.
But sometimes.

Last night four of my kids and I went to see Tom Hank's new play, "Lucky Guy".  We were so excited to be seeing him, an actor we've all enjoyed thoroughly over the years.
It was good.
Mostly.

It was a true story ...... about a New York reporter who made quite a name for himself back in the 80's and early 90's.
This man is no longer alive, and that was brought out in the play.
He had survived a horrifying car crash, only to die of cancer a few years later.

My tears started flowing when his wife said something like this:
"We had been through so much.  SO much.  When you go through so much and survive, you think that  the rest of life will be easier.  It should be easier."

I cry now as I type those words, because damnit, that's what I believed.
We'd been through so much.
The year 2001 was a year that will always live in infamy for me.
Of course ...... it pales in comparison to 2007.  Now.
If I'd only known.

Anyway, the end of 2001 ushered in not only 9/11 but a huge upheaval in the industry Jim worked.   Huge.
He had worked for one firm since we graduated from college.  Twenty years.  A life time ...... for some.
Twenty years tossed into the wind after the end of 2001.
He/we were blessed.  He was great at what he did and so had no problem finding another firm who wanted to add him to their roster.  But still ...... twenty years of working and making friendships and seeing the same people every year at the Christmas party and other get-togethers.  Twenty years of sharing stories of raising our children and watching families grow and watching children grow up.
Twenty years disappearing right before our eyes.

And, during our Thanksgiving vacation to his parents' farm in 2001, he was target shooting and the gun blew apart ...... into his face.  Fortunately, I was with him that one and only time.  I was able to drive us back to the farm to get his dad and head to the hospital.
He lost his eye.
But thankfully nothing worse.  Pieces of the gun came close to entering his brain.
All he lost ...... was his eye.

As one can imagine, it was a very difficult loss.  And a very difficult recovery.  All I could think, over and over again, was "If we can just make it to the one year mark, things will be so much better."
And we did.

He went through so much.
And then he died.
And I wondered what the hell was the point of all of that.
Really, God ...... what was the freakin' point?!

I'll never know.  Just as I'll never know why he had to die.
And I've come to peace with that.  Because I know this:  even if God himself came down and told me exactly why Jim had to die ...... the reason would not be good enough for me.  Ever.
And so I don't ask anymore.

But ...... he went through so much.
We went through so much.
One would think that the rest of life would be ...... should be ...... easier.

One would be wrong.

The Power of We

My New We

Today is Blog Action Day 2012. The theme this year is "The Power of We".

Thinking about the word we brought back a vivid memory of the first few weeks after my husband Dave's death. I remember suddenly noticing how often I still said we.

I had many visitors in those first few weeks. I would hear myself telling them "We are getting new siding," or "We grew corn this summer but not last summer," or "We were going to go to Italy again," and the word we would punch me in the stomach, leaving me winded and nauseous.

My we had turned to me in an instant and my heart and mind hadn't had a chance to understand. The power of the loss of my we was immense and crushing. Almost a year and a half later and I'm still trying to understand it.

My we used to consist of Dave and me.  He was my family, my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan and the person I trusted most in this world. And then I became just me. Overnight.

Everything was still there. His shoes, his wallet, his phone, his email account. But he was missing and so was the me I had been when he'd been here on this earth.

He had been dead for less than 3 months when I went to San Diego for Camp Widow. I was 35 years old and was completely consumed with the need to find my new we.

I vividly remember the feeling I had as the escalator at that Marriott brought me to the second floor where Camp Widow check in was taking place. I looked around at all the people milling about and thought "They're all like me," and I swear I took a deep breath for the first time in 3 months.

I was comforted just by the knowledge that I was surrounded by my new we. It wasn't anything like my old we and it couldn't replace my old we.

It didn't make the pain of his loss any less devastating, but it was power in numbers, and I didn't feel alone anymore. That first camp was the beginning of my re-entry into life.

When I returned home, I would picture all of those people I'd met, doing incredible things, like Michele Neff Hernandez, starting the foundation that allowed me to find my new we in the wreckage of Dave's death, and Matt Logelin, finding strength in his daughter and getting his beautiful love story to her and her mom out into the world and I borrowed their light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't see mine yet, so I used theirs.

When I was sure I couldn't withstand the pain of grieving the loss of my old we, I would call someone I met at Camp, and even from several states (and a country) away they would extend a strong hand through the dark and pull me out into the light, reminding me that we were in this together at least for that moment.

When I'd do the same for them, I felt a connection almost as strong as any I'd felt before. It was as though I could suddenly feel the invisible cords from my heart to theirs, extending hundreds of miles, allowing strength to surge back and forth between us, as needed.

My identity from my before-life was gone, but my new identity was a WE again. A different we.

We widowed people are warriors.
We are heroes, the kind of people who have power from the depths they've clawed their way out of to find the light.
We are a force to be reckoned with.
We know intimately the true value of love and the impermanence of life.

I don't know if I'd truly understand that if it weren't for SSLF and Camp Widow.

Just the simple but incredible act of communicating online with widows from all over the world through this blog is a we that spans the globe and includes millions of people in its web of connections.

My neighbor, two doors down, just lost his wife to cancer and in my condolence card to him, I included one of the SSLF outreach cards I carry around. So, I've cast the net over him, too, including him in this we. Hopefully, he will not feel as alone just knowing that there's a we out there for him, too, whenever he needs it.

SSLF allowed me to have a we again, during a phase in my life that could have been isolating and horrifically lonely.

The power of we, indeed.

Life Ring

from here

My dear friend introduced me to a friend of hers today. At dinner, I learned that his brother was widowed in March. As in this March. As in less than 3 months ago. He's 43, without kids, and now without his wife.

I listened to the horrible story of how she died suddenly and how he found out. I tried to picture that man in those first few moments and days and the images were so closely bound up with my own sensory memories that for a few minutes I couldn't separate myself from the situation.

The intense pain of those first few months flooded through me and I juggled urges to detach just enough to avoid falling apart at the seams and to connect enough to empathize.

And then, something kicked in. Something so gratifying that it filled me up and shot out of me like light. I realized that I was the one who might actually be able to bring resources to this man who has just lost his best friend.

I took a piece of paper and a pen out of my purse and began to make a list for this man. I wrote SSLF, Camp Widow, Widow's Voice, my own blog, my own email, and my widowed friends' blog addresses. I tried to express what made it harder for me in the beginning and what made it easier.

It's difficult now to explain how this felt. I suppose, like Chris Weaver says, it's like throwing a rope to someone who's drowning. There's such relief in knowing that as long as he takes a hold of the life ring at the end of that rope, he can make it. There was a visceral sense of satisfaction that felt like energy filling my chest and heart.

There was an urgency, too. I wanted to gather the troops and find this man a few states away and get started. I wanted to physically put him on a plane to Camp Widow in San Diego in August and just say "TRUST ME" as the plane takes off. I wanted to surround him with my widowed friends and say "Look. This is the face of widowhood. We survive. We thrive. We come out of this stronger. It's possible. Don't give up."

I will not tell anyone to do anything they're not ready to do and I know from hard-won experience how difficult it is to hear "you shoulds" from anyone else during this process. Everyone is so different and grieving is just as varied. I have no right to tell this man what to do, but oh how I want to tell him to reach out. I want him to want to reach out. But most of all, I want to make him see that he's not as alone as he probably thinks he is.

I also felt some relief knowing that this man now had a concrete way to help his brother with this information I'd given him. It is so hard to know how to help someone who has suffered such a loss. I saw the strain of that in my loved one's faces after Dave died. I know that they all wanted to do what they could to help me and that they were unprepared.

None of us had ever gone through anything remotely like it before and yet they taught me how to do the most incredible job at helping a newly widowed person. And now, in a small way, I could pay that forward by sharing how they helped me most -- making arrangements, taking calls, bringing meals, sitting with me while I cried, taking my lead, the list goes on for days.

As my one year mark grows near, I think more and more about how my loved ones and I have formed this incredible web of love to survive this event. It holds me up and sustains me.

I don't believe in the stereotypical image of a winged angel from heaven. I believe in something better - angels right here on earth. Human, fallible, beautiful, mortal, loving human angels. Any of us can be an angel at any time. It just takes reaching out in case someone might be drowning. It takes gently but firmly tugging on them until they can swim out of the currents on their own.

I hope I can help someone even a fraction as much as my friends have helped (and continue to help) me.

Believing

I was thinking yesterday about the day after Phil died. Revisiting that day makes my skin crawl, literally. Mentally I can now stand at a distance and watch myself try to out run the pain; walk around in circles hoping that once another full revolution is complete I'd wake up from the nightmare; and stare at each of my friends and family in turn seeking something in their face that would show me how I was going to live the rest of my life without Phil. There isn't enough mental distance available to protect my heart from the waves of pain that still radiate around that day. Every time I speak to a newly widowed person, I take that virtual journey back to day two of my widowed journey.

Janine is not writing today, because she is revisiting those early days as well. Her family is walking beside a young lady whose father died last week. He leaves behind a wife and family who are now living the first days of loss. She has asked me to ask you for prayers, good thoughts, and your supportive energy for this family, and for this man's wife. Not only for today, but for the journey ahead. If you could also stand beside Janine as she does her best to support these people she cares about, and walk beside her son who is watching someone he loves mourn her father...as he mourned his.

August 29, 2005 I loved my life. September 1, 2005 I did not want to live the life that was traumatically dropped into my lap. On some level I knew I would find a way to make it through the days ahead, but I was certain those days would be devoid of both happiness and joy. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other, until I found you.

My widowed community (discovered on a crazy journey that is a whole other post) changed my life. I looked into faces that knew the pain I felt, and found a way to smile. I heard stories of both failure and success. Each widowed person I met had their own way of making the most of the life still ahead of them. I was awed, and inspired, and grateful. Because until I met people who outlived a spouse or partner and found the way through the searing pain into a life that was full and meaningful, I did not believe it was possible. 

Now, I believe. Not just for me, but for you. And for the family we've been asked to virtually support today. We are the living proof that surviving this brand of pain (sometimes I think of it as torture!) is possible, and they are going to need us. 

The best part about having a community like this is that you don't have to summon the energy to believe that goodness WILL return to your life, because you have a bunch of sisters and brothers (that you may never have met) who will believe it for you until you can believe it for yourself.

Grieving Mindfully

                                                                      from here



This little, unassuming book has been such a comfort to me since I've been reading it.  The section on identity and grief, especially, put to words what I've been feeling.


We grieve whenever an anchor in our understanding of our identity is lost. Picture your identity as a necklace of precious stones that comes undone and needs to be restrung. If some stones are lost, new ones must be added to replace the old ones. Grief can be understood as the process of picking up the pieces of your identity (the stones) without the help of someone you had assumed would always be there, or without a relationship that was a crucial part of your life (the string). Grief is the process of finding out who you are in a world that is barely recognizable because of the tremendous change that has taken place. You may not be able to answer the question, "Who am I?" for a long time after your loss.


So much of my identity was lost with Dave. Not a wife? Not a Mrs.? I had been a part of a "we" for 15 years, since I was 20. It's difficult to imagine that I'm edging closer and closer to a year of life without him. My identity is still being rebuilt, of course and I'm learning, bit by bit, to let that unfold without trying to rush it. But it's true that I won't be able to answer "Who am I?" for a long time and it's difficult to accept that. Difficult, but necessary.


The section on permanence was also especially meaningful to me.


We long for permanence in all aspects of our lives, often to the point of missing the present moment. You may yearn for youth long gone, unaware that your life today is what you will see as your youth in the future. You may wish you could reexperience some of your happiest moments, and in so doing prevent yourself from making new ones. You may wish you could stop thinking about someone or something, and thereby lose your experience of today by holding on to an unpleasant feeling. You may even imagine permanence where there is none. All these efforts to seek permanence are, in the end, futile. It is true, but hard to imagine, that in one hundred years, you and everyone you know will not exist. 


I recognize this tendency to long for permanence to the point of missing the current moment. It's a recurring lesson for me. All of this makes me think more and more that meditation and mindfulness in general might really help me. It was never before quite as clear to me until Dave died just how much time I waste worrying. I miss out on the present because I'm so fixated on permanence. It's just no use wishing things were different. Natural and understandable, YES, but my energy could be better directed.


I think the ability to be more mindful and live in the moment is like a muscle that can be strengthened with use, thankfully.


Strengthening this ability, according to the book, requires practicing mindfulness through meditation and one of the reasons I love this book, is that the author does a good job of debunking some myths about meditation. Instead of emptying your mind (which the author claims is fruitless), you focus on not engaging with the constant flow of thoughts that flit through your mind. You focus on the breath, the moment, whatever it is you're doing, and let those thoughts pass right through without letting them run the show. You practice staying HERE, in the now, even if it's only for 21 breaths. Eventually, Kumar says, you will notice it becomes easier to not engage those thoughts and focus more on the current moment.


I think those of us who are grieving could really benefit from the ability to detach from those thoughts long enough to be present once in a while. We have so much going  on emotionally as we grieve. We have our memories of our loved one's last moments and the guilt/fear/shock/terror that go along with those moments. We worry about our future without our core person. We try to make sense of things we truly can't make sense of. We struggle to figure out who the hell we are now. It's probably pretty crucial for us to give ourselves the gift of mindfulness occasionally as we do the hard work of rebuilding.


And we know, first hand, just how tenuous life is. The next moment isn't guaranteed and the past is over. All we have is NOW, after all.


Anyone else read this book and have some thoughts on it?
I highly recommend it, even if, like me, you think meditation/mindfulness is a little too "woo woo" for you. This is like mindfulness for the practical-minded! 

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.

The Dance of the Deathiversary

This post dedicated to my best friend. Our feet have so often marched to the same drum, and though we both would have abandoned the dance given the chance, I couldn't ask for a better partner in the dance of hope and life. Love to you as the sixth anniversary of Daniel's death approaches. No doubt he would be proud (and unsurprised) by the amazing way in which you continue to embrace life.

I dread deathiversaries, "with my whole soul", as my daughter would say. This dread is instinctual, and has nothing to do with how happy I am in my current life. The creeping feeling of impending doom sneaks up on me at the same time every year, and at odd times when I am distracted by nostalgia or lost in a happy memory. Sometimes the feeling of dread appears as a great crashing wave, hitting me full force from behind and knocking me into the swirling sea of despair, shocked and unprepared. Other times I can hear the drumbeat of the death march from afar, and I have time to steel myself for what lies ahead.

I am amazed by the way my body takes over as the days before Phil's death day unfolds. Singing along to the radio in the car can be suddenly halted by a realization that I am living in the moment when we visited my parents for the last time. How does my body know this, when my mind is completely unaware? The simple act of walking through the front door is fraught with danger when the death march has begun, each time I step over the threshold I imagine a random moment when Phil did the same. Pancakes become tearjerkers, cyclists cause a lump in my throat, photos now stacked haphazardly around the house are dusted and petted, and the memory of the life I used to live whispers my name over and over again.

The craziest part about this death march is that I am happy. Life is good. There are still difficult grief moments, but I am more aware of the goodness in the world, and in my life, than I have ever been before. So why does the death march have this hypnotic power over me? Why do my feet dance to the beat of the drums before my mind is aware that they have begun to play? Why does knowing the outcome of the story not alter in anyway the dread I experience as the day approaches? I don't know.

What I have learned is that the death march is worse than the actual anniversary. I have realized that honoring my feelings, and allowing my body to move to the rhythm that I can neither anticipate nor control, does help. Allowing the people who love me (including my new husband) to walk a portion of the march with me keeps me from isolating myself in the sometimes overwhelming sorrow. One other thing I know from experience--all marches come to an end. When this one moves on, I find myself still standing and holding onto the memories of a love for which I am eternally grateful, and moving forward into a life I am blessed to call my own.

If Widow's Voice Has Helped You....

This is me with Chris (one of our Tuesday writers) at Camp Widow 2011...like my t-shirt??

Before 8/31/05 I didn't think much about non-profit organizations. I admired people who worked for great causes, donated here and there, volunteered my time fairly regularly, would probably have clicked on a "vote for us" link to help a friend or co-worker win one of those contests...but the mechanics of the non-profit world were unknown (and of no interest) to me. Then Phil died, and I landed on another planet.

As the months passed and I looked at the scattered remains of my life I searched frantically for proof that I could survive the loss of my husband. I wanted living proof...who survives this kind of pain? Where are they? Why don't they wear badges or something? How do I find widowed people out in the regular world? They must be here somewhere right? Oh, please tell me that I am not the only one. I can't be the only one. Right? 

I began seeking other widowed people out of desperation. And I found a community one person at a time. After each interaction with another widowed person I felt less alone. No matter what was different about our story, the sameness of the fact that we both found ourselves asking the pivotal question of widowhood...now what?...tied us together in a uniquely powerful way. My widowed community saved my sanity; they walked each step of my grief process beside me; each and every one of the people I met gave me hope for the journey ahead; and eventually I knew that the people who came after me needed this community too. So I started a non-profit called the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation in order to provide the people who would walk this road in the future with access to the hope that saved me. Because hope really did save me.

I had no idea what running a non profit would require. In the beginning, I lacked all kinds of essential things (like funding!), but the call to do this work was something I could not ignore. SSLF began with one program (Widow Match), and the idea for a conference where widowed people could find each other...lots of others....proving that they were not alone and providing them with tools to answer the what now question. Friends helped, my family became volunteers, ideas grew into programs and I am very proud to say that three years later SSLF now touches over half a million (we are SO not alone) widowed people every year, with no operating budget. And the need for our one-of a kind programs continues to grow every day, because hope will always matter to widowed people's recovery. Count on that.

 Soaring Spirits is the parent to this blog and five other programs. In the three years I have been writing this blog and running this organization I have never openly asked for help for our programs.But today I am asking for your help because SSLF has a great opportunity, and the way to help is easy. If this blog or any of our other programs has mattered to you  or to someone you love please help us continue to help you/them. 

Pepsi Refresh offers grants to non-profit organizations based on public support via Internet voting and Pepsi Product purchases. It may sound like a gimmick, but I assure you it is not. Pepsi is giving away hundreds of thousands of dollars in support of great ideas to Refresh the world. SSLF is in the running for a $50,000 grant. This would be a game changer for us. Funding is essential to both day-to-day operations, and to future growth for a grassroots organization like ours. How do you help? Here is a list of ways to support our effort to secure this grant:

1.) Follow this link (http://pep.si/pCouk7) to vote for SSLF and Camp Widow every day until 9/30...only 23 days to go!

2.) Purchase Pepsi Products with the "Power Vote" logo on the packaging. There are codes inside these products (under the cap or inside the box) that can be used for up to 100 votes each! Collect them from your friends, give Pepsi away as a gift...gather codes and enter them all at once by registering HERE.

3.) Don't give up. Vote every day, buy Pepsi products (I know this is a shameless plug) and use those codes to support SSLF. We need you to make this happen!

Maybe you are like the before me and have never given much thought to how non-profits do what they do? The hard part is not just coming up with the idea and managing the logistics...it is finding the funding to get the support programs going and then keep them going. This grant would do just that. We've made it easy for you to vote...just look for the Pepsi badge at the top right of this blog. We need thousands of votes to win. Lucky for us thousands of people read this blog every day...if each of you support us for the next 23 days what a difference YOU can make....for me, for you, but most importantly for them. The ones who don't need us yet. Vote for us so we can help them.Thank you for reading, for voting, and for believing that hope matters.

If you have questions, or feel called to help support SSLF in other ways too, just follow click here for my contact information...I'd love to hear from you!

melancholy bed linens

Written three years ago. 17 days after Jeff died...

I have been sitting in the rocking chair in my room for a period of time each day staring at our bed and crying. I am trying to muster up the courage to wash the sheets. I tell myself, "Jeff would laugh at this. He'd think I was being silly and sentimental. They are just sheets. They aren't him." But he slept there. There are 'Jeff germs' on them.

I 'saved' the sheets from the bed in the spare room because of the same reason. They are folded neatly, with his towel he used that morning, the clothes he passed in and the clothes I was wearing that day in my closet. Do I need to add the sheets from every bed in the house? No, but it is hard to do.

He slept with Olivia for a time the night before as well because she was crying. I'm having a hard time washing her sheets too.

I sit in the chair and tell myself, "You can do it. They should be washed. You have other things that Jeff touched too." Then I sit there and sob.

I usually wash the sheets once a week. It's driving me nuts....But I don't want to wash him away.

Everything that changes in the house takes me farther away from him. I have a hard time dusting because I heard that dust is made up of 85% skin cells....some of those cells are Jeff's.

I have a box of hair in my closet along with the clothes and sheets that I'm hoarding. The day he died, my sister and I scoured the house looking for hairs in the bed, the bathtub and on the floor. I didn't want to lose anymore of him.

Am I crazy? Please tell me that I should wash the sheets. Tell me it's okay. He would want me and the kids to be on clean sheets, right? I'm just being silly and sentimental, right?
I think I've lost it.

Midnight in Paris

Today's post was written by guest writer David Hallman...thanks for sharing your journey with us David!

I walked by the building, intentionally, on the way home from seeing Woody Allen’s new film “Midnight in Paris”, a poetic reflection on the seeming attraction of former eras.

The access to the building is now sealed. Not just boarded over with plywood that I could pry loose. Not even with brick that I might be able to chip away with the right tools and enough sweat. No, the former door is now a solid wall of impenetrable concrete cinder block.

Thirty-five years ago, I walked through that door and met Bill. We created a new life together that evening, one that continued for over three decades during which we lived large in laughter and music, in art and politics, in travel and work, in pain and suffering, in love and loss.

That life is over and it feels like memory is all I’ve got left.

Without giving away anything too crucial about the plot of “Midnight in Paris”, let me just say that Woody seems to conclude that the past is not quite as romantic as we might imagine nor the present as pedestrian as we might fear.

The movie prompts reflection on memory and verges, I think, on deprecating memory as ultimately shallow—quaint and curious nostalgia that is unreliable as a guide to life in the present. That’s my take on it anyway. Many may disagree with my interpretation and I’m prepared to admit that my reaction may be coloured by more than a little defensiveness about the place of memory.

Paris was a special place for Bill and me. We had both studied at the Sorbonne before we met and we returned to the city of lights many times during our years together. Those are some of the memories that I cherish, that I hoard, that I guard with an army of emotional weaponry. Yeah, I’m a bit defensive.

But just so you don’t send the straight-jackets to take me away quite yet, let me reassure you that there is, I think, some good news.

I’m not only wallowing in the memory, though I do do that. I’m not dysfunctional and incapable of getting up and making breakfast each morning though that is difficult on many days. No, the good news is that I’m working with those memories, mauling and molding them, creating meaning out of them to help me understand where I’ve been, where I am now, and where I may be headed.

This memory work for me is through writing. This memory work is not easy. It does suggest though, that if memory is all I’ve got today, it is not all I will have tomorrow. I’m not prepared to just stare at that sealed-up door and walk away in despair.

Flooding

Special thanks to guest blogger Matthew Croke for filling in while Kim is at Camp Widow...we appreciate you Matt!

I hate to think I need bad stuff to happen to put life in perspective.  Haven’t I already tortured myself enough, trying to understand painful life lessons after my wife’s passing?  After three years, haven’t I come out on the other side a better person?

On the three year anniversary of Lisa’s passing, my parent’s basement flooded due to record rainfall in Chicago.  The very same basement my three girls and I moved into a year ago, after we sold our house.

A basement, where I specifically did not clean up before the weekend, as I was going to give myself a break to focus on the emotions of her passing.  Thus, toys, books, and clothes that on Friday night were on the floor, by Saturday morning, floated around the basement, like lily pads on a pond.

I place three fans throughout the basement to dry the floor which just hours ago were inches deep in water.  More memories are taken away from me as an entire collection of children’s books are ruined, water pouring out of them like a soaked sponge, as I lift them from the bottom shelf to the garbage.  Lisa use to read these to our girls. 

Today it seems personal. How much more headache is life going to throw my way.  I thought I was getting better feeling the world is not picking on me.  Today I am being bullied.  I can feel the anger build in my stomach.

I take a break from clean-up and go upstairs to get a glass of water.  I drink it fast as if I can, as if I’m trying to douse the fire that is roaring in my belly.  My Mom calls from the living room, “Matt, the news is on and they are showing the flood.”  I walk in the room and the first image on TV I’m greeted with, is an older man on oxygen cleaning his basement which is damaged far greater than ours, “What can you do?  You gotta clean up and rebuild.” he says, his shirt as wet from his perspiration, as his pants are from the flood waters.

His words throw a blanket over my anger inferno.  “The world isn’t picking on me” I say to myself, “I am looking for a fight.  Everyone is hurting tonight in my area; I’ve just made a choice to make it all personal.”  This is not how I want to live.

I go back downstairs to throw more soggy furnishings in the garbage.  While I’m at it, I decide to do a little internal cleaning and throw away some soggy anger that needs to be put by the curbside also.  When the clean-up is done, both places will be a healthier environment to live in.

A long-term thing.

My daughter is 8 years old. She will be 9 soon. Her Dad died when she was 7. She is a bright, beautiful, thoughtful, intelligent child. My blog name for her is Miss K. ...
...and Miss K has had a rough day.

For Miss K, most days are rough: she misses her Dad.
But she copes with her day at school.
No..... she does more than that ... she loves her days at school.
and at home.
But at night, she often feels the loss of her beloved Daddy more acutely.
Because he is so obviously missing from our lives.
...and we talk about her feelings a lot.
...and she sometimes talks to a psychologist about her feelings.
... but really, the verdict is that she is behaving and acting "normally" for a young girl in her situation.

BUT

...sometimes, the sad feelings show at school.
Like when the school play unexpectedly shows life savers reviving a swimmer as part of the play.
And her emotions float to the surface.
.....and she cries. (so did I).

....and this scares other people.
this idea that children are emotional beings.

Other people tell me I should worry more about her.
I do worry.
But not overly.
But I struggle to explain to others that she NEEDS to feel sad.
She won’t get over this quickly.

This sadness is long term.

Even though we are working through our grief … together.
Even though we might function OK.
Even though some people think we should be “over it” by now, or able to move on or able to function as we were in the Before.

This sadness is here for the long-haul.

And you know what?
It probably should be that way.
Grief shouldn’t go away overnight.
Grief shouldn’t go away within a year.

It needs to be felt, everyday, until we can run our fingers over the scars without screaming , and see how strong we are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...and while I know that people here at Widow's Voice will understand, I struggle to explain this to other people: Grief is a long-term thing.

strength

I have read a variety of quotes with a similar message. I think anyone who has dealt with trauma, loss or tragedy has come face-to-face with this choice. I also think that, at times, we have all chosen each one of the three options. I just hope that as we all get further from the moment that provoked this epiphany, we manage to choose to let this event strengthen us. To grow instead of be wilted. To swim, not sink. There is no need for one life to be wasted for the sole reason that one life was lost.

Maggie's Angel Day v2.0

Maggie and I loved to travel and we made a great travel team. One of our favorite activities was hangin’ with the locals in local restaurants and pubs. I was the shy one. She, however, met no one but friends. One evening, somewhere in Greece, Spain, Italy, Mexico, New Orleans or somewhere else, we were chatting it up with one of the locals. “What do you think about all the tourists?” I asked.

He thought for a second and then, no doubt influenced by beer-flavored truth serum, answered “People come here to have a good time. They leave their homes and jobs to experience a different world - our world. They pretend, just for a little bit, that this place is their home. They eat, drink, dance and celebrate how great it is to be here and pretend that they understand our lives. Eventually, the hangover kicks in and their plane takes off. Back they go to their real life. I’m thrilled that they are able to visit and see what our life is like. I’m happy that they want to come, too. But one thing they don’t really seem to understand is that they are just visitors here. They can leave. We stay. This IS our home. Yeah, they come here to escape but I LIVE here.”

“I live here.” What a perfect description of Wednesday, May 4, 2011.

May 4th was the second anniversary of Maggie’s Angel Day. On that day, people posted on my Facebook page thoughtful comments. People posted on my blog more of the same. Some people even sent me cards and text messages, all sweet and supportive. But what they don’t realize is that to me, May 4th is just another day. Of course I miss my baby but that’s no different than it was on May 3rd. Sure, I’m sad. But heck, I was just as sad May 2nd and May 1st - no less and no more. May 4th was just another day that I missed my baby something fierce. Yes, I suppose it’s good in some ways that on May 4th so many people were thinking of and missing Maggie. But they don’t really seem to understand. While they are just visitors, this is my life. I live here. To me, May 4th was just another day.

Whereas on May 4th, people think back to parties, dinners and happy hours Maggie attended, I go to sleep in an empty bed every night. Whereas people think back on how much fun it was to talk to her on the phone, I miss the other half of my brain. Dinner parties with Maggie were loads of fun; I eat dinner alone almost every night. Happy hours, dinners, parties, dancing – all great weekend memories people share, the absence of which is noted but not life-changing. But every Saturday and Sunday morning when I wake up in a big empty bed, the reality is all too… ever present. I live here. This is my home.

May 4th will always be a day for people to remember to be sad that Maggie isn’t here anymore. I suppose in some ways I look forward to when May 4th will be a reminder for me to remember her (although it’s hard to fathom such a thing right now.) Perhaps May 4th will become more significant as my daily emotional noise lessens. As the little reminders, the firsts, the lasts, and the landmines fade from daily to rarely, maybe one day I’ll forget to remember. Then May 4th will remind me, you know, in case I forgot.

(Oh, man. Please give me the strength to forgive myself the day I forget to remember. And someone please remind me why it’s ok that I forgot.)

The hardest thing for me on Maggie’s Angel Day was watching other people be sad. It just hurts to watch people suffer. I once told my (and Maggie’s) friend Martha about watching an older man grieve over Maggie’s death. It curled the edges of my heart watching him, his face wracked with hard emotions while trying to contain and control the wild forces that were tearing him apart. It hurt me badly to witness such pain and know there was little I could do to extinguish that fire. Martha responded “Now you better understand how we’ve all felt watching you over the last few years.” Humbling.

Yes, Maggie’s Angel Day was quite a day. But for me, it was a day of watching people reflect and hurt. My increased suffering was because I hurt watching so many other people be sad, not because my sorrow for the loss of my sweet wife was any more intense. I wanted to hold them and comfort them all. I couldn’t. But, thankfully, they were just visiting and, after the very long, very difficult day came to a close, they all went back to their homes and families and friends.

I live here. Here, Wednesday was just another day.

One of THE Most Difficult ....

                                                                  photo from here
.... Posts I've Ever Written.

Something has changed.
And I wasn't even aware of it until 2 days ago.
Which is kind of freaking me out, because this change was huge.
So huge that it stunned me when I realized it. Literally.
And then I wondered how I felt about it.

I felt horrible and yet a little relieved at the same time.
And I kept this change to myself, thinking I could never admit this.
Not to anyone.

But then I read Dan's post and I commented to him that I am committed to being honest with all of you.
Yet .... even as I type this .... I wonder if I'll have the courage to hit "Publish Post".

Because although you are all some of the safest people I know .... and we almost always
connect with one another in a way that we don't with those on the "outside", I question
whether anyone will "get" this? And I wonder if you'll think what I first thought .... that I
am a horrible person for feeling this new way.

So .... I'm taking a deep breath and just jumping in. Because really ..... I can NOT be the only person widowed person .... who has experienced this.

Most of you know that I began a relationship with someone 2 years after Jim died. The first man that I met in my "after". We dated for a little over a year and then broke up a couple of months ago. It was very difficult to do, but we both knew it just wasn't working, even though we loved each other. And so we ended the "relationship", but not the friendship.
And we've both moved forward, though I haven't met anyone since .... and I don't think that he has, either.

Anyway, things have been going along well ..... until this past week. I have found myself thinking about him, wondering how he's doing .... wondering if we could make it work if we tried again, having learned a few things. Not making plans or anything really ..... just wondering. You know, wondering about the "what ifs".  Knowing that I'm the only one who's doing the wondering, so of course it won't work.  And that's OK.

But then a couple of days ago, on Easter, I started feeling blue. We'd had a good morning ... gone to church, had lunch and then my oldest son headed back to college. My middle daughter had left early that morning. And the blue started growing darker. I hate it when they leave. Then I started crying as I wandered though the house. I thought it must be that I was missing Jim, especially on a holiday. But then ..... out of the very dark blue ..... it hit me:
It wasn't Jim who I was missing. It was the other man.

I could not believe that thought was in my brain. I can't believe that I'm typing it out.... .... here .... for everyone to read.
And know.

So yes, I was .... and still am .... stunned by that change in me.
I mean, I know .... with every fiber of my being ..... that I still miss Jim. That I'll always miss him. And will always love him.

But to feel a change in the missing of him ..... feels horrible .... and yet positive at the same time.

How could someone who's lost the love of her life .... her first love, the only love she knew for almost 27 years ..... miss another person, a different person whom she loved for such a short time ..... more than she misses her husband? What does that say about her love for him? That it's fading? That she's forgetting him? That she must not have loved him enough? That she's a horrible person widow?

No.
No, that is not what it says.
Not at all.

After the first moments of shock and panic wore off, and in the time since then, and yes.... even as I've been typing these words .... I've realized that it says this about my love:  Jim and I loved each other so much that we felt more secure with ourselves. We knew that we were worthy of being loved. We knew that we deserved to be loved .... and to be loved well.
All because we loved each other.
We loved each other very, very well.

Because he loved me the way he did, the way I needed to be loved .... I am able to love again.
And I will love again. Hopefully.   And I will be loved the way I need to be loved.  Hopefully.
And that turns something that I first thought was horrible .... into something that is positive .... and very good.

And all because .... of Jim.
:)