Homeward Run

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I'll keep on the theme Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation has run on their facebook page for International Widows Day - what I've achieved since Ian died. 

Well, working on achieving.

One of the big changes I made was to go back to school.  I knew my job would end about 12 months after Ian died, and I opted to work towards a change in direction.    But one semester into my 2-year accounting course, I was a bit unsure if it was the right direction, even though I'm getting decent marks and enjoy the studies. 

I stumbled across Financial Counselling, which here in Australia is offered as a free service by social services organisations to help those struggling with low income and/or significant debt  - a combination I've heard so many are facing in the widow community.  The financial counsellor works with the client to come up with strategies and plans to stretch what they have as far as possible, or get on a path of paying off the debt.  So I added a 6 month, on-line course for that this time last year.  Insanity - two qualifications at the same time! 

This week, I got over a hump that had me quite negative about the financial counselling - I passed the counselling skills face to face practical module.  I tried last year, but John was sick on the assessment day, barred from child care and I didn't have alternate care for him.  Then I personally found the alternate assessment they set up for me a negative experience that had me struggling to even fire up the course page. So I opted to repeat the face to face element.   It looked like this round was going to be a "John is sick, I can't do it" repeat, but thankfully I had another care option this year.

I've learnt a bit about myself doing both qualifications - I enjoy the numbers and strategy/technique side of both. I am soooo not a counsellor who could do one on one counselling, but I have a passion for financial literacy and improving that generally in the community. 

So I'm now on the homeward run to wrap up the financial counselling course since I've only got 7 weeks to go.  And this is the community education module, and my face to face widows group have agreed to sit through a session so I can complete the requirement!  You never know how your widow friends will help you, or need your help.

It will be interesting when I finish; something I've thought about as I've progressed through this short qualification.  This will be one of the first big, significant taking the bull by the horns life directions change things I've done, start to finish, since Ian died.  That he never knew about, since I had no idea I'd go down this path and probably never would have if he hadn't left us. 

And I'm not sure how I'll react when it's complete and I have that parchment in my hand.

"I'm Ok"

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"Don't lie" shouted my step-dad from the other side of the room.

This exchange happened while my Mum was in ICU in April 2008.  My dad called to check up, and we had our auto-pilot introductory exchange.  My step-dad called it for what it was. 

My step-dad also said during this time, "Never get married.  Loosing a spouse sucks".

Well look what I up and did.

I've been feeling in the last week or so like I've not actually allowed my grief to do it's thing.

I'm not a crier; never really have been.  My personality sits on the stoic end of the spectrum.  At Ian's funeral, when I did cry over his coffin (and had the out of body experience of "I'm not really doing this, am I?  This just isn't 'me'"), my dad and step-mum told friends that I'd be fine, now that I'd had my breakdown.  Probably correct at the time; but too much of an expectation now.

Let's add to this mix: my family culture is you don't let someone dying stop you from living your life, which has often come from the person dying.  

The morning after my grand mother died, my step-mother and I headed interstate to a conference that Grandma had wanted us to attend.

Six months after Mum died, my step-father died from an aggressive cancer while I was at a conference in Mexico, after I'd travelled through Cuba (via London, from Australia). I'd offered not to go, but he'd insisted that I go on this trip which I'd been planning for 3 years.  He apparently loved getting the emails I could send from Cuba. 

He'd also told my sister that he and mum wouldn't come back and haunt us as long as we didn't stop living just because they'd died.

So when Ian died, I just kept going. 

Working...  

Picked up university study...

Adjusted to being a single mum... 

Kept on keeping on.

I finally crashed in April last year 9 months after Ian died, as I've mentioned before.  I had a short course of visits to a psychologist, but although she got me through the immediate situation, she and I didn't really "click".  And had a bit of a rough time in March/April this year, but I felt ok enough to manage on my own.  But emotionally/psychologically, that's about all I've had rear it's head since Ian died.

The big thing I've had is illness; recurrent sinus infections hitting each month that I wound up having surgery for last September.  That seemed to fix that problem.

Since the start of the year I've been getting this nasty recurrent cough and at my widow's group this week, after it hit yet again, someone mentioned it sounds asthmatic.  Someone else had ventolin on them, so I had a couple of puffs and thankfully the cough went.  Off to the doctor's the next day, and she said that I responded to the ventolin, that's pretty much diagnostic since I get shocking hay fever which sits on the same gene.  Yeah, hello adult onset asthma.

With that in the background, in the past few days I've been feeling like I've not done this widow & grief thing in the most healthy of manners, even if it's the way I'd 'naturally' process it, and my body is telling me this.  I'm sure some around me will go 'finally, she's got it'; others won't understand why I'm struggling now since there's been the passage of time. 

One of the mantras at our group is your mind only lets you deal with what you're able to at any given time. 

As I approach 2 years, now I have all the practicalities in place, maybe I'm ready to look into other therapy and/or counselling options and intentionally look at my grief head on for the first time.

Yes Honey, I know.

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To get to our church and a particular café where a volunteer group often meets I have to drive through our central business district.  I find that I always drive the route that Ian always drove.  That's probably why I go that way.

It is one of the most efficient ways to cross the city from the north-west corner to the south-east, but also the most memory-laden route for me.

It passes a pub that he worked at during his university days, a job he very much enjoyed.  EVERY time we drove past he'd say 'I used to work there'.  And every time I'd say 'Yes honey, I know'.  And now often I drive past and hear this conversation - sometimes I find I even respond aloud. 

I also used to work at the other end of this street, and Ian would always pick me up from work.  

Sometimes I don't have a problem driving past the pick-up point; I'm focused on what I'm doing.  Other times I get flashes of grief, especially if I get stuck at the intersection.  It's very much a heavy heart moment the times they do hit, and I find I have to look at other things happening on the street to bring me back to the present.

Of course, when Ian was driving me home from work, we'd have to go past his old workplace:

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

I do feel sorry for my son... I feel I'm getting close to (repeatedly) saying 'Daddy used to work there'.  

I guess in time I should expect 'Yes Mummy, I know'.

Adapt

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One of my online friends posted a challenge on a Facebook private board this week that got me thinking...

It was "describe yourself in three words without using the words 'wife' or 'mother'" (it's not a widow group, so the majority of the group are married).

And one response brought to mind widows I knew prior to my own widowhood.

Her identified that her whole identity was tied up in her husband and children, and she couldn't answer the question. She was trying to figure out if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

And my immediate reaction, based on my life story, was it's a bad thing.   

The amazing older women I saw widowed before I even married all had strong, loving marriages, and a fair smattering of joy and issues with adult children. 

Yes they struggled, and still struggle, with grief.

But watching from a distance I saw that being widowed was survivable, and must have tucked it away somewhere.  I saw that the common thing between them all was none had lost their identity in their marriages. 

What I saw from my then vantage point was they were able to adapt to their enforced life without their husbands because they had interests & communities they were engaged with alongside their marriages which helped them have a strong sense of who they were as individuals, as well as their partnership.

It's something I actively sought to maintain through Ian and I's courtship and marriage - and I encouraged with Ian (even though I would not engage at all with some of his interests, they were part of what made Ian "Ian"). 

And something I've maintained since.  Plus it gave me the knowledge and confidence to seek out sites like widow's voice, a face to face peer support group and to take the risk of going back to school rather than work for the next little while.

If a humongous thing like a husband dying isn't going to stop these women, nothing will. 

And I'm not going to let it, either (but I may just step off to the side for a breather every now and then).

Luck 'o the Irish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things that have changed

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At the moment we are in the middle of our city's 'Mad March' that consists of a motorsport carnival, an Arts and a fringe festival, concerts, other sporting events.

Many of these things I used to go to, before I met Ian, and after. 

Last year I didn't really want to go to anything.  I think I went to one event, compared to the 'record' a friend and I have of averaging 3 shows a day for a fortnight (parenthood for both of us has put the kybosh on trying that again for a while, though).

This year,  I'm aware of the buzz around the city.  I'm conscious I'm not getting to as much as I would like to.

I know with a child, I wouldn't be able to attend shows and events to the degree I had.  Ian was happy to stay with John, but I couldn't get to as much as I would in my single life.

But as a single parent with limited care options, I'll get to one show.  And that's because it's the show of a long-standing friend and my parents understand that I try and get to one performance per season to support them. 

There is one significant change this year however.  I'm not getting to as much AS I WOULD LIKE TO.

I want to get out and engage with what's happening.  I'm now conscious of the disconnect I've had.  I may not choose to go to my usual list of shows and branch out and see new acts, but I want to be out there.

This is a good thing.  It's frustrated by circumstance, but a good thing none the less.

Letters to the Future

Last week I had a blown away moment...

I'm clearing through my study to try and get it in some semblance of order ready for my university studies to recommence this week.  Since it's recycling day, I figure I may as well sort through some old paperwork and textbooks and get them out of the house.

So I begin to consolidate an accordion file Ian was using.  I knew there wasn't much in there and it could be more compactly stored to be sorted through later.

As I'm working through, I find a document envelope labelled "John 2011". 

I open it up to find a collection of letters Ian had written to John over John's first year of life. 

One is undated.  I wouldn't be surprised to find this is from around the time John was born.

One is dated 5 June 2011, the day after Ian and I's wedding, and I can see through the envelope it contains a copy of the menu from the reception.

One is 11 August 2012. Since Ian died June 2012, I’m pretty certain this is 2011, and would be the day John turned six months old.

One is 16 November 2011, around John's 9 month mark.

And one is dated 17 March 2011.  Ian's 46th birthday and the day he got sick.  Knowing Ian, and since he had a copy of the menu for his birthday lunch in advance, there's probably a copy of that in there.

All the letters are sealed, and will remain that way until I give them to John at an appropriate, or needed, time.   Ian was know for his letter writing,  and I have copies of lots of emails where he talks about John to his friends, but it's such a thrill to find letters written specifically TO John.

So as much as a surprise it was to find these letters, it also wasn't a surprise to find them. 

Immunity, or lack thereof

 

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I'm now in my death-march. 

February 22nd was the 2nd anniversary of the surgery that resulted in the complications that lead to Ian's death, and for me is the start of my 'bad period' in the year of some 4 months.

And yet again, I am sick.

My general immunity has been, quite frankly, crap since Ian got sick.  Anything that gets within striking range seems to take up residence in my system.  And since I have a child in childcare, I get exposed to just about everything going through town.

It took a really nasty dose of sinusitis and bronchitis hitting at the six month mark to realise the correlation between dates and illness. Strangely, my illnesses weren't hitting on the death date being the 14th of the month, but the 4th, our wedding anniversary. 

Sinus infections were/are my main signal. I went down with them again, and again and again.  Anything minor, even a simple cold, would convert.  Heck, a stubbed toe would seemingly convert to a sinus infection!   I have taken so many antibiotics in the last two years, I have developed a reaction to penicillin.

In the last year I've managed to knock back the frequency and severity of the infections with a combination of acupuncture and sinus surgery.  Within 24 hours of the surgery I felt physically well for the first time since Ian got sick, and have ticked along quite nicely since it was done in September. 

But with the death march, I've got one back. And am feeling more than a little blah physically. 

Emotionally, I feel all right. But I'm probably not since the physical's telling me otherwise. 

School

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I am working through one of those 'I wish this decision didn't rest solely on me' moments currently.

John has turned three.  And that's when private schools here interview for the start of school at age 5.

I knew that, somewhere in the back of my mind.

But for some reason I thought I had at least six months before I had to think about setting up private primary schooling for John. 

As long as I've lived here, the local primary school was always going to be actively avoided for any children I may have.  After marrying Ian, he and I had planned to move to a different part of town and into a better school zone. Problem solved, kids won't be going to this school.

But obviously that didn't quite go to plan.  

John and I are still in the same house. 

Still in the same school zone. 

So late last year I started to look into private schools in the area, including one that was recommended by a family from our church.  Yep, that one looks good. 

• Strong academics - students are winning scholarships to top level private high schools. 
• Good language teaching program. 
• Very active sports program
• A smaller Christian school with a strong community.

Ticks a lot of the boxes Ian and I had, plus some I added to my list once I knew I was making schooling decisions on my own.  So to the top of the list it goes.

But I really wish the decision wasn't on my own head.

About this time last year I looked at high schools (back to front, I know), but then Ian's mother was actively involved in the selection & decision process.  We agreed on the choice of school, and for the same reasons. 

But she too is no longer here, so I'm making the primary school decision on my own. 

Late last week, I figure it's time to get a move on, so I look online to find out when they may be doing tours and meet and greets for potential families. I find their first newsletter for the year posted, so take a read.

And have a minor panic attack when I read the Principle is currently interviewing families for the 2016 Reception intake.

John's intake.

Once my heart rate slows down, I make a phone call. Thankfully they still have places available for the intake.  We have an interview with the Principle and school tour booked for today.

Now to hope they'll send an offer of enrolment after they meet us...  

First Thursday

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

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

Last night is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Questions

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Where is...?

Who put that there...?

When...?

Why is...

...the bottle of brown sauce in the crockery cupboard?

Did I put it there... or did John? 

I don't remember doing that... but I don't remember seeing John in the kitchen while I was cooking dinner, either. 

It must have been me that put the sauce in there, but have no recollection what so ever of doing it.

Recently I've found often I'm not really conscious of what I'm doing.   Not really aware of what's going on around me.  More often than not just going through the motions, operating on auto-pilot.

I hope I snap out of this soon.

Brown sauce in the crockery cupboard isn't so bad.  Making the gaff with other options could get far, far more icky and stinky.

Fear

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I'm heading into the run of second anniversaries that begin in February and run for about 4 months - his surgery; the complications hitting and the roller-coaster of his illness; him dying.   Something I'm acutely aware of.

In my journey, the big anniversary for me is the March "complications hitting" anniversary.  That's the day from which my life was never going to be the same again.   Ian's death itself changed the tone of "never going to be the same".

And right now, year three and beyond looks scarier than the first two.

Throughout this journey, I've never been worried about "surviving". 

But this week, fear of the future's suddenly risen to the surface. 

It's always been there, I guess, but has come into sharp relief this week.

Fear of being alone.

Fear John will grow up, and then toss me to the wind.

Fear I won't re-partner in the future; find someone for simple companionship.

Fear something will happen to either John or I.

Fear of the next 40-50 years that stretch out before me.

Routine

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Ian used to call me Sheldon, as in Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.

In order to keep up with the housework and household management, I followed a routine through a website.  And it worked pretty well for me for years and years.  To the point I'd get antsy if it wasn't followed.  Heck, I got antsy if he mopped the house from the back door to the front door.  That wasn't the right way!!  It's front to back!!

And Ian teased me about my 'Sheldon-ness' all the time.

But since he died, the old routine I just can't do. It got me through his illness and the first couple of months of autopilot, but no further.

Some of the long standing practices have stuck, like doing a weekly budget and menu plan. Money is now tighter, and I have to watch it carefully, and these two practices help with that.

But the housework side of things... nope.  The routine is gone, and although the mess and dirt honestly drives me nuts, it's not enough to get me off my butt regularly and actually do something about it.  It was easier in the early days when friends dropped by with limited notice - I'd need to do a spruce up.  Particularly since one friend actually verbalised his expectation that the floor be clean.

But their jobs change, the kid's activity lists grow, they move, DIY tasks around their home need doing, their lives happen, so the visits drop off.

And so the housework drops off. 

I've tried a few times, but I just can't get back into the old routine.   I think partially I just haven't cared enough to be consistent and/or disciplined about it; partially because I didn't want to be living here  (I wanted to move since before I even met Ian, and we had plans, but lately I've come to accept I'll be here for a while longer).

But mostly because that's part of my before, a part that we shared good humour about. 

However since I've accepted that I'm staying put for a while, I need to do something before the place goes to rack and ruin.

A few weeks ago I came across a different routine to try.  And this last week I've started to use it.  Haphazardly, but I'm working on it.  I'm hoping that the simple fact it's not what I used before will allow me to actually get a new routine embedded. 

Because I know, before or after, I'm better with routine.

Day by Day

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I'm often still taken by surprise when being able to do some tasks are often a day by day proposition.  Mostly these are tasks to do with Ian, but not always. Often this freeze is not so much in the sense of having a 'bad' day, but just a day of not wanting to go there.

Just prior to Christmas I was working on swapping which rooms are used for what around in my house. In order to achieve the swap around I needed, I reached a point I had to do something with a pile of Ian's clothes.  This was his 'not much of this is in regular use' pile of clothes that took up a closet and a dresser, that I'd been ...umm...  asking... him to sort through for a good year, if not longer.

The first day of the swap around, there was no way I could have gone through the clothes and parted with them.  I was so frazzled simply trying to juggle stuff so we had room to work and paint, that it made trying to make decisions on keep/donate/toss just impossible and I would have been screaming like a banshee if I attempted it. 

But the next day, I was surprised how easy a task it was to work through a pile of clothes that, for the most part, I never saw Ian wear AND to actually make decisions on what to do with each individual piece.  I'd planned to pack them all away in a box or suitcase to be dealt with at a later time, but I found I could do the keep/donate/toss right then and there.

There were some items I kept aside as they did hold memories, but I still filled my trunk with clothes and was even able to take them immediately to an emergency assistance shelter so they could be used, rather than sitting in my house, frankly mocking me because he'd not done the sort out before he got sick. 

I've had a couple more days since where I've been able to work through a box here, folder there - I'm learning to grab them when they come; the desire to tidy the place up and de-clutter pre-dates Ian's illness and death, and is still there. 

It's just some of the decisions are harder.

Bridget Jones

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I'm on my annual extended-family vacation this week and the Australian summer vacation period is a big time for relaxing with a book (or ten).  So I've opted to publish a review of the third Bridget Jones instalment that I wrote on my personal blog in October.  It was written for a non-widow audience, so is preaching to the converted in parts.  

Spoiler alert if you haven't read the new Bridget Jones' Diary yet (and want to).

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Having seen the spoilers, out of curiosity I read the new Bridget Jones' Diary instalment. 

My curiosity was how would someone who may not know the widow experience*, write about the widow experience?  Honestly, pretty well, taking into account it is Bridget Jones we're talking about, and she is 5 years into the journey & I'm 18 months.  At least in part, her experience is familiar to me.  Particularly being left on your own to raise young children. 

The widowhood experience is something that is very, very difficult to comprehend until you've been there.  I had no concept before it happened, and the reviews I've read seem to support that; I don't feel there is a widow amongst the critics I've read.  So the book is generally being panned.

Firstly, it was never going to be a contender for the Man Booker - it's chick-lit people.  Take it as such.

One comment that crops up is she's again a singleton/cougar, therefore reverting to type.

Firstly, she's still Bridget. And the singleton/dating scenario is the premise of her character - it's what the first two books were about, why wouldn't the third? 

And I hate to break the 'happy happy joy joy' view that spouses don't up and die on you until you've reached a ripe old age, but we widows are out there. In large numbers. You'll be surprised how many younger widows (and widowers) there are from accidents, suicide, cancer and other medical conditions and illnesses.  And some do want to re-partner down the track, so the fact Bridget's looking (and frankly, only starts at the 5 year mark, with the pressure of her friends - without that she may not have), is also a reality.  This doesn't even cover those divorcees who also find themselves single again in their 30's, 40's and 50's (one reviewer seemed to have the opinion that there are no single people at all in these decades of life - no matter how it happens, hence this comment).

Another critique is that she's still a social klutz.  Again, she's still Bridget.  Mark's influence may well have reduced some of those tendencies through her marriage, but the stress and trauma of widowhood may well have brought them out in force again. Widowhood does change your world view and may change your personality in part, but it's not necessarily a complete personality transplant, which one critic I read seemed to expect.  In fact, that she was a social klutz to start with, it's not surprising she remains one. "Widow brain" (that I've heard a lot of long-timers talk about still experiencing, and may be a PTSD manifestation), is likely to amplify rather than dull this trait of Bridget's. The descriptor of 'foundering' by another character actually describes the experience pretty well; floundering is also apt.

Some raise a timing issue of Bridget being 51, with her youngest child a 5 year old.  This rankled with me initially too, but on reflection, we don't know if both kids were the result of a long effort of assisted reproduction (ART), or even egg donor.  It's possible for the 5 year old to be from a Frozen Embryo Transfer.  And it's her contemporaneous diary, there's no real reason for her to mention it (except for back-story, and Fielding chose not to cover it in back story).  That it's automatically assumed that both are natural pregnancies also shouts to the lack of familiarity in the broader world with the infertility experience. Heck, I did it and I HAVE the IF experience!

Some may argue that Bridget talks about Mark's death, why not any (potential) ART?  Having also been through both, you tend to focus on and re-visit the loss of your husband, not what it took to have your child(ren).  And the loss of a spouse is something that hums away in the background and then intensifies to crippling clarity at the drop of a hat.  It's something I've learned to expect to be life-long.

Early in the book it's mentioned that Mark left her a wealthy woman - this is another of the criticisms; that she's rich so it's not reality. First, they were wealthy to start with, and rich people die, too.  Plus he had made sure everything was in place, just in case - as is stated in the book.

Although really just a passing comment, this is the biggest lesson I see to the general readership of the book.  Mark had made sure that his family would be secure.  Ian and I had not gotten around to getting things in place even though we'd planned to, but our superannuation system meant I've at least been left with a secure roof over John and I's head.   I've encountered a number of widows both on and off line that are not so secure. There was no insurance, or no ability to get insurance, or limited superannuation. They have no choice but to work, and/or they loose their homes when they're still in the depths of grief.  Making sure both partners are adequately insured to keep the family secure is a great lesson from the book.

The upshot is there were moments that cut close to the bone, but it was an overall enjoyable, easy chick-lit read giving an insight into the widow experience through the lens of Bridget Jones.


*in checking, no Helen Fielding has not experienced widowhood. In my opinion, she's obviously done some good research in writing this book. 

Paying it Foward

Source

 

Tomorrow I move onto my second calendar year without Ian.  Moving from 2012 to 2013, to a year that was no longer the year I lost him, I found difficult, but got through with a small group of friends. 

Tonight I move one more digit further away from the 2012 in which he left us. 

I realised this morning that I will no longer be able to say 'he died last year'.  I'll have to say 'he died in 2012'.  And I'm not sure how I feel about that additional distance - if it's a turning point or a mill stone. 

But I'm doing something simple early in the new year to try feel a bit better in general...

 
"How can I/we help?"

I heard this question a lot while Ian was sick.  And thankfully I came up with an answer that would allow those around us feel like they were able to do something practical to help.

Ian received lots of platelets in hospital as he'd been on blood thinners, and the medicos needed to reverse the thinning in order to do the procedures they needed to.   I can't remember how many transfusions he had, but it was a reasonable number.

So I was able to tell people "donate blood if you're able to, Ian's needed a lot".

Which is a bit hypocritical of me, as it's something I'd always wished I could do, but for my needle phobia. I'm bad enough with ordinary sized needles.  Bugger going near the bigger ones they use for collecting blood!

However I had guilt about this phobia starting to gnaw away at me probably from about the six month mark after he died. 

It's just a couple of hours of my time, 3- 4 times a year.

It's just a needle; nothing compared to what he went through.

It may help me with my healing.

Other's donations played a part in giving us those extra three months.  Who am I not to give that time to someone else when quite frankly, I'm perfectly capable?

So I made my first donation around my 1 year widow-versary mark.  And it felt good. 

I've now booked myself in to make my 2nd donation on January 2nd.

As cr@* as it is that that pesky concept of time marches on, I'm feeling it's a positive way to mark the start my second calendar year without Ian.

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.

How I got ... here

My crazy, active son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few days later, Ian had his first seizure. 

Then we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. 

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

I chose the latter.

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

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

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

Hi...

 

I’m Kerryl.  In 4 days I’ll be 18 months into my journey as a widow and single mum.  And you may note from my spelling, I’m an Australian blogger. 

I’ve read Widow’s Voice since I joined the ranks, and am honoured that Michele has asked me to now write about my life as a widow.

Ian and I first met on a dating website.  I liked that he actually used complete words and sentences in his profile - a rarity in my experience.  After a few emails, we met face to face for the first time on 11 June, 2009.  I walked into the bar, saw him and my immediate reaction was “that’s him” – and not that I’d identified the person I was meant to be meeting, but as the man I knew would be my husband. 

As our conversation progressed that evening, Ian invited me to move on to a fundraising event for a friend’s kid’s band.  I figured why not.  Apparently his friend was on the phone saying ‘no, no, this is NOT a first date type of event!!’  The event can only be classified as being so bad, it was a great evening!  And I agreed to see Ian again – much to the surprise of his mate. 

Four months later, Ian proposed, with a cactus rather than the traditional roses.   And we started trying for a family.  Quick, yes, but in hindsight…

We welcomed our son John in February 2011, and married at our church on 4 June that year. 

I returned to work and Ian stayed with our son as a stay at home dad.  Being a father was something he’d wanted so badly and Ian was determined to spend as much time as possible with John.  Many of Ian’s friends who had experienced fatherhood before him had said they regretted not spending more time with their children when they were young – perspective he was grateful for. 

Ian had an extensive history of heart problems including two prior open heart surgeries, all bizarrely un-related.  As confident he was, I was always concerned about what would happen in the future.  Rightfully so, it turns out.

In early 2010 Ian started getting a rapid heart-beat – a resting rate in the range of 120 beats per minute. We spent a bit of time bouncing in and out of emergency at our city’s main hospital getting it set to rights. He was referred to a cardiologist who scheduled a radio frequency ablation to correct this issue for 22 February, 2012.  After 12 months waiting, the surgery, by all reports at the time, went well.

On 17 March 2012, Ian’s 46^th birthday, he became really unwell at his birthday lunch.  He asked me to take him to the hospital and I made a one hour plus drive from the restaurant to the hospital in about 40 minutes.  He collapsed in the foyer, freaking me, our 13 month old son, and the medicos as there was blood everywhere.  He broke his nose on the floor, and being on blood thinners, he made a bit of a mess.

This was just the start of our journey...

 

Photo: One of the many wedding photos with Ian's cheeky smile - he'd just bitten the end of my nose, something he did regularly.