The death march

 (Danbo photo - source unknown)

Well here I find myself in February again - his birthday coming up and then March 1 looms large at the end of this month.
But....
This year, so far, I am feeling ..... fine.

I don't expect that this will last the whole month.
It could just take one single let-down or piece of bad news and I am bound to lose it.
But so far ...... fine.

Fine.

Just the letters in this word seemed so foreign to me just 1 year ago.  ....and almost 4 years ago, I couldn't even imagine that I would me sitting here, feeling .... fine.

I will keep you posted as we travel through this month ..... but as of right now?


Not exactly good.
Not exactly bad.
Not exactly desperate.
Not exactly OK.
Not exactly happy.
Not exactly miserable.

but....
Fine.

The Bubble

Source

My body is already preparing for the 3 year "sadiversary." 

It seems this has started a lot sooner this year. I can feel it in my heart, the tears are falling often again. 

My physical grief always starts in the arches of my feet and the palms of my hands.

From there it spreads to my joints, and eventually, my brain. It takes me a while to realize I am in a grief cycle.

I have 6 months until the 3 year anniversary. Today is 30 months since my husband left this earth.

My brain keeps count of how long it’s been. It’s constant. Counting, counting. Never ending. I keep waiting for the day that I stop counting.

Maybe that day will never come.

I am secretly starting to panic over the 3 year anniversary.  Since I am starting to panic (already), I feel weak.

I have this vision in my head - that come the 3 year anniversary - my grief will shatter at my feet. I will be able to walk over the broken pieces of grief, and make a major jump forward.

As I see myself coming into the 3rd year, I keep envisioning myself in a bubble.

The bubble drowns out all the sound of life. Everything bounces off it. Even good noises and good things are drowned out by the bubble.

As I look at myself in this bubble, I keep waiting for the bubble to explode.

Of course this is going to be the year the grief magically disappears, when the bubble will burst.

When the bubble bursts, it might be so loud and so sudden, that it will leave my ears ringing and leave me wondering what the hell just happened.

The bubble might not explode. It might get a small tear, and will lose its air slowly. So slowly that I might not even realize the bubble is gone.

When the bubble pops, I envision myself covered in thick, sticky grief. I might be able to shake the goo off easily.

Or I might be stuck with the goo for the rest of my life.

Being naive, I think the 3rd year will be the magical year, when everything I have been through will fade away and I can skip forward and live a happy, joyful life.

Maybe it’s not being naive. Maybe it’s me lying to myself, telling myself it will magically get better.

Maybe it’s because I am hopeful, but the experienced me knows it’s not that easy.

I know there will be no magical turn in my grief. I know it will slowly fade.

So slowly that I probably won’t notice until years down the road.

I’m still hopeful for the 3rd year, magical grief turn.

2 year Sadiversary

I passed my 2 year Sadiversary in July.

But my brain, started the 2 year grieving process in June and lasted until the middle of September.

One day in June, out of nowhere, I was in a fog. I was exhausted. Couldn't remember anything. Couldn't carry on a conversation without spacing off or forgetting what I was talking about mid sentence.

I was on a slippery slope of just trying to get through every day. Giving each day the bare minimum, until it was time to go home, rinse and repeat the next day.

I swear the fog effects everything, including my vision. I can't see anything past what's in front of my face. I can't see the sunrise or the flowers. I struggle to even see spreadsheets that I have enlarged on my computer.

Then the fog is gone, and I can see again. I can see past my yard. I can see past my computer.
The fog really is the worst of all my grieving side effects.

I don’t know why I started the 2 year grieving process so soon.

I really wish my grief had a calendar, so I could see it coming, plan for it, and not be completely caught off guard.

Everything else in life has a calendar or a cycle, so why doesn't grief?

Every month, I find myself staring at the calendar. “The 27^th, what am I supposed to do?? I know there is something I am supposed to do!”.

Then the 27^th rolls around, and I remember what it is I forgot. The day Seth died.

The 2 year anniversary was nice. We had a small get together at my house with my closest friends and family.

I didn't cry all day / night. I enjoyed the night with my friends and family.

Surprisingly, Seth’s name didn't come up much throughout the night.

It was just a bunch of friends, getting together, for good food and drinks.

It was like my friends knew I needed them, but I didn't necessarily need them to talk about Seth.

I just needed them with me. I needed to know that my friends and family love me and support me. No matter what day it is.

This week, I found myself at a widow event - twice.

Looking around at the widows, made me realize how far I have come.

And how far I have yet to go. You mean to tell me in 13 years I will still be grieving??

I look at the faces of the “newly widowed” and my heart just breaks. I remember that first year. I remember not even being able to say Seth’s name without crying. I remember that every little thing reminded me of him. I remember not being able to drive, due to not being able to pay attention long enough to not run a red light. I remember not eating for days, because it made me physically ill to eat.

Being at the widow events, got me thinking about the first year of my widow journey.

I don’t remember very much of it at all.

I remember the detectives coming to my door, and telling me they found my husband deceased. I remember hitting my knees and screaming. 

I remember having the family together, working on Seth’s funeral. I remember Seth’s mom saying “I think the obituary should say Seth blew his head off”. I will never forget that.

I remember Seth’s family being angry at me for sticking to what Seth told me he wanted done for his funeral and with his body. Thank god Seth had told his dad the same things he had told me, so I at least had one person on my side fighting for what Seth wanted.

I remember going in to see Seth’s body, and again, hitting my knees and screaming. My family picked me back up, and held me up as I stood next to Seth’s casket.

I remember the bullet hole. When I see pictures of Seth now, I now see the bullet hole. No matter what picture it is, my brain- puts the bullet hole in the picture.

I remember standing next to Seth’s casket, as Seth’s family blamed me for his suicide.

I will never understand how someone can treat their son’s widow that way.

I remember getting to the funeral, getting out of the car, and the world started spinning quickly around me. I was insanely dizzy, and I was going down. I don’t remember if I actually hit the ground or if someone caught me. I remember trying to catch my breath, as I knew I was going to faint and remember my best friend telling people to leave me alone.  In fact, I think she was physically pushing people away from me (Thanks Jenn, you have no idea what that means to me!)

I remember talking about my last funny memory of Seth, I remember his urn was empty because we did not have his body back yet, and I remember the balloon release.

I remember everyone coming to my house after the funeral; we sat around the fire pit, listened to music, told stories, shared some laughs, and watched the sunrise. Just like Seth would have wanted us to do.

Other than that, that’s all I remember of Seth’s funeral.

That’s all I really remember from the first year, actually.

I remember planning the 1 year memorial party. I pretty much told my mom what I wanted, and she did it all. The 1 year memorial turned out amazing (Thanks mom!), but was insanely hard for me. I cried none stop. I missed Seth. I wish he was here to see what an amazing party we put together for him!

I was going through pictures of Seth, to create a slide show to show at the memorial.

And I came across this picture of Seth.

I took it in February 2010, 6 months before he died.

I forgot I had the picture.

When I pulled the picture up on my computer screen, the world froze. The hair on my arms stood up.

There it was, written “Imagine being alive”.

It was so ironic, because at the time I took the picture, Seth was mentally dead. Now a year later, I was looking at the picture, and he was physically dead.

I wonder if he asked me to take his picture there because of the wording that was there. Maybe as a reminder to himself to “Imagine being alive”.

I now have the picture framed in my bedroom. I look at it every morning.

I tell myself “Imagine being alive”.

Sure, I am alive. My heart beats, I breath, wake up every morning and go to work, carry on the best I can. Sometimes getting a laugh here or there.

But I am yet to be ALIVE.

The “alive” person I was years ago. Before bipolar took my husband’s soul. Before his death.

Every day I tell myself to be alive.

Be present, pleasant, joyful, laugh, and remember there are worst things that happen in life then dirty dishes.

I am still learning to be alive. But as long as my heart is beating, I will try, try, again.

“Hope is the last thing to die”.

PS: Friends, winterize your sprinklers and change your furnace filter. I know, it’s the husband’s job, but someone has to do it.

Two years

March 1 will mark 2 years since my beautiful life ended.

The life I loved.
The life where my best friend did everything with me.
The life where beautiful things were abundant and not edged with sadness.
The life where I felt safe and loved and content and happy.

Two years since that awful day.


Last year, there were lots of people around me on that day, but this year I know I want it to be just us so we can acknowledge it fully: crying when we need to cry, saying what we need to say and doing what we need to do.
After all, grief has to be acknowledged and lived and I can't do that when ten people are willing me not to cry (when I have every right to).

So this week, I shall wallow in the grief.
I shall acknowledge it, live it, and weep for the life I wanted for my family.
I will take that day off work and spend it with my children.
We will talk about Greg.
We will share our memories and look at old photos.
We will visit his grave - the kids will see it for the first time since the funeral.

...and we will grieve.

Together.

Then, we will pick ourselves back up and continue onwards into this different life.
This life that has replaced the beautiful one.

and we'll do it together.