In my own skin....

I am on school holidays.
Six weeks (well four really - I spend at least two weeks preparing for the next class). 

.....and despite myself, I am enjoying it.

(now that Christmas is out of the way).

I think this is the first holiday I've truly enjoyed since Greg died.

We haven't done much - family and friends have come to visit, we've been to our local beach a few times, the local shopping malls, the garden, our friends' pool (obviously), and played with our presents from Santa.

I miss Greg all the time, but I catch moments where I am comfortable to be in my own skin. 

...and this is a huge realisation for me.... that I can be on my own and be content.

Not all the time.

But right now, its enough....

The Love of Friends

Last Saturday was Maggie's 37th birthday.  Each year, her birthday was a huge celebration with literally hundreds of friends gathering to feast on food and wine.  She called it the wine party, or officially "Wine: It's What's for Dinner."  Instead of a massive celebration last Saturday, I spent quite some time reading back on my posts and remembering how life was a year ago or longer.  Two years ago on Maggie's birthday (12.9.2010), I was miserable.  I felt more alone and alienated than I had ever felt in my life.  While overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment from folks who I thought would never, ever leave my side, I wrote the following.

“Whacha doin’?” I asked.

“Nothin’” he mumbled, looking up briefly from his work to lock eyes, that warm, friendly gaze ever so familiar.

As he gently tapped another brick in place I continued with my story.  It was like all the others lately, sad and filled with heart-pain and lost love.  I spoke straight from my heart.  The comfort of being best friends for such a long time made it easy to be blunt.  He smiled as I spoke, occasionally looking up and mumbling confirmative grunts.  But he never stopped working.

After a while of me spilling guts and tears, he started talking.  His business was doing great, he said.  The future was very bright, he said.  You wouldn’t believe the success that was happening, he told me.  It was amazing, he said.  And it was.  All he told me was wonderful.  But I felt cold.  As he spoke he didn’t look at me.  The more he spoke, the more distant I felt.  While I heard his words, it seemed like what he was telling me was mumbled and hard to understand, like the message was possibly meant for someone else.

I began to feel alone.

He continued to talk but I stopped listening.  I heard the mumbled tones of his voice but I didn’t hear his words anymore.  Something was between us, something that was smothering me.  It was not familiar at all.  Finally, I stopped him and asked “What’s happening here?  Why do you sound so far away?”

Then I saw it.  It was like I was asleep and suddenly I had awoken.  Where I had only noticed that his hands were busy, now I saw the bricks, so many bricks – each staggered on top of another, layers and layers, ten feet tall and completely surrounding me.  All except for one small space where he stood, brick and trowel in hand, staring at me with warm, friendly, loving eyes.  I can’t imagine how this happened and when all this was done.  Yet here I was, trapped behind an almost-closed wall.

“What are you doing!?!” I asked.

“I’m helping you” he said.

“How are you helping me?”

“I’m protecting you from things that might hurt you.  And from me” he stated.

“I don’t understand.  Why do you seem so far away?  I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, my best friend.  I wish you’d come back.”

Me:  Every time we hang out you just talk about business.  I have so many other things I __need__ to talk about but I feel like you only want to talk about you, like you don’t see me anymore.  I feel so alone and it hurts my feelings.  So I’ve been avoiding you.

Him:  When we hang out, you are so sad that it hurts me badly.  You are hurting and I care so much about you.  To see you hurt, hurts me and I don’t know how to deal with it.  Then, when we talk, inevitably, the things I say end up hurting you more.  I can see you visibly cringe!  I talk about my wonderful relationship with my wife and it hurts you.  I talk about how things are going well in my life and it hurts you.  I don’t want to hurt you anymore.  It’s dragging me down.

Me:  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be a fun suck.  I’m so sad though and I just need to talk.  It didn’t used to be this way and it won’t be this way forever.  But I’m so, so sad right now.  You are my best friend and I trust you and we are so comfortable I feel like I can be really honest with you.

Him:  You are so raw and the things you have experienced and feel are so intense.  I don’t have the tools to handle them.

Me:  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to cause any difficulties.

Him:  I’m sorry that all I’ve talked about is business.  It’s because I’m scared of hurting you more.  I see you hurt when I talk about certain things.  I see you cringe in pain.  It hurts so much to see you hurt.  I just want to protect you.

Me:  You can’t protect me.  You mustn’t try!

Him:  I can keep from hurting you by avoiding talking about things that do hurt you.  I keep conversations light and on topics that can’t possibly cause you pain, like my business.

Me:  How can you possibly anticipate what’s going to hurt me when, heck, I don’t even know myself?

Him:  I want to keep you safe but it’s so hard.

Me:  Please don’t try to protect me.  There’s no wall you can build that could save me from the world.  Besides, any wall you might build would only cage me in and separate us.

Him:  But I don’t want to hurt you.  I don’t want you to hurt.

Me:  Just talk to me.  Be my friend.  I give you my word that I won’t be angry at you for anything you might say.  I trust you.  Please give me permission to hurt.  I promise I’ll be ok.

Him:  But….

Me:  If you see me hurt, just give me a minute.  If need be, give me longer.  I’ll be ok.  Let me take the pain, sit for a second and regroup.  I _will_ regroup.  I’m strong.  But you have to give me a chance.

Him:  But if I say something that hurts you badly….?

Me:  I’ll still be ok.  Give me permission to hurt.  Then have faith in me that I’ll be ok.  This is how I heal.  This is how I’ll grow.  If you protect me, you are keeping me from healing.  If you protect me, you are stopping me from a return back to normalcy.  If you keep you from me, then you are starving me from our friendship, something I need more than anything else right now.

Him:  This is scary.  You are telling me that it’s ok that I hurt you?

Me:  Sort of.  I’m telling you that it’s ok to be you.  And I’m asking permission to be me, hurt and all.  If you’ll let me, eventually, I’ll be stronger and you won’t see me hurt so much.

Him:  It’d be nice to see you again.

Me:  It’d be nice to be me again.

Him:  I’m glad we are friends.

Me:  Me, too.

Him:  So, me and my wife were hanging out the other day.  Have I mentioned how much I love her?…..

Withdrawal

from here

Time is healing me, I suppose, but it's also taking me further and further away from Dave. Each day that passes is more time without the love, comfort and stability he so freely gave me. As the days pile up, I'm going more and more crazy for the comfort a loving spouse can bring. It's been so long since he's told me he loves me, wrapped his arms around me, made love to me, cuddled me. It's withdrawal and it seems to get worse as time goes on.

Of course it does. People aren't meant to go so long without those things. We're biologically programmed to need physical touch. And I don't mean the physical touch I can get from the massage therapist. I mean touch with mutual love involved. Most of us aren't meant to be alone. It's not a state we seek. We seek out another. We seek love and companionship.

It's been so long since I had that and so far the need for it has just grown. It's so frustrating that this desperate need corresponds to a time when I am without that kind of love. It has been taken from me.

I keep thinking of a scene from the movie Things We Lost in the Fire. Halle Berry's character's husband has just died and her husband's best friend comforts her. She asks him to get in bed with her and hold her exactly the way her husband held her just so she can fall asleep.

All my married girlfriends can rest assured that I'm not going to ask their husbands for that kind of a favor, but I can so relate to her need for that brand of comfort. It's not logical or conscious. It's brain stem stuff. There is no out-thinking it. It just is. And it seems to intensify as time stretches on.

I'm jealous of Halle's character in that scene, but I also imagine that in real life, it would still feel hollow and empty to have a simulation snuggle. There's no love, just need. Desperate need for comfort and being held. Maybe it's a short term fix, but in the long run, the loved one is still gone and maybe afterward it would feel even worse. The minute that person's no longer holding you, you have to face reality again. Face day to day life without a partner. Face the fact that they held you close, not out of romantic, mutual love, but out of a desire to ease your pain for a moment. It's a fake.

And the truth is, as great as it sounds and looks on screen, I know me and I know that I don't feel fully comfortable with touch unless there's a level of trust that's built over time. I also know with deep conviction, that I would rather be alone than be with someone who doesn't enrich my life. But guess what alone means? That biological need not being met.

This is just how it is. There isn't a way around it, only through it. But knowing that doesn't make this easier.

Wake me up when December ends

It’s December 1, 2011.

I bought a new car today.

My very first new car ever.

The very first car I have bought all by myself.

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

I should feel happy.

But I don’t.

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

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

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

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

This conversation never took place though.

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

...and I broke.

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know.

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

Just wake me up when December ends....

I am not alone (why I am glad I blog)

I'm sitting here, calmly typing this and it's been 622 days since my husband died.
I know exactly how many days because of my regular blog.
But to think that I can type this without tears would have been unthinkable a year ago.

I began writing about my pain just over a month after the accident.

I blogged everything because I knew I'd always be able to find it ... the internet being forever and all.

Now I read those posts back and tears stream down my face.
Was that me?
How did I ever survive such pain?
How did I keep my kids functioning and how on earth did they get from those first jagged, razor-sharp days to these days of a duller, aching pain?
(Pain which still flares up both rapidly and unexpectedly but the jagged edges are not quite so sharp).

and the short answer is that I don't really know how we got here.

... but I do know that time has helped.
I do know that friends and family have helped.
I do know that routine has helped.
and I do know that blogging has helped.

My blog helped (and continues to help) me pour out the hurt, anger, fear, rage, devastation, worry and horror of this journey.
...and *this* blog helped me see that I am not alone in these feelings.

Widow's Voice was one of the first blogs I read in The After.

I've cried and nodded along to more posts than I can count.
I've marvelled at how brave other widows and widowers are.
I've recognised similarities and differences between my journey and the varying journeys we are all on (for our spouses were unique ... as we are ... so no two of us are on the exact same path).
I've laughed at the dark humour.
I've rejoiced at the finding of new love, but seen that it's not a magic bullet that takes away this pain.

But most of all, I've realised that

I
Am
Not
Alone.

...and nor are you.

Today would have been our 14th wedding anniversary.

Written on September 27, 2011

Fourteen years ago, I awoke in my childhood bedroom … well got up anyway … I was too excited to sleep much.
My bridesmaid, my Mum and I quickly ate breakfast and took ourselves down to the salon for 'hair and makeup'.
We emerged hours later, coiffed and painted, but still recognisable.
Everyone ate lunch … not me … I couldn’t eat for the excitement.
Then I put on my beautiful dress, remade from the Guipure lace from my mother’s gown.
I looked beautiful.
More than that.
I glowed.
Lit from the inside.
The flowers arrived.
The photographer arrived.

Then we left for the church in a pair of 1970s vintage Holdens.
Dad walked me up the aisle.
Greg was crying: I avoided looking at him so I wouldn’t cry too.
We promised to love each other until death parted us, (never thinking that death would part us after only 12 and a half years).
I felt so loved and lucky that my face ached from the smiling.
and the kissing.
and the loving gazes into his beautiful blue eyes.
I glided through the reception – everything was perfect.
and we left our friends and family at the party to have our own celebration of our first night as man and wife.
~~~~~
Today would have been our 14th anniversary.
and it’s been just over 18 months since Greg died.
I awoke to the screeching of the car alarm of the bogan who lives across the street.
...well, not so much "awoke as "got up anyway". Sleep isn’t so easy for me these days…
I couldn’t open my eyes.
Literally.
It seems I have conjunctivitis to add to my already long list of symptoms typical of my “holiday illness” (I never get sick during work time, just holiday time).
It seems appropriate that my eyes are already red and puffy.
I had a shower and prised open my red, oogy eyes.
I put on track pants and one of Greg’s old shirts: nobody was going to see me today.
I didn’t bother to do my hair.
but I did brush my teeth.
I look like crap.
I ate breakfast so I could swallow some cold and flu tablets.
…and I sent my mother out to buy my eye drops to fix my oogy eyes.
Somehow, this seems an appropriate way to mark this day.
….the second of many lonely wedding anniversaries….

Not Alone

There was a real chance that Maggie would have died that first night we were in the hospital back on January 6, 2007. Despite our dreams, our plans, our love and our forever-together commitment, I’d truly be alone. As she slept soundly in a cozy, drug-induced haze, I felt like it was me against all the evil in the world… and the evil was winning. I felt the most alone I had ever felt in my life. While I watched her chest slowly sink and rise with each laborious breath, my mind raced with terrible, terrible thoughts and I feared I was never going to speak to or kiss my sweet wife again. It was the longest, loneliest night of my life.

That low point was reset 850 days later on May 4, 2009 and has been reset even lower many times since then. Despite being surrounded by caring friends and a loving family, I’ve felt more alone than I ever felt possible. I walked alone on this path. The Highlander of widowhood, I was the only one.

I’ve spent my days since that day being embarrassed and ashamed, that I no longer fit with society. Because of no fault of mine, I was tossed out of the mainstream and into another world. Worse, few people knew how to talk to me. Even fewer knew how to relate. And no one – no one – understood.

Weekend before last I attended Widow Camp. I was terrified and, frankly, a little bit angry. I didn’t need to hang out with another bunch of bitter, hopeless old women bitching about being a widow, nor did I have the patience to listen to their pining for husbands long gone. And I sure didn’t deserve this widower/death/restarting crap.

I sat just outside the doors of the Friday evening social wondering what the hell I did to deserve this and how the hell I was going to get myself out of this inescapable situation. Then, an angel with a charming smile named Susan told me how the people at previous Widow Camps had affected her and that she was confident that I would never regret walking through those doors.

So through the doors I walked, with my heart pounding, my palms sweating and with a serious case of regret jack-hammering my confidence. But then I met AnneMarie… then Matt… then Chris, Brooke Tiffany, Nikki, Roy, Cassie and so many others. They looked just like many other strangers I’d met before. However, when I answered “830 days” they didn’t cringe. When I said “Her name was Maggie” they didn’t look at their shoes. The word “cancer” didn’t shut down the conversation. Instead, they shared their stories, comfortably, freely, openly. Amazingly, even my dead spouse humor was met with equally appalling (and very welcome) humor. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. For the first time in more than two years, I was with people who didn’t question, critique, or condemn but instead collegialised. For the first time in 830 days, I was not alone.

I am not alone.

touch me

I can handle being alone. Being "single" is just fine and I am often think that this is how I would prefer to live. Loading the dishwasher in the way I deem to be correct is truly satisfying. Dancing spastically in the kitchen while the kids sleep and not concerning myself with looking coordinated or even sexy is fabulous.

But not being having any physical contact with another adult human sucks. Badly.

In the months after Jeff died, people would hug me or rub my back as I stared blankly out a window. My daughter, five years old at the time, was perpetually snuggled next to me as she feared losing me in an instant as she had her beloved daddy. My one year old son was still breastfeeding and slept in my bed. Although I missed Jeff and every small thing about him, I was still often in close physical proximity to others.

After six months, the comforting embraces had dwindled and only my little ones continued to absentmindedly touch my skin and gently stroke my face as they surrendered to slumber.

I remember going to the hairdresser and blinking back tears as she softly brushed my hair. It was not erotic or sexual in any sense....It was just that at that moment, I was worthy of being touched by another human being.

Occasionally, my sweet friend would offer her husband up for a hug as he was large and burly like Jeff had been. I know it terrified him, but I would desperately sob into his chest as I imagined being held by Jeff's safe and strong arms. It was horribly humbling to be embraced by someone who was doing so, not because they desired this, but out of obligation to their wife....and embarrassing. But I still accepted those hugs.

Now, three years later, I am quite happy being on my own. I enjoy making my own decisions and choosing which path our little family should follow. I am comfortable with my own company and am truly never bored.

But, at times, I ache to be touched. To have someone push back the hair from my cheek or nonchalantly brush my arm with theirs. Just to have another person value my physical presence and find me attractive enough to want to touch me. I want to smell someone's neck as they embrace me within their strong arms....not out of duty to their wife, but because they want to.

return of the numbness

Photo from here...

Written four months after Jeff's death....

I don't know if it's normal to have the vague fuzzy feeling like thinking through a pillow re-emerge four months after a death happens. But it has. I feel as if I'm trying to catch glimpses of things as I spin in circles. I can see that things are there but the edges blur and smudge together. I'm late for things all the time...okay, even later than I was before. I can't keep my bloody mind 'on task' and forget where/what I was doing or going.
It was getting better. Maybe it was the large whiteboard that I stationed in the living room to help remind me of the obligations that need attending to. Maybe I was beginning to heal a minute amount (this is what I was hoping).
But whatever reprieve I had from the chaos and confusion of a muddled mind has ended. Fuck. It makes me crabby. I always think I am forgetting something (which I am) and I can't rest or let my mind cease the constant flurry of thought. It's a numb, yet intense feeling. Like walking barefoot through really deep, COLD mud. Slow but sharp.
My only reasoning for this is that grief is not a steady road upward. There are twists, setbacks and road-blocks. I've hit a big-ass speed bump.

Stuck

I'm feeling indecisive these days. In fact, I wrote a very long post earlier this evening, then decided that it didn't adequately describe what I was feeling. I decided to leave it on my screen for awhile, then came back and hit delete.

There are so many times in my day to day life that I would love to have a do-over. I would love to just hit delete, then just start over fresh.

You know, I waste so much time in my day to day life. At work I'm productive, but then I come home, and often feel like whatever I do, or did, it was all just a waste. It's at that point that I wish I could just hit delete, and once again, start fresh.

I'm sad to report that these days, much of my free time still feels pointless. I often feel lost, or that I am just marking time. It's not that I want to be here, or in this state, it's just that I feel caught in some kind of thick mud. I can see all that life potentially has in store for me, but I don't really know how to get it anymore.

There is a duality in my desire for growth and change. I want desperately to be in a place of happiness. I want to have new people in my life, and I would love to see my home filled with weekend guests. Yet, what am I really doing to make this happen? Am I really ready for it, or am I simply not allowing it?

This weekend for example, I had most of the weekend to myself. My daughter had taken my youngest with her, so I was left to myself. This is something I used to cherish. Time alone. Well, it's something we used to cherish. Time alone, together. Now it seems that time alone is time to remember just how alone I am. It just serves to sadden me further.

And it's not like I am doing nothing about it. I am making a concerted effort to get out there now and then. I'm even going to the occasional restaurant, or club, by myself, in hopes of meeting someone. I'm not exactly sure what I will do if and when I do meet someone, but I know that I can't stay at home alone forever. I'm feeling like I need to meet someone new, who can rekindle those dormant feelings of excitement and passion. I don't necessarily mean sex, although it's not like I would turn that down at this point. What I really want, and need, is a reason to feel passionate about life again.

Last week my son and I were out having dinner. A song came on, and then I was taken away. I was taken to that dark and lonely place. When I was able to refocus I could see that my son recognized something in my face. I said sorry, and that I was having a Michael moment. He looked sad, and said "I know, I could tell." And I'm sorry to report that I'm sure I walk around most of my week with that same look.

Whose going to want to befriend me, or consider me for a date, with that look upon my face?

No big revelation here. Now grand ideas or plan. Just me, checking in about my current, and evolving, reality. I don't want to be stuck here. I don't want to be the sad guy forever. I want to know passion once again. I want to experience joy.

I'm going to keep at it. I hope you will too.

A Child's Grief.

I'm writing this on Sunday, Father's Day. I just returned from visiting my folks, about 2 hours away. It seems that whenever the kids and I visit our extended family, especially on holidays, we end up having a debriefing of our thoughts and emotions on the ride home.

Before I start, let me share with you my own reactions to days such as this. I love my family, and enjoy being around them. We always have a really good time, but at the same time, it is always a reminder of what I no longer have. All of them are married, and without thinking, they often begin describing what each spouse did, or bought, for them for whatever holiday we are celebrating. I sit there hoping none of them ask what I received for the holiday, as it is usually nothing. This isn't meant to be a sob story, just the dynamic of how things go down when you are widowed, or a single parent. And, like usual, nobody did ask me. So I sit there, forced to witness my perception of their idealistic life.

Tonight as I was driving, my 13 year old began talking about how he feels very jealous of all of his friends' families. He was explaining how they all seem so happy, and that they all get along so well. I reminded him that what he is witnessing is how those families act when a guest is present, which isn't necessarily how things are during private family time. At the same time, I tried to honor the reality of his perception.

I let him know that yes, our family has probably had more challenges than most. First, each of my children were born from a mother who had a severe substance abuse problem. So even prior to their birth, there were some givens as to the challenges up ahead for them. Next, within a two year period they learned of their birth mother's death, their step father was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he later died. I also pointed out that up until 21 months ago, we had a full house. He had two loving parents, a big sister and an older brother, all under one roof. Now he finds himself living in a new home, with only his grieving father. His sister and older brother no longer live at home. What was a very noisy and busy home, is now a very quiet home for the most part.

My son then went on to share about how sad he feels at times. An example he shared was that recently his friend's pet rat had died. When he learned of this he began to cry. He said he felt like something was wrong with him, because it wasn't his pet, and it was just a rat. I reminded him of all the loss he has experienced, and how because of that he is always going to have a deeper response to any loss. I explained how a small, insignificant occurrence, can trigger these underlying emotions. He seemed to understand what I was explaining.

Later, after discussing many other things on his mind, I reminded him that given all that we have been through, that we are doing fairly well. I told him that I would try harder to bring joy into our home. I also acknowledged that I, as his father, have changed considerably since losing Michael. Right away he nodded his head, "yes, dad, you have changed." I reminded my son that I, and we as a family, are getting better, but that it will take more time.

How I wish things were different. I too catch myself looking at others around me, and wonder why they got the ideal life, and I got this one. More and more, I remind myself that no one's life is perfect, and everyone has their challenges. Yet even as I say this, I can't help but notice that there is not a single sound in the house, and since my son went to bed, not a soul to speak to.

Not so easy, is it?


***In an ironic twist, I found myself, and my son, reflected on a movie screen tonight. Here is a link to my personal blog, where you can continue to read about a child's grief.

Super 8.

i need more dreams

Written 6 months after Jeff's death...

A few weeks ago, I had a dream that I was standing on a bridge looking toward the sea where a fishing boat was coming. I started calling out to it. I was calling Jeff's name. As it came closer, I could see Jeff standing on the bow waving to me. He jumped off the boat as it was about to go under the bridge and swam to me on the shore. He was laughing. He held me so close and I cried as he had me in his arms. I felt safe. I felt comfort. I felt protected. Most of all, I felt Jeff's love. I didn't want the dream to end. I was disappointed to wake and find that my life is what it now is. I need another one of those dreams. I need Jeff.

I am so lonely and lost. There are only two times in your life when you will comforted through the night when things are hard and scary. As a child, you have your parents to murmur in your ear through the nightmares. As you grow up, you must learn to comfort yourself. Then you find the person who changes your life. You wake from scary dreams or can't sleep with worry and you can turn to the person who loves you most and be comforted. I would do anything to feel Jeff's giant arm draped over my hip in the night and feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. To have him whisper in the darkness, "It's okay. I'm here, Snuggles." and pull me closer.

Instead, I wake to two little ones who look to me for assurance wrapped over me. I disentangle myself and wander through the dark house to find....nothing but more darkness. It washes over me and I want to scream. I feel like passing out or throwing up. I lay on the floor or sit with my head between my knees so that if I do faint I won't wake the kids with the thud of my body hitting the floor. No one would know. No one would come. No one could take away this pain. No one but Jeff. I want him back. I want him. I need him. I am so very lost.

Would it be weird to ask a friend to sleep in my bed with me? Just to be there when I wake. To reassure me that one day it will be okay? To hold my hand when it gets too much?

I just want some comfort. Some peace. Some sleep. And maybe if I sleep, Jeff will meet me on the other side and laugh while I cry in his arms.

Empty Handed

It's been a rough week. I've been an emotional mess, and have felt more vulnerable than I have in months. I don't really know what brought it on either. I kept looking at the calendar, trying to find some reason, or meaning, behind all the tears I have been shedding this week, but just came up empty handed.

Perhaps that's just it, I feel empty handed. What have I really gained from all of this? This grief journey is so much work, and it's times like this I often wonder if what I have gained is worth my effort. Is it worth my loss? Of course not. Yet, I have no choice but to keep working on it.

For some reason it's been this week that my new coworkers have been stopping to visit in my new office, and asking about the faces in the picture frame that sits on my desk. My response is always the same, and always in counter clockwise order.

This is my daughter, Arianne, my oldest son, Dante, my youngest Remy, (deep breath) and this is my late husband Michael (another deep breath.)

People have been responding quite nicely, taking the moment to offer their condolences. I've been using the short drive between my office, and my son's school, to get a good cry in. Actually, there are times that I take a private moment to cry out whatever I have been holding back during the day, but this week they arrive unplanned, and often without my control. I know that we cannot be expected to hide, or hold back our grief all the time, but the reality of my job is that I can't be emoting while conducting mediation's.

I made a really good friend in my short tenure at my last job. She is quite adept at sensing my needs, even when she hasn’t seen me in awhile. It’s almost scary. This week she sent me text messages most nights, just checking in, and letting me know she was there. One night, late in the week, I had fallen deep into despair, and temporarily lost my ability to reach out to the hand that was offered. When I saw her last night at a friends party, the first thing she asked if I was okay, because she didn't hear back from me. Before I could answer she notice the urn locket was back around my neck.

“Oh, you had a bad night, didn’t you?”

I let her in on how my week had progressed, and let her know how much I appreciated her reaching out to me. In many ways her evening text messages kept things from getting worse than they could have. This conversation was shared amidst a large group of friends who had gathered at a local restaurant for dinner and drinks. With the festive energy of the group, and a couple of margaritas, I was soon able to let go of my grief, and really have a good time. As our time at the restaurant was coming to the end, the group decided that everyone should meet at a local club and go dancing. Right away everyone started encouraging me to join them, yet most probably not expecting that I would say yes. I let them know I needed to go home to check on my son and his friend that was over, and would decide at that point. Once home it would have been really easy to just crawl into bed for the night, as it was getting late, but I decided I would push myself further. I’m so glad that I did.

I ended up dancing the night away with each of the lovely ladies in our group. At one point I was dancing with my close friend, and she asked when the last time I had been out dancing was. I couldn’t even remember.

It’s been a very long time, is all I could say.

“Did Michael like to dance?”

Yes, he did. In fact, that is how we met. (Smile)

Later as I walked my friend and her sister to their car, she let me know how happy she was that I decided to join them. She said that all she could think about was how so many in our group have been dealing with some significant loss, and that it gave her so much joy to see each of us out there laughing, dancing, and having a good time. Those thoughts had also been swirling around in my head as well. At one point I was there dancing next to some new friends of mine who lost their toddler just a few months earlier. There we were, still with that recognizable look of loss in our eyes, yet smiling, moving, and having a good time.

This really has me thinking. We often say that there is a lot of work to be done on this grief journey. I suppose that if we want our work to be as productive as possible, then we need to be sure to take some needed breaks now and then. All work, and no pleasure, can only lead to burn out, which is where I likely found myself this week.

expectations

Painting from here...

As humans, it seems that we all expect to have more than we do. More possessions. More time. More love. More help.

I don't know if it's just my human-ness that makes this desire for more so prevalent...or if the fact that I am a widow makes this expectation almost obsessive.
I have quite happy having few possessions, however (or at least I think I am until I want a new pair of jeans....).

But I had expected life as an adult, a parent, a wife to be different.
And even after finding myself widowed, I had expected that I would be able to hack it with grace, strength and alone.

But really, I had expected more. More time with Jeff. More help in the yard. More rest. More money to be able to fund dance lessons and hockey practise.

I have expected myself to be able to give everything of myself to my children - I mean, face it, they didn't expect to here with only one parent who often does a losey job in the patience and time department. So I let them sleep with me even if this means I lose my sleep. I let them eat my share of the dinner occasionally if they are still hungry and I have food left on my plate. I forgo a night out with friends because of the guilt I feel for leaving them with someone else when I could certainly be home.

And then, often, I begin to feel worn out. Frustrated and sorry for myself. Poor me.

I wish I could get to a place that I always could not expect anything. To just "be". And to exist in what has unfolded in front of me without regrets or expectations. Because maybe the energy it takes to imagine life "as it should be" just takes the energy out of enjoying it as it is.

three

This morning will mark three years since I've held your warm hand. Heard your snores. Felt safe knowing I was yours.

My life doesn't stop today as it did three years ago....although I partially wish it would. There are appoinments to be attended, childcare to sort out and errands to run.

I'd like to lay in my bed and think of only you. To keen quietly and close my eyes to the empty side of our bed.

But I am terrified that by allowing myself to sink into the grief that still runs so deeply through my heart, I will fall back into that pit of loss. The dark and scary place where time does stop and all I feel is the loss of you.

So I fill my day. To the brim.

I will take the kids to the beach with our notes for you attached to helium balloons. I'll barely allow myself that hour to let the sadness sink in...I need to keep my heart up and my eyes sharp for my little ones.

When this tradition is fulfilled I will begin running again. Focusing on dinner and bathtime. Fingernail clipping and playing referee to intermittent sibling discord.

But after the night has brought quiet and our two children rest, I'll truly feel the loss of you. I'll remember that first night without you. The enormity of the loss. The confusion and unbelievability found in your death. I will cry out for you. I will hold the last dirty shirt of yours close and attempt to smell the long lost scent of you. I will wonder at the ability of others who naively went about their day unaware of this day's significance. And I will miss you as fiercely as I did that first day.

I love you, Jeffrey, with all my heart. I miss you still. And I don't think I can, or will, ever stop.

flying solo

Photo from here

I am finding this new responsibility of being thrust into the world of solitary decision making terrifying...But I am doing it and it's okay. I would prefer to bounce all these thoughts, necessary choices and responsibilities off of Jeff, but I can't. So as I forge ahead with my life alone, I am finding these mountains that I am climbing difficult; but in someways, I am getting better at them. I am learning to trust myself and the believe that I can make these decisons alone. That I know what is right for me...or us.
Today, I sold our car. The car that Jeff bought me for Valentine's Day in 2006. The car Jeff died in. My little blue Toyota Matrix. It was small, safe and economical....But we had the truck for carrying larger loads and muddy dogs. I didn't need to bring multiple children in the car very often as I wasn't caring for anyone other than my kiddos or the occasional playdate.
But now, life is different. I am going to need to look to a future where I can bring in an income and care for my children alone. I need to be able to move objects by myself and cart various things home that would not fit in my little car.
So now, I own a minivan. I decided and made the deal myself. It was scary and I kept worrying that I was being taken advantage of....Possibly a bit paranoid. But I did it. Myself.
The kids and I quite like the van. It's a few years older than the car thus making it more affordable. It's clean and safe. It is blue just as my little car was...Jeff's favourite colour as Liv pointed out.
Liv had her trepidation about buying the van. She cried the first night and asked me to go get the car back because it reminded her of Daddy. I remembered crying when my dad talked of selling our little Vauxhal (a little white German car that our family had when I was a child - it`s floor was rusted out, we would watch the road go by as we drove along and we sang songs about `Daddy`s little Vauxhal`). It was certainly a different circumstance but I could empathize with her feelings of security and comfort in the car....especially after losing so much this year. But now, it is like a fort. She wants to show all her friends her new van. They ask to `play in the van`. I am loving the space and the ability to comfortably take our friends along.
So although one door has closed, another has opened. I do feel sad. I do have such fond memories of our little car that I had thought the kids would learn to drive. But I must be flexible and not hold onto things that do not provide the needs we now have just because they are a link to Jeff. This is a hard lesson to learn. But I am doing it.

Originally posted Nov. 29, 2008 - 8 months 4 days post-Jeff on my blog