Scared of the Anger

It's been a year, nine months, one week and two days since my husband took his life and I'm only now just starting to feeling angry. Even typing that, makes me ill.  I'm  very much NOT ok with feeling angry.  

When he first died, I had a fleeting moment of thinking 'how could he have made this decision for us, without consulting me!?' and then within a split second it was gone - replaced with 'well he was sick.  This wasn't my husband, this was his disease.  It robbed him of his logic, his understanding of consequences and his ability to make rational decisions. It also robbed him of his ability to ask for help. In that moment, he believed there was no other way.'  

Any hint of anger was replaced with sadness for how scared and lost he must have felt. That just broke my heart and overshadowed everything else.  I didn't want to yell at him, I wanted to hold him, comfort him, sooth him. 

I'm not a 'yelling' kind of person, never have been.  As a child, I was much more included to sulk rather than throw tantrums.  As an adult, I'm logical and sensitive, I want to find solutions and compromise rather than get lost in rage or lash out.  

My husband and I weren't fighters.  We didn't always agree, but we always communicated from a place of kindness - reluctant to hurt each other and always wanting to work towards a mutually-agreeable solution.  We never used harsh words or said things out of spite, which is why I'm totally freaking out at the harsh words that have been coming to mind now, when I think about his death. 

I have been putting off writing about this.  I can barely speak about it to my closest friends.  The words choke as they come out, I'm petrified of acknowledging this emotion. 

I don't want anyone to get confused and think that I'm blaming my husband for his death.  I've been a fierce and vocal campaigner of showing support to those suffering mental illness, and working to remove the stigma and blame around suicide.  I'm worried that by expressing anger in a public way, it may be misinterpreted. It is a very private, very intimate and very personal emotion and it's scary to be vulnerable.  It's also a temporary emotion, but something that I need to acknowledge and work through, in order to prevent it from settling in my stomach and making me unwell. 

I described it to my grief counsellor this week as though there is a child inside me wanting to throw the mother of all tantrums.  She wants to rage and scream and kick and break things.  She is so hurt and angry, she feels deceived and betrayed.  But, there's also the rational, loving adult who keeps silencing the child with soothing words such as 'but it wasn't him, he adored you - he would never consciously hurt you'.  As soon as the child starts to find her voice it is quickly shut down. But my rationality just needs to shut up for a moment so the anger can be heard and released before it suffocates me. 

I'm scared that my anger might hurt people, like those who love Dan and may not be ready for this emotion (which was me, up until now). 

I'm scared that I may be encouraging others to feel angry at him. The thought of that pains me greatly, which is very confusing and complicated.  Even in my own anger, I want to protect him from any wrath. 

And I'm scared that by acknowledging this in any way, including writing about it here, people will try to stifle or dissolve my anger by rationalising the situation.  Making it even harder for me to process it as a valid and important part of the grief journey. 

I know that while, right now, I may be very mad about his death, I still love my husband.  The anger doesn't change that.  I will continue to love him long after I've released this pain and I know that, where ever he may be, he will understand why I feel like this and forgive me.  He is probably actually wondering why it's taken me thing long in the first place.  

And again I'm reminded about the personal growth that grief leads us to.  I have learnt so much about myself since his death.  I've been faced with thoughts, emotions and ideas that I probably would never have had to consider if he were still here.  Learning to be comfortable with my anger is just the latest on this long list.  I know I will get through this one too, because my track record so far is pretty impressive. 

Empty fury

I'm sure we've all been told that 'anger' is one of the phases of grief (coincidently, Stephanie wrote about these on Thursday). I say 'phases' instead of 'stages' because, in my experience, it’s not a linear process where you graduate from one emotion to the next.  Instead, it’s been a messy, complicated jumble that throws us back and forward, turning us inside and out.

Thankfully, I haven't felt a lot of anger, maybe four or five bursts in the past 10 months. But when it hits, boy oh boy, it's like a tornado has blown in hard and fast.  I’m having one of the anger storms tonight, so thought I’d vent here.

I've never been able to direct the anger at Dan. I wish I could because I imagine it might feel satisfying to blame him for this mess I'm in. But in my heart I know it's not his fault. He didn't take his life to hurt me, he wasn't in the frame of mind to understand he was ending my life too - my life the way I knew it anyway. His final note tells me that he thought he was saving me.  I want to be angry that he got it so wrong but I honestly believe he died from a disease that he just couldn't control.

If anything, when I try to direct the anger at him I end up feeling even more heart-broken because rather than point an accusing finger, I want to protect him. I want to bundle him up in my arms, kiss his sweet, gentle face and sooth him. I want to tell him it's going to be ok, he doesn't need to be scared, we'll work it out together. 

So no, I can't be angry with him. But I'm still furious and looking for somewhere to direct it.

I want to pour blame on Dan's doctor, who I can't help but feel let us down. Or the people he crossed paths with the morning he died  He was distraught, with tears pouring down his face, yet no one stopped him. I want to shake them and say 'why didn’t you ask if he was ok? Why did you fail us!' But I know it's not their fault either. If I didn't see it, and I was the closest person too him, how can I blame others?  I know they suffered from this too.

I want to hurl my anger at those close to me - my family and friends. Those who have done everything possible to help me but needed to make their own lives a priority for a rare moment, triggering my abandonment issues and making me want to shove everyone away. But I know they love me and are hurting to see me like this.  I know it’s not fair to lash out at them.

I want to pound my fists against the idiot at work, or the asshole who gave me attitude at the grocery store. I want to roar like a savage beast at everyone who still has their spouse to come home to at night, to console them after a tough day, cook them a meal or help with the shitty chores that no one wants to do on their own. But I know that wouldn’t be fair either.

I want to run, to burn the fury through physical exertion, but I don't seem to have the energy to pull my shoes on. I want to throw crockery plates at a brick wall. Hear them crash and watch them shatter. But I like my plates and the mess would bother me.

I want to destroy everything good around me, so my surroundings resemble my insides - barren and lonely and dark.

But I just don't have the heart. So I lie here defeated and cry. That primal howling cry that comes from deep within while my body writhes with pain. I scream in to my pillow, 'why!?' and 'please come back!' and 'no, this isn't fair - it's too much! I can't do it' until I fall asleep from exhaustion.

Then, in the morning, head pounding and puffy-eyed I'll get up, take a deep breath and go and do it all again.  One day at a time, one step at a time. Until the anger rolls in again.

Journaling through the Emotions

I've been going back over a lot of my old journal entries lately and picked one out to share a part of. For some years now I have been doing this inner-child dialogue technique... Basically having a conversation with that deepest, most vulnerable (and sometimes most wounded) part of myself by asking her questions and allowing her to share until I get to the real root of some emotions.

I know. It sounds WEIRD. And at first it felt really weird to do, but the results have always been profound at revealing some very deep emotions that I can never seem to get to so clearly any other way.

This entry was in Nov 2012, just a few months after he died:

"Inner Me: I'm so angry. SO ANGRY. Is it so much to fucking ask to just be able to fucking hear his VOICE again... telling me he loves me. Is it so much to ask?!

Me: I'm so sorry this has happened to you. You've already been through so much... I wish so badly I could take this away from you.

Inner Me: You should be sorry. you told me I was safe with him. you told me he's not going anywhere, you told me I could trust him, I could relax and feel safe. Well fucking now look where I am.

Me: You're right. of course you are mad at me, and at him. how could you not be. you've been totally betrayed.

Inner Me: Well, not totally. I mean, you've done a really good job of taking care of me through all this. You've made decisions for us that have made a HUGE difference and all. And... I know you are hurting too. I know there is now way anyone could have known this would happen. And I know, its not his fault either. I'm just so angry. I just want our old life back, you know?

Me: I know. God, so do I."

This part of the dialogue stood out to me because I knew I was angry at the world and at sometimes even at Drew, but the notion that I was angry at myself was so shocking. I was floored that this part of me had felt so hurt and so unheard by me during all of this. 

Anytime I get to a really dark place with my emotions, start to isolate a lot or begin having those "what's wrong with me?" feelings… I always use this exercise to get to the root of things. It's been a while since I've done it though, I'm thinking tonight I may just do another to see where we stand a year later.

Crap..

I’m sick of death.

I’m sick of the 27^th of every month.

On July 27^th, I passed the three year anniversary of my husband’s death. That same day a friend I have known since Jr. High passed away.

August 27^th (The 37^th month of my husband’s death) my childhood best friend became widowed.. without warning.. at the age of 30.

This friend I have known since I was about five years old. She was three years old.

I was very young when she was in a horrible car accident and was in a body cast from the chest down.

I pulled her around the neighborhood, in her body cast, in my red wagon.

Because she was cooped up and bed ridden, I pulled her around.. to get her out.. for some fresh air and fun times.

Now I have vowed to pull her again. Drag her through the “neighborhood” of widow land. I might need a wagon. I might need to drag her kicking and screaming. But I refuse to let her step into this strange and foreign land alone.

While I wasn’t alone when I started this journey, I didn’t have anyone that truly understood how devastating losing a spouse is. I felt like I had nowhere to turn.. nowhere to go for support. I refuse to let her face this alone. Sorry Michelle, I’ll be up your ass for quite a while.. so get used it.

When she contacted me this week and told me the news of her husband I swear my heart fell out and shattered on the ground.. shattered all over again. How could this happen??

When I got news of both my friend passing away and my friend becoming widowed.. I instantly was pissed off at Seth. Where was he? Why was he not protecting my friend and her husband? What is he doing?? Off playing in the amazing after life while we are left to fend for ourselves?

Why in the hell am I watching my friends die and become widowed at 32 years old??

What happened to living the long, amazing life? What happened to growing old and gray together? Sitting on the porch in rocking chairs watching our grandchildren play?

What the crap happened??

Watching all this unfold is crap.

It’s crap that at 32 years old I know the pain of being widowed, and I am now watching it happen to my friends.

Pure crap.

Back in the anger stage

The heart volcano my nephew drew for me.

Yesterday was Seth’s 34th birthday.
Or would have been, I guess.

Yesterday as I was slowly waking from my sleep, I heard crying.
As I slowly open my eyes, the tears were flowing, and realize the crying I heard was me.

It’s not the first time I have woke myself up crying. But it also hasn't happened for a while, so I was caught off guard.

I sat up in bed, wondering “What the hell is wrong with me??”

My mind slowly and gently reminded me that it was Seth’s birthday. And he is still dead.

His birthday is a horribly rough day. All I want to do is make him nachos, buy him his favorite beer, and do whatever his lil heart desires.
But I can’t.

I normally release balloons to Seth on his birthday. This year would have been 34 balloons.
But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I thought – he doesn't see it, so it doesn't even matter.

After some thought, I realized - I am angry.
I am back in the anger stage, for the billionth time.

I am pissed as shit that my husband isn't here. I am pissed that he took his own life.
I am pissed that I had to face my birthday, Thanksgiving and his birthday, without him here.

A friend told me to be strong. I thought about it, and thought to myself “Forget that, I am done being strong. Today I am going to be pissed and weak. After all, I deserve that”.

I can only be strong and not angry for so long before I crumble under the pressure.
Sometimes I am too weak to be strong any longer.
Sometimes I am too mad to tell myself to calm down.

It’s ok to allow myself to be weak. It’s ok to allow myself to be angry. Angry with Seth. Angry with God. Angry with the life that I didn't sign up for.

Thanksgiving came and went, with few grief moments.

As I was getting ready for my family to come over, I found myself grieving over doing the shopping and cleaning alone.

Everything now seems so much harder. The shopping and cleaning seems extremely hard now.

I’m not sure if it’s because I do it alone or if it’s reminder of being alone.

The things that were so simple in the “before” life are like pulling out my own teeth now.

I got to babysit my nephew and niece overnight on Thanksgiving night, so my brother could go black Friday shopping.

The kids and I were laying on the floor and coloring.

My nephew suddenly says “I’m glad you don’t live in the old house anymore”.

I was completely caught off guard. While trying to control the lump in my throat and preparing myself for the answer, I asked “Why?”

He says “Because the old house was scary”.

I fought back tears and had to excuse myself to gather my feelings.

My nephew doesn't remember Uncle Seth.

I was pretty shocked that he remembered “the old house”, let alone brought it up.

Especially since I just passed the one year anniversary in the new house.

It was pretty shocking to hear my nephew say the old house was scary.

I thought the fear I felt in our house, was my fear alone.

Little did I know that my 5 year old nephew was scared of it too.

I loved watching my niece and nephew.
They are so fun.

They also remind me how simple life really is.

How I need to slow down, and enjoy the simple things in life.

The simple, teeny, tiny things.

Such as coloring, snuggling and laughing.

My nephew also reminded me to follow my heart.

That my fear was not mine alone, and if I am consistently scared, to make changes to soothe myself.

After all, at end of the day, the only person to comfort me, is me.

i dream of you

The credit for this photo is uncertain and if anyone can verify the photographer that I will be happy to site credit for the image.

I've had many dreams of Jeff since his death. There are a few that are terrifying renditions of the last few minutes of his life; but the vast majority centre on seeing him again in a variety of surprising locations.

I've found him on dairy farms slogging through the mud. I have glimpsed him on boats passing bridges that I stand upon. I have found him sitting at the dinner table expectant for his next meal.

In each one of these absurdly set dreams, he is smiling, joyful and laughing. His mirth spills from him with such force that I believe that he is alive again and this whole death business has been an unfortunate ruse.

After hugging him forcefully and smelling him deeply, I usually beat upon his chest swearing at him for inconveniencing me with having to plan a funeral and all the painful outfall from the belief that he has been dead all this time.

He never utters a word but gleefully smiles at me and holds me tight. I always seem to come away from these dreams feeling that he is "okay" and that he is happy.

These dreams shifted recently when my dream of rearranging furniture into the perfect configuration was interrupted by a dreamland telephone ringing. I was too immersed in my activity to answer it. Jeff's good friend, Finnegan, answered, laughed and replied to the unseen person speaking, "I'll tell her...." He turned to me and said, "Jeff asked me to tell you that he loves you the whole pie and he's thinking of you." Outraged that Finnegan had hung up, I flung myself at the phone fervently trying to remember Jeff's contact number for wherever the hell he was.

I woke with my heart beating frantically and my mind attempting to grasp that telephone number to god-knows-where....As my head cleared, I realized I was looking for the number to "Heaven"....

Although I was frustrated and saddened that he was just beyond my reach, I was relieved that again, he seemed to be "here" and he was "alright"; in fact, he seemed happy.

I wonder if others have these dreams when they have lost someone so very dear to their heart? Is this my mind playing tricks in an attempt to soothe my heart? Or is Jeff reaching out to me from somewhere to let me know that he still loves me and will be with me always?

The Closer

Special thanks to guest author M,atthew Croke, for his excellent guest post today! Kim is moving and will be back next week!

I want to be a closer in baseball. Or at least I want to think like one.  I was watching a game on TV and one of the best closers in baseball gave up back to back home runs and his team lost the game.  The next night he gets another chance to close out the game. This time: he walks the first batter, hits the second batter, and the third batter hits a double which scores two runs.  They lose again.

Reporters swarm the closer after the game, hoping to get a swearing, out-of-control athlete who will throw equipment and have a meltdown for all to see.  The network news will then reply his weak moment over and over again, happily letting the world see a man who has failed.  The viewing public will stop everything they are doing to see this piece of entertainment every time it’s shown.

However, to the dismay of news producers, the baseball closer sits at his locker; ten microphones shoved in his face, and without flinching, tell the reporters what they don’t want to hear.  “If you are going to be a closer in baseball, you have to have a short memory.  You walk off the field and take the loss, you forget it happened and get back out there the next day and do your job.” He says picking a piece of string off his jersey as if the cameras don’t exist.

“But you’ve blown two in a row, do you feel you’ve lost your confidence?” barks a reporter from the back, trying his best to get the player to lose his cool.

The closer, looking at the piece of string before tossing it over his shoulder, looks back at the reporter and shrugs his shoulders.  “Those games are over, they’re irrelevant to me.  Tomorrow I will wake up and start all over again.”

A few nights ago, I had a bad night putting my kids to sleep: they took forever getting their pajamas on, they were playing instead of going to the bathroom, and every time I’d get one in the bedroom I would see another one come back out to play. By the time I had them all in their room to read stories, I was yelling and told them “no books” and left the room to crying children as I turned off the light and barked one more “Go to sleep.” for good measure.

I went upstairs and without turning on the lights, sat in the living room; the darkness allowing my brain to form a complete thought. It didn’t take long for me to be disappointed in myself for not having enough patience.  I wanted to the day to be over and what were kids being kids, I used as an excuse so I could get out of going through their entire nighttime routine.  It was the end of the day and I blew the final inning. I walked the first batter, hit the second, and then gave up a double to lose the game, kids crying and all.

“I blew the game tonight.” I told myself. “I need to have a short memory, for when I go to bed and wake up in the morning, I will be given the ball again, and if by chance, I happen to blow it two nights in a row, then the day after that I will go back out and try again.”

The difference between a Hall of Famer and a player in the minors isn’t the blown saves, everybody loses games. It’s the ability of the Hall of Famer to walk off the field and forget about it before he steps into the locker room that makes the difference.

It's Not My Fault ....

                                  picture from here



.... that my children became orphans on December 18, 2007.

OK, they didn't literally become orphans.
But technically .... they did.

They lost both of their parents that day.
Yes, I was here in body, but only in body.
My body was empty of any resemblance of me.
All it held was the cold, black grief that enveloped every part of me .... grief moved into every space, every cell of my being, and took over.

I was not, could not be,  the person I had been.
So there was no way I could be the same mother.
There were many times when I beat myself up over that.
In spite of .... many things.

But I have moved past a lot of that.
My grief no longer occupies my body.
My grief is no longer in control.
It no longer makes me believe that my children would be better off if I, too, were actually dead.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I could no more have altered my grief, my grieving, than I could have reached out, touched Jim's body, and brought him back to life.
I did not choose my grief.
I did not want that grief.

But I got what I got.

And so my children managed to somehow keep growing and moving forward, without a parent to guide them.
That was something they had never, ever done before.
And I was powerless to change anything.

Then.

I am no longer powerless.
Now.
I am very much mostly back to the parent I was "before".
Not all.
I will never be all of the same person/parent I was "before".
But that comes with pros and cons.

Last week was one huge con.
Last week I experienced the incineration of the wall of trust that had encircled one of my children and myself.
The wall was built out of my trust.
That wall no longer exists.
Yes, it can be built again, but that's up to my child .... and it will have to be built one brick at a time.
I think it will.
I hope it will.

But until that time .... here I am .... left to deal with the fallout.
And the consequences.
And all of the crap that one must deal with when a mistake has been made.
And I deal with it .... alone.
Very much alone.

And I hate it.
There are no words for how very much I hate it.

I hate that Jim's not here to share the good times, the big events .... with me.
With us.
But I hate even more that he's not here to help me navigate the storms .... the crap.
The crap that I had nothing to do with, and yet impacts me .... a lot.

A couple of years ago I would have been out of my mind with thinking that this "mistake" was my fault.
Because I was no longer the same.
Because I could not parent the way I did "before".
Because I had somehow failed them.  My children.

But now, here in this place I've fought tooth and nail to arrive at, I know differently.
Crap happens.
And it happens no matter how many parents a child has.
Or how many he/she doesn't have.

Yes,  I am (mostly) back.
Much to the chagrin of my child.
And I am no longer going to the be the only one dealing with consequences.
I am strong.
And I am pissed.

I'm pissed that Jim gets to miss out on all of the crap.
I'm pissed that I can't play "good cop, bad cop" with my kids anymore.
Because there's only one cop.
I'm pissed that, in dealing with this kind of crap, I am very, very alone.

But .... on the flip side .... I'm good.
Because now I know .... no, now I remember ..... that in the same way I could not alter my grief, I cannot alter the minds and decisions of my children.
And truthfully, I never could.

And then there's this:  I asked one of my other children if he/she thought that this choice might not have been made if their dad were here.
To which he/she replied, "Ummmmm, no, Mom.  Teenagers are just .... teenagers and I know this would've happened whether or not Dad was here."
And now, looking back on things .... I realize that my child is 100% correct.

Mistakes would still be made ..... whether my children had two parents or one parent .... or no parent.
And so I am less .... pissed.

Which is a very good thing.
Because I doubt that there's anything scarier than a pissed-off widow.
Trust me.
:)

World's Best Husband

Special thanks to Matthew Croke for a guest post today!

I was at Denny’s restaurant on my lunch break, enjoying a turkey club sandwich, an iced tea, and reading the newspaper. Sitting in a booth by myself, still having another 35 minutes to go on my break, and kids away at school miles away from where I work.  I was in a peaceful state.  That’s when I heard it from the booth behind me.

“Mike has been such a jerk lately, if he wants to keep putting his friends above me, why did he even get married.  It’s like pulling teeth to have him stay home.” Said the woman whose voice sounded to be in her mid thirties.

“Consider yourself lucky.  Bill’s home all the time and all he does is watch TV.  Last night he asked to eat in front of the baseball game and then expected me to clean up his dishes when he was done.” Said the second woman.

My lunch was ruined.  I was angry and sad at the same time.  I felt like getting up, walking over to that booth and asking both women to marry me right then and there. 

 “Ladies, I use to be a good husband.” I would say on one knee “Marry me, and I will stay home with you, I will turn off the television, I will clean up my own dishes, and we shall go out afterwards and dance until midnight to the sounds of Dave Brubeck.”

I paid my check and left Denny’s very melancholy.  How could these guys treat their wives so?  Didn’t they know how lucky they were to have their companions still alive?  How dare all these people who are married treat their spouses with disrespect.  And yet, the guy whose would dote on his wife is a widower. 

I carried this anger all through out the rest of the day.  Then, on the drive home while I had the radio off, I felt the tears coming of anger, sadness, and pity of the greatness of my husbandhoodness that was being wasted.  Finally, I got my head together and said out loud to myself, “You’re full of crap.  You were no better and you know it.”

For the past few years my memories have strayed into rewriting memories.  I have turned regret of not fully appreciating my wife to false memories of me being this great husband who is alone.  I’ve done it because it hurts less when I think the world has done me great injustice instead of looking myself in the mirror.

I have to keep an eye out on this, I cannot let myself drift father and father into what is false realities and unreal expectations.  If that happens, I will create such a cyclone of anger trying to live a life that not only doesn’t exist, but never did.

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.

The same??? a cranky rant

Image from here....

First posted on my personal blog on June 25th, 2008 (Three months after Jeff died) while still in the throws of "death anger"...

The kids and I went to a small toy store to find a little toy for Liv and Briar on our way to the wedding on Sunday. The saleswoman was one of those types that drive you insane while shopping by following you around and making comments on anything that holds your attention for longer than 3 seconds. She must have been curious about why we kept referring to ‘Daddy’ in the past tense. (Daddy didn’t like that. Daddy thought that was funny. Etc…) When I went up to pay, I explained that I was trying to find a few things to keep the kids busy while I was doing photography at a wedding. She says, “Well, where’s your husband?” Like it’s any of her business. What if he left us for some skanky, gymnast with a leashed pet bunny named Gerome? I just said, “He’s dead.” I’m so tired of the questions and the ridiculous euphemisms for death (passed away, left us, in heaven, etc.) I find if I just say ‘it’ they usually stop. Not this chick.

After getting past her questions about the circumstances relating to his death (I STILL have a hard time telling people that it’s none of their business and that I’d rather not talk about it to a total stranger, she begins this fucking stupidly long story about her grandfather’s death in a car accident when she was 3 years old. I didn’t quite understand why she was telling me all of this. Now, I don’t doubt that her grandfather’s sudden death caused her family a lot of pain and that it was hard for her family. But she then says to me, “So I totally know what you’re going through.” Huh?

I fail to see very many parallels in these two events other than that they were both males and they died suddenly. UNLESS:
- She was over say age…..5.
- She was in love with her grandfather and not in the grandfathery sort of way.
- They had children.
- Her and her grandfather’s children were there when he died.
I could go on, but I am sure that someone will take offence to this anyhow and I think you probably get my point.

I think often people don’t know what to say and so they just spout off the first experience that they’ve had with death and assume that it’s all the same. Maybe after I left, she thought “God, I’m a dumbass.” But I doubt it.

guilt and acceptance

First posted 7 months post-widowhood on personal blog

I have worried since Jeff's death that he didn't know how much I loved him. The stupid things I did and the things I took for granted have weighed so heavily on my mind. I have felt terribly and guilty for the things that I complained about and the issues I thoughtwere important.
Since Jeff's death I have realized that these 'things' were nothing. Not important. Not worth the words or the breath I used to express them.
I have always known Jeff loved me. I have always felt his comforting presence and his teddy bear gentleness when it came to 'us'. I have never doubted that he loved me and I was his 'Snuggles'.
A friend recently expressed her worry that when she dies, it will be after she has lost her patience, yelled or been in a generally foul mood. She worried that this would be the last thing her kids or husband remembered about her. I assured her that it wouldn't. That they'd remember all of her and those times of stress and anger would be forgiven and almost forgotten.
I told her of the last few minutes I had with Jeff before he died. He had been an ASS. He had told the doctor that he thought I was hoping he was having a heart attack so I could 'be right'. I had replied, "No, Jeff. I am concerned about you. I am worried and I want to find out what is wrong."
Jeff didn't like going to doctors. He didn't like to admit that anything was wrong. He could be combative and angry trying to dissuade me from taking him to a doctor. Years ago, he once told me that he would leave me if I took him to the hospital again after he had passed out on the floor and was turning blue. It became the source of laughter just days later. But it didn't mean he didn't love me. It meant he didn't like going to the doctor. He didn't like being 'told what to do'. As simple as that.
Since telling my friend about these incidents, I have been thinking about it. I am realizing that even though I have had my complete 'ass' moments, Jeff most likely had the same feelings about me. That I am human. I obsess about ridiculousness much to my detriment just as he did. Even though he was angry with me for dragging him to the doctor, I was there. I was trying to save his life. I loved him enough to go up against his defiance and fury to find out what was wrong. Even after he used these angry words, I tried to save him. I would have no matter what he ever said, did or was. I knew he loved me. And I loved him. He died in my arms as I tried to save him. And, now, I am sure he knew I loved him. And it is a relief. I can let go of my guilt. I can realize I am human and like everyone else, I am imperfect. He loved me despite of it all. And I loved him despite any of his faults. And he knew.

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.

Ranting & Raving. But Not Mad.

I sat earlier in the week in my parent's living room. I watched as my mother struggled to move about the house with her walker. I watched as my father tried to anticipate her every move. I saw how carefully he has to think about where she will sit, and will she feel comfortable there. I sat as she talked about her pain. I sat as her thoughts became confused, and I wondered where she was drifting to. I saw the look in my father's eyes, fatigue, frustration, worry, concern. I saw how he jumped up when my mother decided she needed to move back toward their bedroom, how he was right behind her so that she would get there safely.

I sat there thinking, "I know the drill. I know these trials. I know where they are headed." Something is very wrong with this picture. Why is it that their son is sitting there having already lived through a significant part of life, and is now watching his parents follow in his footsteps? What the fuck happened?

I sat there wondering what each of my brothers were doing at the time. They were likely each arriving home from work, meeting up with their wives, and preparing for their dinner together. There were probably not even giving it a second thought, taking for granted that they have lived the charmed life, and feel safe and secure in their relationships. I'm sure they think of our parents, and marvel at how wonderful it is that our parents have been happily married for 55 years. They are likely telling themselves that they are well on their way to having this same experience.

I on the other hand, am sitting on the couch, alone, having lived through a relationship/marriage, that lasted only three and a half years. Looking at statistics on marriages, anyone would not be surprised by this number. It is likely that most relationships don't even last that long. Some people likely looked at my relationship and thought to themselves, how sweet, it is almost like a marriage. They probably were surprised that I had what appeared to be a very conventional relationship for a gay man. They are probably thinking that I should be happy for what I had.

Who am I kidding? They are likely not even giving me a second thought.

What's in the past is in the past. Right? I'm the guy who looks like he just bounced right back. Right? I'm the guy who always comes out on top. I'm the guy who has done so much for the gay widowed community. I'm the guy who is always thinking of everyone else.

Well, obviously, I'm also the guy who still resents the hell out of life. I'm the guy who's relationship ended in death.

Am I moving forward as they say? Hell yes. Do I have a choice?

I feel like all I do is field phone calls from all my family members, letting me know how every one's life is going each day. They want my advice. They want to make sure I am kept up on all the latest news, concerns, and special events that are taking place all around me. And oh, how are things going for you?

Would it matter what I said? The answer is no. When asked how my weekend went, I usually say the same thing, nothing much happens around here. When asked how the kids are doing, I say well, life is still very complicated for them. When asked how I am feeling, or how am I getting through life without Michael, oh, how silly of me, nobody asks that.

But I'm okay. I have accepted my fate. I am forever grateful for what I have. I am looking forward to all the good things that are coming my way. I am storing up a wealth of knowledge, wisdom, and empathy, that will all be put to good use one day. I know that a new love is right around the corner for me. I know that God is going to reward me. I know that God doesn't give me more than I can handle. I know that there is something fantastic in store for me. I just have to be optimistic.

Well, at least that's what they say.

i'm a jerk...a widowed jerk

Picture from here....

I am strong. I am brave. I am a survivor. I am usually empathetic and kind. But...... Sometimes I'm an angry whiner. I wallow in my self-pity and the life that I now exist in.

I realize that life is a gift and that we must be grateful for the amount of time we spend with our loved ones and upon this Earth.....But there are times I can't help myself but to gnash my teeth and spew angry thoughts of self-pity.

Such as:

You find "single parenting" exhausting? Try "sole parenting". Being the only one to dry tears, the only one to prepare cupcakes for the bake sale, the only one arranging childcare, the only one there to get up in the night, the only one....it's especially fun when you are sick!

You were heartbroken when your grandfather died? Yes, it IS awful. But it is NOT the same as losing the love of your life when you were supposed to grow old together and BE grandparents together. It's an entirely different grief.

You find making your pay cheques spread across all the bills difficult. Do it with one check while needing to pay for the same amount of things as if you were two - hydro, gas, groceries, laundry detergent, etc. You wish you could find someone to fall in love with and share your life with? How about finding that person, loving them with all your heart, warts-and-all, and then unexpectedly having them drop dead. Now you're lonely, sad....and still in love. But with a dead person.

I know that these thoughts are horribly belligerent and one-sided. I realize that I am being a jack-ass. But sometimes, I don't want to hear their shit. I want to wallow in my own well-earned self-pity and flip the bird at any other person's troubles or griefs.

*Please admit I'm not the only one with these thoughts.....

who you were

Some of the fishing companies that Jeff had worked for would provide jackets for the crew with their name embroidered on the shoulder. Once when asked what Jeff wanted marked on his sleeve (he had a plethora of nicknames that could of been used in his name's stead), he had remarked, "Just Jeff". When his coat arrived with "Just Jeff" scribed upon the arm, he had thought it was ruined. I had thought it described him perfectly.
Recently, I have noticed that the person who Jeff was and who Jeff is now imagined to be has shifted. I feel that I alone (aside probably from his mother) can remember him with his real faults and with his true strengths. To others, he has become an icon.
I've heard him described as a 'Viking'. I've heard another express that he thought Jeff would have loved playing a Wii. When telling a dear friend how Liv had a MASSIVE temper tantrum and that I had (in the heat of the battle) told her that her father would have not stood for her hitting and kicking me, the friend said, "Oh yes, he would have. He was a sucker when it came to her."
I understand that the phenomenon that occurs when someone has died - they become someone in many people's eyes that they actually weren't while they breathed. But it angers me. I find myself correcting other's opinions, recollections and estimations of Jeff's personality. At times, the listener wants to stubbornly hold onto their new 'version' of Jeff. They argue with me, "I know Jeff would have given Briar a toy gun!"
But they're wrong.
He was huge, tall and strong. He could be crushingly terrifying - but he wasn't a warrior....at least not once he was old enough to have some sense. Jeff hated video games and thought they were a waste of time. Although Liv had Jeff in her pocket, he believed that children must treat their mothers with respect and kindness and at times, he was annoyingly intolerant of her childish ways. Jeff did hunt. He had guns. But he swore that they were not toys and that he would teach both of our children the proper use of these tools.
I am amazed and resentful that some people believe that they knew him like I did. I despise the image that they have created. I want to remember him as he was - Just Jeff.

thank you....mostly

Photo from Sycamore Street Press

I met a recently widowed woman in the doctor's office the other day. We talked sadly yet conspiratorially. I nodded as she mentioned having trouble trusting herself in public as she was concerned she would either throw up her hands and scream at all the ridiculous and vacuous frivolity that seems to go on in the world unnoticed by 'normal' folk or break down and sob gut-wrenching tears when faced with the choice of buying whole milk (her dead husband's favourite) or skim.

As I drove home after giving her my number and strict instructions to call if she needed to, I dredged up some of the partially archived memories and thoughts from those very early widowed days. I remembered how annoying and labour intensive every small task was and how I felt that I could see through the inane societal expectations.

I remember the suggestion that filled me with confusion and, somewhat, with anger was a family member's insistence that I begin to write thank-you notes. Everything within me screamed bitterly at this implication.

I was and remain very thankful of everything that had been done for, given to or assisted with for the remaining members of our little family. I was so touched and comforted by those who came by (although I was unable to greet them as I was more prone to laying in my bed staring at the imperfections in the drywall). I felt humbled by the empathy and kindness of those who loved us and even of strangers. I was relieved that my children were being fed because I was unable to make anything for them. People's generousity was a balm to the aching 'alone-ness' that I felt every second after he died. I was grateful. I still am. I will always be....even for the actions of those who I do not remember...either from the lack of ability to concentrate post-Jeff or from the sedative effect of the meds that the doctor had prescribed.

But I still feel that marking these acts of kindness and generosity with a card is brutal and hard.

When you're well and upbeat it is not a difficult feat to buy, write in, address and mail a small note letting the generous party know that you appreciate their thought. You have plenty to say....and often, you have a helper (husband or wife) to assist in the daunting task.

Weddings, birthdays and other festive events are truly wonderful moments in our lives to be chipper and express our grateful nature. Our eyes are smiling, our hearts are joyful and the generousity of others is given to share in the joy of others - not for the needs of the heartbroken.

I believe that the birth of a baby is cause to celebrate....but it is a bit iffy in the thank-you note department. The last thing I want a dear friend to have to do while their new baby finally sleeps is to have to write me a letter saying 'Thanks for the stripy green sleeper. My son barfed breast milk on it last night'. I'd be pleased if they used that moment to have a bath, eat some nourishing food or take a nap themselves.

I felt that somehow, in a warped way, my thank you note was creating the image that I was thankful for this situation. That this disaster that had caused the flood of casseroles and flower arrangements was to be celebrated. But I felt quite the opposite. I was horrified to be in this predicament facing down a life alone with two tiny kids in tow. Every breath was marked by reliving Jeff's death....and here I was writing a missive expressing my gratitude for the kindness bestowed upon us because of his death. "Thank you so very much for your kindness and generosity at this very difficult time..."

But I became obsessed with these notes. I had stacks of them ready to mail at all times. I was so very concerned that someone who had sent something or called or visited had not been given their 'dues' and been noticed or mentioned upon these pieces of card stock. I'd worry that they didn't know how thankful I truly was. I'd attempt to come up with some ingenious or creative thought. I'd stay up so very late into the evening with ink staining my fingertips trying to express my gratitude....and loathing every second of it.

So now, I wish that instead of handing this new widow my phone number with instructions to call if she 'needs' me, I wish that I had told her that if she felt that these tokens of gratitude were entirely necessary, I would write them for her....or instruct her that those who have empathy for what she is going through would tell her that these notes were a waste of energy. That those who were doing it with a truly generous heart would know that she was grateful and comforted. No note needed.

the anger

Photo from Hardcore Stress Management

**My apologies for the raw and rude wording of this post. It's been written in the heat of the moment but I feel it would lessen it's 'feel' if I softened the wording. I hope no one is offended**

There are times I hate him for dying. Two and a half years later and I could spit fury at his lack of care for his health, for his concern for our welfare, for his love for us.
I feel so lost still at times. So alone. So bereft.
I watch others who have found love again. I see those who have never lost theirs. The jealousy and envy I feel are almost tangible.
The agony of being half of a whole is so filled with melancholy....and at times, humiliation.
Who wants the damaged goods that a widowed mother of two has to offer?
The only people who offer their services as companion or 'lover' are either already 'reserved' or are the kind of human who would whack off on a webcam to an unsuspecting stranger in an attempt to get their thrill.
I am tired of the lack of touch. I could almost molest my hairdresser for gently brushing my hair - and she's a pregnant female. I feel pathetic. And desperate. And furious at Jeff for causing this. Fucking asshole.

the myth of the broken heart

Photo by Sandyx3

I don't follow a lot of celebrity news. In fact, the older I get the more I have no idea who these people are who grace the pages of the tabloids at the grocery check-out counter. Our society's idolatry of these 'super-humans' baffles me and highlights the blatant differences between 'us' and 'them'.
Recently however, the death of an actress whom I could name was marked on the cover of these magazines. Although I admit I had no idea who he was before this event, I recall feeling real empathy for Brittany Murphy's husband, Simon Mojack, when I glanced at these glossy covers on the way to pay for our goods. I wondered how it would feel to not only suffer the loss of a spouse but to read about it in all the line-ups you were forced to stand in for weeks after. I had concluded that it may be cathartic to know that others had noticed the absense of the one you held so dear as well. That life hadn't just 'continued as normal'. That the spot that my loved one had held didn't just close over unrecognized when they stopped living.
I felt a kin-ship with this man. He had lost the love of his life as well. Simon knew the emptiness that followed. It made him normal and mortal - not the stuff of celebrity but the stuff of the average human.
Then he went and did something that our society loves to talk of as much as we recite stats on these legendary creatures - He died of a 'broken heart'. I felt like simultaneously screaming and barfing at the checkout counter when I read these words. I felt betrayed by someone who knew what this road was like. And the stupid thing was, I knew it was bullshit that he died of a broken heart. He just conveniently died months after his spouse did and made a fabulous and heartrending story for the media to skew.
If dying of a broken heart was possible, each and every widow/er would have been wiped off the face of the planet the moment their spouse died. This man's death is not some measure of how much he loved her and evidence that my love for Jeff must have been lacking. It is an unfortunate event that happened too soon after he lost his wife. In all honesty, I am jealous. I begged whatever possible higher power there may be to kill me in the weeks and months following March 25th, 2008. I WANTED to die after Jeff did....and sometimes still do. But I have never gotten my wish. So like all other widows/ers out there, I know you can't die OF a broken heart....you just die WITH one...whenever that may be.