Pushing Toward Happiness

(Yes, this is totally a picture of me, in case your curious....)

I’m not angry.  I’m not specifically unhappy, really.  But I’m very, very dissatisfied with my life, and that dissatisfaction is driving change.  So I’m pushing with all my might against that smothering bubble that is grief.  This time, rather than being focused on what’s in my head or what’s in my heart, I’m focused squarely on what’s in my home.  Excuse my directness, but I’m living in a home that’s not really mine and I’m done.  It’s time for change.  It’s past time for change.

For years (Years!?  Really!?!? How can it be years?), I’ve opened up kitchen drawers with the best intentions, looked at the contents, sighed, and closed those drawers, not to be touched again for weeks - sometimes even years.

I’ve walked around Maggie’s clothes that haven’t moved since I last cried into them.   I’ve kept my clothes on a spare bed because my chest of drawers is full of designer jeans that I don’t know what to do with. They looked great on her. But they are in the way of my future.

I’ve lived around pantry and cabinets full of dishes, kitchen tools, and mementos that represent a life I’m not allowed to live any more.

I’ve kept expensive dishes (our incomplete wedding china set) up on the top shelf, collecting dust because just what the heck do you do with wedding china when by death we did part?  (Dear Abby, got an answer for that one?)

I’ve kept piles of various gifts given to Maggie because what the hell was I supposed to do with them?

I’ve avoided touching the nicely stacked piles of flyers given out at Maggie’s memorial.  I’ve buried stacks of condolence cards way, way, way deep in the back of the Bookshelf of Painful Memories.  Hidden throughout the house are stacks of photos from our wedding given to me from friends after she died, photos assembled specifically for the memorial service, photos assembled especially for our wedding video, and photos I’ve taken down in a fit of “Damn it!  I’ve got to make some sort of progress!  I’ll just take this down and hide it!”  (I call those little glorious, proud moments “progress seizures” which may, or may not, be followed immediately with a shot of tequila, a large beer or other assorted bad choices.)

I’ve pushed hard before and made some minor progress.  But this house is big and over the 10 years she and I were together, we accumulated a lot of stuff and, frankly, I’m flat out overwhelmed.  (At the rate I’m going, I’ll totally have my life together around 2035, just in time for time travel to be in vogue. Now, don’t get me started about the very first trip I’ll be taking in that time machine.  It will not be a trip to tell the 1994 me to buy Dell stock.)

Pushing hard sucks. But this time I’m doing things differently – I’ve called in reinforcements.  I’ve hired a friend to help.  She’s a good friend of mine, is friends with many of Maggie’s friends, and knows (and is deeply touched by) our story.  She’s also a tender, thoughtful, sincere, genuinely sweet person who truly understands both how difficult this is for me, what role she plays and what the big goal is (and recognizes when those three ideals collide.)  Fortunately, she’s also a manic, Type A, anti-hording, neat freak that knows how to problem solve and get things done.  Together, we make a great cleaning-out, re-organizing, crying machine.

For our first big push, she suggested a genius plan. For everything, choose one: A) Throw it away, B) Give it a new life somewhere else, or C) Keep it in a special box.   It’s amazing how much progress we’ve made just placing things into those three categories. Notably, it’s also amazing how few things went into the special box.  Most of the stuff has fit perfectly into the New Life category.  And, because she is wonderful and sensitive, she reminded me each timed I stumbled emotionally, that wonderful things deserve wonderful lives, even after they’ve had wonderful lives with Maggie and me.

I like to think that those re-lifed items are blessed, even though the unknowing recipients have no hint at how much love surrounded that shiny new object they’ve welcomed into their lives. In some ways, Maggie and I are sharing the aura of our love with them, whether they know it or not.  Now, that’s pretty cool.  We had a lot of love, she and me - more than most, I’ve learned.  Maggie was a person who truly wanted to make the world a better place. So, by letting the things she loved find new, happy homes, she lives on.  In pushing through this difficult time to my new life, I honor her legacy.

Most of all, I honor her legacy by refusing to live any life other than that which is wonderful to me.  I have a lot of work to go.  I will not quit.  Wonderful is around the bend.

why Christmas concerts suck

Image from here....

I have been working really hard at being upbeat and positive this Christmas. I consciously remind myself of the wonderful things in my life - amazing kids, great friends, a rewarding job, an amazing community, etc. I don't want to whine. I certainly don't wish to have others internally groan and roll their eyes if I talk about how lame the holidays are as an only parent or a widow. I keep beating myself over the head with intentions of positivity and quotes about gratitude. I very often feel that I have reached the lauded grieving stage of "acceptance".

But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel myself thinking, "This sh*t blows."

I had one of these moments yesterday as I raced to my kid's Christmas concert at school. Parking was terrible and as I ran down the road I could see pairs of other parents converging on the school together.

Inside the gym, I grinned maniacally at my kids trying to instill the feelings of "Mom, is so proud!" "You're doing great!"

Briar stared back woodenly dressed in a floral apron whilst limply holding a large spoon. He was surrounded by numerous other five year olds who sang about Christmas baking and cookies for Santa. His look implied that he was truly annoyed to be forced on-stage with all the tres eager little girls singing their hearts out and shell-shocked little boys who mouthed the words quietly. Jeff would have laughed hysterically at the expression.

Liv looked so tiny sandwiched between two enormous classmates. Her little mouth framed each word perfectly and I felt that I could hear her voice clear above all others in the gymnasium. My eyes started to well thinking about the pride Jeff would have felt watching her long and gangling little arms act out the required motions to the obscure carol her class sang.

All around me parents stood together giggling at their children's antics and video taping the show for later viewing. Some held hands and others took turns holding babies or getting cups of hot chocolate from the treat table for each other.

I know there were other "single" parents in the crowd....but at that moment, I could only see all the lovey Hallmark card families....And it made me want to spontaneously cry and spit on them.

I was afraid the kids would witness my melt down so I attempted to distract myself by getting Briar to smile. As I watched him stare back at me with a look that imparted his immense displeasure, I covertly administered bunny ears to the father standing against the wall beside me. I stuck out my tongue. I pretended to pick my nose. Nothing worked and I worried that he possibly was looking around and noticing, as I had, all the perfect sets of parents filling so many of the seats.

When time came for me to deek out the side door and head to work, I waved to Liv and mouthed "I love you the whole pie".

As I ran up the hill back to my car, I had tears streaming down my face. It broke my heart to be the only parent witnessing my kiddos triumphs and insecurities. I hated, in that moment, those Christmas joy-filled parents and all that their togetherness represented.

I realize that, to my children, this is the life that they lead. That this is the one that Briar has really ever known and, that to Liv, it is now normal. But I felt angered and horrifically saddened by this.

I don't want to be the ONLY one who loves them ferociously. I am sick of being the one who has to think up stories to bolster Briar's belief of Santa when he comes home from kindergarten saying that a bigger kid told him that the man in the red suit is all a lie. I feel the injustice of having to decide on my own whether "re-belief" is the stance to take or not on my own. I don't want to attend this shit alone.

And amid all this un-advanced grief, I know that I need to just accept that this is how life is now. That no amount of railing against Jeff's death will fix it. But right now, I just want to cry and stomp my feet instead. Maybe tomorrow I will choose to force myself into positivity again....But right now, this shit sucks.

Are You Over It Yet?

Lately, I’ve been testier than usual. Very testy. One of my Widow Camp friends, Cassie, and I have shared many back-and-forth, four-letter-filled texts that have succinctly summarized our not-so-happy assessments of our similar situations. (I’m so thankful to have a widowed friend just a text away who understands what my non-widowed friends will hopefully never. Thank you, Widow Camp!) Maybe it’s the approaching holiday season. Maybe it’s the pushing forward I did with the Business of Change. Maybe it’s because last week was a full moon. Maybe it’s because one of Maggie’s friends is getting married and another is having her first child. Regardless and undeniably, I have been much more touchy than usual.

It’s difficult to explain to those who haven’t lived this nightmare why losing Maggie isn't something I’ll just one day get over. Not that I need to explain it to you, fellow widow/er, but there is no cure for what is ailing me. There is no medicine to vanquish my sorrow. My discomfort is not temporary like that that comes from a miserable cold or the sharp pain of a broken bone. It’s not a healing thing; it’s a coping thing. I really want them to understand but I’m careful with that wish; I’d never want anyone to fully understand the sadness I feel. So, I offer up yet another analogy even though I suspect my friends have long tired of my attempts to explain.

Imagine, I tell them, if one day someone walked up with a machete and, without explanation, chopped off your right arm. Blood would spray and it’d hurt quite a bit. You’d spend time in the hospital with drugs and stitches and visitors. But eventually, you’d go back home. The helpful visitors would disappear. The physicians would stop prescribing drugs. Then it’d just be you, your left arm and your memories of how things used to be. Meanwhile, you’d be learning how to tie your shoe with only one hand. Or shampoo your hair. Or button your shirt. Or put on a necklace. Or floss. Other things that you used to do, things you did daily, took for granted and loved, you just couldn’t do anymore. No more playing guitar. No more texting on your phone. No more driving a stick-shift. No more hunting or playing baseball or lifting weights. Or carrying both dogs. Everything is different now. Life will never be the same.

Imagine someone asking you, who just lost your arm, “Hey, when are you going to get over that whole losing-your-arm thing?”

Then imagine raising your one remaining hand to show that person your one remaining middle finger.

Did I mention I’ve been a little more testy than usual lately?