My Forever Valentine

The cover of the last Valentine's day card I gave my husband

I've been back home, in Brisbane, Australia, for a couple of days now.  As it seems to go with most vacations, it's so good to go away and then it's so good to get home.  Getting off the plane after the 13-hour flight from LA and walking in to the arms of my wonderful parents, who came to town to collect me from the airport, was a good feeling.  I had a wonderful time, both in New York exploring a new city, and at Camp Widow.  But I felt ready to get back to my bubble.

It was emotional to come home.  I was very tired and jet-lagged, I had missed my family, my friends, my house and was happy to be reunited with them.  I had missed my routine and the little world I've built for myself since Dan died.  But returning home, I missed my widowed friends and the safe little world that exists when I'm around them.  I felt lifted by the people I met at Camp Widow, the wonderful spirit of the weekend, the bravery of the men and women I met.

You'd think that a conference for widowed people would be a pretty miserable event, but it's actually so uplifting and fun. Everyone is full of camaraderie, there is constant laughter and hugs and celebration of love. To meet people who have been through the darkest of times and can still find light in their lives is indescribable. My widows are some of my favourite people in the world.

So I have felt like I'm in a strange place... floating between wanting to run back to widow-land and wanting to re-enter my real life. 

And then, smack bang in the middle of all of that, we have Valentine's day today.  Bleugh.  What a crappy day this is for us.  I have been lucky enough to have avoided most of the commercials and hype because I've been travelling, and THANK GOD it fell on a Saturday this year, so we were spared the parade of flower deliveries throughout the work place.  But still, here it is.  

When I woke this morning, on Valentines day (in Australia, we're 18 hours ahead of Los Angeles, so I write this on Saturday afternoon to be published in the USA by midnight Friday), I immediately started missing Dan.  I pulled out our old cards and read the beautiful messages we had written each other.  We were not yet married, on our last Valentine's day together, so they were all full of hope and excitement about how we couldn't wait to be husband and wife that coming June (he died six weeks after our wedding), and how we were so blessed to have each other.  

Of course the tears fell.  I couldn't lay around in bed and cry for too long though, because I had booked a hair appointment for 8am and had errands to run.  

As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Dan, and this stupid day, and what I was missing out on because he wasn't here.  And I realised something.  Yes I was missing my husband today... but do you know what?  I realised, I wasn't missing his love.  Because it was still all around me.  

It hadn't gone away.  The words he wrote in his cards still held the same meaning today, as they did two years ago.  I was still the most important thing in his life.  The gratefulness that he felt at coming home to me every night was still real.  I was his eternal love story. We are Forever Valentines.

It's hard to explain and didn't even make a lot of sense in my own head, but I actually felt like I could feel a warmth around me, almost like a full body hug that enveloped my whole being.  I was still carrying his love with me today, even though he's been gone 18 months. 

The gifts that he brought to my life are still here and will be with me forever.  The person I am today is because he loved me.  

Maybe this realisation was partly because of the inspiring messages I received at Camp Widow.  Actually, I think this had a LOT to do with it.  But I also feel like maybe I am growing.  Maybe I am moving through my grief, so that in this moment I was able to see past the pain and the agony at being separated from him and see some of the joy that is still here, because of the time we got together. 

It's an incredible feeling when you can see this growth in yourself.  It's a bit scary, and I almost still don't fully believe it is possible.  But it's nice.  It's a relief.  And I know Dan would be proud of me.  Because I'm proud of myself. 

No Tears in Tampa...

Well here I am at Camp Widow in beautiful Tampa. Today I attended round table discussions on 'being widowed by suicide', 'being widowed without the chance to have children' and 'signs and synchronicity'.  I met some wonderful, inspiring people and told my story a couple of times.  And I didn't cry once.

This last point is making me feel VERY uncomfortable.  How come I'm not a teary hot mess right now?  While I participated in these sessions and engaged with others, I was able to talk about my grief almost calmly, as if I had made my peace with it.  As if this is all something that happened to me a lifetime ago.  Or as if I was telling someone else's story.  

Right now I'm trying not to judge the way I'm feeling or force myself to 'be' a certain way, but I can't help but wonder ... where is the pain?  Am I heading towards a bad grief crash?  Surely it's coming.  I mean, it always comes, doesn't it.

I arrived in Tampa on Thursday night, fresh from a wonderful week in New York and firmly in holiday mode.  I'd wandered around the city that I had planned to explore with my husband, seeing the sights that he'd spoken about from his previous trips and wishing he were by my side.  But I had fun.  The ache for him felt almost... compartmentalised. As if my brain had packaged up my grief in to a neat little box and stored it on a shelf in the back of my mind so that it didn't mess up my holiday.  

It's still there, I can touch it but it's almost like I'm opting to let it sit there for now, rather than bringing it down and unpacking it again.  I know I have to at some point.  One thing is for certain, that grief can't be left in that box on the shelf.  It needs to be aired and sorted through regularly so that it doesn't fester and get stale. 

The box may come tumbling down this evening at the welcome reception (I'm writing this quickly in my room before I head out again).  It may burst open during a workshop or presentation tomorrow or the flood gates might come undone on the flight home to Australia, when my brain starts to slow and think about returning to the life I have there without him.  Who knows.  

For now, I am trying to enjoy the moment of peace and the company of the wonderful people here at Camp Widow.  

If you're here and we haven't met yet, please find me and say hello.  I'm the tall one with the accent. 

Travelling My New Path

Travel selfies at LAX

As I write this, I'm sitting in a plane, flying from Los Angeles to New York.  I'm back in the USA for Camp Widow East next weekend and decided to make a holiday off it, fulfilling a life-long dream of visiting the Big Apple. 

This is my second trip to the states and again I find it very emotional to be here without Dan, as it reminds me of all the plans we made to travel together but never got the chance to see through.

New York has not only always been on my bucket list, but it was one of my husband's favourite places.  He'd visited a number of times and had even spent a Christmas here with a mate, many years before we met.  

Before he died, we'd planned a wonderful holiday to experience a New York Christmas together, which we had scheduled for 2013. He was so excited as he spoke about all the places he wanted to show me.  Central Park, the Rockefeller Christmas Tree, all the beautiful boroughs and neighbourhoods.  This was one of the many dreams we didn't get to see through, because of his death.

Making this journey now without him is so very bittersweet.  I miss him so much, I miss the excited glow he would get, I miss the twinkle in his eye, I miss being able to sit here and hold his hand and share such a special moment with him.

I can't help but feel like he's with me though.  For example... I am not what you'd call a sports enthusiast.  I don't hate sport, but I wouldn't exactly seek it out.  However when the friend who I'm travelling with asked if I wanted to join her at the basketball or ice hockey during our visit, I thought it sounded like a fun thing to do.  She ended up organising tickets to both, and then we realised we'd also be in the USA for Superbowl Sunday!  So, that's three 'sporting events' that I will be viewing (the Superbowl we will only be watching from a bar somewhere, but still). Dan, the sports nut, MUST surely have pulled some strings to make that happen. 

I like that I'm able to feel connected with him through places.  I find myself wondering, did he walk down this street?  Maybe he even sat in this taxi.  I know for sure that he loved this country and if the spirits of our dearly departed really do get to stay with us and share in our happiness, he would be loving that I'm here, experiencing a city that is so dear to his heart.  

Even though I'd chose my life with Dan over any alternative, I'm also very aware that I will have opportunities and experiences on this holiday that would not have been possible if he were still here with me. 

I'm grateful that I will get to spend time with my friend (and fellow Widow's Voice writer) Kelley Lynn while I'm here.  I didn't know any 'real new yorkers' before Dan died, but my world has been broadened significantly because I'm now part of the widowed community.  I will then get to travel to Florida and see another dear friend Michele and make more new friends at Camp Widow.  

It is so easy to dwell on what I am missing.  I can't escape the fact that he should be here.  But that loss is softened slightly on the days that I'm able to take a moment and think about what blessings have come in to my life, only because of the path that it has taken.  A path I would never have chosen or wanted, a path I find myself on reluctantly.  But, nevertheless, a path that still presents adventures and experiences that are waiting to be explored.

Hope and Healing at Camp Widow

Photo booth shenanigans with new friends 

By all accounts, I really should be feeling pretty awful right now.  This past Tuesday marked my first birthday since Dan died (turning 34, his forever age) and coming up this Thursday, July 24, is the first anniversary of his death.  This is a tough time of year, there's no two ways about it.  It sucks, it hurts and it's freaking unfair.

But in a really weird way, I feel suspended from the weight of the grief at the moment.  I know it's there, lurking... most likely waiting to strike when I arrive home from my USA holiday on Wednesday, all jet-lagged and grumpy (maybe it will even hit on the 13-hour-trip home which will be fun for the people sitting around me). 

I'm pretty good at tapping in to my grief and leaning in to it when I need to rather than pushing it aside and playing the denial game, so I was thinking today, why do I feel 'ok' right now?  Where did this 'good vibe' buzz come from?  And the only thing I can really put it down to is Camp Widow.

It feels like attending this event last weekend was some kind of turning point in my grief journey.  I arrived in San Diego on Thursday afternoon so excited and bouncing with enthusiasm. I'd heard the stories from other people who'd left Camp Widow feeling like they could take on the world and I couldn't wait to feel that too.  Bring it on!

Then Friday morning arrived, I jumped out of bed and walked up to the registration desk, ready to get started.  That's when it hit me.  What the hell was I doing?!  How on earth did I think I could travel half way across the world on my own, waltz in to a conference of 250 people I'd never met, let down all the walls I carefully maintain to keep myself protected and composed and talk to strangers about Dan's death!?  

I felt so vulnerable and naive and promptly started freaking out.  I had made a serious mistake and couldn't do this - I was way out of my depth.  Before I had the chance to flee I was ushered in to the 'new campers' workshop by a friendly volunteer, where I sat with tears running down my face, carefully noting my nearest exit route and avoiding all eye contact.

After an introduction and run down by one of the Soaring Spirits board members we were instructed to turn to the person next to us and introduce ourselves. Oh shit, crunch time - this is it Rebecca, you finally have to turn up and start playing.  So I paired up with a lovely lady called Angela from Northern California and after blurting out my name, said I'd lost my husband Daniel just under a year ago and broke down in tears.  Once I calmed down and confessed to how nervous I was feeling, I realised Angela was tearing up too.  She assured me it was ok and pointed out that we weren't the only ones in the room crying, I looked around and she was right, I wasn't the 'weird crying woman' at this event, we were all in the same boat.  This really was a safe place and no one was going to point and stare at me. 

Over the next two days my confidence slowly grew.  I started feeling connected to these strangers and felt more comfortable opening up.  I sat and listened to other people's stories - their fears and their pain along with their triumphs and goals.  I cried with them and I cheered for them.  I heard presentations from widows who are further down their path than I am and who have managed to make sense of their grief and even build something positive from their pain.  Many of them had even remarried and I was fascinated that they had found happiness again with partners who embraced their grief so fully that some had even attended Camp Widow with them! 

I danced.  Now that is huge.  I am not really a dancer at the best of times and haven't danced since my wedding in June last year, six weeks before Dan died.  I put on silly props and posed for photos with my arms around women I had only met two days earlier (I'd seen the photo booth photos from previous camps and thought 'seriously, I can NOT imagine feeling comfortable enough with these grieving strangers to pose for laughing photos together' - but it happened!).  

And when it came time to say goodbye, I cried.  I cried because I would really miss these new friends whom I cared about deeply.  I cried because Camp Widow made me feel so happy and normal and actually excited about a life that lay before me, I was scared to leave in case I left those feelings behind.  

I cried because I still missed Dan and I wanted to tell him about my amazing weekend, but I realised that the pain I felt at losing my Great Love (my kryptonite as Michele so eloquently put it in her key note address) could also be my super power, as I carried that love forward with me, propelled by the knowledge that my time with him was a wonderful gift that I am still receiving by being the woman he saw in me, by being the better person he made me and by growing through this horrible life experience.  Love never dies and his love will be my super power as I live the rest of my life. 

This is something I NEVER thought I'd say, but I left Camp Widow feeling proud to be a widow.  How crazy is that!?  I felt proud of the resilience I'd developed, of the compassion I felt for others, and of the strength I never knew I had.   I felt proud to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these incredible men and women who had also left their homes alone, travelled to an event where they knew no one and let their own walls done in the hope that there was more.

I am now trying to work out if I can make it back to the USA or Canada for Camp Widow next year and anyone else who is considering making the journey, I can't recommend it enough.  There is more for us, there is hope.  This situation may not be what we WANT and it's still certainly not fair on any level, but we don't have to settle for a life that is less than.  

My Parallel Universe

Some of my incredible widow friends, who help keep me sane

I've had a really tough few weeks.  In some ways, it has almost felt like I'm right back at the start - crying from the moment I wake up without him in my bed until I pass out each night from exhaustion.

Thankfully, it has lifted again in recent days but in the depth of this latest low I realised I was withdrawing from the people in my life in a way I hadn't done before. I just felt so disconnected, like no one could relate.

When Dan died last July, the shock and pain resonated out from me in waves through our family, friends, neighbours, work colleagues and acquaintances.  People openly grieved, their lives halted while they came to terms with this unimaginable loss - this wonderful man taken from our world in such a tragic way.  In the weeks and months that followed, there was unquestionable support and understanding, people were so gentle with me, everyone 'got it'.

But it's different now.  As the seven month, eight month, nine month milestones were passed, the support grew quieter.  The phone calls and messages from most of those closest to us slowed down and then stopped.

Eventually I started feeling like people had forgotten.  They had gone back to their routines and life went on, in some cases, largely unchanged.  Dan's death was something they faced sporadically, whereas I am still sitting here, struggling to breath from the pain of missing him.

I understand why... my husband played the leading role in my life but a supporting role in others’.  For me, his presence was constant and intricate.  His absence has left a gaping black hole that I navigate around every waking moment. 

Coming up to the first anniversary, I am still in my 'early days' of grieving.  I accept it's going to be a long road.  But when I'm laying in our bed, in our empty house, crying for him, aching to hold him again... I can't help feeling like the world has left me behind.

I will never 'get over' losing my husband but my friends are celebrating pregnancies, enjoying romantic weekends away, cuddling up with their partners on the couch to watch the Game of Thrones finale... living a normality that I can only envy from afar.

I felt so detached from them.  It wasn't exactly that I was resentful, or jealous even - I just felt like I was existing in a parallel universe.  I couldn't call for help even if I had the energy, because no one could reach me.  I was in a very lonely place.  A place they couldn't understand. To be honest, a place they wouldn't WANT to understand.  

Then I realized, there were some people who could understand - my widow friends.  They got it.  They hadn't moved on.  They may not have known my husband (because I met them after his death had connected us), but they knew my pain. My widow friends were a shining ray of light, breaking through the despair during these dark days.  I think this realisation is what pulled me out of that deep sadness. 

Then, as the grief started to shift again, I began to feel really, really excited.  It hit me - in two days time I will be getting on a plane and flying from Brisbane to Los Angeles, before travelling down to San Diego for Camp Widow West.  Where I will be surrounded by the kind of understanding and support that only a widow can give.

When I think about attending Camp Widow I feel a mixed up version of excitement, nervous, relieved, hopeful, scared and anxious.  I can't wait to meet Michele, the founder of Soaring Spirit, who has been an incredible inspirational to me since I met her via email six months ago.  I can’t wait to talk to her about the possibility of bringing this event to Australia, for all my friends here and the countless women and men joining our ranks every week. 

Despite being quite shy, I am also surprisingly excited to meet new friends. As a very introverted person, I only really become confident and outgoing when I've had the chance to grow comfortable with someone.  So travelling to a new country, on my own, to explore new cities and attend a three-day event with people I don't know is waaaay out of my comfort zone.  Yet, I am doing it because my urge to connect is stronger than my urge to hide.  I know my husband will be by my side and will be proud of me and excited for this new path I'm exploring. 

So for those of you travelling to Camp Widow next week, keep an eye out for the quiet, slightly awkward Aussie and please feel free to say hello and give me a hug.  I really miss hugs.  See you soon USA!!

Camp Widow

Since I lost my fiancé almost 2 years ago, I have been acutely aware of how uncomfortable my very presence makes people at times. I talk about it less and less on Facebook, and even with my closest friends and family. It turns out people really don't like being reminded of death. Who knew? I've started to feel like I am carrying around some bad omen on my back - like some I'm some messenger of death now that brings a black aura everywhere I go. It's definitely a shitty part of this journey - feeling like my very identity upsets people or makes them uncomfortable. Which is made to suck even more by the fact that I am one of those people too - I also don't want to be around my own pain and this new unwanted identity of "widow". It is a constant battle for me to try and make peace with this new part of who I am that reminds me of everything I do not have.

Not entirely sure of what to expect or how it will help me with this identity crisis, last Friday I hopped on a plan to go to Camp Widow for the first time. If its new to you, this is a conference for widowed people held three times a year - the only one of its kind. Upon arrival I am surrounded by a few hundred others just like me. I even meet a few close friends for the first time in person. These people are incredible. They are not famous, they are not peace prize winners or hollywood actors, they are just you and me - all of us regular people - deciding to show up even though life has completely broken us. There we all are… still trying to find hope and healing and something good in life. Despite it all… Still fucking trying!

I meet Tanya, who's fiancé died in the 9/11 attacks and whose story both drops me to my knees and simultaneously fills me with so much hope and strength that my soul overflows. I meet a woman who lost her husband just three weeks ago - and somehow she managed to get out of bed AND get on a plane AND show up at this massive event. And Jennifer - the warrior - who is only 32 and has already been widowed twice and is raising six kids now on her own. I meet a woman who traveled alone all the way from Australia just to be there - knowing no one when she got there, and her husband died less than a year ago. I watch my dear friend Kelley do an incredible stand-up comedy act all about death and the death of her husband - getting widowed people to laugh harder than they probably have since their partner died. I mean wow people. Who needs Oprah when we've got all these widowed people around?! And somehow we are all just opening our hearts fully - with tears and with laughter. SO much laughter. So much understanding and kindness.

There are moments that I just stand there in this great big ocean of courage and take it all in. The unfathomable pain of everyone there crashes into me like a ten foot wave, but the love… the love and the extraordinary strength of so many willing to share themselves fully changes my entire perspective on what it means to be widowed….

I leave the conference on Sunday and head for the airport… I am wearing my "Hope Matters" shirt, and I realize… I am different. I am changed and I can feel it. No longer am I a woman who is fighting with all her might against the idea of being a widow… suddenly, I AM a widow - and no part of me is fighting it inside. I am walking around a crowded airport literally wearing my identity, and for the first time in this whole horrible, excruciating, exhausting, terrifying, earth-shattering journey… I am PROUD.

I am proud to call myself a widow. I am proud that anyone around me can read it right there on my shirt. I don't want to hide it away. I don't want to hide myself away. I don't care if I make every single person in a five mile radius uncomfortable. Because the thing is… there will be someone in that crowd who is hurting just as bad as me. And if I can be honest about my pain, it helps them be honest about theirs too. That is what all these brave people taught me - they were honest about their pain, and they allowed me to let my guard down and be honest about mine (and it turns out, I am still SO NOT OKAY with ANY of this and have been putting on a really good brave face for a long time). Everyone there helped me to realize that I really am strong, even in my most broken moments - we all are.

I don't think I even realized how much of a wall I had built up over the past 2 years, it's so easy to do and happens so gradually. This life may not be pretty a lot of the time, and everyone may not want to look at it or hear about it, but I have been reminded that hiding myself and my truth away does not help me - or anyone else - to heal. I need to be who I am, where I am, exactly how I am and to keep letting people into my life who can support that. I also need to make sure I am sitting with my pain and honestly seeing it too. I guess I just needed an army of other widowed people to help me remember that.

This experience definitely opened my eyes and made me realize that now, in my new life, this is a club I DO want to be a part of. And I plan to be, for a very very long time, coming back to Camp Widow each year. And I hope that next year - if it feels right for you - you will join me too.

Related Links:
Camp Widow

Fuel

There was a moment during the Camp Widow banquet as the Soaring Spirits Board Members were on stage together and Michele hugged each one in turn, when something washed over me in a huge wave. It's not a new revelation for me but at that moment it coalesced and I felt it. 

Seeing her joined to these other beautiful souls and realizing I was joined to it all, too, in my small way, made me realize that losing our spouses is the worst that can happen, and yet somehow that pain becomes fuel. It fueled Michele to start this incredible organization, it fueled all of us to connect with each other and form our own community of souls. Because of the deaths of those people so dear to us, this growing community gets together every year. The foundation and our collective love is the phoenix that rises from the ashes of our losses.

 The power of that dawned on me in a visceral way that moment at the banquet. I could almost feel the collective love from all of our dead spouses swirling around us, moving us all forward to hold onto each other and keep pushing for a life worth living.

Death sucks and it hurts and it tears us apart, but it also fuels us. It fuels us to make change, to help others, to reach out, to allow love in, to accept help, to travel to a convention called Camp Widow where we might just make lifelong friends, to connect, to open our hearts, to start over, to be even more brave than we ever knew we could be. It's fueled many of us to start foundations in our loved ones' memories to help other survivors, and start blogs, and learn to walk on fire, and travel the world, and brave the fears we bury deep inside. It brings us together and bonds us for life. It might just be one of the most powerful agents of change around. 

I felt all of that as I sat there amongst these people I consider the true heroes in life. I also felt my brain grapple with the idea that so many beautiful and beloved people had to leave too early for all of this to happen in the first place. 

The most unlikely thing in the world is that beauty grows out of pain and loss. It makes no sense and it seems unnecessarily cruel, but it has proven to be true in my experiences again and again.

There was so much beauty and love wrapped around us at Camp Widow and right alongside that was an endless supply of broken hearts and traumatized souls, the aching of an empty place where there should be a much-loved person. 

I don't fully understand it all and its enormity overwhelms me, especially when I'm with hundreds of other widowed people for a weekend. It is possibly the most powerful collective experience I've had in my life. 

I find it hard to put words to it all, but I know that going to Camp Widow when I did saved me and launched me into this new life with a team of supporters whose love has fueled and inspired me. 

I am so grateful. 

It only takes one person

source

...to make a huge impact.

Coming back from Camp Widow this time felt different than last time, somehow. Maybe I was so nervous about presenting last year and worried about doing a good job that I wasn't able to get outside of myself enough. I was impacted, definitely, but this year I was able to step back and really pay attention.

I was so aware at how one person can make such a big impact on my heart.

This weekend, I was impact by Lisa who reinforced my perspective and inspired me to be a better mom. Janice, who was brave enough to expose her frustrations and lend the deepest hurts out for healing. Diana who made me laugh, Dana who finally shared her story, Leah whose Canadian roots made me feel closer to Jeremy somehow, Connie who listened to my story (twice) and opened up with hers, Kelly who was willing to dig deeper and ask questions, Rachel who invested, made me feel at home, and recharged my desire to finish a book. For all the women at the Sudden Loss session who shared their stories....each one of them became imprinted on my heart and listening to them expose their worst nightmares was an experience I will never forget. And of course, Michele, who constantly inspires and reminds me of why I do this in the first place.

I gathered all these names up (I am actually super terrible at remembering names, there are more that impacted me this weekend) and tried to remind myself that even in the smallest encounter, change can happen. Love can transcend. I take that with me as hope that perhaps I am able to do the same, even just for one person.

Never underestimate the power of one. Especially when we all come together.
Thank you all for blessing me this weekend.

Coming Home ......

                                                             Source

...... can be bittersweet.

Especially when you're coming home after attending Camp Widow.

Or sometimes ...... coming home from anywhere.

On the one hand, it's nice to get back to your own bed and belongings.
On the other hand, it's difficult to go back to that very lonely bed.

And while it's nice to come home and go to bed at a decent hour,
it's sometimes very hard to fall asleep at that hour.

Though it's good to come back to your children,
it's harder than hard to pick up that only-parent weight again.

And while it's good to be home again ...... it's hard to be away from the safety of around 100 friends (old and new) who walk the same path, share the same morbid jokes, cry at the same moments, laugh at even more of the same moments ...... and make me feel so accepted, safe and loved.

Coming home ...... is usually a wonderful thing for most people.

But for most of us ...... it's bittersweet.

Tragedy

source

Tragedy has been close to my heart this week.

Monday, as I watched the horror unfold during the Boston marathon, I was once again in awe of how quickly life can go so wrong. How swiftly and senselessly life can end.

My two year old happened to be sitting next to me while I watched some coverage on Hulu, and he would not stop asking questions. "What happened Mommy?" He wanted me to talk him through every scene. Then he asked to watch it four more times - he wanted to watch "the boy hurting show." He kept repeating "people got hurt," or "dat's sad," or "dat's a big boom."

I was a little disturbed that my toddler was so fascinated with this footage of people suffering. And just when I thought perhaps I had a twisted mind on my hands, I watched a lightbulb go off in his head.

"Daddy died Momma. Dat's sad."

Ah, there it is. For his entire life, I've tried to explain who Daddy is and where he is and what happened in the simplest of terms for my sweet boy who never got to meet him face to face. But it was like he understood suddenly in his own way what tragedy was and how devastating it is.

Since then, he's been talking about Daddy a lot. Trying to sort things out, I think. Asking to read his picture book of Daddy, and reminding me after every page turn that Daddy died. It can be gut wrenching to watch his small mind put things together.

It can be hard to constantly be reminded of grief. Sure, it follows me around every single day in different ways, but to overtly bring it to my face and deal with it over and over can get overwhelming.

As Camp Widow East sets to gear up tomorrow, I can't help but have grief in my face again. But as heavy as it can be, I welcome it. I welcome the reminder that I was well loved the pain that still follows me is not just a figment of my imagination. I welcome the opportunity to search my heart deeper for healing, to open myself up to others who are walking this same unintended path. To share my story in hopes that someone out there might have a different lightbulb go off: a lightbulb of hope.

I think some worry that being in an environment surrounded by other widow/widowers somehow "exposes" you to grief you don't necessarily want to share. It reminds you of what a dark world we can live in and perhaps dwelling in that atmosphere seems overwhelming.

But on the contrary, when we ban together to share our hearts and our stories, a little piece of light gets let back in. Yes, the world can be a tough place, but we all know that first hand. But when we break down the walls we've each put up by connecting with others who 'get it', suddenly we see there can be more to life than just merely existing. There can be more to life than just tragedy.

That's the light I keep coming back for more of.
Looking forward to meeting some of you this weekend.

The Power of We

My New We

Today is Blog Action Day 2012. The theme this year is "The Power of We".

Thinking about the word we brought back a vivid memory of the first few weeks after my husband Dave's death. I remember suddenly noticing how often I still said we.

I had many visitors in those first few weeks. I would hear myself telling them "We are getting new siding," or "We grew corn this summer but not last summer," or "We were going to go to Italy again," and the word we would punch me in the stomach, leaving me winded and nauseous.

My we had turned to me in an instant and my heart and mind hadn't had a chance to understand. The power of the loss of my we was immense and crushing. Almost a year and a half later and I'm still trying to understand it.

My we used to consist of Dave and me.  He was my family, my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan and the person I trusted most in this world. And then I became just me. Overnight.

Everything was still there. His shoes, his wallet, his phone, his email account. But he was missing and so was the me I had been when he'd been here on this earth.

He had been dead for less than 3 months when I went to San Diego for Camp Widow. I was 35 years old and was completely consumed with the need to find my new we.

I vividly remember the feeling I had as the escalator at that Marriott brought me to the second floor where Camp Widow check in was taking place. I looked around at all the people milling about and thought "They're all like me," and I swear I took a deep breath for the first time in 3 months.

I was comforted just by the knowledge that I was surrounded by my new we. It wasn't anything like my old we and it couldn't replace my old we.

It didn't make the pain of his loss any less devastating, but it was power in numbers, and I didn't feel alone anymore. That first camp was the beginning of my re-entry into life.

When I returned home, I would picture all of those people I'd met, doing incredible things, like Michele Neff Hernandez, starting the foundation that allowed me to find my new we in the wreckage of Dave's death, and Matt Logelin, finding strength in his daughter and getting his beautiful love story to her and her mom out into the world and I borrowed their light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't see mine yet, so I used theirs.

When I was sure I couldn't withstand the pain of grieving the loss of my old we, I would call someone I met at Camp, and even from several states (and a country) away they would extend a strong hand through the dark and pull me out into the light, reminding me that we were in this together at least for that moment.

When I'd do the same for them, I felt a connection almost as strong as any I'd felt before. It was as though I could suddenly feel the invisible cords from my heart to theirs, extending hundreds of miles, allowing strength to surge back and forth between us, as needed.

My identity from my before-life was gone, but my new identity was a WE again. A different we.

We widowed people are warriors.
We are heroes, the kind of people who have power from the depths they've clawed their way out of to find the light.
We are a force to be reckoned with.
We know intimately the true value of love and the impermanence of life.

I don't know if I'd truly understand that if it weren't for SSLF and Camp Widow.

Just the simple but incredible act of communicating online with widows from all over the world through this blog is a we that spans the globe and includes millions of people in its web of connections.

My neighbor, two doors down, just lost his wife to cancer and in my condolence card to him, I included one of the SSLF outreach cards I carry around. So, I've cast the net over him, too, including him in this we. Hopefully, he will not feel as alone just knowing that there's a we out there for him, too, whenever he needs it.

SSLF allowed me to have a we again, during a phase in my life that could have been isolating and horrifically lonely.

The power of we, indeed.

Who am I?

Me at Camp Widow West 2012

Who am I?

How did I get here?

Where am I going?

What has my husband’s death taught me?

These are questions I struggle with everyday.

After spending 10 years with Seth, it’s hard to figure who I am without him.

We started dating when I was 21 years old; my whole “adult” life was with Seth.

Figuring out who I am is a constant struggle.

Through the 3 years of Seth being sick, I learned how deep our wedding vows go.

“Through sickness and health, tell death do us part”.

Sure, I could have given up on him. I could have left him. I could have kicked him while he was down.
But I made a promise to him the day we got married. Little did I know death would be so soon, and I didn't know that death does not end my love and commitment to Seth. Tell death do us part, does not stop YOUR love.

I love Seth more every day.

I have dealt with depression, PTSD, insomnia and anxiety.

I have fallen into stages of depression that no one should ever have to experience.

I have loved again, and had my heart broken.

I have gone through the anger stage more times than I can count.

I have screamed at god. I have screamed at Seth.

My neighbors probably think I’m nuts.

I struggle daily with the embarrassment that my husband committed suicide.

It embarrasses me because I think it makes me look like a failure.

If I was a good enough wife and friend, he wouldn't have killed himself.

Which I know (now) is not true, but I still feel like a failure.

I have had people look me in the face and tell me my husband’s suicide is my fault.

I have experienced heart break so intense that I don’t know how I lived.

I have experienced forcing myself into counseling, grief support groups, supporting suicide widows, writing for Widows voice. I have pushed myself out of my grief comfort zone, and put my story out for the world to read.

Writing about my story has been a struggle for me. It feels so exposed and public. But I know there are a lot of widows in my same situation, and I know I can help at least one person.

And for my own sake, my story needs to be released out of my soul.
I have kept my story locked up in my soul for two years too long.

I push myself to do things I sometimes feel I can’t achieve. Such as trying to have the law on FMLA changed to cover the death of a spouse. (See my petition here).

I have taken peoples criticism, such as I’m not trying hard enough to get over “it”.

I have cut toxic people out of my life. There are just some people I can never satisfy, and at this point in my journey, my happiness and comfort is what matters most.

I have learned how much my family and friends really do love me. Far more then I realize. Far more then I will ever understand.

I have realized my parents lost their son the day Seth died (This realization just happened a couple of weeks ago).

I have learned to ask for help.
And asking for help doesn't make me a weak person.

I have learned the world doesn't stop, when it should.
It doesn't stop and let me catch my breathe, or let me get back on my feet.
The world keeps turning.
Tomorrow always comes.

I have learned to pat myself on the back, when my only accomplishment for the day is getting out of bed and going to work.

I have learned to congratulate myself with each passing death anniversary, wedding anniversary and birthdays. After all, I made it through those.

I have learned to be proud of where I am in my journey. Even when I feel like I should be further ahead.
I have learned I am exactly where I am supposed to be in my grief.
And I can't rush through it, even though I try.

I have learned to say no.

I have learned that sometimes staying in bed really is the best decision for a certain day.

I have learned to be selfish.

I have learned - I am my own worst critic.
There are a lot of dreams and goals I want to reach, but I always tell myself I can’t do it.

I’m working on this! I have realized there is never a good time to go back to school. There is never a good time to start a new relationship. That life is never “right” and I have to just jump, even if I am scared to death. After all, the worst has already happen. I know how to pick myself up, dust myself off, and move forward.

I am still learning to not look at the word “widow” as a bad thing.

I remember I was flying to camp widow west 2012, I was sitting and looking out the window of the airplane. I was thinking of my upcoming adventures at camp widow, and I thought “how in the hell did I get here?? How am I a WIDOW??”

I told myself widow is a horrible word, and I need to come up with a new word to describe my marital status.

I was thinking my marital status should be along the lines of awesome with a splash of glitter.

I struggled with this “widow” word the whole weekend at camp widow.

I was at a WIDOW event. What was wrong with me??

Then Michele got up on stage. She was talking about how we hate the word widow. She brought up that our best friends are widows. And we love them (and know them) because they are widows. We do not hate the widow inside our friends, so why do we hate the widow inside of us?

It dawned on me that “widow” isn't bad.

It stands for a lot of things that "normal" people don't understand. 

Commitment, dedication, courage, strength, and most of all, love.

We are who we are because we are widows.

We love, and know what can be lost, deep into our souls.

I personally think I am a better person, better friend, and eventually a better wife, because I have been widowed.

I know I am a survivor. Even on days that I fail.
I push through and tell myself I can do this.

I know I will keep growing and moving forward.

Today is 810 days since Seth left this world.
But I refuse to let the death of Seth be the death of my soul, dreams and goals.

Booster Shot

source

There is a question that always makes me freeze up. It's not "Are you married?", although that's a rotten one, too. It's "What do you do?".

I think it rattles me so much because it gets right to the heart of my biggest source of fear - that I no longer know what I'm going to do with my life. My identity is still forming in this new life of mine. In this life I'm only 16 months old and I haven't had enough time to figure much out. So, when someone says "what do you do?" I feel like saying "try to put my life back together".

People want to put other people in categories. I know I do it all the time. I want to know when I meet you if you're a teacher or a lawyer or a librarian or a chef. If you tell me "I don't know", I'm not going to be able to categorize you right away and that makes most of us a little uncomfortable.

When I asked a woman I met yesterday what she does and she replied with "Oh, that question is so hard," my fellow-widow alarm went off and sure enough she told me what she used to do and then said "but my husband died a year and a half ago, and now I don't know what I'm going to do," It was like hearing myself talking.

"MY husband died a year and a half ago!" I replied, suddenly fired up with the recognition of someone else who might truly get me.

And whoo boy, did she get me. She told me about her lovely husband and how he died and I told her about Dave and how he died. As we discussed our observations of this new journey we're  on, I felt understood and recognized and truly heard. The veil of loneliness dropped away and I felt the ease of not having to pretend to be okay or find words for feelings nearly unexplainable.

We talked about how year two is harder than year one, and what to do with ashes and how to find ways to sleep well again. We talked about how, in our society, people often don't seem to be versed in dealing with the bereaved because it's a taboo subject in daily life. We compared notes on how sharing our widowed status often sends people nearly running from us in discomfort.

Meeting someone else on this journey always feels a lot like being thrown a life ring, or at the very least, having someone join me in the waves so I don't feel so terrifyingly alone as I tread water. 

I gave her one of my SSLF cards with my phone number and email address and told her about Camp Widow and I felt the urge to scoop up all the other widowed people out there and move in together.

That would be an idea that my therapist would say is "over-identifying with my widowhood" but it's normal to want to feel as though I belong and I haven't felt that way much since Dave died.

I know that I won't always feel as though I don't belong outside of the time I spend with my widowed friends. I get that.

I also know that right now, the feeling of belonging is so comforting that I need a little injection of it on a daily basis to keep my strength up.

A little fellow-widow booster shot.

Great is worth it

A very special moment during the Saturday night message release

I'm still recuperating from the travel and lack of sleep from Camp Widow.
It was totally worth it. :)

I anticipated going to Camp Widow to reach out to other widows/widowers who have been through this horrible journey called grief. But instead, I was blessed.

I watched hundreds of widows take this huge, scary leap into an unknown world to reach out in their grief. These courageous men and women who all came together just to know that they're not alone. But they didn't just reach out. They shared, they laughed, they cried, they helped each other, they danced..

they lived. 

What a blessing it was to sit around with a group of people who shared their hearts, their fears, their worries, they're anger, and even their joy. They have no idea how much they touched my heart and blessed me.

As Michele gave her keynote address, she said something that became my mantra for the weekend. So often, we settle for good enough, because after we lose something so incredibly important to us, great is so scary and comes with the probability that we could lose again. But as most widows/widowers would agree, I would NEVER trade my time with Jeremy even if I knew I would lose him so soon. Because love is worth it.

Great is worth it.

Whether it means taking that huge leap into giving your heart to someone else, or whether it means baby steps into finding joy in your every day life, don't settle for good. Because underneath the pain and loss and hurt and grief is life. And life keeps moving forward even when we don't want it to. But, it can be good. Better than good. And the risk is worth it.

Thank you all for the reminder to keep striving for great. For me, for Jeremy, and for every person out there struggling through this roller coaster journey called grief.

Child of a Widow

My dad, my cousin and me about 2 years after my mom died

When I was five, my mom lost her fight with cancer and my dad was widowed at almost exactly the age I was when  I was widowed. The Universe has a really strange sense of humor, by the way.

The two of us had to navigate this new life we didn't plan for. He never got us any professional help and he didn't have much of a support system that I know of.

At school I was the only kid who'd lost a parent. I felt utterly alone and Mother's Day was torture for me as I tried to pretend I had someone living to make a card for.

At Camp Widow West this weekend, I was a part of a panel of amazing widowed people who came to a session to hear from adult children of widowed people. The facilitator and I were the two of us who were both widowed AND children of widows. As each parent took their turn to share their story, a common theme revealed itself. They just wanted to do their best to make sure their kids were okay.

Then I was asked to talk about what helped me when I was a kid and I realized that what would have helped me tremendously is if my father had reached out for help more often like these parents were doing.

Regardless of how he handled his grief or my grief, I turned out okay, though. I'll grieve the loss of my mom my whole life, but I'm okay.

I wanted so badly to reassure these parents that their children would be okay, too. Showing up at Camp and reaching out for help on the journey was a step my father didn't and couldn't really take advantage of. I can only imagine what it might have been like if my father and I had had the resources that SSLF and other grief groups offer.

He needed support for the Herculean task before him and he didn't have it. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, but I do know what it was like for me. I needed to talk about my pain and my loss. I needed to be with other kids who'd lost their parents. I needed female figures in my life who would take me under their wing and provide some mothering. I needed my teachers to know ahead of time that I didn't have a mommy so they could help soften the blow of Mother's Day. I needed to see a counselor. I needed to keep some things of my mom's. I needed to keep her memory alive as much as possible. I needed to feel loved and wanted by my remaining parent.

Most of this I've managed to either find or create for myself as an adult, but ideally I would have had them as a kid, too.

If you're raising kids as a widowed person, I want you to know (from the other side) that it will be okay. Reach out for help as much as you can. You can't do this alone. Please don't hesitate to have you and your children seen by professionals. If you can, find a camp or a support group for your kids so they have a community of children like them to be a part of. Reach out for help whenever and wherever you can.

And come to Camp! There will be so much support for you there. So many people are out there, doing their best to raise kids after widowhood.

I won't tell you that my childhood wasn't difficult, but most of what made it so was my father's inability to reach out for help, not my mother's death. You are not alone. Please remember that. Reach out for others who are traveling this road, too. We need each other.