Wish You Were Here, Uncle Dan

My usually quiet, peaceful and tidy sanctuary of a home has been turned in to a messy playground for two boisterous little boys this weekend... and I'ver never been happier to have my orderly life turned up-side-down.

You see, Dan's sister is visiting from interstate with her husband and two young boys, aged two and four, and it's just been lovely to have his family so close.

All of Dan's family and most of his friends are based in Sydney, where he grew up and lived until moving to Brisbane for work, a year or so before we met.  Being more than 1000 kilometres away it would be easy to feel quite isolated in my mourning of him.

However, I'm one of the very lucky widowed people who have been embraced and supported by my  in-laws.  Over the past (almost) 16 months since his death I've had regular phone calls (at least twice-weekly), more than half-a-dozen visits and have been made to feel like I'm a firm and permanent part of their family.

The boys were aged 18 months and three years when Dan died.  The oldest one remembers him well and the youngest recognises him from photos and understands he was an important person.  There have been a few challenging moments with questions about death and heaven and, as is the way of children, these are usually blunt and come at unexpected moments.

To be honest, I love talking about Dan so this doesn't upset me, instead I like it when they bring him up.  I'm grateful that they know he was important and will grow up aware that they were very loved by him.

We answer the questions as best we can, but it's a fine line between satisfying their curiosity and not giving them information that will scare or confuse them further, given their young age and limited understanding of how the world works.

It's making me think about how difficult it will be when the time comes where the questions will develop, as they grow, into queries about how and why he died.  Ultimately it will be their mum and dad's decision on when Dan's suicide is explained and knowing what wonderful parents they are, I know they will handle this will tact and honesty.  My heart breaks knowing how painful this will be, both for my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, but also for my nephews.

Dan adored these boys so much that he would get tears in his eyes when he spoke about them.  When we visited Sydney, he was bursting with excitement to see them.  His phone screen-saver was a photo of his nephews, because he missed them so much; and he couldn't wait to be the best uncle possible as they grew up - playing sports with them and giving them advice about girls.  

Seeing what good uncle he was helped me fall in love with him (not that it was difficult) and I couldn't wait for him to become a father to our own children.  I look at his nephews, one of whom inherited the same beautiful chubby cheeks and mischievous, sparkly eyes as his uncle and my heart breaks that I will never meet our children.  I'm sad that these boy won't know their uncle and we won't get to give them cousins to play with as they grow up.

I wish he'd gotten the chance to be a dad.  I wish he'd been able to live the life he deserved.  I wish he had of been here with us over the past couple of days as we visited the zoo and played at the beach, to help me spoil our nephews and give their weary parents a bit of a break.

There are so many ways to miss him.  Today, I miss Uncle Dan and my tears are for myself, for him and for our beautiful nephews who will miss out on so much by him not being here.

On that note, it's time to pull myself together because I can hear little feet running through the house and sweet, little voices calling out 'Untie Becca, it's time to go to the markets!'

Father's Day

Last Sunday was Father's Day.
A day that I try to put on a happy, life-can-still-be-good smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.  A day that I try to acknowledge with the children in a way that is not morbid.  A day that always makes me feel sad.

Not long after I woke, I heard sobs coming from my son's room.  This is the child who was 5 when his hero died.  This is the  child who asks me to help him remember what his Daddy sounded like.  The child who loves being compared with his father.

These weren't the sobs I normally hear of "she took my xxxx" and "if I cry and whimper then I will get out of doing chore y that I don't want to do".
No..... these were the sobs that you feel in the pit of your stomach before you hear them with your ears.

When I went in to his room, my darling girl was already in there, comforting her brother.  Being a grown-up 11 year old.  Telling him that it was OK to cry.

Normally it is my girl who I think of as being sensitive.  She is the kid who has a melt down if something is not perfect (God forbid she gets a "B" on something).  She is the one who takes on every throw-away comment as being directed at her and every friendship hiccup as being the end of the earth.

Normally it is my boy who sings and hums his way through everything with a "she'll be right" attitude.  Who tells it how it is in an honest manner and who doesn't have a trace of malice in him. He takes a negative comment and either agrees with it as a matter of fact, or dismisses it as utter rubbish.

...and yet he is the one who surprises me with his grief.  He is the one who can barely remember his father but who treasures every photograph.  The child who is determined to follow in his father's footsteps.  He is the one who can go from Mr Happy-Go-Lucky to Mr Furiously-Sad because of a date on a calendar.

Navigating grief is hard, but sailing the waters with a couple of grieving children adds another dimension.

...but its a dimension that also allows for sharing and understanding of the loss of a person so loved by all of us.

Untouchable

The other day, my 2 1/2 year old found one of Jeremy's mementos - an autographed baseball still in the box. I had it in one of the boys top drawers to keep so that they might have it one day when they get older.

Naturally, he wanted to play with it. He took it out of the cardboard box, unwrapped the tissue paper around it, and started throwing it around the house. As soon as I realized what he was doing I gently put it away and told him he couldn't play with that particular ball because it was daddy's and it was special.

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Later that afternoon, when the rest of the kids came home from school, my 6 year old son found it (apparently I didn't do a good job of putting it away) and was playing with it in his room. A very devastated toddler came crying down the stairs yelling "Cayub can't pay wif da ball....it's daddy's!" I called Caleb down and explained to him that it was special not only because it was daddy's, but also because it was autographed and might be worth something one day and we needed to keep it nice. My two year old chimed in, eyes still brimming with offended tears "It's so so special...you can't touch it!" He continued to repeat that it was daddy's over and over.

It occurred to me that Carter was genuinely upset, and I wondered suddenly if I had put too much pressure on him to keep all things 'daddy' sacred. This little man, who never got to meet his daddy, has only connections with him through stories and pictures. It is my mission to make sure Carter grows up to know his daddy, even if he never got to meet him face to face. But I never realized that I could potentially "over-do it" in that everything daddy-related was sacred and untouchable. He seemed so upset by the thought of ruining something that was daddy's.

At the same time, my heart leaped to see how much he respected what was Jeremy's and understood, even at such a young age, that his daddy was something special. I want to make sure that Jer is remembered as something real, and not just an idea or something he has to walk on eggshells about. But how can you really do that with a child who has no tangible memories of his daddy, only the aftermath of everyone else's memories?

I don't know the right answer, but I am pretty sure there isn't one. Hopefully, the tender heart of my 2 year old will grow up knowing that someone very special loved him more than life before he even came into this world. The rest I'm just making up as I go along....kind of like parenting, in general. Now that I think of it, kind of like life.

Authentic Life

 

Mother's Day card from my girl...

On Mother's Day, Widow's Voice alumnus writer Jackie Hannam-Chandler posted these words:

I... am an authentic mom. I am real person who makes real mistakes.

She lamented on her role as a solo Mum..... a widowed parent, muddling through this parenting gig alone, without her beloved Jeff,  trying her best for her kids that she can.

.... and her frank admission that she sometimes lets it ALL hang out  - her emotions, her frustrations, her feelings that are not always pretty  - made ME feel like someone else really understood the hard bits of this solo parenting gig. 

So I wrote back to her ....

Your mother's day would describe my day before mother's day - I lost my sh!t  temper at my kids because of the fighting and me having to tell them to do their chores every few minutes.
...and what you describe fits me to a 'T'.... I worked in forestry for a while and picked up the dialect..... I elevate swearing to literary genre.
In other words - the F-word makes its appearance when I am stressed.
In our house, we don't do elaborate holidays, or expensive presents.
We do home grown and home made.
And I lose my freaking shit temper at them more times than I think I should, but I would eviscerate anyone who hurt my kids. 

Jackie wrote: I hope that as they look back at their childhood and shake their heads at my mothering foibles, they also realize that it is okay to be themselves, to be real, to mess up, to be "authentic". Their mama sure was.

Just like Jackie, I hope that my kids can look back on their childhood and not see the messed-up stuff that has happened since their father died, that they see my failings for what they are (grief and stress) and that they also understand that it is important to be themselves and feel their feelings. 
Its OK to mess-up. 
It's OK to stress about things. 
It's even OK to chuck a tanty and swear your head off, so long as you back it up with positives and lots and lots of love.
That grief can change you and bend you, but not break you.
To live your life as a REAL person, and not a phoney. 

To live an Authentic Life.

So I am putting my hand up as being an Authentic Mum (thanks to Jackie) .... with all of my faults.  ...and after receiving my mother's day card (above) I reckon that I am doing OK....
In fact, I think Greg would be proud....

Tragedy

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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.

Thunderstorms

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Last night, we got a crazy thunderstorm.

I can't remember the last time we had one like that. I didn't realize how long it had been until Faith came down stairs 30 minutes after her bedtime terrified of the storm like she had never heard one before.

Of course we had heard thunderstorms before...but I had never seen her react like that to it. Over the last 2 1/2 years, we have listened to the storms together and to help calm them down, we used to pretend that God and Daddy were bowling together and we'd cheer when we heard a strike (oh, the ridiculous things we come up with to comfort our children). But Faith had obviously outgrown that theory and she was too scared to go back to bed alone.

So, up I went to lay down with her for a few minutes. It's been too long since we've just laid together and talked one-on-one, at least about life issues. While we tried to tune out the thunderstorm, I got to have a precious conversation with her about her daddy. It went a little something like this:

Me: "What do you miss about your daddy?"
Faith: "Wrestling with him."
Me: "Of course you do, you two loved to wrestle together. What else do you remember about daddy?"
Faith: "Yeah, remember that time daddy got up early with me when I was sick and laid on the couch and gave me an ice pack - it was one of those blue ones - and wrapped it up in a cloth and watched TV with me?"

This simple conversation struck me for a number of reasons. First of all, it was another testament to the wonderful father Jeremy was. He would drop everything to lay with his babies if they were sick. The second thing that struck me was Faith's impeccable memory of her daddy, which I have always been grateful for. She was probably 2 or 3 when this occurred. I only know this because I remember that day...I had to go to work, so Jer stayed home with her and sent me pictures of her pathetic little face and a cloth wrapped ice pack on her forehead. So it wasn't one of her more recent memories of him...how does she remember that stuff?

Even when they can't always put it into words, it's never ceases to amaze me how love transcends through childrens' hearts even in the most abstract of ways. Through memories, through feelings, through art, through behavior....even through thunderstorms. I'm so thankful that love wins, and love defeats death.

I'm also thankful I got to hold her sweet little hand while she fell asleep during the thunderstorm and I prayed she would never lose that wonderful gift.

Love is bigger

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I was thinking about Amanda's post last week comparing divorce to death and how perturbed it made me what some people have the nerve to say. I've been lucky that no one has been dumb enough to try to compare the two to my face....or I should say, they've been lucky enough.

Not even my husband, who has been through one of the most painful divorces I know of, tries to compare the two. Just as I don't ever try to play the widow card to trump the hurt and pain that he's gone through. We know they're different and both painful in their own right.

But in my own personal experience, I have recently really noticed the difference that those tragic experiences have played out for our children. I ache every time I realize that Jeremy is missing out on things in his childrens' lives and there is nothing that will ever fill that void. But there is one thing I'm always certain of: Jeremy was an incredible daddy and his children will never doubt the love he had for them. Now that our oldest girls have gotten to a place where they realize their biological mother is not in the picture because of her own choice, that is a much harder topic to trudge through. The questions of why dad was the one who did the things that moms were supposed to when they were little are hard to answer. Knowing that we look for opportunities to honor Jeremy and talk about him in our household is a stark contrast to the care and sensitivity we take to not expose the pain and hurt the runs deep (and unfortunately current) caused by a mentally and physically unhealthy person who wants other people to be as unhappy as she is. I never thought the ripples and scars left by that tragedy could be as complicated to heal as my own.

How could you choose a more painful experience between watching a child that has night terrors about their parents leaving them or a child who has a hard time trusting people because they don't feel safe with the person who is supposed to care for them the most? A child who asks why daddy had to die or a child that ask wonders if it was their fault that their mom never did their hair or bathed them and would leave for days at a time? Which is worse? The truth is, they both are and comparing the two only makes it more painful.

What is boils down to is that it's ultimately not about divorce vs. death, but it's about love. While I wouldn't wish a death of a spouse on anyone, I can say that I am thankful for the love that Jeremy gave me, and I would NEVER trade it, even if I had known I would lose him so soon. And while I certainly would never wish a divorce on anyone, I know that divorced parents are not DEAD parents. But to feel a parent choose to leave is a painful trail in and of itself. I get frustrated in either situation by people who abuse these experiences to hurt others, or put children in the middle of it. In my book, that's unacceptable. To feel unconditional love is to be given wings in a very heaven laden world. Love matters, and when you get to experience it, no matter how short of time you have it for, it changes you and the way you see the world. It makes the harder parts easier to walk through. It make life worth living.

At the end of the day, we love our way through grief and divorce when our children struggle, because love is bigger than both, and the only thing that gives us the strength to keep going. We might not always have the right answers, but we are sure they cannot be out loved.

In the end, love wins.

Have a holly, guilty Christmas

Yesterday, after a full day of sitting at home with the kids, opening presents and playing with those presents, and then picking up after all those presents time and time again, we started to get all 5 children ready for bed. As I was helping my 6 year old, Faith, I asked her if she had a good Christmas. She nodded quickly with a smile and I added, “Best one yet?” She nodded again.

Suddenly, I regretted asking her that. And for a split second I was hurt by her response. Of course I did my best to give her the best Christmas I could, but Christmas will be forever missing her daddy. And that’s something I can’t give back. And, I’m thrilled that she enjoyed our first Christmas as a family of 7, with two new sisters and wonderful dad in her life that love her immensely.  But my regret came from feeling like I made her choose between her life before and her life now. Obviously, that’s absurd but that’s how I felt in the moment.

As a widow, I am always careful about using phrases like “best day ever” or “best time ever” because it always feels like that is somehow disrespecting the life I had with Jeremy.  Like if I say it, it means Jeremy suddenly means less to me. So I steer clear of theses phrases of absolutes. I surprised even myself when I asked Faith if she had the best Christmas ever. I got caught up in the joy of a child-like excitement and when I heard her answer, it suddenly brought me back to reality.

I don’t want that to bother me. I want all of our kids to be able to have the best Christmas ever. When I really sat on it, I realized that I, too, enjoyed Christmas this year. What a far cry that has been from my last two Christmas’ and I was so thankful to have a happy home this year and to make new memories and new traditions. Even though grief is always hovering, there was a lot of joy too. But enjoying it made me feel guilty.

I’d hate to think that my best moments are behind me.  I have wonderful memories, but I know I’m not done making them. And so, I smile knowing that I can make good memories still, even some of my best, without comparing the life I had with Jeremy.

I’m glad Faith had the best Christmas ever.  And I think Jeremy is glad, too. 

"Read, Daddy"

Jeremy in the sailor suit, and his other mini-me, Carter bearing the same sweet features.

Now the school is in full swing and we've kinda (and I use that term loosely) got a routine going, I've been able to spend a lot of one-on-one time with my man cub. I haven't had just one child with me in over 5 years! It's been nice to just play with him, talk to him, and watch him grow. His life thus far seems to have gone by in the blink of an eye and I know I was checked out for the first part of it. I feel like I've missed a lot.

Spending more time with him has made me face a lot of grief associated with his life, though. Watching him learn new things and knowing that Jeremy will never get to see him grow. The ache that comes with the understanding that Jeremy never got to hold his son. Thinking about the day he was born never ceases to make me emotional. Sometimes I think that day was harder in some ways than the day Jeremy died. We talk about 'daddy' all the time - he associates my necklace with Jer, the pics of him around the house, the tattoo on my arm, even the Toronto Maple Leafs logo he recognizes with his daddy. It's so incredibly bittersweet.

Last week, I sat down and showed Carter the video I have of Jeremy reading "Barnyard Dance" to Faith and Caleb. He was mesmerized. And I was full of tears and smiles. We went about our day and week until the other day, Carter was pointing to the table throwing a fit because I couldn't understand what he was wanting. When I finally figured out that he was pointing to my computer and saying "read Daddy, read Daddy" I burst into tears. 

He remembered.

Not only did he remember, he wanted more. More of his daddy. He wanted more of this presence he hears referred to all the time but hasn't met him or touched him yet. To hear his voice, see his face, and see him snuggle up against his big brother and sister made an impact on that little 19-month-old heart. He watched it again and again. 

For all the times I worry that Carter may not understand or I might share enough....I realize that Jeremy really is a presence in our hearts and in our lives. And he's in the heart and life of a little man cub who's never met him face to face, but who lives out his legacy as the spitting image of his daddy. 

The Social Story

My four-year-old daughter peed all over herself and it taught me something about grief.  Yep, that’s usually how it works for me. 

Molly had to go to the bathroom and we were outdoors near the woods for a family outing.  I walk her over to the woods.  “But Dad, I have to go to the bathroom,” she says, as she looks around not seeing any buildings. “Trust me on this one.”  I say to her. I lower her pants and hold her little hands to balance her as I am about to put her in a sitting position so she can pee.  But before I can get her in position, she lets loose - while still in a standing position - soaking her pants, socks, and shoes.  I utter a quick “No, not ye…” but by now the flow is too strong to stop.  She looks at me with an expression of, “Not really sure I understand why you want me to pee all over myself, but you’re the expert.” 

            I stand there shaking my head in disbelief that Molly didn’t understand how to go to the bathroom in the woods.  Which brought up a very good question.  Did I ever teach her?  No I haven't, I just assumed that she would know how to in the woods.  Not sure why I thought that, I know Disney channel isn’t programming too many episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse where they all go on a camping trip and take a leak in the woods – although it would make perfect sense for Pluto.

            I sometimes feel bad for Molly, for the youngest.  When we had Haley, Lisa and I spent so much time teaching her all the aspects of life – I even taught her about the Cubs / White Sox baseball rivalry. But now that Molly is growing up, I keep forgetting how young she is and how much she doesn’t know.

            It’s a good reminder for me when I have to deal with the loss of Lisa.  Over the past years I have spent so much time and effort with my older daughters, many talks and art projects and letters to mom have filled our past few years to understand what life is like without her.  Molly was only five months old when Lisa passed.  Right now she is not much older than Kelly was when Lisa passed.  How many assumptions have I been making that she knows Lisa is not around.  If you ask her she will tell you her mom is in heaven. But I haven’t done a good job going over, in detail, all that this could mean for her and for us.

            On some level I feel too exhausted from all the grief work to go over it again.  I don’t want to go back and have these same discussions with Molly.  But this is a good wake up call; I need to do a better job explaining the loss of her mom – geez, have I even mentioned that Lisa dying is not Molly’s fault?  I know I’ve told the other girls that a dozen times just in case they were having those thoughts.

            It’s challenging to know what goes through the mind of a young girl who is growing up never knowing her mother.  I need to bring out some old photos and start going over old talking points with her. If not, she might grow up not understanding some aspects of mourning and end up pissing all over her socks.

This Life

Six and a half years ago the worst thing happened. I wasn't prepared, I had never imagined (who does I guess?), and even if I did spend anytime pondering what life would be like if my 39 year old husband was hit and killed by a car, I still wouldn't have dreamed up the life that has come after that worst moment.

I could not have imagined the brutal pain of waking up in an empty bed.

I could not have imagined picking up the phone to call him, over and over again...I would have guessed that eventually I'd figure out that he wasn't going to answer.

I could not have imagined six years after his death STILL thinking I saw him standing on a street corner.

I could not have imagined how my heart would break when I read what one of my children would later write about that day, or the ways in which his death would change their lives.

I could  not have imagined being surrounded by other widowed people. And if I did imagine such a thing I am sure I would have expected us to all be sharing kleenex instead of laughter.

I could not have imagined telling my story in front of hundreds of people or the tightness in my chest that would accompany that storytelling each and every time. I would have imagined getting used to the words, that somehow saying them over and over would make them lose their power.

But more than any other thing I could not imagine on the day that my love died, I could never have imagined the friends I would make as I put the pieces of my shattered life back together. My widowed community changed my life. I wouldn't be who I am today without the people I have met along the way. They inspire me. They encourage me. They lift me up, and also anchor me to this world. The one I am left with now. The one that is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined 2,402 days ago.

The new girl in town

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Hi. I'm Veronica. I'm the new girl in town here on Widow's Voice. Like most of you, I'm not the least bit thrilled to fall in any category to allow me such a role on this blog, but nonetheless, I am looking forward to walking through my grief journey will a community of people who get it. Let me tell you a little about me.

This is what my sweet little family looked like before tragedy struck unexpectedly in the form of a heart attack that took my wonderful husband and best friend Jeremy on a November 9, 2010 when he was at the very young age of 31. In addition, I was 28 and 6 months pregnant with our third child.

Needless to say, the last 16 1/2 have been quite the roller coaster for me. My life has been completely flipped upside down. Since Jeremy died, I had his baby without him, bought a house, lost my brother unexpectedly, and purchased a new vehicle. Lots of big milestones that have taken place without the one I love. Speaking of the one I love, I would like to tell you a little bit about my awesome husband, Jeremy.

Jeremy was the head of grounds at Rochester College, but also worked for our church as the Worship Leader there. He was a hunter and fisher, and full blooded Canadian through and through. He was stubborn, hilarious, sweet, handsome, loyal, and an incredible daddy and husband. He was my rock, my shoulder to cry on, my best friend, my anchor, my north, and my sanity. I can't bear to write out more of the horrible day, but you can read about it here.

Fast forward 16 1/6 months. I have come a long way, but this journey of grief for me is far from over. I continue to stumble my way through picking up all the broken pieces that were left behind in the shadows of the greatest loss I could have ever imagined. But my kids are happy, healthy, and still grieving in their own way too. And I have this sweet little face that Jeremy gifted me:

There ya have it. This is me. This is my family. This is my loss, my tragedy, my love, my story.

It's nice to meet you all.

The funeral revisited

Image via Wikipedia

She sat at the front of the church with her mother.
Swathed by relatives.
Confused between the false smiles of mourners  when they spoke to her and the shaking sobs of her mother in the seat next to her.
I watched as this little girl, dressed in pink tulle looked into the faces of everyone who came near her.
Bewildered.
Watching as her mother, grandmother and aunties dissolved into tears before her, and her cousins displayed emotions ranging from nervous frivolity, to shock, to grief as they watched their mother's cry their way through their eulogies.
No doubt, wondering where her father was and exactly what was happening around her.

I looked into her five-year-old face from a distance.  Willing her to see me.  So she would know I was there.... that her teacher had come to her father's funeral....because I know how much it will mean to her later.

.
.
.


I went to the funeral of the father of my tiny year 1 student last week.....exactly 1 year, 11 months and 29 days after the kids and I sat huddled in the same position under similar circumstances: a car accident; a  father suddenly gone.

I remembered holding the hands of our children who had that same bewildered look on their little faces..... my son even younger than this little girl, my daughter only 1 year older.
I remembered smiling through the memories of his life as they played on the screen before us and wishing we'd taken more photos of each other.
I remembered trudging behind the casket as we followed six of his best mates out of the church, his body held shoulder high.
I remembered staring at my feet as they walked out of the church and watching as the casket was loaded into the hearse, not glancing up lest I see the faces of the hundreds of people who came.

....and I remembered how thankful my children were that their teachers had come to their Daddy's funeral.  Teachers who would soon become my colleagues and help hold me together as I began working again.  Teachers who would hold my kids together when they were angry at the world, and teacher who pushed them into learning and achieving.

...and I made a silent vow to this dead father whom I'd never met: I promise to look after your daughter to the best of my ability.  I promise to show her compassion when she needs it and I promise to push her forward and onward. I promise to be there for her for as long as she needs.

I promise.

A very bad day

Last week marked two years since I was widowed.

It was not a good week.....worse than I could have imagined. ....
I arrived at school on February 29 to the news that one of my tiny little students had lost her father in a car accident the night before.
Horrific.
I did not cope well.

So I hope you'll forgive the repost of my own blog entry for March 1 ..... a letter to my husband....



2 years.

Two whole years that simultaneously feel like two minutes and two centuries.

The fog and numbness have gone this time – it’s just pure loneliness and loss this year: I miss you so badly.
I took the day off work …. I got some raised eyebrows when I did this, but thankfully not from my boss. (He is an odd boss – simultaneously infuriating and marvellous).
Plus I needed it after yesterday…

I took the kids to visit your grave.  Finally.  They haven’t been since you were buried.  I haven’t been because I don’t think you are there…..

I didn’t expect the reaction they had.
H cried.
K was quiet.
They sang a song in the car on the way “Our Daddy died on the first of March.  It’s the first of march today”.
sob.

They brought some stones they had decorated and carefully placed them on your (our) headstone.
…and we put in a solar light with a dragonfly on it.
Then we left.

I feel completely wrung out.
Too much sadness around me.
....and missing you more than ever.

I long to lay my head on your chest and fall asleep in your arms.
...and feel safe again.
even if only for a minute.

We miss you.
We love you.
XA

Dear Dad

Cousin Ida, dad and me

Dear Dad,


You've been gone 7 years now. What happened to you happened to me. I lost half of myself and have to build a new life from the rubble left behind.


I think often of what it would be like to be you. Not only did you have to watch mom deteriorate and suffer and then die, but you had to grieve while trying to raise me.


I'd like to say that you did things to help me grieve and I'm sure you did, I just can't remember a lot of day-to-day evidence. You did not find me counseling. You did not let me keep any of mom's things. You did not let me ask questions or talk about mom without feeling terrible for asking. You weren't present for me because you were working or drinking heavily or both.


That doesn't mean you didn't try. That doesn't mean you didn't do your best to survive while helping me. I know you were trying to make it through each day the best way you could. I know now how the grief can give you tunnel vision. No energy left for anything but making it through the day most of the time.


You did do one wonderful thing for my grieving process. You brought my older cousin to live with us and she was a buffer between you and me. She loved me like a daughter and let me be me, let me feel my pain. But she couldn't stay forever.


And once she left, and it was just you and me again, the darkness and pain took over our household again.


How strangely amazing, though, that I now see things from the perspective of a widowed person AND the perspective of a little girl who lost her mom.


Now that I am a part of the widowed community, I hear from widowed parents who are somehow managing to help their kids grieve while grieving themselves and I'm in awe of the self-sacrifice that must take. I don't believe surviving this undamaged is even a possibility, for the kids or the spouse, but putting energy into getting the family help and living despite the pain, is heroic. It takes strength I doubt any of us think we're capable of.


I know now that the strength it took you to care for mom while she was dying and to care for yourself and me after she died, was super-human. I am grateful that you stuck around as long as you did and I'm pretty sure it's a waste of time to think of the ways I wish you'd done it differently. You did what you could do. You were damaged.


You were in pain AND raising a sad little kid who lost her mom.
I never would have known the depth of your pain if this hadn't happened to me. It's impossible to imagine unless you don't have to imagine.


I'm glad you've been released from your pain and I'm glad I can use your struggle as a gauge for my fight. I will not avoid getting help or isolate myself and I will not let this turn me into someone who will spend the next 30 years killing myself with alcohol.


I will burn my pain as fuel and come out on the other side with more strength, empathy and capacity for joy.


I know you'd say that you didn't expect any less from me.

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.

I Don't Like Broccoli

Thanks to guest writer Matthew Croke for filling in for Dan today!

I’m thinking about getting a second family, one with a wife and kids.  I could take out an ad in a newspaper, “Man looking for wife and kids to help him figure out his own children.  Family must know man and his three children will live in another house.”  That should get me married in less than two weeks.

Why, do you ask, am I going all ‘Big Love’ kid version?  Because all of a sudden my three-year-old will no longer eat her Lucky Charms for breakfast.  She won’t do it.  Two spoonfuls and she says “I’m no longer hungry.”  It’s Lucky Charms!  It’s as close to giving a child a bowl of sugar and a straw for a meal.  So I tried a different cereal, no dice.  Now her non-eating  is spilling over to dinner, I come home from work and see a plate full of food on the kitchen table – the table has since been long been abandoned by the children - and my Mom tells me “Molly said she wasn’t hungry.”

So then the question I ask myself the most, when it comes to my children, finds its way to my brain.  “Is my child being a three-year-old who is inserting her independence, or is she being a three-year-old who lost her mother and is acting out.”  Do I go with the flow, “Oh, those kids” as I scrape the plate of pasta, carrots, and chicken into the garbage.  Or do I jump on the phone and set up an appointment with a therapist as I take the uneaten food, put it in a zip lock baggie, and mark it with a black Sharpie: Exhibit #1.   

Yes, I know kids don’t eat full meals. 

Yes, I know kids don’t listen to their parents.

Yes, I know my kids will get in trouble and break the law and drink someday.

I get it, I truly do.  But it’s also a mistake not to keep an eye out for signs they need a little more attention due to me being an only parent.  It’s a bad idea not to look for context clues from the kids struggling with not getting enough affection.  And trying to guess their pain is challenging, because they don’t come up and volunteer their grief; you have to be creative in having it come out.  I do belong to some amazing groups that help the kids and I deal with this part of grief.  I do.

However, it’s still difficult to resist the temptation of every time they hit one another, to sit them down and say, “Now, do you really miss mom and you are looking for someone to hold you and instead are replacing it with negative contact that leads to anger which in itself is easier to emote than love?”  The child looks at me and says, “No, Haley knocked over my Lego tower on purpose and I’m mad.” “Oh… then off you go. Just don’t hit her in the face.”

Can you see where my second family would come in handy?   I can be sitting down for dinner and my middle child will say, “Dad, I don’t like broccoli, I’m not going to eat it.”  I can then get up from the table, hop in my car and go to my second family (where I have a wife), join them in the middle of their dinner, turn to the middle child and say, “Hey child number two, you have a mom and me as a dad, no issues there, are you going to eat your broccoli?”  “Are you crazy Dad, I’m a kid, I hate broccoli!” I can get back up, run out the door, go back to my house, go over to Kelly, pick her up, and swing her around in circles saying, “You’re not traumatized, you’re just being a kid.”  

Only to have her throw up all over me and my eldest daughter say, “Dad, why would you spin her around like that during dinner?  Did you forget, or is it because you miss Mom?”

The Dance of the Deathiversary

This post dedicated to my best friend. Our feet have so often marched to the same drum, and though we both would have abandoned the dance given the chance, I couldn't ask for a better partner in the dance of hope and life. Love to you as the sixth anniversary of Daniel's death approaches. No doubt he would be proud (and unsurprised) by the amazing way in which you continue to embrace life.

I dread deathiversaries, "with my whole soul", as my daughter would say. This dread is instinctual, and has nothing to do with how happy I am in my current life. The creeping feeling of impending doom sneaks up on me at the same time every year, and at odd times when I am distracted by nostalgia or lost in a happy memory. Sometimes the feeling of dread appears as a great crashing wave, hitting me full force from behind and knocking me into the swirling sea of despair, shocked and unprepared. Other times I can hear the drumbeat of the death march from afar, and I have time to steel myself for what lies ahead.

I am amazed by the way my body takes over as the days before Phil's death day unfolds. Singing along to the radio in the car can be suddenly halted by a realization that I am living in the moment when we visited my parents for the last time. How does my body know this, when my mind is completely unaware? The simple act of walking through the front door is fraught with danger when the death march has begun, each time I step over the threshold I imagine a random moment when Phil did the same. Pancakes become tearjerkers, cyclists cause a lump in my throat, photos now stacked haphazardly around the house are dusted and petted, and the memory of the life I used to live whispers my name over and over again.

The craziest part about this death march is that I am happy. Life is good. There are still difficult grief moments, but I am more aware of the goodness in the world, and in my life, than I have ever been before. So why does the death march have this hypnotic power over me? Why do my feet dance to the beat of the drums before my mind is aware that they have begun to play? Why does knowing the outcome of the story not alter in anyway the dread I experience as the day approaches? I don't know.

What I have learned is that the death march is worse than the actual anniversary. I have realized that honoring my feelings, and allowing my body to move to the rhythm that I can neither anticipate nor control, does help. Allowing the people who love me (including my new husband) to walk a portion of the march with me keeps me from isolating myself in the sometimes overwhelming sorrow. One other thing I know from experience--all marches come to an end. When this one moves on, I find myself still standing and holding onto the memories of a love for which I am eternally grateful, and moving forward into a life I am blessed to call my own.

She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

Special thanks to our regular guest contributor Matthew Croke who is filling in for Jackie today!

The first day of pre-school was minutes away.  You could see the parents glide into the room as if on hover shoes, their little ones following closely behind.  My Molly, holding my hand tight and almost hugging my leg, walks in the room with me.  She sees the sand table, pulls away from me like my hand is on fire, and I am quickly forgotten.

The teacher, Mrs. Linda, is a woman in her sixties, but possesses the energy of a twenty year old.  She bounces from parent to parent collecting all the mandatory paperwork and vaccine records.  She bounces her way over to me and I hand her the papers. “Anything we should know about Molly that is not in here.” she blurts out, catching me off guard.  From the tone of her voice I could tell she is expecting a “No.” and then off to the next person.

“You should know her Mom died when she was only 3 months old.” I said, watching her face make the same expression when I tell people the news; cheeks drop, eyes slightly close, and lips held in a forced half smile.  “Thank you for telling me. I am so sorry. Don’t worry, when Mother’s Day comes around, I will make sure we make a card for grandma or an aunt.” she says.

I have gotten better at this, and a few years ago I might have acted awkward which would make the situation more awkward.  But I place my hand gently on her arm, “Thank you so much for looking out for her, but I do want Molly to make a Mother’s Day card for Lisa.  She has a Mom, she’s just in heaven.”  The teacher’s forced smile relaxes into a natural one. “That’s good to know, I sometimes don’t know what the parent wants.

There is something about a death, where the instinct of others leans towards the “the person never existed” phenomenon.  I have a good friend who once brought up Lisa, and at the end of the conversation actually apologize to me for talking about her. “Don’t apologize.” I said “It’s not like you’re bringing up some night in Vegas where hookers were involved.  This is Lisa; she was my wife, I’m proud to talk about her.”

Trying to keep the name alive of the one we lost is a challenge.  But for today, at least I know Molly’s very first teacher will support my wishes of letting her know she does indeed have a Mom, we just can’t physically see her.  

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.