Fighting the Old Fight ......

...... of feeling like a failure.

I have struggled with this battle off and on during the past 5 years.
In the beginning it was a constant feeling.
I was in such shock, depression and deep, deep grief ...... that I could barely function during that first year.
The second year started off with a diagnosis of cancer in January and major surgery in February.  The depression only worsened during that second year, as I spent most of it recovering from that surgery and the pain it left behind.

Add that to the horrendous grief ...... and everything else I kept getting thrown my way ...... and I still didn't function very well.
I felt like I had failed everyone, but most of all, my children.
I still had 3 teenage sons living with me and they were grieving the loss of their father.

Now even on a good day, with no grief to deal with, teenage boys are not known for their eloquent communication skills.
Throw in the death of their father and you can imagine how much less they communicate ...... even with constant encouragement.

There were many days when it felt like I was the only person in my home who was grieving Jim.  And I hated that.
I also hated crying so much and so often during that first year.  I felt badly for the boys, having to see me like that most of the time.
I knew early on, as did they, that they lost both parents that horrible night in December.
But there was nothing I could do to change things.

I tried taking two of them to counselors, but boys will not communicate if they don't want to communicate (nor will anyone).  The good thing that came out of that was that I continued to see the first counselor after she decided it was useless to continue to see him.
So she helped me learn how to deal with him, and how to deal with living through my grief.

There was a time when I felt horrible for how hard I had grieved, and how much I had not done for my children.  I apologized to each of them, more than once, for that.  I also told them that if I had it all to do over again ...... I would most likely do it exactly the same.
I lost my best friend, my husband, my lover, my protector, my confidante, my partner, the father of my children, the first and only man I'd ever loved and the love of my life.  We loved each other "hard".  And very, very much. And we liked each other a lot.  Not every couple can say that.  Heck, I don't think even 50% of couples can say that.
Unfortunately.  That alone depresses me and makes me sad for them.

We were just approaching the time in life when we could do more things with each other ...... and plan trips we wanted to take after the kids were "out".  The future looked wonderful.
And then there was no future.
At all.

But sometime last year I stopped feeling guilty.  I stopped feeling like a failure.  I refused to let myself go there because I knew that I had not failed and that I was not guilty of anything ...... except loving Jim with all of my heart.  And showing our 6 children what it takes to have a great marriage.  Not a perfect one, by far, but still ...... a great one.

So I stopped apologizing and told them, again, I had done the best I could with what I had.  And just the fact that I'm not dead right now is proof of that.
The seven of us have survived ...... in spite of how each of us grieved.  Or maybe because of it.
I'm not a failure.  Even if a so called "friend" told me that I was.
Fortunately by the time I heard those words I knew better.  And didn't own them, but completely rejected them.  And her.

But this past week I felt Guilt trying to rear its ugly head again.
I was involved in a study that talked about how hugely important "the family meal" is.  And how fast the practice of families gathering at the same table for meals is being lost.
And how that correlates with the rise in problems our young people are having.  Fewer and fewer families spend time together at the dinner table ...... or anywhere.

I thought about how firmly Jim and I believed in the family eating together.  He wasn't always able to make it home in time for dinner, due to the demands of his job, but he always made it home every Wednesday night in time.  Everyone who worked with him knew that.  They knew they couldn't schedule meetings late on Wednesdays, or he'd be absent.
He made it home for other nights, too, but Wednesday was set in stone.

And then he died.
And the family dinners have been few and far between.  Granted, it's mostly been just 2 of us here.  And one of us is in school full time, has a part time job after school and on the weekends, and also has a decent social life.
In case you're wondering ...... that would not be me.

So I went to this Son last week and sat next to him to ask him a question.
"You remember the family meals we had when Dad was alive, right?"  Of course he did.  Why did I ask?
"I just wanted to make sure you remembered.  And that you remembered how important it was ...... and that you'll remember how important it is when you have a family."
These last two sentences were said with tears running down my face.  I'm sure he thought I was losing it ...... yet again.
He assured me that he not only remembered, but did indeed plan to make sure his family ate together.
Which made me feel much, much better.

So even though guilt and failure tried to worm their way back into my head ...... I kept the door firmly shut.  And then locked it.

I did the very best I could.  It may not have been much, but it was all I had.
I had no handbook.
I had no warning.
I had no clue.

And I have no guilt.
If you do, please try to let it go.  Don't take ownership of that horrible feeling.  You don't deserve it.
You're doing the best you can ...... with what you have ...... and who you lost.
Keep breathing.

Like a Hurricane

It’s been 812 days since I last kissed my angel. After she was diagnosed, we were lucky to live life large for 850 days. Like so many other difficult things (dealing with chemo treatments, watching her deteriorate over time, holding her that day, her death, living without her), it is so hard to get my head around how much time has passed; it’s been nearly as many days as I’ve coped with It happening as days we coped with It coming, denial and all.

The start of this journey, just before January 5, 2007 (the day she was diagnosed) can be compared to the intro of a Michael Bay action movie with a slow-motion, stop-action film capture of an explosion:

Frame 1 (very early December 2006): A little flash.

Frame 2 (early December): Hmmm... That little flash is getting bigger.

Frame 3 (mid December): That’s no spark. It’s a FIRE!

Frame 4 (late December): Oh my gosh! Something is very wrong!

Frame 5 (very late December): WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON??

Frame 6 (January 5, 2007): OH MY GOD!

The next weeks were absolute misery. But after the shock and after the surgery and after the first chemo treatment (which thankfully started working immediately), things started to get better. She was stronger. She wasn’t in the hospital. She wasn’t dead. We were still together. I won’t call it nirvana but I’ll sure call it a time that we were both very, very happy to be together. Maybe it was borrowed time. But nonetheless, things got a lot better compared to the first few opening frames of the movie. And that was how it all started: with a bang that just about knocked us down and broke us. Then we began rebuilding.

Little did we know that we didn’t just survive some big explosion. No. What we really had done is survive one wall of the hurricane. And for a good long while, we lived, love and played innocently inside the eye of that hurricane. The weather there was nice and the company was wonderful. I wish we could have stayed there forever. Then the other wall of that hurricane hit us and hit us hard. It was relentless until…. Well, you know how that ended.

The day It happened I was numb and tired and had nothing to give other than just give up. The waves of the hurricane had bashed me about and beaten me into passivity. I didn’t care whether I lived or died. I was numb. Even physical pain didn’t hurt any more. I just didn’t care. What could life possibly throw at me that even compared to the pain that I was feeling? I wished I could sink into the ocean and just dissolve.

Somehow unnoticed, time passed. Months, even. When I came to, I found myself lying on some floating debris, one arm holding on while my body dangled into the still thrashing ocean. I was tired, dazed, angry, sad, and still didn’t care if I lived or died. At best I was conscious only part of the time. Days and nights smeared together while wave after wave of salty, cold water stung my eyes, choked me and threatened to dislodge me from my float. I didn't fight. Why should I? My love was gone. What reason was there to live?

More time passed. Months, even. Eventually I found myself floating near a beach, neck deep in water and feet dragging on the bottom. I was sore, covered in deep wounds, emaciated, and confused. Waves still pushed and pulled me up and down, forward and back while I choked on the briny water. My body was numb but my eyes were clearer now; I could see what looked like a shore. Despite being tossed about, I put one foot down flat against the sand and pushed. I took my first step. Then I fell.

But my first step turned into my second. And my second into my third. Every other step was a trip or a slip back into the cold water. Coral sliced my feet. Waves choked my breathing and stung my eyes. But I kept putting my feet down, one after another, and pushing, while still holding onto that debris to keep me afloat. As I stepped, the water became not neck deep but chest deep. The coral still sliced my feet almost every step. And the shore slowly inched closer. But I still fell often. I was exhausted.

Today, 812 days after It happened, I’m lying on a sand bar alone covered in bruises with bleeding feet looking out at the horizon and the waves wondering what the hell just happened. I remember it all but it seems like a dream. I’m thirsty and hungry. I hurt so much but nothing’s broken. I’m scared and confused. I still don’t care if I live or die. I have no idea where I’m at or how the hell I’m going to get back to… back where? Back to where? Where is home now? For the last 812 days, my life has been the ocean, the waves, the sand and that very, very special piece of debris I clanged to which saved my life. Where is home now? Even if I knew where and even if I made it there, she wouldn’t be there. So I sit here on this sand bar, alone, wondering, what do I do now.