617 Days and Counting

I reached another widow milestone this week: on Thursday Dan had been dead for 617 days. The same number of days that I was blessed to have him in my life.  One year, eight months, two weeks and four days. That's all the time we had together.  

I'd been dreading this moment for months. For some reason, I even have a countdown app on my phone, so I could watch the days ticking down.  You know, just because I seem to enjoy torturing myself!  As the days ticked over; 612; 613; 614; the anxiety and dread intensified.  

I couldn't bear the thought of being his widow longer than I had known him.  I didn't want to be that far away from our last kiss.  We were only married for 45 days before he died, so the milestone of 'being his widow longer than I was his wife' passed very quickly, when I was still in deep shock.  So I had held this 617 day mark as a point in time, down the track, when surely life would be easier and the pain wouldn't be so bad.  I guess that probably is the case, but it's harder to see when you're in the midst of it.

As is common with these milestones, the actual day itself wasn't as bad as the lead up had been. I cried myself to sleep the night before, but woke up on Thursday feeling... well, normal.  To my surprise, it was just another day.  He was still dead.  It still royally sucked. But his love was still all around me.  

I got up, went to work, and managed not to do that weird thing where you blurt out to people that your husband is dead or that it's a difficult milestone day (especially one that someone not familiar with grief would never understand!). 

But, I missed him.  Oh, how I missed him.  Lately, I find myself thinking of him every moment of every day.  How much he would have laughed at something on tv; how he'd have enjoy a meal I'd cooked; the way he'd carry on, circling pictures of the Easter eggs he wanted in the shopping catalogues that he loved pouring through.  Every time he pops in to my mind I whisper quietly 'I miss you' and clench my hand, as if I was wrapping it around his.  Yep, I miss him a lot at the moment. 

And now I'm in the middle of the Easter long weekend with my family, who are awesome, and all I can think about is how much I wish he were here.  One moment I'm laughing at memories of him (like the year we spoilt each other with chocolate eggs and then, in a moment of weakness, decided we should give them all away and be committed to getting healthy for our pending wedding... before turning up at my sister's house the following day and admitting we'd made a mistake and wanted them all back!).  And the next moment I'm wiping away tears because such a big part of me is missing. 

He made every day fun and special. His laugh was infectious and his hugs were second to none. I miss my husband.  I will continue to miss him, regardless of how much time passes and how long I'm his widow. Because those 617 days we spent together changed my life and made my heart sing and I will always wish that we'd had the lifetime together that we'd planned.  Death sucks. 

My love for Sydney

A happy Sydney moment - our engagement party in 2012.

Today, I'm writing to you from Sydney, Australia, where I'm in town visiting my in-laws for an early Christmas celebration.  I'm one of those lucky widows who has wonderful, supportive parents-in-law. Our already healthy relationship only grew stronger after Dan died, as we found comfort, strength and support in each other.

Sydney has always held a special place in my heart.  I was born here and even though we moved to Queensland when I was only five-years-old, I've always loved visiting family and holidaying in this beautiful city.  When I met and fell in love with Dan, who had moved to Brisbane for work, I was very excited that I would have an excuse to spend so much more time here and was welcomed into his Sydney life by family and friends alike.

I have some beautiful memories of being here in Sydney with Dan, including cruising around the harbor on a ferry for his 33rd birthday; our engagement party in a beautiful old pub; Christmas Day and New Year's Eve in 2012.  He loved this city, it was part of him. I know it was a difficult sacrifice for him to settle down in Brisbane but I'm just lucky he loved me more and, in his words, his home was now in me.

Like most of Australia, I was going about my day on Monday morning when I heard the news bulletins about the gunman who had taken 17 hostages in a popular cafe in the middle of the city.  My first reaction was to run through mental check list of all our family in Sydney and work out if any might have been in the area that morning.  I had spoken to Dan's parents the night before and quickly worked out that they should have all been safe.

I then sat glued to my computer for the whole day and late in to the evening, flicking between the live stream of commentary from different news outlets as I tried to understand what was going on and how such a terrifying situation could have occurred.

When I finally switched off and went to bed, I laid quietly in the dark, with tears running down my face, while I thought about those families who wouldn't sleep that night, as they waited with heavy hearts for news of their loved ones inside the cafe.  My heart broke as I wondered what news I'd wake up to in the morning.  I felt so very scared, not only for those hostages but for our country.  How would this change us?

I know that many parts of the world live with this kind of fear constantly.  Terrorists and extremists kill innocent people every day. I am lucky to live in Australia where these feelings of fear are so alien and strange but this thought didn't make me feel any more ok - it only made me sadder.

I couldn't stop wishing Dan were here.  To hold me and make me feel safe. To talk to about what was going on and what this would mean for a city we both loved. Dan was the most open-minded and tolerant person I'd ever met. Not only did he not care about people's colour, culture or religious beliefs - he didn't even notice they were 'different' to his own. He was the personification of love and acceptance of fellow man - with the kindest of hearts and purest of intentions.  He was everything right with the world and everything I wanted for our future.

I tried to think of what he might say about this siege in Sydney and I knew his heart would be aching with pain and confusion too.  We would have probably clung to each other and cried together when we woke on Tuesday morning to hear that two innocent lives had been taken over night.

One thing that would have most definitely been different if Dan were here is that I wouldn't have been able to understand or relate to the grief of the families of the two victims who wouldn't be home for Christmas.  Because I wouldn't have been through my own traumatic life-altering loss.  I would have felt deep sorrow for them in a 'Oh gosh, I can't imagine what they must be going through right now' kind of way.  But, I wouldn't have really been able to empathise with any meaningful emotion.

Instead, I was able to very easily put myself in their shoes and recount some of the first-moment grief they would be feeling.  That numbness and physical sickening. The thoughts of how unfair it was that their wife or son were the ones to be killed.  How random that this murderer had walked into the same cafe where their loved one happened to be working or enjoying a morning coffee.  How quickly their lives had been torn apart without any chance to say goodbye. The strange, almost trivial things that pop in to your mind in those first moments of shock - 'what will we do with her Christmas presents'?  Or 'but he has an appointment with the doctor/hair-dresser/accountant next Tuesday that he's supposed to go to'?

As their hearts tore open, I held these families in my own battered heart and thought about the long painful road of grief that lay before them. And as my plane touched down in Sydney on Thursday night I hid my own silent tears behind my sunglasses.

When I walked out of the terminal to meet Dan's parents, I clung to them when they embraced me, taking in the feeling of their arms around me. I had been looking forward to that hug, that connection with another heart that shares your pain and beats with the same ache for the person you're missing.

I hope that the families of the two Sydney siege victims at least find some comfort in the arms of those who share their pain. Because there are hundreds of thousands of arms reaching out to them from all around the country today.

Friends vs. Family

A friend posted this on facebook.

- She/He has been changed to they/them -

I have heard the horror stories. Of widows feeling forgotten, left out, treated like their widow status is contagious, by friends and family.

It has never happened to me.

Until now.

I have a friend, that I have been friends with since before Seth got sick. They have always been there for me.

Recently I knew their birthday was coming up. I anxiously waited for word on the party.

See, this birthday party is always so fun. I have never missed it. Even after Seth’s death.

As I waited for the invitation to arrive, I didn’t realize the party had been planned, was happening on a certain night, and I was being left out.

I was shocked when I logged on to facebook and saw pictures from the party. Our mutual friends were there. I frantically looked to see if I missed an invitation. Facebook event, email, text, snail mail.. to discover, I didn't miss a invite.

I wasn't invited.

I was hurt. I felt forgotten. I felt like maybe me being a widow was too much for my friends to be around and try to grasp. Maybe they don’t want to ignore the elephant in the room anymore. Maybe they don’t want to catch my disease – widowhood.

I have kicked this hurt around in my head for a while now. Trying to understand.

Through my birthdays, Seth’s birthdays, the death anniversary, I have never forgotten to invite them.

I mean really, how do you forget a friend?

I once forgot to invite a friend to Seth’s yearly memorial. Another friend asked why this certain friend wasn’t invited. I quickly realized I didn't forget my friend, I just didn't include her in the invite. I quickly added her to the invite, and texted her and begged for forgiveness.

She of course forgave me, and came to the memorial.. Phew.

If I forget a friend, another friend will ask me what’s going on, and I will realize I didn't include one of the most important people in my life. I would never forget a friend on purpose.. and I will try to correct my mistake.

So it made me wonder, as they were celebrating, did none of our mutual friends say “Where is Melinda?”

Through trying to understand it all, I feel forgotten.

I have heard all the horror stories of widows going through similar things with their friends and family. Being at 30 months, I thought I was passed the point of when people would excuse themselves from my life.

I guess even 30 months in, people change their mind. They decide to not be a part of my life.

But this far out from my husband’s death?

I expected this in the early days. When I first entered widowhood and my in-laws turned on me. I expected it then.

Being this far out, and it is just barely happening, makes me feel alone.

Very alone.

Makes me realize that the world around me is forever changed. 

And is forever changing with each day.

Who I thought were my friends and family, is still changing.

Makes me realize that people don’t want to be around a 32 year old widow. After all, "this" won’t happen to them.. and you sure as shit don’t want to catch my very contagious disease. You don’t want me to cough, spread my germs to you, and have your spouse drop dead the next day.

One of the very few things I remember from Seth’s funeral is my dad hugging me, my mom, and my brother. 

In a big, bawling, group hug.

Through my dad’s own sobs, he said-

“We will get through this”.

“As a family”.

“We will get through this”.

My dad was so right. As a family we are getting through this. I realize that my friends are not just friends, they are my family. We are getting through it as a family.

I realize I am still learning about the new world around me.

And how nothing ever stays the same.

Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people in your life who want you
in theirs; the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would
do anything to see you smile, and who love you no matter what. - Unknown

The "Out-Laws"

At camp widow, I was sitting at the suicide round table, and the topic of in-laws came up.

An amazing widow, referred to her in-laws as the “out-laws”.

My adventure with the out-laws started about a year into Seth’s illness.

It was Christmas night. Seth had been battling his illness for a year, and I was desperate. I was grasping at anything I could to help my husband.

I sat his family down, and told them that one of these times, Seth was going to be successful on his suicide attempts, and I needed help. He needed help.

After that, his family pretty much disappeared from his life. His dad stepped up to the plate, and was amazing. He would call Seth daily, take him to do things (sometimes dragging him out of the house, literally)  and was just present in Seth's life.

His mom, step dad and siblings on the other hand, were gone.

The day before Seth took his life, he told me “ I've been trying to call my mom for a week, and she won’t call me back. Why won't my mom call me back??”

I could see the pain in his eyes. He was truly distraught over it. Which I don’t blame him. If my mom stopped returning my calls, I would be beside myself.

He was gone the next day.

My real adventure with the out-laws started as I stood next to my husband’s coffin.

As I stood next to my dead husband, his family blamed me for his suicide.

After 3 suicide attempts, and me begging them for help, they were standing there, blaming me.

I was astonished, to say the least.

I did everything in my power to keep Seth alive. Yet for them, it wasn't enough and I was to blame for his suicide. Which was fine, they could blame me. 

They weren't there every day, literally carrying him to his next breath. I knew, without a doubt, there was nothing else I could have done.

After the funeral was done and over with, I cut ties from his family. I didn't need the harassment and blame. I had a life to rebuild and get on with, I didn’t have the time or energy to try to make them see the bigger picture. The bigger picture was that Seth was gone before he actually died.

At the end of the day, it came down to Seth’s decision to live or die. If blaming me for his suicide helped them feel better, then so be it.

In March, I had my next run in with the out-laws.

Seth’s mom filed for Executor of Seth’s estate.

Due to the fact that if you murder someone, you cannot be the executor of your victim’s estate.

Yes, she blamed me for homicide.

In court filings.

I of coursed filed to be executor of Seth’s “estate”.

I was granted executor of his estate hours later.

The thing is, Seth didn't have an “estate”.

Everything he had, we acquired together.

It was the most outrageous thing I have ever been through.

The sad thing is, I was already investigated for homicide the day the police found Seth’s body. It was  ruled suicide within a couple of hours. The location Seth was found at is very hard to get to (I couldn't drag a 230lbs man against his will there). The police found only his foot prints, which is how they came up with no one else was involved.

His mom has never asked me for the police reports, autopsy or toxicology.

She thinks her son died on July 26^th.

He died on July 27th.

She doesn't even know what date her own son died on.

She doesn't even know what the autopsy says.

I find it sad that his mom is so busy placing blame, that she doesn't even know the details surrounding her sons death.

The reason for posting my story?

Have a will. So there is never any question as to who owns what.

You might think your family would never do this to your spouse.

You might think your in-laws are your family.

But boy, does death bring out the worst in people.

I never would have thought Seth’s family would put me through everything they have.

I would have never thought they would become “the out-laws”.

And if you find yourself blaming someone for a loved one’s suicide (Including blaming yourself), stop it.

Seriously, stop it.

By placing blame on someone else, you are robbing yourself of the grieving you need to do to move forward.

If you are so focused on placing blame, you can’t focus on anything else including grieving.

If you find yourself in a battle with the “out-laws”, take a good look at your own health and well-being.

There is no law that states you have to include your in-laws in your widow journey.

In fact, your spouse wouldn't want you to put up with being treated poorly.

I know without a doubt, if Seth was alive, he would have disowned his family for how they have treated me.

The sad part about it all, is Seth's family doesn't realize they lost the last piece of Seth they had.

The last piece of Seth they had left was me.

Vengeance is a lazy form of grief. ~ Silvia Broome

A Mom by any other name...

When Steve and I answered questions about our story, our family, and our relationship last month, we got a lot of questions about what the kids call us. We were both in agreement that we both eventually wanted to be Mom & Dad, but we would let the kids call us that on their own terms and in their own timing.

I remember when Steve and I were dating, our oldest asking him what she would call me if we got married. He, of course, told her that she could call me whatever she felt comfortable calling me. Then she asked if she could call me Mom. When Steve called me up to tell me that, it brought us both to tears.

Then when Steve proposed to me and orchestrated his amazing plan of having everyone important in my life be present, the girls really wanted to be a part of it and were unable. But, they asked if they could write me letters for the day since they couldn't be there. I collected letters from everyone that day, including theirs, but in the chaos of the day didn't get a chance to read them all until later that evening. We opened a letter written by our second oldest that very simply was addressed to "Mommy" - a beautiful, simple, 8-year-old expression of unconditional love. Steve and I sobbed together for a good 10 minutes over the implications of our sweet little girl and how she innocently and unknowingly filled our hearts and brought our family together in such a unique way.

Well, I really thought it would take the girls awhile to adjust to actually calling me Mom. And I was ok with that. But it didn't take long at all, maybe a few weeks, before they started sneaking it in here and there. Every time it made my heart leap.

We had only been home as a family for a few weeks to finally get adjusted to a schedule that they ended up spending some of their summer time visitation with their biological mom. I thought for sure that the time away might make them take a step back in their comfort level with calling me Mom. I was ok with that too.

But something shocking happened. No sooner had they hopped in the car after intense hugs and kisses from being gone for 2 weeks that they were calling me Mom. Only this time, it wasn't sporadic - not like before when they were testing it out to see how comfortable they felt with it or how I would respond to it (I always tried to be cool about and not make a big scene about it, even though my heart always did a little touchdown dance) - this time it stuck. And it was beautiful music to my ears.

Steve and I exchanged knowing glances. And giant smiles.

There's something about hearing your child say "mama" for the very first time that could just make your heart burst. I used to always tell Faith and Caleb not to call me Mom, that it was strictly "Mama" or "Mommy" while they were little - they weren't old enough to call me Mom yet! I wanted to hold on to those days knowing I wouldn't get to carry that title for long.

I had no idea how meaningful or sweet it would be to hear the word "Mom" apply to me. Maybe not from the children I carried in my womb, but these beautiful girls that I carry in my heart, that God has entrusted me to love and care for. These two children who were so desperately searching for that connection and bond that they were missing, and feel their walls come down, feel their trust in me, and know that something very special was happening. Hearing them call me Mom means so much more. There's so much healing and hope in that word. It's the beauty that only a blended family could produce.

Come to think of it, I absolutely adore the title.

Earthquakes and Aftershocks

           

           I stand helpless as the first thing I see fall is the painting that hung over the mantel.  The sound of the windows rattling grows and the ground beneath my feet tries harder and harder to make me fall down.  One by one, knick knacks start to tip over and roll off shelves, falling to the ground and smashing into pieces – too much damage for even Humpty Dumpty’s men to put back together again.  I resist my gut instinct to try and catch the falling pieces, I don’t know which part of this room will start falling apart next, and I could get hurt if I don’t keep my eyes open.  Better wait until the shaking stops.

            The small table with a lamp on it is shaking, and it’s even money whether the table tips, taking the lamp (a lamp I’ve carried around with me since I was a kid and all of the good memories I associate with it), to the ground, joining the other broken knick knacks.  As I watch the bottom of the lamp start to weave back and forth like a top, the shaking stops.  However, some objects still love finishing the course of momentum, and then they too become still. “It’s over.”  I say to myself and look around the room.  There will be plenty of clean up.  This will be longer than a weekend project, and it is abundantly clear that even after the cleaning is over, this room will never look the same.

            I’ve worked on rebuilding the room for quite some time now, and although not thrilled at the parts of my room that I’ve lost, I am starting to accept my new normal of this layout.  I even moved the lamp to a bigger table that sits right below a shelf of my favorite books.  It’s different, but I’m dealing with different.  I sit in my chair and try to acclimate myself to all of the changes.  That’s when an aftershock comes and shakes the room.  It’s a small aftershock, lasts for only a few seconds, and not strong enough to rattle the windows or shake my lamp - which my eyes go to immediately. But what I didn’t realize is; during the first earthquake, the shaking of the room loosened my book shelf so much, almost all the brackets came out of the wall.  It was only being held by one small screw.  The aftershock loosened that screw, and the shelf, with all of the books on it, comes crashing down on my lamp, destroying it into pieces.

            Last week my wife’s step-father passed away.  He fought a really good fight.  Back in 1992, he was involved in a bad car accident.  Doctors thought he wouldn’t make it. He recovered, moved out to Arizona, and even though he had an array of health issues, lead an active life and lived for what ended up being another 30 years.

            If he had died before Lisa, I probably would have been less sympathetic. “Well, he should have never survived anyway, so good for him.”  But I’ve already had an earthquake, and he was an aftershock.

            When I heard the news of his passing, the first thing I did was equate him to Lisa’s death.  Experiencing an aftershock always brings me back to thoughts of the earthquake.  So after beating myself up that Lisa is gone and reliving all the “ should’ve, would’ve, could’ves”, I  put into perspective what his death means to others.  I think of his new wife, who has been care giving for many years.  How will she deal with her new life’s routine?  I think about his 102 year-old mother who is still alive – yes, still alive -and living in his house.  She will not handle it well, but her lack of memory will cure some of that pain.  Then of course, I think of Lisa’s sister, Andrea.

            She had quite a year in 2008.  She lost her mother in April and then lost her sister in July.  I’m sure there are people who heard the news of the death of Andrea’s father  and thought, “Sad, but at least he was older and lived longer than he should have.”  I myself would have probably been one of those people, if I hadn’t lost my Lisa.  But now I know that even though this is an aftershock for her, she is sitting in her room looking at more pieces that have fallen and is faced, once again, with looking to redesign another new normal.

MIP

from here

I drove home from the apartment yesterday having spent the day waiting for the new furniture to be delivered and coming to terms with the fact that there was suddenly an offer on my house and I accepted. The loss I've suffered suddenly felt brand new again.

On the ride home, I was on maybe the fourth hour of steady crying and trying to breathe with a chest turned tight and claustrophobic with fear. I remember coming to a rolling stop somewhere south of Longview and looking over at the traffic speeding easily by in the other direction. Only a small strip of grassy median separated me from that traffic and the thought crossed my mind that ending this kind of pain would require a quick left turn, a bump or two over the median and to launch the car into the oncoming traffic.* There was even a big semi coming. The thought did not recur and did not last long (and hasn't recurred since, I swear). Maybe a few seconds. But it was there. And it scared me. I knew at that moment that it was time to be honest about how much help I needed. I began to send out requests for help.

I continued to cry and a recurring thought I battled the rest of the way home was "I am no one's most important person". I am no living person's mommy, kid or wife or daughter.

I thought for the millionth time about chosen family then. About how maybe I don't have a living mom, dad, or husband, but I do have sisters and brothers. Maybe not siblings by blood, but I have them. And though they have Most Important People (their kids, spouses, parents) who am I to say where I rank on their list of MIP's?

I thought of the actual blood family I haven't had the chance to become close with over the years but who love me still. From afar. Without reservation. I am someone's cousin, someone's "auntie", someone's niece. 

I thought of how even when Dave was alive, there were other people on the planet I loved almost as fiercely. I couldn't really rank them with Dave. There's no ranking when it comes to love.

The next day, today, has been hard too. But I sat down in the midst of my darkest feelings and thoughts and wrote up a help request to my closest friends. I wrote them a list of tasks that I have to complete before the house closes and asked them to let me know which ones they could help with. All the while, I was battling the fear that my needs are so numerous right now that they will overtax my loved ones' energy and get in the way of their needs. But then a sister reminded me of the way that they can each pick and choose from the list I'd made to suit their needs and that asking for help was so important.

And the help came flooding in. Along with the help came relief and a glimmer of hope, a reminder that although I am no one's mom or daughter or wife, I am loved and cared for. And I'm not alone.

Then, I cried some more but the tears and sobs came from a place of utter gratitude and relief.

 * I urgently wished to be with Dave again and for my old life to come back. I urgently wished for a little break from the seemingly unbearable pain I feel when the grief monster strikes. I think this is very different from actual suicidal thinking. Suicidal thinking is believing that dying is the only way to solve your problems or end your pain. My beliefs about life after death aren't even enough to convince me I'd be with Dave if I died, anyway, so dying isn't something I think will solve my problems and I would NEVER put my loved ones through such an ordeal. Especially, now, knowing exactly what it feels like to be left behind by your MIP. In addition, losing Dave has made me ultra aware of the gift of life. I get to live and experience things and Dave doesn't. I will not waste that gift. Dave would KILL me if he knew I did (ha ha). I just needed to be honest about the depths of the pain I experienced so that others can feel connected to my experience. If I'm not honest, I don't honor how hard this is or how real this is. Forgive me in advance for making anyone worry about me more than they already do. I wouldn't have mentioned it if I didn't think it was important to.