My Parallel Universe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to basics

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It still shocks me how totally ignorant I was about the grieving process before having to go through it myself. I've been at this for ten months, as of today, and I still don't really understand it. All I know is one minute I can be laughing at a joke; or smiling at strangers as I walk down the street; or excitedly making plans for a holiday; or wrestling and giggling with my nephews ... and the next minute I can hardly breathe from the pain of missing him.

I honestly can't remember the last day I didn't cry. Sometimes it's only for two minutes, other days it takes two hours before I can pull myself together.  I’m having a lot of those days again lately, which is so exhausting.

I also realized this week I’ve been pretending to be doing better than I actually am, even with really close friends, because I'm aware that if I let show how much I'm constantly hurting, people may grow weary of hearing about it.  I mean, I'm so bored of my grief, of course I expect everyone else is too.  Friends reassure me that they’re not, and I should continue to share and seek support.  And I do, particularly on the really tough days.  But on some level, every day is a difficult day and despite their best intentions, I know that if I constantly moaned to my friends about how sad I am and how much I miss my husband, the running commentary would drive them crazy. 

Last weekend I helped pull off of a surprise 35^th birthday party for one of my closest friends and also co-hosted another dear friend’s baby shower.  Both took a huge emotional toll on me. The surprise party was full of couples who, for some reason, kept bloody talking about their engagements and weddings (which lead to me having a private breakdown in the kitchen mid-party), while the baby shower was, not-surprisingly, also very confronting.

By the end of the weekend the emotional hang-over was in full swing and I have struggled to get back on top all week.  Even though I chose to be there, to support people who have been so supportive of me, I think I pushed myself a bit too hard.  I’m finding it so difficult to strike that healthy balance between self-care and continuing to participate with life.

My friends tell me to be open with my emotions and never to feel like I have to be brave in front of them, but can you imagine if I spent both events ‘sharing’ how much I was struggling?  What a party-pooper!  Sometimes I’m just forced to keep the ‘I’m ok’ face on because, as wonderful as my friends are, there are moments where I need to protect them from the pain I’m feeling.  

At ten months I think people may have started to expect me to be doing ‘ok’ more days that not.  Even worse, I’m putting that expectation onto myself, then taking it really badly when I ‘fail’.  I know it hurts them to see me in pain and they miss the ‘old Bec’ but I also know they understand and accept my grief and would do anything to try and help me get through this.  No one is putting pressure on me – I’m putting pressure on myself, but I have to accept there are always going to be moments where I’m just going to have to put that brave face back on. 

So this week I’m going back to basics.  I’m reminded myself that this pain will never fully go away, I'll just get better at carrying it. I need to tune in to my instincts more and identify when I need to rest and when I can push out of my comfort zone.  And I’m going to stop putting so much pressure on myself to understand my grief and conquer it.  After all, how can I expect people around me not to question why I'm not 'coping better' yet if I can't let go of that expectation myself.

  

Routine

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Ian used to call me Sheldon, as in Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.

In order to keep up with the housework and household management, I followed a routine through a website.  And it worked pretty well for me for years and years.  To the point I'd get antsy if it wasn't followed.  Heck, I got antsy if he mopped the house from the back door to the front door.  That wasn't the right way!!  It's front to back!!

And Ian teased me about my 'Sheldon-ness' all the time.

But since he died, the old routine I just can't do. It got me through his illness and the first couple of months of autopilot, but no further.

Some of the long standing practices have stuck, like doing a weekly budget and menu plan. Money is now tighter, and I have to watch it carefully, and these two practices help with that.

But the housework side of things... nope.  The routine is gone, and although the mess and dirt honestly drives me nuts, it's not enough to get me off my butt regularly and actually do something about it.  It was easier in the early days when friends dropped by with limited notice - I'd need to do a spruce up.  Particularly since one friend actually verbalised his expectation that the floor be clean.

But their jobs change, the kid's activity lists grow, they move, DIY tasks around their home need doing, their lives happen, so the visits drop off.

And so the housework drops off. 

I've tried a few times, but I just can't get back into the old routine.   I think partially I just haven't cared enough to be consistent and/or disciplined about it; partially because I didn't want to be living here  (I wanted to move since before I even met Ian, and we had plans, but lately I've come to accept I'll be here for a while longer).

But mostly because that's part of my before, a part that we shared good humour about. 

However since I've accepted that I'm staying put for a while, I need to do something before the place goes to rack and ruin.

A few weeks ago I came across a different routine to try.  And this last week I've started to use it.  Haphazardly, but I'm working on it.  I'm hoping that the simple fact it's not what I used before will allow me to actually get a new routine embedded. 

Because I know, before or after, I'm better with routine.

I survived....

... Christmas, that is.

I won't lie to you, the week before Christmas, I was not feeling great.  The weight of another Christmas without Greg weighed heavily on my mind. 
I missed him.
I know I miss him every day, but last week I really missed him.

I missed sitting on the couch and snuggling, watching the lights on the tree flicker. 
I missed talking to him about everything. 
I missed his strong arms.
I missed his safe embrace.
I missed seeing the kids play with him.
I even missed seeing him stuck under a piece of machinery, tinkering away for hours on end.

I was sad.
Really sad.
Should-have-been-medicated sad.

But then on Sunday, I received an e-mail from my friend that made me feel less alone.

On Monday, we went to stay the night with one of my oldest friends and her family.  She is the friend that introduced Greg and I, 20 years ago.  Greg was best man at their wedding.  We drove to their resort-like house on the hill on the other side of the city and we swam in their pool and drank champagne while all of the children played.  I walked through the bushland at their house and smelt the eucalyptus. We laughed and cried and it felt so wonderful to be there.

On Tuesday, I got a phone call from my friend who lives too far away from me.  I haven't known him long, but it feels like we've known each other far longer.  He is a widower with a school-aged child: we understand each other. Talking to him put me on a high for the rest of the day ..... to the point that when I took the children to church for the Christmas Eve service, I actually sang every carol.  I sang the harmonies and the descants.  I sang for the love of singing, if not from the love of the song itself.  This is HUGE. This is the first time I have sung inside a church for the past 3 years and 9 months and 24 days.....

Christmas Day itself was so much better than I could have imagined last week.  Of course I missed Greg like crazy, but for the first time since he died, I felt some of that old Christmas joy float in on the breeze.  My children showered me with love and my darling parents came bearing food and gifts.
It was hot here (Australian Christmases usually are), but we feasted on cold meats and salads, enjoyed Mum's plum pudding and ended the day with a swim ....
.....and if you know me, you know that swimming is my path to instant happiness.  I don't want to sound trite, but some of the most peaceful and surreal experiences I have ever had have been when I was floating on my back, staring up at the sky, remembering how much he loved me.

....and so I find myself on Boxing Day feeling the best I have since Greg died.
Last week, I couldn't envision any way that I would feel this calm, peaceful and even happy.

Again, love has saved the day. 

Love never dies.

Widowed Friends ......

...... are some of the most amazing friends I've ever had.
Hands down.

And I've had some pretty amazing friends.
For years.
In my "before".
And in my "after".

I'm not saying that widowed people are better friends.
I've had some non-widowed friends that would be pretty hard to beat.
Not that I'm comparing.
Because I'm not.

There's no comparing people ...... which I think is for the best.

It's just that most widowed people that I've met, and friended, are so ...... easy.

No, not "easy" in THAT way!  Sheesh.
I know exactly where some of your minds went.
Shame on you.
:)

They're "easy" ...... as in ...... easy to talk to, easy to be around, easy to joke with (especially with that very dark "widowed humor"), easy to laugh with, easy to sit with and say nothing, easy to express my grief to, easy to cry with, easy to vent with, super-easy to hug and ...... easy to love.

I feel so very blessed to count many of you as my friends.
Even if we haven't met I.R.L.*

Some people (almost always non-widowed) find that difficult to understand.
But you don't.

And I love that about you.

I love a lot about you.
And I treasure every friend I've made ...... in my "after".

But you know what I love most about you?
The one thing that tops all of the other dozens of reasons to love you?

It's that you know, in spite of how much I love you (and it's a lot) ...... and totally understand ......

...... that I'd give you all up in a heartbeat, if that would bring Jim back.

But since we all know that's not going to happen ......
I'm so very glad that we're friends.

And I can't wait to see you New York people this weekend!
:)





*In real life

It Wasn't Just My Life ......

                                                                     Source

(This is a post that I've been reflecting on for a while now.  It's not in response to any post or any comment that's ever been written here.  It's just my thoughts.  Honestly.)

...... and the lives of my children that changed when Jim died.
His death affected more than our families and closest friends.

It affected everyone who knew him ...... everyone who knew me ...... and everyone who knew us.

It's difficult, if not impossible, to see that when you're in the midst of the deepest, darkest days of grief.
It's difficult to see that when you're just trying to make it through each minute of each hour of every day.

But at some point, when you finally feel like you can breathe without sobbing, you're able to look around ...... and see how much of an impact the death of your loved one made.

Jim was the first person in our wide circle of friends and co-workers to die.  Some of our friends had lost a parent during those last few years ...... that's the stage of life which we were approaching in our mid-40's.
That was a fact that we hated, but to which we were slowly growing accustomed.
People expect to one day lose their parents.

No one expects a friend/co-worker to die suddenly, un-expectedly, shockingly ...... in their 40's.
No one expects their life to suddenly change overnight.
No one expects that last "care-free" weekend ...... to really be the last one like that ...... for a very, very long time.

Our friends will never be the same.
I find it difficult to put into words, but it's like our "innocence" was lost that Monday night/Tuesday morning.
For many of us, it was the first time we really lived the phrase, "when bad things happen to good people" (which is also the title of a very good book).
Our worlds, not just mine ...... not just my children's ...... were turned upside down, torn asunder.  Changed forever.

I would guess that my friends held their husbands tighter that night, while feeling guilty that they could.
I would guess that each of them felt some sort of shift in their relationship ...... in their home.
And I would guess that no one had a guide book about dealing with the sudden loss of a friend.
We were all living one breath at a time.
For a while.

Why am I writing this?
Why am I posting this here?
I guess, in a way, I'm acknowledging my friends ...... and the change they each felt in their own life.
And ...... I'm reminding all of us on this path ...... that not only are we not alone here ...... but that we're not alone in having our lives changed with our loss.

No, our friends, co-workers and relatives may not always "get it" ...... but I don't think we always get their grief either.
Or at least I didn't.

And no, there's no comparison of losing my husband with losing a friend.
But someone was still lost.

And it wasn't just me who lost him.

Another Anniversary

Last year on February 4, on a cool gray morning, I was moving from my big, beloved house in the country into a small apartment in the middle of Portland. I had left my house and almost all it contained, packed up my cats, clothes and a few belongings and let go.

I let go of a life I thought I wouldn't survive without.
 
When I think of those days just before leaving, I remember things in flashes. Everything felt raw and harsh, yet hazy with shock and grief. That strange detached sense of being submerged in the depths. I can see these flashes of memory, but they seem like they happened to someone else.

The last few heart breaking minutes I spent in my old house. My sweet friend tearfully and gently  telling me that it was time to leave as I sobbed and fought with reality. Closing the door behind me and feeling completely numb and empty. The cats yowling for the entire 90 minute drive as I shifted between crying and feeling numb again, wondering if yowling like them would release a little of the pain that was choking me.

But I wasn't alone and that saved me.

There were many people who loved me so much that they managed to make these days less terrible and lonely. They helped me take care of details I simply couldn't bring myself to. They unpacked for me, stayed with me that first night in the new apartment, they brought me food and took good care of me. They even went through some of Dave's things for me because I had reached a point where the pain was overwhelming and all I could manage were the basics. Eat, try to sleep, and cry.

I took notes about the entire process, I tried to stay present. I made the requisite phone calls, but I was barely hanging on. Since then, though, I have felt stronger and stronger even though it didn't seem like it most days. I've made a life for myself here and found ways to settle in. I've fallen in love with this city and gradually grown to love myself and even appreciate the potential of my new path too.

But on this anniversary, I can't stop thinking about the love of those friends. They each took away some of the darkness and fear and pain in their own wonderful way. Next to the days right after Dave died, it was the hardest days of my life. The most draining and scary. But there they were, offering their love and kindness. I grabbed onto their support like a drowning person and felt the gratitude flood through me.

I sit here in the living room of my cozy new home in the new city I already miss the second I leave it and I realize how far I've come. I had to let go to know what I was capable of. I had to loosen my grip on what I thought was my life's plan and find out what the actual plan was. I had to participate in that plan by being open and following the paths that presented themselves to me. I had to go out and FIND some of those paths. I had to enlist the help of so many. I had to learn to lean on others and accept help. I had to trust myself. None of it was easy, but that's what makes it so precious to me now. It was hard-won.

All that hard work came from the fuel of those first few days I thought I wouldn't survive. Once I saw that I did survive, I could move forward. Before I was able to see the possibility of a better time ahead of me, I had those incredible people who cared about me, holding me up when I could barely stand on my own.

Dave's parents have told me a few times that some of his last words to them were "Make sure Cassie's OK". I don't think he had to worry. I made it on my own but I made it surrounded the entire time by the energy of those who love me, including him.

I am so grateful to have found this feeling of peace and joy again. There was a long period of time when I thought I'd never feel it again. I'm able to see now, how strong I really was, even when I felt completely broken. I was so low and scared in those days that I couldn't rely on my own hope. I had to borrow it from those who had faith in me.

I know that the universe doesn't deal me a better hand now just because I've been through hell, but there's just as much chance that the future holds amazing things, too. I know sad times will come again and little things will set me back. I know big bad things can and will happen. I know I have an incredibly long way to go, but now that I've crested the hill of the one year mark since that pivotal move,  I can look behind me, at the distance I've come and marvel. I guess I really am strong. There is no denying that now. And so is the love that helped me get here.

relationships with risk

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My morning runs always seem to be my time where I figure out life's puzzles (or find more life questions to ask). There's something about that me time when I can reflect, pray, organize my thoughts, and focus on myself that is very centering.

This morning I felt a little disappointed about the relationships in my life. With life changing so much in the last 6 months or so, I've noticed a lot of people stepping back. And I get it, I really do. My life stays so busy now with a house of seven. But I have not stopped needing any of those relationships in my life, or craving them. I know that since my life no longer qualifies as "tragic" and people assume I'm all "better" they've stopped calling, writing, commenting, coming around, or even talking about Jeremy. This breaks my heart, and makes grief harder. There are still those few people who are very dear to me who have been there for me when I need them, but overall I've noticed a change. 

The change is not only grief related. For whatever reason, I've had multiple friendships throughout my life that have dissipated due to elements out of my control or for reasons I didn't even know about. It's one of the hardest transitions to go through in relationships; feeling like you would do anything you can to fix/change/maintain the relationship, and it moves on without you. 

No matter how much I tried to distract myself with other things this morning during my run, my brain kept going back to that hurt and I kept wondering 'why do I bother letting people in so close if I always end up getting so hurt by it?' People I let close either die or leave. This was a hard reality to choke down today.

But the truth I discovered this morning was that I keep seeking out and aching for those relationships because they're life-changing. Those relationships, whether short-term or long-term, have made me who I am and have taught me so much along the way. Sure, there's risk involved - that's true of any relationship. But the risk is worth it. It's worth the risk to have a friend who can share life's burdens with you so you don't have to carry them yourself. It's worth the risk to have a relationship with someone who knows you're crazy and loves you anyway. 

I could safe-guard my heart and stay away from getting too close to people who could really hurt me. But then, how safe would that actually be when I am missing out on one of the biggest blessings in life? How safe would it actually be for me when I end up carrying all my baggage alone? A girl could get seriously hurt doing that. 

So, I'll stand by, waiting for transition to take its course and trying to remember that the risk is worth it. I will also continue to pray that I can embrace and invest in those special people in my life now and be a worthy risk for someone else.

The Conversation Starter

A follow up to a blog I wrote a few weeks ago.  The people who lived down the street from us who lost their teenage son to a heart attack while he was away camping.  I would see her almost every day walking her dog past our house and once even bumped into her and froze and asked about her puppy.  My blog lamented how of all people, I was worried about bringing up his death. Mister “people are afraid to talk about my wife” was afraid to talk to them about their son.

Last week I was playing outside with the girls and the couple were walking the dog and of course the girls ran over to pet it.  I went over trying to come up with that perfect death icebreaker (“What a beautiful dog, I see it’s a smaller dog. Did you know those live longer?  Speaking of life and death, I’m sorry to hear about your son”).  I joke, but it is true, trying to find that lead in sentence to bring up a topic where you’re not sure how the other person will react, kills many conversations. 

So having the luxury of already making up my mind from the last time I saw her (she was alone last time), that no matter what, the next time I see this family, I was going to bring up the death of her son.

I approach them and offered a smile. I was confident enough to avoid the small talk, no sense of bringing up the Cubs losing streak when I know the topic of death is going to make an appearance in this conversation.

“Hey guys. I don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Matt.”

“Hi Matt. I’m Joan and this is Dave.”

“So how are you dealing with what the year has given you?”

Not the best opening line, but to my credit, I didn’t over think of what I was going to say. 

“We have our good days and bad days.” She responds.

“I wish I had some great pearls of wisdom that would make things easier for you, but I don’t.  It’s a rough deal, a game changer, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.” I said.

They began to ask me questions and I was trying to pay attention to their body language and get a sense of when they were becoming uncomfortable and wanted to end the conversation.  They didn’t want to leave.  Even when the dog was getting restless and was pulling away from them, that would’ve been the perfect excuse to leave, but instead keep tugging the leash and telling him to hold on.

At the end of the conversation, that father – who had silent for most of the time – said, “Well, it’s nice to see someone who has gone through this and is able to talk about it.”

After they left, I knew I was glad that I brought up the topic, but I also knew that if I ever came across a similar situation, it would be just as difficult.  It's not easy bringing up such a personal topic to strangers.  But it's worth the gamble.  What did I hear in a grief group I was in:  Best friends may become good friends, good friends may become best friends, and strangers may become friends.

Life Ring

from here

My dear friend introduced me to a friend of hers today. At dinner, I learned that his brother was widowed in March. As in this March. As in less than 3 months ago. He's 43, without kids, and now without his wife.

I listened to the horrible story of how she died suddenly and how he found out. I tried to picture that man in those first few moments and days and the images were so closely bound up with my own sensory memories that for a few minutes I couldn't separate myself from the situation.

The intense pain of those first few months flooded through me and I juggled urges to detach just enough to avoid falling apart at the seams and to connect enough to empathize.

And then, something kicked in. Something so gratifying that it filled me up and shot out of me like light. I realized that I was the one who might actually be able to bring resources to this man who has just lost his best friend.

I took a piece of paper and a pen out of my purse and began to make a list for this man. I wrote SSLF, Camp Widow, Widow's Voice, my own blog, my own email, and my widowed friends' blog addresses. I tried to express what made it harder for me in the beginning and what made it easier.

It's difficult now to explain how this felt. I suppose, like Chris Weaver says, it's like throwing a rope to someone who's drowning. There's such relief in knowing that as long as he takes a hold of the life ring at the end of that rope, he can make it. There was a visceral sense of satisfaction that felt like energy filling my chest and heart.

There was an urgency, too. I wanted to gather the troops and find this man a few states away and get started. I wanted to physically put him on a plane to Camp Widow in San Diego in August and just say "TRUST ME" as the plane takes off. I wanted to surround him with my widowed friends and say "Look. This is the face of widowhood. We survive. We thrive. We come out of this stronger. It's possible. Don't give up."

I will not tell anyone to do anything they're not ready to do and I know from hard-won experience how difficult it is to hear "you shoulds" from anyone else during this process. Everyone is so different and grieving is just as varied. I have no right to tell this man what to do, but oh how I want to tell him to reach out. I want him to want to reach out. But most of all, I want to make him see that he's not as alone as he probably thinks he is.

I also felt some relief knowing that this man now had a concrete way to help his brother with this information I'd given him. It is so hard to know how to help someone who has suffered such a loss. I saw the strain of that in my loved one's faces after Dave died. I know that they all wanted to do what they could to help me and that they were unprepared.

None of us had ever gone through anything remotely like it before and yet they taught me how to do the most incredible job at helping a newly widowed person. And now, in a small way, I could pay that forward by sharing how they helped me most -- making arrangements, taking calls, bringing meals, sitting with me while I cried, taking my lead, the list goes on for days.

As my one year mark grows near, I think more and more about how my loved ones and I have formed this incredible web of love to survive this event. It holds me up and sustains me.

I don't believe in the stereotypical image of a winged angel from heaven. I believe in something better - angels right here on earth. Human, fallible, beautiful, mortal, loving human angels. Any of us can be an angel at any time. It just takes reaching out in case someone might be drowning. It takes gently but firmly tugging on them until they can swim out of the currents on their own.

I hope I can help someone even a fraction as much as my friends have helped (and continue to help) me.

Sue and Lisa

            I would like to donate my voice today to Lisa’s best friend Sue Austin.  Miss Sue who lived in New York while we were in Chicago and then hearing the news of Lisa’s cancer, offered to stay with us for a few weeks to help with the kids – being a computer programmer, had the luxury of working from anywhere.  Lisa’s cancer was spreading fast and Sue stayed all the way until she passed.  She stayed in the house a full year after to help me with the kids.

            Lisa called Sue her “soul mate”, and not in a way that bothered me.  I’m the first to admit I’m not able to spend hours on the phone like those two did.  I could try, heck, I can talk about men with the best of them, but after about three minutes I’d try to change the topic to baseball.  Sue and Lisa could talk about the insensitivity of men for hours.  I was thrilled Lisa had someone in her life who she could satisfy that outlet.  Sue made my marriage better without even meaning to.

            When Lisa passed, at least I have a word that describes me with all of the crap and sadness that goes along with losing a spouse. Widower.  Not a word I want or take joy in, but I own it and when people hear it, will cause a reaction – for better or worse.

            Sue doesn’t have a word.  She doesn’t get the satisfaction of the full reaction of talking to a stranger and if the topic comes up, pulling out the grief bomb, lighting it and let it explode.

            “Here you go sir, and would you like to upgrade and buy something for your wife?”

            “No, my wife has passed away.”

            “Oh, I am so sorry, let me throw in a couple of sample products to take home.”

            “Here you go young lady, it’s two for one today, like to buy something for a friend?”

            “I actually just lost my best friend to caner.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that, however, the extra coupon can also be used for a pet.”

            Sue doesn’t know I’m writing this post.  She doesn’t complain to me about losing Lisa, doesn’t bemoan how much it hurts, doesn’t ask for a piece of the attention-grief pie to be sent her way. 

            The day I realized Sue’s situation was when Lisa was in hospice.  Lisa was in her room while a bunch of us family members and Sue were out in the gathering area – Rainbow Hospice is set up as a circle, where the rooms are all at the outer wall, with the middle of the circle filled with chairs, tables, and couches for loved ones to gather.  Lisa’s sister and I were talking to the doctor, assessing Lisa’s situation.  We were coming to terms with Lisa dying.  Other family members were on the couches next to us, and we would share with them the news.

 

            As the doctor spoke, I remember looking past her shoulder and seeing Sue five tables away all by herself working on her computer.  There were family decisions to be made and she gave us the space to discuss.  She too,  was coming to terms with the death of Lisa, but was using computer programming to get through the day.  Like in a comedy Western movie where the hero punches the villain – but is still standing - the hero then blows gently on the villain, causing him to fall over.  If anyone walked over to Sue and blew on her, tears would pour down her face.

              So Miss Sue Austin, today my post is for you.  Even though you stayed in our house for a year, it was such a blur for both of us, I’m not even sure I thanked you for everything you’ve done.  Did I even help talk things out with you while you were there?  I know I would come home from work and you would retire to your bedroom for the night.  We did have one TV show we watched, Arrested Development, that helped get through some of the tough days.

            Having been in the position of people not knowing what to say to me, let me be on the opposing side and express what I’m not sure helps at all.  Sue, I know you lost your best friend.  I am so sorry for your loss.

Grief is HEAVY

from here

I woke up yesterday with dread and sadness hovering around me like a damp, gray cloud even as a sunny blue sky emerged from the sunrise. Maybe I dreamed of something that got me going, I don't know. It was probably just the good old grief monster moving in for the morning. Every moment of every day is tinged with grief, but some days the grief takes over completely.

It feels so heavy. I actually feel a physical weight on my shoulders, pinning me to the earth. It forces me down until I feel like pasting myself to the floor to brace for the onslaught.

Once the tears started, I couldn't stop them and just writing about the way that feels makes my eyes fill up again. I cried for hours and began to mentally cancel plans. Yoga would have to wait. I was crying too hard to get dressed. And besides, I would've been too embarrassed to go in that condition. No amount of makeup could conceal the state I was in.

Suddenly, though, two women I'd forgotten I'd promised to go to yoga with simultaneously texted me and my dear widowed friend called me. As I talked to her and continued to sob, I got dressed. Once I hung up with her, the tears finally stopped. Once I was fully dressed, hair done and makeup on, I felt stronger and though the tears threatened a few times during yoga, I had a wonderful session and was left with the lovely exhaustion and peace that yoga practice brings me.

I realized that while it would have been completely understandable to stay curled in a ball on the floor of my place all day, I didn't because of those women. Three women who don't all know each other contacted me at the exact same time and without knowing it, pulled me from the sucking blackness of that morning.

I know that it is healthy to feel the grief and that numbing myself and avoiding the pain will only put it off till later, but sometimes what I need is someone else expecting me to show up. I need the pull of the outside world to counteract the pull of the sadness. I need to be outside, among others, moving, interacting, pushing, pushing, pushing myself through the fear of living.

Though I needed a nap later to counteract the crying headache I'd earned from that morning, I didn't cancel my plans for the evening, either, and thank God I didn't. I went with a dear friend to Mt. Hood and had the most fun I've had in a long while, barreling down a snowy hill on an inner tube with her.
I laughed until I peed a little.

Grief is exhausting. It's terrifying. While it has to be experienced, it takes its toll on me and I need to feel the opposing pull of life. Sometimes I still need someone to literally or figuratively pull me off the floor, wipe my tears, hug me close and push me out the door, reminding me that there's still life to be lived and people to love. All of it risks more loss, but the bigger loss would be missing out on all of it, pinned to my floor with the weight of my losses.

Writing this has started the tears again. The weight of my sadness is pressing down on me and curling up on the floor sounds good, but I'll pick myself up in a few minutes and get dressed because someone expects me to show up later this morning, and I have life to live.

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.

someone who knows

Photo from here...

"My dad is married to my aunt," my friend, Jenny, said. "I know," she said, "it's rather....Jerry Springer-like."

She went on to explain that after her mother died when Jenny was a teenager, her father eventually found love again with his sister-in-law.

Jenny seemed a bit sheepish when she explained this to me. But she needn't have.

I have heard of this phenomenon quite a few times actually. When a spouse loses their beloved through death, occasionally they find understanding, and love, in those who grieve most closely alongside them. Sisters of spouses, best-friends, cousins....

I can totally understand this. I can imagine what a comfort it would be to be fully able to share your grief with another who had known just what you had lost and to be able to share a intimate relationship with that person without fear of being misunderstood or worrying about their feelings of "measuring up" to an unknown person.

I wonder how many of us widows/widowers have found love, comfort or even just close and meaningful friendships with our dead spouse's friends or family after their death?

I wish I had that now and then....Someone to share Jeff's loss with me.....

the unhelpful helper

Photo from here...

When I first became a widow, I wanted everyone to go away. I did not want to talk, discuss, be comforted, or hear anyone. I found everything overwhelming and the need to communicate with others verbally was not at all on the list of desired actions.

I was annoyed by the needs of others. Their want to know I was okay or that the kids were surviving seemed intrusive and obnoxious. I felt that they all just wanted the gory details or the notoriety that goes along with death. Although the realization that my feelings were not "fair" or even logical always accompanied these angry thoughts, I couldn't help but feel myself growling internally when someone attempted to break into my quiet, lost and introspective bubble.

I had extremely close friends that I leaned on and a sister with whom I told the majority of my thoughts, but the only person I wanted aside from these confidantes was Jeff.

Now, three years later, I find myself in a strange spot.

Recently, two friends have lost their husbands. Neither of these women are close friends, but they are certainly women who I would stop to say "hello", share a hug and have a chat or a cup of coffee together should I see them on the street prior to their loss.

They are both early in their losses. They don't want to talk. Or if they do, it's not to me. And I SO get this. I know this feeling so very well and empathize totally....

But I find myself compelled to tell them that. I feel almost panicked in my need to let them know that there are others, just like us, who know this pain. That they are not alone. That the community of widows is an amazing and supportive one.

I itch to reach out to them. I want to help them with the ridiculous amounts of paperwork that accompanies a death. Or to deliver a meal or mow a lawn.

I want to take away any pain for them that I can. I feel anxious that they are hurting and may not have the support they so need (although I am sure they have so very many loving people surrounding them begging hoping to be of some assistance).

I know that it is all TOO much right now. And I hope that months from now if the phone doesn't ring as often for them and they slowly awaken from the dull, aching void that envelopes early on, they know that I will be here whenever they need someone who gets it.

In the meantime, I wish them well on their own private journey and hope they know where to find the rest of us.....

I am not alone (why I am glad I blog)

I'm sitting here, calmly typing this and it's been 622 days since my husband died.
I know exactly how many days because of my regular blog.
But to think that I can type this without tears would have been unthinkable a year ago.

I began writing about my pain just over a month after the accident.

I blogged everything because I knew I'd always be able to find it ... the internet being forever and all.

Now I read those posts back and tears stream down my face.
Was that me?
How did I ever survive such pain?
How did I keep my kids functioning and how on earth did they get from those first jagged, razor-sharp days to these days of a duller, aching pain?
(Pain which still flares up both rapidly and unexpectedly but the jagged edges are not quite so sharp).

and the short answer is that I don't really know how we got here.

... but I do know that time has helped.
I do know that friends and family have helped.
I do know that routine has helped.
and I do know that blogging has helped.

My blog helped (and continues to help) me pour out the hurt, anger, fear, rage, devastation, worry and horror of this journey.
...and *this* blog helped me see that I am not alone in these feelings.

Widow's Voice was one of the first blogs I read in The After.

I've cried and nodded along to more posts than I can count.
I've marvelled at how brave other widows and widowers are.
I've recognised similarities and differences between my journey and the varying journeys we are all on (for our spouses were unique ... as we are ... so no two of us are on the exact same path).
I've laughed at the dark humour.
I've rejoiced at the finding of new love, but seen that it's not a magic bullet that takes away this pain.

But most of all, I've realised that

I
Am
Not
Alone.

...and nor are you.

"Kevin"

Photo from here

Kevin Findlay was a fictional character on the award-winning Australian television series “Sea Change”. 

Kevin ran the local caravan park and on the surface, he appeared to be a fairly one-dimensional character – a gullible, but honest single-father doing the best he could on minimum wage and abilities. ..... but doing it with an air of a man who was seemingly happy with his lot in life. ...and he loved his son. A lot.

He was the kind of bloke that quietly went about his business, giving a hand to anyone in need and asking nothing in return. Kevin could fix a toaster or a VW Kombi van and he did odd jobs for the townsfolk of the fictional seaside town of “Pearl Bay”.

Kevin’s worth to the town was only really discovered when his Kombi van broke down. Suddenly, the elderly people of Pearl Bay were either lined up in court on traffic offences or lined up at the hospital after a run in with the pointy end of a lawn mower. ..... and that’s when the townsfolk realised that half the town was running on the good nature and handy-man skills of a happy-go-lucky bloke that most people wrote off as a bit of a simpleton.

You see, Kevin ferried those elderly people to the grocery store and to doctor’s appointments in his trusty Kombi as he knew their driving abilities were poor. He visited them in their homes, mowed their lawns and fixed their houses. He cared about everyone and he was always happy to lend a hand.

Kevin was the glue that held that community together.

I am lucky enough to know a real-life “Kevin”.

My “Kevin” is my parents’ neighbour.

He tinkers about with old engines and runs a side business in fixing lawn mowers. His backyard is strewn with “useful things” that his wife complains about.

He has two 20-something children, one of which is diabetic. He works as a driver for a local company and he never complains about his lot in life.

He does odd jobs for his friends and neighbours. He services their (and my) cars, fixes plumbing problems, mows lawns and takes care of people with a smile. (My parents and I insist on paying him in cash or food even when he never asks for payment for his time).

He was the person who drove me home to collect clothes and toiletries so the kids and I could stay at my parent’s house the night that Greg died.

...and today, he came to my house and replaced the fan-belt in my clothes dryer and was happy to be paid in two-dozen fresh eggs from our hens.

I don’t know what I would do without the “Kevin”s of this world who don’t say “just ask if you need anything” (hear that one before? Well meaning I know, but I can never think of something appropriate to ask for ... ). The “Kevin”s of the world just DO the little and big things efficiently, kindly, unobtrusively....

And I’m so grateful that I have a “Kevin” quietly helping me.