a blessing for all things

Photo from here.....

The unthankful heart discovers no mercies; but the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings.

-- Henry Ward Beecher

I have found that at times, I am a whiny, ungrateful little sap. I moan at life's injustice and cry out at the lot I have been given. I beat my fists against fate and want to scream when I hear "It happened for a reason". What the hell reason could it be that I had to lose my love so early? What reason is there that my children have to go to bed without their daddy's furry kiss?

But this quote and a few others like it help me to remember that perhaps there isn't a "reason" but a blessing for all things.

I am not blessed that Jeff is gone. But I am stronger, more empathetic and kinder since losing such a huge piece of my heart and life. And I am thankful for this....

I am thankful for my community and friends who support me with their love and generosity, reminding me that I am not alone.

I am thankful for the other widows I know and continue to meet for although we are all broken, we all seem to share a wicked sense of humour and an understanding of the truly important things in life.

I am thankful for every day that I am able to spend holding our small children's hands for I could have been the one who died.

I am thankful for the love he gave me and memories I have stored in my heart available when I need him close. It is NOT the same as having him here, but I am thankful that I did for a time.

And I am thankful for the opportunity to learn, grow and become who I am.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

old shoes and wooden spatulas

Photo from here....

I've been sorting through our cupboards and closets and purging the least needed/most outgrown items lately in anticipation of living mostly indoors again after a summer in the backyard and beach.

I have found mismatched gumboots, lost flashlights, a dried up snail and the odd coin. Most surprisingly, I have unearthed copious amounts of Jeff's clothing despite thinking that the vast majority of it had been distributed among family, friends and the Salvation Army.

As I have worked on this task, the kids have been playing together...or re-enacting small-scale wars in the back hall. Today, their fighting somehow led to the playroom door (for which there is no key) to be locked.

Since I imagine myself to be somewhat of a handi-woman, I attempted to pick the lock. Failing this, I attempted to break into the room from an exterior window. Then, I removed the door knob not really realizing that the bolt would still be intact...without a knob. After this, I tried to shoulder the door open with brute force. Sometime later, I gave up and called a friend.

As he kneeled on the floor peering through the impenetrable knob hole, I stared at his large sock-clad feet which brought to mind a pair of new, brown leather shoes I had unearthed at the back of the laundry room closet.

"Hey, Dave," I said, "Do you need any shoes?" He turned and looked at me quizzically.

"I found a pair of brand-new shoes of Jeff's at the back of a closet and thought that maybe you could use them."

"Um. Well. Not...I don't know, Jackie," he stammered, "That's...um, very nice of you. But, um, weird." He went on to explain, "I have never had anyone offer their dead husband's possessions to me. It feels really odd...and wrong."

I sat and pondered for a moment. I thought about how uncomfortable I would have felt in the same situation three years ago. How I may worry about accepting some one's beloved's possessions would ultimately upset them or that I may be terribly close to catching "dead".

But then I started to laugh, "Dave, I am sure when we are in our 90s and most of us have lost many of our loved ones and close friends, offering a pair of unused shoes or a wooden spatula that once belonged to a dead person will be nothing short of common place. This is just the beginning, my friend! And really, Dave, I do not think that you have to worry about Jeff needing them back."

But this evening as I washed dishes, I wondered again if it was wrong of me to ask a friend if he had use for something that had once belonged to Jeff? WAS it odd? Did I cross some taboo barrier? Was this a "widow's faux pas"? Am I still too young for my peers to "get" how ridiculous this attachment to a dead person's unused possessions is? Or is my way of thinking off-track?

I truly just wanted someone who could use them to have them....I suppose it will have to be a stranger who will use them. And that is okay too....they won't have to know that the shoes have "dead germs" on them. :)

guilt and acceptance

First posted 7 months post-widowhood on personal blog

I have worried since Jeff's death that he didn't know how much I loved him. The stupid things I did and the things I took for granted have weighed so heavily on my mind. I have felt terribly and guilty for the things that I complained about and the issues I thoughtwere important.
Since Jeff's death I have realized that these 'things' were nothing. Not important. Not worth the words or the breath I used to express them.
I have always known Jeff loved me. I have always felt his comforting presence and his teddy bear gentleness when it came to 'us'. I have never doubted that he loved me and I was his 'Snuggles'.
A friend recently expressed her worry that when she dies, it will be after she has lost her patience, yelled or been in a generally foul mood. She worried that this would be the last thing her kids or husband remembered about her. I assured her that it wouldn't. That they'd remember all of her and those times of stress and anger would be forgiven and almost forgotten.
I told her of the last few minutes I had with Jeff before he died. He had been an ASS. He had told the doctor that he thought I was hoping he was having a heart attack so I could 'be right'. I had replied, "No, Jeff. I am concerned about you. I am worried and I want to find out what is wrong."
Jeff didn't like going to doctors. He didn't like to admit that anything was wrong. He could be combative and angry trying to dissuade me from taking him to a doctor. Years ago, he once told me that he would leave me if I took him to the hospital again after he had passed out on the floor and was turning blue. It became the source of laughter just days later. But it didn't mean he didn't love me. It meant he didn't like going to the doctor. He didn't like being 'told what to do'. As simple as that.
Since telling my friend about these incidents, I have been thinking about it. I am realizing that even though I have had my complete 'ass' moments, Jeff most likely had the same feelings about me. That I am human. I obsess about ridiculousness much to my detriment just as he did. Even though he was angry with me for dragging him to the doctor, I was there. I was trying to save his life. I loved him enough to go up against his defiance and fury to find out what was wrong. Even after he used these angry words, I tried to save him. I would have no matter what he ever said, did or was. I knew he loved me. And I loved him. He died in my arms as I tried to save him. And, now, I am sure he knew I loved him. And it is a relief. I can let go of my guilt. I can realize I am human and like everyone else, I am imperfect. He loved me despite of it all. And I loved him despite any of his faults. And he knew.

When good things happen to sad people.

Okay, so here is my dilemma. What am I supposed to do when life is going well. Or, well enough?

I have been publicly writing, blogging, for three and a half years now. At first it was to keep family and friends up to date with Michael's battle with his brain cancer. Back then I wrote about medical updates, explaining the next chemotherapy trial, the progression of his tumor, then the ultimate message of his death. During that time I tried to talk honestly as possible, yet also balancing Michael's desire for some privacy. In between the difficult messages, were words of hope, and of true joy. I have to remember that even though our world was turned upside down, there were some wonderful days and weeks. During those two years we had many celebrations, and many reasons to be thankful.

After Michael died I decided that I needed to continue writing. On the evening of our first wedding anniversary, about a month after he died, I started writing my blog about grief. After writing for a couple of weeks here and there, I decided to commit to writing every day, as there was much to share. Basically, it became my wailing wall. When my first year was up I knew it was time to slow down.

Here's what I learned during that year. Lots. I learned much about my grief. I learned much about my propensity for depression. And, I learned how addicting it was to get immediate feedback from my public grieving. Here's what I also learned, sex and tears sell. Doing well on the other hand becomes a bit of a sore spot. When readers are looking for someone to identify their grief with, well, it becomes awkward to talk about good things.. It also makes me feel uncomfortable when the non-widowed take my current good fortune, or well-being, as a sign that it is now all behind me.

In the past year I have made some needed changes, and they appear to be going well. In the past week I was offered a job that I am thrilled about. In the past few days I got through the anniversary of my meeting Michael, the most significant day for us as a couple, doing well.

Am I cured? Hardly. Am I through the worst of it? I don't really know. Am I more optimistic. Definitely. If anyone went back, and read my writing exactly a year ago, they would find that I was contemplating suicide, and being very open about it. I was so lost in my despair that I was having trouble finding my way out. Well, here I am a year later. Alive. Good things have happened for me. I have found a new place to be. This place, my new home, and my heart, still have trouble reconciling all the pain and loss that has brought me here. Yet, in spite of it, I am very much willing recognize goodness when I see it, when I feel it, and when I have it.

And on that note, I close this post.