Then ......

...... and now:

The first picture is of Jim, on our last vacation together ...... 5 months before he died.  We were visiting my brother and his family in Alaska, and we had climbed up one hellacious peak with the three boys.  I just happened to catch him in a quiet moment, looking at the amazing view.
It's one of my favorite pictures of him.

The second pictures is one I took today, of Son #1.  He and I are in Oregon, visiting my father and my sister and her family.  Today the Son and I climbed a peak near here.  All the way to the top.  Which is much easier written, than done.  But we made it.
I had him stand away from me, on a nearby rock, so that I could take his picture with the view in the background.
Before I could even click the button and capture that moment ...... it hit me.
It hit me hard, though I managed to swallow it down and continue with the picture taking.

This picture of Son #1 was taken today ..... pretty much 6 years, almost to the day, that I took that picture of Jim.
The similarity of the scene was not lost on me.
Nor was the similarity between the two men.

I'm trying very hard to not let the dam of tears break as I write this.
Sometimes it so wonderful that each of my children can look so much like Jim.

Other times ...... it breaks my heart.
It's such a fast and difficult trip back through time ...... like being grabbed by the back of the neck and drug through the past 6 years in less than a couple of seconds.
One moment I'm looking at my son ...... a moment later I'm looking at Jim, just as he stood in that exact moment ....... before I was aware that my wonderful life would disintegrate in less than 5 months. Before I ever came to a personal knowledge of the word "widow".
Before I knew that it doesn't matter how good people are ...... bad things will still happen to them. Sometimes very bad things.
Before ...... when I was naive and thought I had my life all figured out.
Before ...... my world, as I knew it, came crashing to a devastating and very quick end.

Funny, as we began climbing this Peak/Butte/Mountain, I didn't even think back to that day in Alaska. At least, not in a way that made me pause ...... and wonder how this might feel once we got to the top.  I did remember that climb back in 2007 and remembered how very difficult it was, and how worried I was that one of the boys would get hurt.
But that was all.

It wasn't until we finally made it to the top of the peak today, and I turned my camera towards Son #1, that I was fully slammed in the gut ...... about how alike these two situations were, and about how alike these 2 men have become.

God, I miss that man so much.
And yes, I still cry every time I type those words.
Every.
Single.
Time.

I miss him with every fiber of my being.  And I always will.
I know that this will never change.
Just as I know that there will always be times when something, or someone (most likely one of my children) will send me reeling back to my "before".
And though there is sometimes pain with that (as there was today, and while I write and re-read this), there is much more comfort now.
Comfort in the warm memories, and comfort in what we had, who he was, and who we were together.

Where there was once always unbearable pain at those thoughts, now there's usually comfort.
Much more comfort than pain.

Just as there will be for those of you on this path.  Especially those who haven't been here very long and can't believe there will ever be comfort in your life again.

I promise that there will.
I don't know when.
I don't know what that will look like for you.
But I promise that it will arrive one day.
Very quietly and unobtrusively.  You won't see it coming.
You'll just feel it one day ...... the comfort instead of the horrifying pain.
And you'll know that you're going to be ok.

The comfort won't be there all at once, suddenly covering up the pain, but it will slowly appear more and more often.  As I said, I think there will always be pain, but one day there will be more comfort than pain.

I pray that each of you has the strength to walk through this valley ..... at whatever pace you walk.
Please know that, while we who are ahead of you can't remove you from it, as much as we'd like to, we have to watch from afar, cheering you on and willing you to feel the encouragement we're sending out to you.
Please know that we are up on the edge of that valley.  We've climbed out.  But we haven't left you behind and alone.  We're still here, up on the edge, waiting for you to climb your way up here and grab on to one of our hands so that we can help pull you up and over the ledge.

You will make it.
We are here.  Waiting.  Praying.  Encouraging.

And knowing that one day you will feel more comfort and less pain.
I promise.

2 year Sadiversary

I passed my 2 year Sadiversary in July.

But my brain, started the 2 year grieving process in June and lasted until the middle of September.

One day in June, out of nowhere, I was in a fog. I was exhausted. Couldn't remember anything. Couldn't carry on a conversation without spacing off or forgetting what I was talking about mid sentence.

I was on a slippery slope of just trying to get through every day. Giving each day the bare minimum, until it was time to go home, rinse and repeat the next day.

I swear the fog effects everything, including my vision. I can't see anything past what's in front of my face. I can't see the sunrise or the flowers. I struggle to even see spreadsheets that I have enlarged on my computer.

Then the fog is gone, and I can see again. I can see past my yard. I can see past my computer.
The fog really is the worst of all my grieving side effects.

I don’t know why I started the 2 year grieving process so soon.

I really wish my grief had a calendar, so I could see it coming, plan for it, and not be completely caught off guard.

Everything else in life has a calendar or a cycle, so why doesn't grief?

Every month, I find myself staring at the calendar. “The 27^th, what am I supposed to do?? I know there is something I am supposed to do!”.

Then the 27^th rolls around, and I remember what it is I forgot. The day Seth died.

The 2 year anniversary was nice. We had a small get together at my house with my closest friends and family.

I didn't cry all day / night. I enjoyed the night with my friends and family.

Surprisingly, Seth’s name didn't come up much throughout the night.

It was just a bunch of friends, getting together, for good food and drinks.

It was like my friends knew I needed them, but I didn't necessarily need them to talk about Seth.

I just needed them with me. I needed to know that my friends and family love me and support me. No matter what day it is.

This week, I found myself at a widow event - twice.

Looking around at the widows, made me realize how far I have come.

And how far I have yet to go. You mean to tell me in 13 years I will still be grieving??

I look at the faces of the “newly widowed” and my heart just breaks. I remember that first year. I remember not even being able to say Seth’s name without crying. I remember that every little thing reminded me of him. I remember not being able to drive, due to not being able to pay attention long enough to not run a red light. I remember not eating for days, because it made me physically ill to eat.

Being at the widow events, got me thinking about the first year of my widow journey.

I don’t remember very much of it at all.

I remember the detectives coming to my door, and telling me they found my husband deceased. I remember hitting my knees and screaming. 

I remember having the family together, working on Seth’s funeral. I remember Seth’s mom saying “I think the obituary should say Seth blew his head off”. I will never forget that.

I remember Seth’s family being angry at me for sticking to what Seth told me he wanted done for his funeral and with his body. Thank god Seth had told his dad the same things he had told me, so I at least had one person on my side fighting for what Seth wanted.

I remember going in to see Seth’s body, and again, hitting my knees and screaming. My family picked me back up, and held me up as I stood next to Seth’s casket.

I remember the bullet hole. When I see pictures of Seth now, I now see the bullet hole. No matter what picture it is, my brain- puts the bullet hole in the picture.

I remember standing next to Seth’s casket, as Seth’s family blamed me for his suicide.

I will never understand how someone can treat their son’s widow that way.

I remember getting to the funeral, getting out of the car, and the world started spinning quickly around me. I was insanely dizzy, and I was going down. I don’t remember if I actually hit the ground or if someone caught me. I remember trying to catch my breath, as I knew I was going to faint and remember my best friend telling people to leave me alone.  In fact, I think she was physically pushing people away from me (Thanks Jenn, you have no idea what that means to me!)

I remember talking about my last funny memory of Seth, I remember his urn was empty because we did not have his body back yet, and I remember the balloon release.

I remember everyone coming to my house after the funeral; we sat around the fire pit, listened to music, told stories, shared some laughs, and watched the sunrise. Just like Seth would have wanted us to do.

Other than that, that’s all I remember of Seth’s funeral.

That’s all I really remember from the first year, actually.

I remember planning the 1 year memorial party. I pretty much told my mom what I wanted, and she did it all. The 1 year memorial turned out amazing (Thanks mom!), but was insanely hard for me. I cried none stop. I missed Seth. I wish he was here to see what an amazing party we put together for him!

I was going through pictures of Seth, to create a slide show to show at the memorial.

And I came across this picture of Seth.

I took it in February 2010, 6 months before he died.

I forgot I had the picture.

When I pulled the picture up on my computer screen, the world froze. The hair on my arms stood up.

There it was, written “Imagine being alive”.

It was so ironic, because at the time I took the picture, Seth was mentally dead. Now a year later, I was looking at the picture, and he was physically dead.

I wonder if he asked me to take his picture there because of the wording that was there. Maybe as a reminder to himself to “Imagine being alive”.

I now have the picture framed in my bedroom. I look at it every morning.

I tell myself “Imagine being alive”.

Sure, I am alive. My heart beats, I breath, wake up every morning and go to work, carry on the best I can. Sometimes getting a laugh here or there.

But I am yet to be ALIVE.

The “alive” person I was years ago. Before bipolar took my husband’s soul. Before his death.

Every day I tell myself to be alive.

Be present, pleasant, joyful, laugh, and remember there are worst things that happen in life then dirty dishes.

I am still learning to be alive. But as long as my heart is beating, I will try, try, again.

“Hope is the last thing to die”.

PS: Friends, winterize your sprinklers and change your furnace filter. I know, it’s the husband’s job, but someone has to do it.

It's Not My Fault ....

                                  picture from here



.... that my children became orphans on December 18, 2007.

OK, they didn't literally become orphans.
But technically .... they did.

They lost both of their parents that day.
Yes, I was here in body, but only in body.
My body was empty of any resemblance of me.
All it held was the cold, black grief that enveloped every part of me .... grief moved into every space, every cell of my being, and took over.

I was not, could not be,  the person I had been.
So there was no way I could be the same mother.
There were many times when I beat myself up over that.
In spite of .... many things.

But I have moved past a lot of that.
My grief no longer occupies my body.
My grief is no longer in control.
It no longer makes me believe that my children would be better off if I, too, were actually dead.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I could no more have altered my grief, my grieving, than I could have reached out, touched Jim's body, and brought him back to life.
I did not choose my grief.
I did not want that grief.

But I got what I got.

And so my children managed to somehow keep growing and moving forward, without a parent to guide them.
That was something they had never, ever done before.
And I was powerless to change anything.

Then.

I am no longer powerless.
Now.
I am very much mostly back to the parent I was "before".
Not all.
I will never be all of the same person/parent I was "before".
But that comes with pros and cons.

Last week was one huge con.
Last week I experienced the incineration of the wall of trust that had encircled one of my children and myself.
The wall was built out of my trust.
That wall no longer exists.
Yes, it can be built again, but that's up to my child .... and it will have to be built one brick at a time.
I think it will.
I hope it will.

But until that time .... here I am .... left to deal with the fallout.
And the consequences.
And all of the crap that one must deal with when a mistake has been made.
And I deal with it .... alone.
Very much alone.

And I hate it.
There are no words for how very much I hate it.

I hate that Jim's not here to share the good times, the big events .... with me.
With us.
But I hate even more that he's not here to help me navigate the storms .... the crap.
The crap that I had nothing to do with, and yet impacts me .... a lot.

A couple of years ago I would have been out of my mind with thinking that this "mistake" was my fault.
Because I was no longer the same.
Because I could not parent the way I did "before".
Because I had somehow failed them.  My children.

But now, here in this place I've fought tooth and nail to arrive at, I know differently.
Crap happens.
And it happens no matter how many parents a child has.
Or how many he/she doesn't have.

Yes,  I am (mostly) back.
Much to the chagrin of my child.
And I am no longer going to the be the only one dealing with consequences.
I am strong.
And I am pissed.

I'm pissed that Jim gets to miss out on all of the crap.
I'm pissed that I can't play "good cop, bad cop" with my kids anymore.
Because there's only one cop.
I'm pissed that, in dealing with this kind of crap, I am very, very alone.

But .... on the flip side .... I'm good.
Because now I know .... no, now I remember ..... that in the same way I could not alter my grief, I cannot alter the minds and decisions of my children.
And truthfully, I never could.

And then there's this:  I asked one of my other children if he/she thought that this choice might not have been made if their dad were here.
To which he/she replied, "Ummmmm, no, Mom.  Teenagers are just .... teenagers and I know this would've happened whether or not Dad was here."
And now, looking back on things .... I realize that my child is 100% correct.

Mistakes would still be made ..... whether my children had two parents or one parent .... or no parent.
And so I am less .... pissed.

Which is a very good thing.
Because I doubt that there's anything scarier than a pissed-off widow.
Trust me.
:)

Blind

2002 summer family photo

This post if from May 8, 2009, just 22 days after Art died.

Recently I needed to go back, to see how far I'd come. I've been blind to the changes -- the small little changes like that I can remember to order shoes, and that today is hot lunch day at camp each thought within 10 seconds of each other. This daily action of putting one foot in front of the other, sometimes with confidence and other times only by force, leaves me unable to see where it is I started.

----

Day 22
May 8, 2009

Emotional residue from receiving the death certificates was all over me today.

I watched movies, read and suffered with heartburn. I felt like I was swimming through stern fog – muffled, holding me up, my movements like those of a beginner marionette puppeteer.

I am tired of talking to people about how I feel. I am tired of talking. I want to be left alone only not alone. I need people around me, just quietly there. Come to my house and read a book, roll your eyes with me when I get snippy at the kids. But don’t ask me how I’m feeling. Telling you leaves me with little left.

---

Now, at day 420 after his death, I find that I have spiraled back around but in a different place. I am tired, again, of talking about how I feel about his death. I find comfort in being with the few close friends Art and I had before this journey began, where I can bring up his name and not a single person gives me those stupid puppy eyes or reaches for my arm. Only here today, I see that a new woman has emerged. So it's not that talking about it is so draining, it just feels more like talking about it is a waste of my very valuable time.

I also noticed I don't have widow mouth. I can have full conversation with stranger for over an hour and mention that I am a widow. I do, however, derive secret sadistic pleasure in comments like "My husband was 6'6"" or "My husband was the Upper School Director of ___________."

While I am not surprised to find myself here, I am a bit taken aback because this is not how I pictured it. But death never is how we picture it, is it.