An Invisible Audience

I'm feeling very flat tonight.  It's been a long day.  My office was closed due to bad weather and while, at first, I was excited at the thought of spending a day at home with no agenda, it has dragged and the quiet stillness has started to seep in under my skin.

It's a strange feeling to go to bed at night realising you haven't spoken a single word all day.  It happens to me often.  I've had a few text messages from friends and family checking in but there's been no human contact, no physical energy in the room to stir with mine and remind me that I'm not alone.

The quiet generally doesn't bother me.  I'm an introvert and a homebody, comfortable in my own company.  I usually not only relish time on my own, I need it to recharge.  But today, the quietness felt heavy.  And I've sat down at my laptop tonight to write this entry for Widow's Voice thinking, as I do often, what on earth do I have to say today that anyone will find interesting.  Let alone helpful. It's an incredible honour to write for this website and not a responsibility that I take lightly, however sometimes that sense of duty can feel almost intimidating.

Am I being honest and raw enough?  On the days that I'm feeling positive and upbeat, will I alienate the readers who find my outlook irritating or unrealistic?  If I tell a personal anecdote am I comfortable sharing a part of my life that is very private, or will I feel ok if someone in my real life stumbles upon it and possibly reads something that upsets them?  Incase you haven't worked it out by now, I can be an over-thinker and quite hard on myself!

However this week I received an email from someone I met at Camp Widow in Tampa who also lost her husband to depression, only a few months ago.  Her kind words meant more than she could know.

She wrote, among other things, that she had spent a lot of time over the weekend reading my blog posts and Facebook fee, soaking up some of my stories about Dan and everything I had experienced since he died. She told me that it had been helpful for her to hear from other widows and said, "I appreciate your example and your grace and your honesty."

It is messages like this that make the scariness of sharing your personal thoughts with the internet worth it.  Every time, over the post 19 months, that I've posted a sad, grief-related post on my Facebook, talking about how much I miss Dan or describing the extreme agony in my heart, I've instantly felt that fear and vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up to judgement.  

Our culture is such that people aren't comfortable talking about death.  They're sure as hell not comfortable talking about suicide.  And this is precisely why I've felt the need, since Dan died, to talk about it.  As soon as the police told me how he'd died I thought 'oh no, he's going to be judged.  I'm going to be judged.  People are going to  make assumptions about our relationship or his character...' and then I realised how unfair and WRONG that was.  

I mean, of course I knew that Dan's death was caused by a disease - not a character flaw or because of any unhappiness he felt with his life.  So I was determined to help others understand that too. 

The same goes for grief.  Before Dan died the only widow I knew was my then-90-year-old grandmother (who lost her husband at 49).  I had seen friends mourn parents who had been taking too soon by cancer but I didn't have any understanding of how that actually felt.  Let alone, the loss of a spouse.  So I spoke about my feelings.  I wanted people to grasp what was happening to me.  

Maybe, so they'd be a bit gentle and avoid any unrealistic expectations about this being a 'phase' that I would go through.  Maybe because I wanted them to appreciate their own partners and their own good health.  Most likely, it was a form of therapy for me.  I needed to purge the pain and get it out of my head.  

Writing has helped me cope with, and process, my loss.  But I share it with others because I hope to help someone else the way the Widow's Voice writers coaxed me through each day of my own pain, when I become a widow.  

On the days that I post and there are no comments, it's easy to wonder if I'm missing the mark.  If I'm writing such nonsense that no one was able to relate.  Then, there are days where someone tells me that I've made a difference to them.  And that one message makes it all worth while.  So thank you to those of you who reach back.  It really does keep us going.

My Person

My thoughts are all over the place tonight. Scattered in the air, like confetti. Sometimes I come in here, to this blog site, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to say. I want to say everything - and nothing. Tonight is one of those nights. So here are a few random thoughts that are on my mind right this minute. If I'm lucky, they will end up connecting to one another in some sort of mixed up, grief-hazed way.

It has become difficult for me to feel grounded. Ever. I think sudden death will do that to a person. Always feeling like something is about to happen. Something awful. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop ...

Finally found a doctor's office in NYC that takes new patients who don't have insurance. Because when you lose your husband with absolutely no warning, and you were on HIS health insurance - guess what? You lose your insurance. There goes that shoe dropping...

So I saw a doctor for the first time in almost 2 years. I got bloodwork done. Thyroid test, blood sugar test, Vitamin D test, cholesterol test - every test known to man. Everything came back normal. I showed the test results to my brilliant doctor friend Dave and asked him to give me a more detailed report, and he basically told me that all my numbers are outstanding. A normal person would be relieved and happy with this news. And I am. Partly. The other part of me is confused and stressed out. Everything is normal. So why do I feel like shit all the time? Why do my joints hurt like I'm 85 years old? Why does it feel difficult to climb stairs without labored breathing? Why do I get weird little pings and quick, sharp pains in and around my heart and chest? Why do my ribs always ache? Why do I never feel good? Why? 

People tell me "it's the grief" or "it's your weight". I am sure both of those things are true. Even so, I stress all the time that something is wrong with me. That I will have a heart-attack like he did, with no notice. No warning. No people around me when it happens. And then I stress some more, and then the stress causes other health issues to occur, and then that stresses me out more, and then people tell me not to stress about things beyond my control, and then I stress about trying not to stress, with the end result being that I'm very, very stressed.

So I saw the doctor. Other stuff happened too. I went on an audition for a TV role that I really, really want. I found out this week that an interview I went on to direct and help write/create a local theatre production that will be a huge Fundraiser for Cancercare, resulted in me getting the job.  Spent the last 2 days being sick with the flu at home, calling out of work from my teaching job, and living on peppermint tea, soup, and vitamin C tablets. My roommate is away for a week on a business trip, so I'm alone here. But even if she was here, she is not my husband, who was a paramedic by day, and the best "home nurse" to me by night, whenever I didn't feel well. Yesterday, when I just wanted to curl up in a ball and stay there until I stop coughing - I had to instead put some clothes on and walk down the street to spend money on cold medicine, tea, orange juice, cough drops, and other annoying items I didnt have in the apartment. And then later, last night, I had to pull my own blanket over myself and curl up in that ball alone and just cry.

The amount of times that my husband would run to the store for me - for something I needed - so I wouldn't have to - countless. How many nights he would gently cover me in a blanket and then lay down beside me and stroke my hair. Now - it's just me. And it sucks.

Tonight I watched the episode of Glee where they honored the late Cory Monteith, who played Finn on the show. The show's star, Lea Michele, plays the character Rachel on the show, who dated and almost married the character Finn. In real life, the actors Cory and Lea were together as a couple, and were to be married. And then he died this summer, of an apparent drug overdose. Watching that show tonight - and watching Lea Michele, the actor, play her scenes in the episode where she comes back to honor her love - I could see and feel that she wasn't acting at all. She was grieving. And it was so raw and so real, and right there on the TV screen for everyone to see. And lying there in my bed, alone and feeling sick with the flu and missing my husband with such intensity - and watching those characters, those real people who had lost their very real friend, sharing their vulnerable souls with the world - I caved. I sobbed. Then I sobbed some more. Been doing a lot of sobbing lately, and then I sob some more. I just miss him so damn much.

That is really what it comes down to sometimes. I just miss him, and there's not a damn thing I can do about that. It sucks when good things happen. It sucks when bad things happen. It sucks to be sick and not have your love here to make your tea, or to give you a kiss goodnight anyway because he "doesnt care if Im contagious." Like Lea Michele's character Rachel said in tonight's episode: "He was my 'person.'" Life is just not the same without my person.

I guess I will go to bed now, and hope that tomorrow feels better than today. Although if something good happens and I do feel better, he wont be here to share it with, so that will suck too. Maybe I'll just eat a bag of Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips and call it a day.

You see? I told you my thoughts were all over the place tonight. I warned you. And so now you know.

The End.

Six Degrees of My Dead Husband

Everything in life comes back to my dead husband.

This month, I have had a few unexpected expenses, and I make crappy money to begin with, and today I sit with $87 in my checking account, and somehow need to make that last until the end of the month, which is payday. Now; when my husband Don was alive, being broke was no picnic, but it also wasnt the end of the world. We got through each broke cycle together, and he always had my back. Often times, the first thing he would say as I was shaking him awake in the morning was: "Take whatever's in my wallet, Boo. Love you, have a good day." Then he would roll over and go back to sleep as I left for work. (He worked the overnight shift as a paramedic.) But now? When Im broke, Im just broke, and there's nobody to shake out of their slumber to loan me a few bucks. I just gotta "figure it out."

This morning, right in the middle of going to the bathroom, I came to the sad realization that there was no toilet paper on the roll sitting there next to me. Great. What the hell do I do now? Walk pants-down to the hallway closet and grab another roll, taking the very high risk that my roommate will choose that very same moment to walk down the hall as well? Back at our old apartment in New Jersey, in my old life where I was a very happily married person, this was a common occurance. No big deal. I simply open the door and shout: "Boo! Throw me a roll of TP please?" "Again?", he would chime in, not believing how many times I leave myself sans toilet paper. "Yeah yeah, enough with the critique. Just do it." I dont feel comfortable enough to have that kind of dialogue with a roommate, so it doesnt happen.

About 6 months ago, I made the decision to move out of the NJ apartment that my husband and I had shared for 7 years. It was a crappy rental, it was old as hell, and we were always saying how we wanted to move out of there and find a nicer place. But Don made everything that was miserable - funny - and so when he mocked the apartment or me or our life, it always made me laugh. Well, living in a crappy apartment by yourself with nothing surrounding you except your husband's things? It ain't that funny. It sucks. It sucks hard. So after searching and searching and packing up our entire life into boxes and spending months getting rid of and selling and donating our furniture and generally having every second revolve around moving, I finally found what seemed like the perfect place at the perfect time. There was a really nice and generous man on the 21st floor of a high-rise in my favorite neighborhood of NY, Forest Hills. He was (still is) a gay man, so there were no worries about weird heterosexual tensions or "intentions", and after meeting up a few times, once in his Manhattan office and once at the apartment so I could see it, we decided to be roommates. In New Jersey, one of the best things about our old apartment was that it sat right on the Hudson River, just 8 minutes outside NYC. The city skyline view was amazing, and at night, the whole city lit up like a Lite Brite board. It was pure magic. Don and I used to take walks at night and look at that view, and he would say: "You know, Jersey sure is a craphole, but this view never gets old." My bedroom on the 21st floor has that same view - but better, because its in my bedroom. I dont even have to walk outside to see it this time. The neighborhood is only a 20-minute drive to work for me. In NJ, I was commuting about 2 hours each way (driving to Long Island and back.) with traffic. Everything about this place felt like home to me, and it felt like a sign. It felt like my dead husband had sent me here.

And then, last month, it all came crashing down. Out of the complete blue (at least from my perspective), my roommate told me that "we are not a good match" and he would like me to be out by the end of May. I think I asked him to please repeat himself because I was so shocked. I asked for an explanation, many times, as to the "Why" of this sudden mismatch news. He refused to give me any specific reasons, and so, to me, it became just another thing that I was losing suddenly - in a flash - and for no reason - just like Don.

Just a few weeks before, I had specifically inquired with him as to whether or not we were on solid ground, and should I feel comfortable selling my car in order to save money and just use the amazing public transporation options that are available here in Forest Hills? Not only did he tell me we were doing great, but also talked about a year or two down the line, when he may move to Los Angeles, and how I could stay here and find another roommate if I wanted to. Feeling confident about things, I decided to drive my car home to Massachusetts and have my brother try and sell it for me. This was also a hard decision to make, as this car was a used car that my brother bought for me just a couple months after Don died, because Don's car was very old and had tons of miles on it and was becoming too unsafe for me to drive. So we sold my husband's car for super cheap, and my brother bought me this one. Ironically, both cars looked exactly the same, and were both Pontiacs. My brother switched out the rugs and the rearview mirror on the cars, so that I could always have Don's rearview mirror.

Now, a few weeks later, my car sits in my brother's snow-filled yard and on Craigslist. There have been no calls on it. And here I sit, just 6 months after moving my entire life from NJ to NY - exhausted, confused, terrified, broke, and once again; looking for a new place to live.

This year, I have been asked for the first time, to be a presenter at Camp Widow. I will be doing a stand-up comedy performance about grief, and about my husband's death. The presentation, which is the weekend of April 19th, is supposed to have the tone of inspirational. Coping with loss through humor. Meanwhile, my life is such a mess right now and I am such a mess right now, that I went to bed at 9pm last night because I couldnt handle any more random crying outburts or emotions or things I have to get done or stress. I was jolted awake at 4am this morning with this thought: "SHIT! It's Friday! I have to write my Widow's Voice Blog!!!" Normally I write it up and submit it on Thursday night, but I was so stressed out, I forgot. Never did I picture my life being one where I would awaken in a ball of tension screaming about a blog for widows. Never did I think that at age 41, I would be no longer married, but feel married, and be going through roommates like toilet paper. Never did I see my life ending up here - once again packing boxes and bags, once again relocating and "getting used to it", once again making yet another sacrifice so that I can keep going, keep surviving, keep trying. Once again, I need to just figure it out. Alone.

A couple of months ago, when I was starting to consider selling my car due to the huge expense of simply owning a car in New York, I was bringing up the idea in an online private group I sometimes hang out in. It is a group of women, and they are not widowed. I was talking about how difficult it was going to be for me to sell this car, because Ive come to love it, and my brother bought it for me after Don's death, and it would suck to let it go. One of the women made a comment that she "didnt see what selling my car had to do with Don's death at all", and basically implied that I was being stupid if I didnt sell it to save some money, and that I needed to start "sacrificing" some things. Oh really? Would you like a list of everything I have had to sacrifice since my husband randomly died that morning? Sit down, because its a long list. It was one of those many moments in this new life where I wanted to scream, but had to instead hold back and keep reminding myself: They just dont get it. They just dont get it. They just dont get it.

And, among many other things they dont get, the big one, is this:

When you lose your life partner to death, it affects every single part of your life going forward. Everything  changes overnight. Every. Thing. Tiny things like shopping, to what you eat, to how you look at pictures, to cooking , to watching TV, to your music selection, to what route you take when you drive to work, to everything.

And then, of course, the big things. Like letting go of your 2nd car in a year. Your 2nd home in a year. Your 2nd time of feeling like you were on solid ground, and then having that ground pushed out from underneath you. It all goes back to the very reality that he died, and it always will.

It's like that game; Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, where every actor at some point has worked with or has worked with someone else who has worked with Kevin Bacon. This is the same thing, except it's not a fun game to play. It's just the truth. And sometimes, the truth is a really sucky place to be.