My own worst enemy

The better past of last Sunday was spent laying in bed crying... while the cat persisted in trying to comfort me

I feel like I’ve been in a rut for more than a month now, since Dan’s first anniversary.  I’ve had days here and there where I’ve been able to smile and actually mean it, but in general, the pain has been very deep and the ache for him, overwhelming.

The grief has been so relentless that it’s started messing with my head and making me question if I was doing something wrong.  If I’d gotten stuck in it some how. Was I doing enough to keep moving forward? 

I mean, I know this dance well by now, the three-steps-forward, two-steps-back tango.  I know I need to keep my expectations realistic and that this is a marathon, not a sprint.  I know that I can’t project manage my way out of this, yet in the dark of the night when the tears won’t slow and my heart feels like it’s going to stop beating from the sheer agony, I forget that this moment will pass and I’ll take steps forward again.

I just don’t understand why I’m this hard on myself.  Losing your spouse in such tragic circumstances, so young and early into our lives together, would have to be up there with the one of the most terrible experiences anyone could be forced to endure.  Yet I can’t seem to give myself permission to stumble. 

As the weeks pass and I continue to put this pressure and expectation on myself, it has started to mount into feelings of guilt and inadequacy.  I worry that I’m bringing everyone around me down and taking up so much of their energy with my constant state of fragile melancholy.

So this week I spent a lot of time contemplating how and why I’m so hard on myself.   I think that sometimes I have trouble understanding the difference between accepting that there are going to be bad days where I don’t want to face the world; and just wallowing in my sorrow to the point where it becomes an excuse not to try anymore.  I know I have to be gentle with myself – but where is that line between acceptable self-care; and just using my grief as a shield against anything unpleasant or moderately challenging.  Does that make sense?

Don't get me wrong, I know there's no set answer. This pondering is more rhetorical than actually looking for a response. When I think about my grief and whether I'm 'doing it right' - there is no fair bench mark to asses myself against. Because everyone's grief is different. 

I can't look at what seems to be working for a friend and try to apply it to my situation because we're not fighting the same battle. No one can actually tell me if I'm grieving appropriately because it's MY grief, I'm the only one who knows it and feels it, so I'm the only person who can truly answer that question. That's the crux of my conundrum ... I don't seem to trust myself to make that call!

On Thursday, the psychologist who runs a local suicide bereavement counselling program and support group that I became involved in a couple of months after Dan died, called me to check in.  I told her that I’m doing ok, but was struggling with this concept of ‘am I grieving appropriately’.

I confessed to her that some days I just don’t know what to do with myself.  I just sit in the loneliness and cry for hours and think ‘I’m so sick of this sadness, I don’t want this life for me.  I hate this pain.  Despite the fact that I’ve been carrying it around with me for 13 months, I still have such a long road ahead of me and it’s just not fair.’ 

She replied that of course I’m sick of it, of course it’s not fair.   My husband died and how else am I supposed to feel? It doesn’t mean that I’m broken or there’s something wrong with me.  I’m grieving and it’s horrible.  She pointed out that everyone around me is giving me more acceptance and understanding that I’m granting myself. 

She reminded me of the progress I’ve made since those first few months.  I don’t cry at work as much; I’ve travelled; I’ve taken up new hobbies and made new friends. 

She pointed out that while I have bad days, I also have good days.  And on those good days, while I might take steps to keep life simple, I don’t use Dan’s death as an excuse for a free pass. 

Being reminded of that really helped.   I actually think I’m going to print it off and stick it to my fridge.  Widowhood is such hard work.  So many life lessons all being shoved in my face at the same time, it’s exhausting and overwhelming trying to take it all in. 

Plus, my memory isn’t the best right now so I forget a lot of things… like the fact that it’s ok to be this dreadfully sad and that there will be more good days. 

If only I could have that breakthrough and learn to trust myself. Like my counsellor said, if only I saw what others saw - and if only I gave myself the grace and compassion that was being shown to me by the people around me.

Inner Voice

**Filling in for Amanda today...but she will be back next week!**

Decision making was never difficult for me. Options don't confuse me, and once I have made a choice I rarely question myself. I realize that many people engage in a mental wrestling match with every decision they make, and I have regularly been grateful that my mind and I generally agree pretty quickly. 

And then came widowhood.

One of the most disturbing aspects of widowhood for me was the about face I experienced in my decision making abilities. My previously certain mind betrayed me at every turn. When Phil died an avalanche of decisions that needed to be made immediately began, and then an on-going slide of questions to be answered by the last person standing continued. The first heart wrenching choices to be made included: whether or not to donate his organs (you have to make this one in less than 24 hours), burial vs. cremation, what type and how many memorial services to have, and will you be purchasing a monument Mrs. Hernandez? Once these choices were made I began to second guess each one asking myself repeatedly if I made the right choice.

The decision making process did not get any easier as the weeks and months passed. I discovered that I was entering the wrestling match of the uncertain on a daily basis without regard for the importance of the choice to be made. Was I doing this task correctly? Should I purchase the blue or the brown sheet set? Water the grass every other day or every third day? One minute option A seemed best, the next minute I was more inclined to go with option B. I found myself seeking advice on choices large or small; allowing myself to be swayed toward my adviser's way of thinking regardless of what my own instincts were telling me. Buy a new fence or fix the old? Sell Phil's truck or keep it? Get a gardener or teach the kids how to mow the lawn? Vacation or no vacation? The list went on and on....making a decision of any sort became a monumental effort. I lost confidence in myself, and began to believe that everyone else knew what I needed better than I did. Until one day when a well meaning friend stepped over the line regarding my privacy, and a little voice sounded inside my head..."He did not just do that!" Hearing the familiar sound of my own voice I realized in one mind blowing moment how much of my daily life I was allowing to be determined by what other people thought, felt, knew, said, or sometimes even ordered. The silence of my inner voice suddenly became deafening.

The truth is our inner voice still speaks while we are grieving, but sometimes we can't hear her/him over the din created by sorrow. The initial realization that we are no longer a part of a couple often begins an all-consuming tempest inside of us. But at the eye of the storm still rests the core of our being. That innermost self still knows what we need. When I first became aware that I was abdicating my right to run my own life, I asked myself the question...who are you? I didn't recognize the woman I saw in the mirror, because I allowed her voice to be silenced by grief.

When my inner voice finally spoke, the first thing she told me was that I would be okay. She spoke up when I tried to do too much, and pointed out when I needed a mental health day. When I wanted to quit, she reminded me that quitting wouldn't stop the pain. When I began to hear her again, she helped me choose between going out to dinner with friends and staying home to watch a movie. Myself helped me figure out how to manage the holiday season. She knew instinctively what I needed on the first anniversary of Phil's death, and all the ones that have come after. She consistently, and confidently, knows which choice is best for me. Sometimes I ignore her, and when I do I usually pay a price. But she loves me and she is proud of what I have done, and of who I am becoming. Only she knows the effort this has required. Finally I realized that her approval is what I need most. No one knows me better than I know myself. But I only discovered that fact when I was willing to trust my inner voice once again.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe ......

...... it's suddenly not.

I have always described grief and grieving as standing in the ocean.  In the beginning I wasn't able to keep standing because of the relentless pounding of the waves.  They came at me one after another.  It felt as if I were in the middle of a a typhoon, or a hurricane.  I've been in the middle of a hurricane since then ..... and I think it still applies.

I couldn't withstand the waves ..... they kept knocking me over and pulling me under.  It was all I could do to try to reach above the water line and get a breath before I was pulled under again.
In the beginning all I could do was dog paddle and barely keep my face above the water.

And then the water started calming down.  The waves still came, but they were a bit further apart.  Some days I was able to get to my feet ...... and even stay standing through a wave.  Not always, but some days.
And then more days.

I grew stronger with the passage of time.  I stood easier.  The waves still came, but they were rarely able to knock me down.
They'd knock me off balance, to be sure, and they'd threaten to pull me under with their force and pull, but I managed to stay on my feet.

Strength takes time.
It cannot be rushed.
It cannot be purchased.
It cannot be borrowed.
It has to be earned.

We are each earning strength with every day that passes ...... and finds us still here.
When we notice that we're stronger and that the waves are less frequent, we think that we're on the mend (so to speak).  We think that we'll start feeling better and better.
And maybe, at close to a year,  we may start to believe that the waves have gone.

But, contrary to popular thought, grief does not disappear on the day you hit the one year mark.
The tears do not automatically dry up because of the passage of 365 days.
The pain does not fade out after 52 weeks.
A broken heart doesn't heal in 12 months' time.

In fact, for many people, the pain gets worse after a year.
The depression gets darker.
The tears flow quickly.

I wish I had known that.
I wish someone had told me that the shock that numbs you during the first year (to some extent) is the thing that disappears at one year.  The numbness that most likely helped you survive, leaves your heart unprotected and exposed to the pain of the holidays and special days.

I wish I had known.
I wouldn't have thought that there was something wrong with me.
I wouldn't have thought that I'd feel that way forever.
I wouldn't have wanted to die so very much (a little, probably, but not as much as I did).

One day, at around 17 months,  I walked into my therapist's office.  I broke down and asked her what the hell was wrong with me.  I was at one and a half years, why didn't I feel ANY better?  Why was I still depressed and sad and not "better"?
She got up, looked through her files and then pulled out this sheet and handed it to me:

And I felt like I had been understood by someone ....... by whoever made this graph.  I felt validated and I knew, in that moment, that there was nothing wrong with me.  I knew that, without a doubt, I was normal.
And that felt great.

Look at that graph.  The bottom line represent the passage of time.  The line on the left side represents the intensity of grief upon the loss of a spouse (or maybe anyone, though I think it's really for a spouse).

It starts on the day your spouse died.  See how high the intensity is?  And how high it stays?  Yes, it goes up and down, but not very much.  The grief is intense, but then at around the 10 month mark or so, it gets less intense.  Not a lot, but a bit.

And then ...... here's the part that made me feel like a huge weight had been lifted from me ...... look at the 15-18 month mark.  Check out how high the intensity level spikes on the graph.  It goes up higher than it's ever been before ..... even in the first days.  It takes a huge spike.  And the grief hurts ...... a lot.
But ...... here's the part that made me feel hopeful:  it spikes to its highest point, yes ...... but then it drops almost as quickly as it spiked.  And it drops a lot.  It goes far lower than its ever been since that day.  And then it stays down.
Yes, it spikes at some times, but those spikes are nothing compared to the ones that came before.
It's at that point that you know you will survive.

And it's at that point that you'll realize ...... that the water is a bit safer than it was before.

But until then, those of you who are still in the toss and the pulling of the relentless waves ...... know that we are here.  And that we've been there.  I want to take your hand and hold you up, above the waves.
I want to give you my strength, but I can't.  You have to live through this, and so earn your strength.  But I'm still here, as are the rest who've made it further on this road.  And we are cheering you on. You are loved.  You matter.  And you will survive ...... even on the days you don't want to.

It won't be long ...... before you'll know that it's safe to go back in the water.
I'll see you there.
:)

Processing

The dark mark on the fence marks The Spot.

For a while now, I have been able to get through every day with only missing Greg and not get caught up in HOW he died.

But then up until recently, I avoided most of  the details on the HOW and limited myself to knowing the barest facts of the accident: Greg was the passenger; neither speed nor reckless driving was a factor; and he died instantly.

But.....

On Sunday, through a cruel twist of fate and an unholy bridge closure which meant I had find an alternative way home.

But while "following my nose" along half-remembered routes from a former job and a former abode, I was more intent on avoiding the aforementioned unholy traffic nightmare on the "closed for maintenance"  freeway and so the fact that I was fast approaching The Bad Place snuck up on me. 
As I stopped at the lights at the top of the hill (just around the bend at the top of the picture), I looked ahead and realised what lay 250m in front of me.
Thankfully the traffic was light and I turned down a side street and avoided it.

I have successfully managed to avoid being anywhere near The Bad Place ever since the accident.  Its not hard - it is half-way across town and on a road that I rarely ever used anyway.

But coming so close has really shaken me to the core ....  but it is done: I've now driven along the the road that Greg and J drove along seconds before they died.
Another first out of the way.

....and so I now process this next bit if grief that has been far too hard to even think about up until now. 

 I will be stronger for it.

Little steps.

Filling In Again

Well, since Janine is on vacation...you are all stuck with me again! And since I am writing for the second time this week, I started thinking about the purpose of this blog and about how far we've come since my first post.

If you are interested in a little Widow's Voice history, you will find it HERE.

From the very beginning of this blog the intention has been for our writers to share their widowed journey not by looking backwards (and with the benefit of hindsight), but by sharing their in the moment ups and downs. I wanted our readers to know what widowhood looks like from a variety of perspectives. I also wanted to provide a glimpse of widowhood for the long haul. Because contrary to popular belief widowhood doesn't last only one year. Believe it or not, our widow experience will color every part of our lives, and that is not always a bad thing. The thing is once you have lived the fact that people die up close and personal, it is a fact you will never forget.

So, in the spirit of what this blog is really about, I will share with you my own widowed journey right now.

I work with and for widowed people every day. There aren't words to describe how grateful and honored I am to be even a small part of walking with this community through despair and pain into hope and possibility. People look into my eyes and believe, sometimes based on my word alone, that this gets better. Hope is not just a word to me. Hope is a life line that I hold out, virtually and in person, over and over again. I can't imagine doing anything else.

I miss Phil. Every once in awhile there is a moment where I still forget he is dead. Thinking that he might be missing me too, and that he cares enough to send a "sign" my way once in a while brings tears to my eyes. I have long since stopped caring about whether signs are real or imagined. I figure this road is hard enough, take what comfort you can in messages, signs, or coincidence.

Yes, I am re-married. The photo above is of me and my husband Michael. He is a truly incredible man. He attends my presentations regularly. Yep, that would be the presentation when I talk about how much I love my dead husband. Michael is our Camp Widow camp photographer for the West Coast. He spends the entire weekend in San Diego photographing the event and trying to be sure I ate something! But maybe the most amazing thing about him is that he not only knows that I love Phil, he expects nothing less. In his mind it is ridiculous to assume that I would ever stop loving someone who meant so much to me. That statement is how he won my heart. I didn't have to give up my love for Phil to have new love in my life. Besides all of the understanding he shows with regards to my widowhood, he enhances my life. We live, we laugh, we love, we plan, and we know that our time together is finite. Somehow that makes life sweeter.

Being married doesn't remove my widowed experience. In fact, there are a few ways that Phil's death impacts my life with Michael....I always remind Michael not to get hit by a car. If he hasn't exercised in awhile I will remind him that death is not an option so he better get to taking care of himself. On a road trip he took with a friend not long ago, we discovered that I didn't like talking to him on the phone while he was away. Some weird part of my brain decided that if I didn't talk to him on the phone I could distance myself enough emotionally that if he died it wold hurt less. Yes, I know this is ridiculous. But that was the widow part of my brain talking...you all know better than to try to make sense of that!

My message for you today is that this gets better. There are no short cuts through the pain. Healing takes as long as it takes. Moving forward will not be seamless. Community matters. Hope matters. And there is no risk of you forgetting, or not loving, or leaving behind your loved one. They reside in the safest place possible now....inside of you.

The "A" Word: Acceptance

Amanda is turning in grades this week in Australia (teachers work so much more than we know behind the scenes!)...so she has asked me to write for her this Tuesday. Looking through the archives, I found this blog I wrote about the concept of acceptance, and thought I would share it again today. As you all know, acceptance is the final of the stages of grief. Well, I guess it would be the last stage if the stages were indeed linear...but that is a whole different post! Here is my idea, written two years ago, about how I found peace with the "A" word....and since Phil and I would have been married twelve years on June 16th, I thought a photo taken on our wedding day would be the perfect image for this post. Long live love.

Since Phil's death, grief has created a long struggle between the desire to overcome daily challenges and the need to accept the realities that widowhood has brought into my life. The concept of acceptance when applied to Phil's death was not okay with me. Somehow I felt that accepting Phil's death was a horrible combination of giving up and giving in to the pressure I felt to be "better." The way people said the word always sounded so FINAL to me. So, instead of heading toward the horrifying land of acceptance...I stubbornly planned around any roadblock that would slow what I thought was forward life progress, but I trudged forward with no clear destination. I think I believed that if I kept moving I could outrun the need to accept the fact that the man I loved was not coming home.

One woman I met just a few months after Phil died shared this idea with me, and I have never forgotten her words. When she was surrounded by the pain of either loss or loneliness after the death of her husband, she would challenge herself to "rest in the riddle." She allowed herself to not know the answer; to sit in the stillness; and gave herself permission to not ask why, when, what or how. This was a foreign concept to my stubborn, planning, determined mind. I remember wondering HOW exactly she did that. Since resting would require being still, would acceptance sneak up on me unbidden while I wasn't busy doing? What I can see now, that was not so clear then, is that I was terrified of being frozen in grief. IF I stopped what would happen to me. Would the darkness swallow me up? Would accepting Phil's death mean he was forgotten? What would I have to let go of in order to meet the acceptance criteria?

I have struggled with this answer for five years, and it has taken me every bit of that time to find a path towards acceptance that didn't feel like giving up, or somehow failing Phil.

Eventually I embraced the concept that my life is a tapestry. By making my every relationship, word, effort, endeavor, friendship, challenge, and tragedy a part of my life work...nothing is ever left behind.

Accepting Phil into my life tapestry, and weaving a pattern with his love so beautiful that it becomes a piece of the whole that is noticeably more vibrant than many others gave acceptance a purpose. His love shines through my weaving, but only if I can allow him to become part of me instead of an idea outside of myself. That thought turned out to be a form of acceptance I could live with...and a worthy place for the kind of love Phil and I shared.

Every day we are faced with choices about what to add to our own piece of life art. Your loss will color the final product, but so will your love. The lost moments we so long for are often the smallest gestures, the quietest moments, the most unimportant seeming details...you are still creating those every day, and are slowly stitching them into your own personal tapestry. 

Stitch with flourish.

A Week and Counting

Time marches on, and quickly!! It was only May when I got engaged, and the big day is coming up next week! I can hardly believe it. I make that statement with double meaning. I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed since May, but it's more than that. I can hardly believe it.

I remember a time when I was convinced I'd never remarry. I loved Daniel more than anyone in the world (excluding Grayson :) and there was no way I would ever find someone like that again, much less allow them in. I wasn't even going to look. Dating? Maybe. I mean, I'm human so it wouldn't hurt to at least go out every once in a while, but long term? Forget it. Men are generally stupid and I'd already had the cream of the crop. Marriage? Forget about it. It would be a cold day in hell before that happened....well, it looks like the temps in Hades are dropping rapidly!

I think Carl slipped in when I had a rare moment of "guard down". I had decided I was interested in finding someone - I had arrived at the conclusion that I wanted someone in my life for real, not just a fun date. But, I had become the two date master. I could eliminate a guy in two dates (a couple of posers made it past my radar, but those are another story), and I had serious doubts that I'd find anyone 3rd date worthy.

Along came Carl. He charmed me with his easy humor, his fabulous smile, and his ability to talk to me about our bumpy past lives. He disarmed me completely and when I looked up...it was date 3, and we were booking a trip to New Orleans...and he hadn't even kissed me yet! Seriously? When did he slip me the love potion!?? Fast forward a year, and Carl, on one knee, blew me away. I still don't think I've recovered from that romantic moment :)

Almost two years later, we have bought a house, and the big day is coming up fast. I can hardly believe it! Who knew this was possible? I think several of my friends wondered if I'd go this route and had serious doubts - much as I did. I didn't, and still don't think that "moving forward" after Daniel means finding a man. "Moving forward" means finding yourself again and building a new life for yourself. I moved forward - and buckets of tears and a few years later, I found myself. A stronger, harder, more cynical version of me, and also a softer, more sensitive, and more loving me... but still me.

Who would have thought that new me would end up counting the days until her wedding? Certainly not ME! ;-) A week away and counting....I can hardly believe it!!

Layers

from here

Maybe what grief triggers do is peel back all my layers to where my original pain lies.
I might be constructing a new life for myself out of the rubble his death left behind and really kicking ass. I might go days or even weeks without losing hope or crying. Then, something will happen that may or may not be a big deal and all the progress I've seemingly made is peeled away to show me, in sharp contrast, what I am still grieving. Sometimes, the layers get peeled back to before the most recent tragedy and remind me that I'm still grieving old losses, too.

My own recent trigger peeled back the layers of growth to the original pain I carry with me - the loss of my mother and the ensuing childhood raised by someone who always seemed burdened by my presence. His behavior managed to program my child's brain to believe that I was a hardship. Many years of my own work on myself and a 15 year relationship helped to restore much of my self-worth. When Dave died, I continued to see proof of my inherent worth when the people who care about me freely gave of their love and kept me afloat during my darkest times.

But a recent grief trigger that got at my sense of worth seemingly unraveled much of this work. Not permanently, of course. And it won't take years to weave it back together again. It'll take days, maybe weeks, tops. But it's a reminder of how I carry old pain with me. Not just Dave's death, which takes up most of the space in my heart right now, but ancient hurts that aren't fully healed.

I think that's why grief triggers can be so insidious. I think they're just triggering the grief of my most recent loss, but it might actually be a compounded pain they trigger. One pain leads to another, leads to another, leads to another. They get all wrapped up in each other and almost indistinguishable.
Add that to a chronic worrier and over-thinker and it's a grief storm extravaganza.

Fortunately, with the help of dedicated friends, I know I can weather the storms. In the middle of the storm I forget this fact and need to be reminded, but after having ridden many out, I have proof that they are not permanent and that there is an end in sight.

Triggers are a part of everyday life. They will find me even if I don't open myself up to them. Unfortunately, just living life makes me vulnerable to them. And living life without letting fear rule me REALLY opens me up to them. Rejection or further loss can be powerful triggers.

But they'll be there in mundane places too. My mailbox, my iPod, my kitchen, the realty sign in my yard. All unavoidable.

Each time a trigger gets me, it builds my strength. The next trigger might not hit quite so hard and my recovery from it might be quicker and easier. None of that means it won't hurt just as much as always, or even MORE than ever before, though. That's another realization I've made. To be reminded that the pain won't last doesn't resolve the pain itself. It might give me enough hope to ride out that current storm, but it doesn't eliminate the pain and the pain grinds me to a halt. And that is okay. It's okay to feel too heavy to move. It's okay to admit that the weight of the grief is too heavy to bear standing up under and to let it take me down.

As soon as the weight lessens, though, I have to take my chance to stand up again and run with it, getting my feet underneath me again and readying myself for the next hurdle life sends me.

So today, the weight lessened enough to stand up under it and make some plans for moving forward.
Now I can build up strength again and attempt to live life without the fear of the next storm's arrival.

That is my daily challenge.

Christmas Parties: Third Time's The Charm

Somewhere between suffering that terrible first Christmas party alone and “Whoo hoo! It’s a Christmas party!” was my last weekend. This is the third holiday party season without my Angel holding my hand (and likely suggesting I wear a different shirt.) I had been dreading the holiday parties but my anticipation of misery far exceeded reality. I was both surprised and relieved.

Last Friday was Maggie’s 36th birthday. In our previous life together, we would have celebrated her birthday by throwing a tremendous party here at our house on Saturday night.




You can’t imagine the festivities and the joyousness (read: drunkenness and debauchery.)



A couple hundred friends from multiple social circles would join together for a night of raucousness, gluttony and full-on drinky drinky. Maggie would spend days preparing this absolute ridiculous spread of cheeses, dips, meats, sweets, cracker-these and basil-thats. There were servicing dishes, pastry dishes, hot dishes and cutting boards filled with gastronomical adventures that people would inhale, praise and ask about for years following (“Hey, Maggie, what was the name of that cheese with the blah-ditty blah blah?” Amazingly, she’d always remember.)

And there was cake.

The party would always rage until way past 3AM.

The next-day cleanup was really a next week process. Not surprisingly, it typically took more than a few weeks to get the smell of beer and food out of the house. But it was fun.

You can’t imagine the huge smile that beautiful woman wore as she floated around the friend-packed room. It was her heaven. And to see her that happy was mine. Perfect.

---

So here I sit, nearly three years after her Angel Day. Two parties have sprung up out of the absence of ours, both hosted by close friends. Neither party is related; there’s no mention of our party, or even a mention of Maggie and really there shouldn’t be. They are just regular ol’ Christmas parties. The huge group of people has divided, too, and a large group of those who used to attend our parties don’t come to either of the new parties. But I am always invited to both – one on Friday night and one on Saturday.

Last year, my attendance at both of these parties was torturous. Here they were, all these folks who just two years ago were at our house at our party celebrating Maggie’s birthday. Now, here they were, laughing like no one is missing, all happy with their living spouse and happy future. Then there’s me. I hated pretty much every minute. But I put on my party face and smiled until I felt the tears about to break through. I’d dash quickly off to the bathroom or a bedroom and let them rain down until I had control again. Then I’d put my party face back on and pretend it was a happy holiday season. After all, what’s not to be happy about?

But this year was different. I dreaded both parties (I even finally decided to attend one at 10:15PM that night!) But this year the tears didn’t come. Not once did I excuse myself or cover up my watery eyes. Yes, I missed my Maggie but it wasn’t terrible or overpowering. It wasn’t unbearable. It just was the same ol’ everyday pain. In fact, I actually kinda enjoyed seeing some of the ol’ friends again. It had been a while since I’d seen some of them. A year, in fact.

The third time’s the charm. That’s how the saying goes, right?

Sunday

So this is the first occasion of my newly assigned day.

Sunday.

A day of sun, as I see it, is a true blessing. For so many of us, worry, hardship, and the basic toll of life, can really bring us down. When the weekend is upon us, we tend to wonder how much we can get accomplished on Saturday, and how we want to spend a day of leisure on Sunday. For those shaking off the trauma of loss, a day of sun can feel quite foreign.

Today, as I write, it is Saturday. I spent the day with a full car load of those I love, running errands and having lunch. As we moved back and forth about town, the sun was not shining, as it was raining. A lot. At one point someone commented about the weather, as if none of us would find pleasure in it. Very quickly my daughter and I both shouted out, I love rainy days.

Rainy days always give me a sense of comfort. For so long my days were filled with tears. It didn't matter how sunny it was outside, in my heart and soul, it was always stormy and wet. For so long a day of sun was incongruent with my mood. For so long it felt like the sun's only purpose was to shine down the truth of my loss and despair.

A funny thing happened last night. My new love, Abel, was spending the night, as he is still recuperating from a knee injury, and being here with me is a nicer way to spend days of relaxation than in his lonely room at home, I suppose. Anyway, as we climbed into bed for the night, I turned to him and said, Did you take your medicine? Abel said thanks for reminding him, then jumped, well, slowly climbed, out of bed to take it. While he was in the bathroom fumbling with his medication I was lying there feeling the aftermath of my words.

For two years I climbed into bed with my husband, who was fighting off a brain tumor. For two years I would remind him, asking, Did you take your medicine? Talk about a sobering moment. When Abel returned he could see that my mind, and mood, had drifted off somewhere. He asked, and I said that I was fine. He reminded me that I could talk about anything.

Well, it's just that I spoke those same words to Michael every night, and, well, it scares me to say those words to you. What if something should happen? What if I one day have to always remind you about taking your medicine?

His reassuring smile reminded me that all is well right now. It may be raining outdoors, yet right now, at this moment in my life, it is mostly sunny within. I suppose I can't go around expecting dark rainy days all the time. Right? Funny, when did it happen? When did I go from expecting days of sun, to knowing only days of rain? Well, perhaps the day my husband died. Perhaps the day I learned of his cancer. Whenever it was, the sun was something I had to make a concerted effort to recognize.

Now that time has passed, I find that I'm beginning to expect the sun. When I have days without much sun it can be a welcome change. Not that it brings sorrow, but it does bring contemplation. It tells me to light a fire, wrap myself in a blanket while lying on the sofa, and to reflect. These days I can reflect on my loss with a mutual sense of grief and joy. Joy that I was gifted in my love for Michael. Joy that I have learned so much on this journey. Joy that I have made so many lovely and kindred spirited friends. And joy that I have opened myself up to let the sun in once again.

Sunday.

the little things

I wore Jeff's work coat the other night - Halloween night. It was the first time I have worn it in the three years since he died. I haven't wanted it to lose any of his smell, cells or presence by donning it myself. But with it on, I felt warm, cuddled and protected from the cold Autumn wind biting at me as I followed the kids down a variety of driveways while they asked strangers for candy.

Although I could have used his coat many times in the snow or stacking wood in the days since his death, it has hung in his closet collecting dust and the smell contained within said closet.

Later in the evening after staying warm and dry wrapped in his jacket, I reaching in the pocket hoping to find a tissue to wipe Briar's chilly little nose. Instead, I found a slip of paper. Written on the paper in both my and his signature font was our last grocery list together. My bubbly and embarrassingly juvenile scrawl married with his fluid, grown-up handwriting.

I marveled at the thought of how unknowing and naive we both were while jotting down these items. I tried to remember the meal. I wondered what we had talked about and if we had eaten fish or chicken along with the green beans, mushrooms and basil.

It also made me realize how far away that life is now. How far I've come without him. And although I really, truly never thought that the vacuous minutia of everyday would ever slip back into my life, it has.

My grocery lists now only contain my print/writing with the occasional kid-written word "candy" or "juice". But I am still doing buying the groceries. I am still feeding our kids. I am still walking upright. And although I still live everyday missing him, I can keep part of him close. His coat, or his kids, or his memory. He is with me. In my heart. In my memory. In my closet.

Overcome By Grief

Another lovely day in San Diego. The sun was up high and shining brightly this morning. I was awoken by a call from Abel, which is our usual morning routine. It's a wonderful reminder that someone is thinking of me.

As the day went on my mood began to fail me. My daughter kept asking if I had not slept well the night before. When she pointed this out I realized that I was feeling quite low in energy, and said well, I thought I had slept well, but I was terribly tired none the less. I ran out to do a few errands, as I was having some friends over for a pumpkin carving party.

As I left the grocery store it hit me, I wasn't tired at all, I was overcome by grief. With that simple realization the tears began to flow. How is it on such a beautiful sunny day, with life going so well, with a festive day ahead of me, that I was to succumb to my grief?

Of course I know the answer to my question.

Because it never really leaves me, and once in awhile, maybe more than once in awhile, it needs to rise to the surface and reveal itself.

Now it's the end of the day. I had a wonderful evening with friends, and the pumpkin carving was such fun. The biggest surprise was that Abel ended up not working, and surprised me with a visit.

Now I end my day, the way it began, yet the sun is shining on the inside. Who knows how I will feel tomorrow. Yet, I don't worry about it too much. It's an all too familiar occurrence. I accept that grief and I go hand in hand. It is my companion.

Overcome by grief. It doesn't have to overwhelm me. It just is. And then it moves on.

Tired

This is a re-post from February.

I can't write.
I'm tired, so, so, so fuckin' tired.
I don't know how I will get up tomorrow and begin another day.
I am tired of putting on my battle armor every morning to go through my day.
I am in over my head, raising my kids and trying to earn enough for us to survive.
I feel my energy being leeched, drawn out, mercilessly sucked from me every day.
I just don't see how this can keep happening.
I can not replenish as quickly as it is drawn forth.

So, I re-post.
in an effort to give myself the tiniest of breaks: to suck in, a small portion of what has been sucked out.

-------------




I’m tired of being a widow.
I’m tired of bringing the car to the mechanic when the red maintenance light visually screams at me.
I’m tired of running out of food and being responsible for getting more.
I’m tired of waking up by myself.
I’m tired of being solely responsible for:

Bringing in all the income
Paying all the bills
Making sure the kitchen is clean.
Preparing the kids for their car pool.


I’m tired of not hearing “Daddy?”
I’m tired of hearing “Mom?” from three different voices in 13 seconds.
I’m tired of being interrupted while I am trying to hear what the first "mom" yeller (or was it the second) call was about.

I’m tired of telling people I’m a widow.
I’m tired of using it to help me get what I need
Or don’t need (like that traffic ticket).
I’m tired of the look that people give me when they find out I’m a widow.
I’m tired of that fucking gentle touch on the arm which really means “I’m so sorry for you and I’m so glad it’s not me.”
I'm tired of my widow story.

I’m tired of explaining that widowhood is not all doom and gloom
I’m tired of talking about the growth, the joy, the fun it is too.

I’m tired of going to teacher conferences alone.
I’m tired of teachers asking me to do that one more thing for one child or another, not realizing that it will break me.
I’m tired of taking the kids to doctor’s appointments, dropping off the prescriptions and picking them up and administering them by myself.

I’m tired of listening for that horrible cough in the middle of the night by myself.

I’m tired of holding our children as they cry because they want you to come back.
I’m tired of my powerlessness to fix it.
I’m tired of telling myself that they will be better people for your death.

I’m tired of my over reaction to the Legos on the floor.

I’m tired of not knowing what will trigger sobbing.

I'm tired of the guilt I feel because Langston, as a teenager, doesn't have a father.

I’m tired of being awed by all that they are doing and then, in the next breath regretting that they won’t ever know the joy of looking up and seeing you smile at them after they did it.

I’m tired of the irritated sound of my friend's voices when I need to talk.

I’m tired of the shallow “OMG! You look so great!” as if there is a direct correlation between looking good and feeling good.

I’m tired of admiring my body…by myself.

I’m tired of deciding to: break the cell phone contract, buy a new couch, and enter that cycling race with you not here to discuss it.

I’m tired of being lonely.

I’m tired of writing about widowhood
I’m tired of crying.
I’m tired of missing you.
I’m tired of loving the person I have become since you have been gone.

I’m tired of forgetting, in very brief moments, that you are dead.

I’m tired of planning each day, a closely choreographed dance, with dancers who want to go their own way on a tiny stage.
I tired of remembering drinks for the team, that Langston is sleeping over at ___'s house, that Ezra needs cleats and what color Pallas wants to paint her room.
I’m tired of asking:

What is your homework plan?
Did you write that thank you note?
Will his parents be home?

I’m tired of forgiving myself for the missed phone calls, forgotten plans and skipped lunches.

I’m tired of fearing dates:
6 months,
1 year and now
two years dead.
Your birthday or
Langston’s or
Ezra’s or Pallas’s.
Or mine.

I’m tired of discovering that the reason I have been feeling so crappy for so many days is because I have been in a death march (Susan, such a great and accurate phrase!) because one of those dates is coming.

I’m tired of crying in Trader Joes (I am sure they are too).

I’m tired for trying to remember if something occurred before you died or after.

I’m tired of looking forward to the weekend, only to realize the weekends offer no break from the kids, from the grocery shopping, from being an only parent.

I’m tired of the men I date not even trying to understand what it is to be an only parent, not just a single one!

I’m tired of not having someone to tag team with.

I’m tired of not having anyone to look horrible in front of but still be loved.

I’m tired of your parents who can’t take ONE damn step out of their comfort zone to see your children.

I'm tired of hearing them say how important family is but backing it up with NO action whatsoever.

I’m tired of not having someone to talk about the car or the stupid pedestrian I almost hit on my bike ride today.

I’m tired of having no one to discuss my day with.
I’m tired of thinking about the energy and time it takes to get into a new relationship.

I’m tired of craving sex.
I’m tired of wanting to be held, of needing to be touched.
I'm tired of wondering if my sagging breasts are a turn off.
I'm tired of wondering if I'm good in bed.
I'm tired of waiting to have sex.
I'm tired of wondering if I can give a good blow job.
I'm tired of worrying about diseases!

I’m tired of wanting someone to take care of me, so I can have the energy to take care of everything and everyone else.

I’m tired of clean sheets and a clean body and no one to enjoy them with.

I’m tired of wishing I could see you just one more time, just one more fucking time, healthy.

I’m tired of watching the anguish in our kid’s eyes as they miss you.

I’m tired of writing about you.
I’m tired of talking about you.
I’m tired of telling stories about you to our kids so they can know you.

I’m tired.
I am so, so, so fucking tired.

So honey?
When the fuck are you coming back? Cause I’m tired of this shit.

I'm Okay

Filling in for Jackie today, she'll be back next week!

Six years ago my husband died in a tragic accident (is there any other kind really?). I woke up the next morning, and felt certain that I had been dreaming. With my eyes closed, I slid my hand across the bed to Phil's side, and felt the cold sheets where his warm body used to lie. I wasn't dreaming.

The pain of his absence was searing. There were so many days when I thought for SURE that the gut wrenching pain would kill me. In fact, to this day, I am still surprised that it didn't. I felt like a zombie that was bleeding internally, and dragging my blood soaked bandages as I wandered aimlessly through life. Attractive, yes?

Day by painful day I put one foot in front of the other. Many days were awful, others were worse. Getting out of bed was sometimes  a Herculean effort, but other times getting into that empty bed at the end of the day took every ounce of strength I could muster. My life was full of these mind-bending contradictions. I wanted to be alone; I hated being alone. I ached to be around familiar friends, but their presence shone a spotlight on the hole left by Phil's death. I wanted everything in my life to go back to the way it was, and yet everything familiar was also torturous. Yes, no, move forward, run back, cry, laugh, cry some more...I felt like a spinning top with endless momentum. When would the pain stop, and who would I be when/if it finally did?

Maybe the hardest part of healing for me has been the fear of what would come after. After what? After I was done. After I was "better." After I reached the semi-dreaded state of acceptance. After I was done being widowed. What would happen then?

I can't tell you what will happen for you when you have lived through 2,213 days of widowhood, but I can tell you what I have learned through these past six years. First, I will never get over Phil's death. I am certain I will always think the fact that he lost his life was a terrible waste and that the world would have been better with him in it. Next, I now believe that my widowhood belongs to me in the same way that my motherhood, and sisterhood, and daughterhood, and friendhood does. Being widowed is part of my life story, and this painful chapter has colored the rest of my life in rich, deep colors. I have met some of my dearest friends while navigating the waters of grief, and I know we will be surfing together for life...no matter what lies ahead. Lastly, I have realized that life will always be delivering a new challenge, another test, a different circumstance to my doorstep. How I handle the package will determine what impact the unexpected bomb, or bouquet, has on the next chapter of my life. Thanks to my widowhood, I know I will survive.

And what will happen after? I (and you) will be okay.

If Widow's Voice Has Helped You....

This is me with Chris (one of our Tuesday writers) at Camp Widow 2011...like my t-shirt??

Before 8/31/05 I didn't think much about non-profit organizations. I admired people who worked for great causes, donated here and there, volunteered my time fairly regularly, would probably have clicked on a "vote for us" link to help a friend or co-worker win one of those contests...but the mechanics of the non-profit world were unknown (and of no interest) to me. Then Phil died, and I landed on another planet.

As the months passed and I looked at the scattered remains of my life I searched frantically for proof that I could survive the loss of my husband. I wanted living proof...who survives this kind of pain? Where are they? Why don't they wear badges or something? How do I find widowed people out in the regular world? They must be here somewhere right? Oh, please tell me that I am not the only one. I can't be the only one. Right? 

I began seeking other widowed people out of desperation. And I found a community one person at a time. After each interaction with another widowed person I felt less alone. No matter what was different about our story, the sameness of the fact that we both found ourselves asking the pivotal question of widowhood...now what?...tied us together in a uniquely powerful way. My widowed community saved my sanity; they walked each step of my grief process beside me; each and every one of the people I met gave me hope for the journey ahead; and eventually I knew that the people who came after me needed this community too. So I started a non-profit called the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation in order to provide the people who would walk this road in the future with access to the hope that saved me. Because hope really did save me.

I had no idea what running a non profit would require. In the beginning, I lacked all kinds of essential things (like funding!), but the call to do this work was something I could not ignore. SSLF began with one program (Widow Match), and the idea for a conference where widowed people could find each other...lots of others....proving that they were not alone and providing them with tools to answer the what now question. Friends helped, my family became volunteers, ideas grew into programs and I am very proud to say that three years later SSLF now touches over half a million (we are SO not alone) widowed people every year, with no operating budget. And the need for our one-of a kind programs continues to grow every day, because hope will always matter to widowed people's recovery. Count on that.

 Soaring Spirits is the parent to this blog and five other programs. In the three years I have been writing this blog and running this organization I have never openly asked for help for our programs.But today I am asking for your help because SSLF has a great opportunity, and the way to help is easy. If this blog or any of our other programs has mattered to you  or to someone you love please help us continue to help you/them. 

Pepsi Refresh offers grants to non-profit organizations based on public support via Internet voting and Pepsi Product purchases. It may sound like a gimmick, but I assure you it is not. Pepsi is giving away hundreds of thousands of dollars in support of great ideas to Refresh the world. SSLF is in the running for a $50,000 grant. This would be a game changer for us. Funding is essential to both day-to-day operations, and to future growth for a grassroots organization like ours. How do you help? Here is a list of ways to support our effort to secure this grant:

1.) Follow this link (http://pep.si/pCouk7) to vote for SSLF and Camp Widow every day until 9/30...only 23 days to go!

2.) Purchase Pepsi Products with the "Power Vote" logo on the packaging. There are codes inside these products (under the cap or inside the box) that can be used for up to 100 votes each! Collect them from your friends, give Pepsi away as a gift...gather codes and enter them all at once by registering HERE.

3.) Don't give up. Vote every day, buy Pepsi products (I know this is a shameless plug) and use those codes to support SSLF. We need you to make this happen!

Maybe you are like the before me and have never given much thought to how non-profits do what they do? The hard part is not just coming up with the idea and managing the logistics...it is finding the funding to get the support programs going and then keep them going. This grant would do just that. We've made it easy for you to vote...just look for the Pepsi badge at the top right of this blog. We need thousands of votes to win. Lucky for us thousands of people read this blog every day...if each of you support us for the next 23 days what a difference YOU can make....for me, for you, but most importantly for them. The ones who don't need us yet. Vote for us so we can help them.Thank you for reading, for voting, and for believing that hope matters.

If you have questions, or feel called to help support SSLF in other ways too, just follow click here for my contact information...I'd love to hear from you!

Sitting

I struggle to find something of substance to talk about. Each Sunday comes around, and the awareness that my post is due by midnight is always on my mind. Usually there is something that I have been mulling over throughout the day, or something that has been with me throughout the week, that quickly becomes my post. Today I just feel empty.

I'm not a numbers guy, I don't really turn to them to find order in my life. I don't usually look to them to validate where I am with each given day, which I know is of help to some. Yet it is September again, which for my sons means a new beginning. School begins for them on Tuesday. For me though, September will always be a reminder of the end.

Two years ago I was approaching the final week of my husband's life. I felt like I was running a marathon, as there was so much to do in his day to day care. Yet in my marathon there was no winner, and there was definitely no victory lap.

I'm always aware of how much my life has slowed down since that day. The majority of my life seemed to come to an end that day. And trying to regain the pace of life has not been that easy. I think the main reason for this has been a lack of motivation. I haven't fully come to a place where life feels worth much of the effort, or that there could possibly be a payoff worth the effort.

It's not like I feel this way 24/7. I work hard at my job, and I really feel a sense of pride when I accomplish a goal or receive positive feedback. I keep my family and home together, and have created a new life for us here in San Diego. I enjoy the benefits of being closer to my extended family, like having my brother and his family visit for the weekend. Yet, with each of these, I still feel so empty and stagnate.

I think I tend to compartmentalize each of these areas of my life, and feel the lack of something significant that should string them all together. At the end of each day I sit here and wonder if any of the day's events were really worth the effort, as I just end up in the same place, feeling the same sense of emptiness.

Okay, this is all terribly depressing. Yet, so is much of my life. There is really no reason to sugar coat this. I know it won't be like this forever. Well, I suppose I don't really know that. At least people tell me it won't always feel this way, and I being a trusting soul, want to believe them. Truth be told, I don't expect much to change. I busy myself with distractions. I put out some effort in hope that something will change for me. Whether it happens or not is really not in my control. All I can do us get up each day, get the kids off to school, go to work, come home, make dinner, take care of the household, surf the net, and sit.

After all, sitting is not a bad thing. It is kind of a reward after accomplishing all the trivial pieces of life that sustain me, but do not feed me. Some day something, or someone, will come along and give me reason to get up and do something new. In the meantime, I'm in no hurry.

Another Ugly Four Letter Word

Everyone: Carl. Carl: Everyone. So there, now you've met. The last few weeks have been full of big changes for us. We've bought a new home, he moved into my house for a few weeks during the remodel of the new house, and now we've moved into our house together. The wedding is still a few months away, but well into the planning stages. Holy cow we have a lot going on!

I've had a tough few weeks - work has been crazy (as usual) and with the move, my personal life has been hectic as well. I think the busy-ness has kept me from really listening to my inner voice, and in the rare moments of quiet I find myself feeling oddly emotional and trying to find the source. I'd call it sad because I sometimes cry, but I finally realized a few days ago that it isn't sadness at all. At first I wondered if it was grief and some new unexplained wave of agony over Daniel. But it's not. I've found myself touching Carl's chest after he's asleep, making sure he's real. I sometimes get weepy watching him quietly breathe and I've been trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. After some soul searching and probing at the hurt spot I realized something shocking. It isn't sadness from grief, although it's related; this weird emotional state I'm in is fear: gut wrenching, heart stopping fear.

I know I don't have to explain to you what the fear is about. Some of you are probably trying to figure out why I'm doing this at all. I've stepped back into the land of not knowing. You know, that place we were before our spouses died? That place where you had no idea what was around the corner? Only this time? This time I know that death is out there. This time I'm not going to say "til death us do part" and smile an innocent smile - imagining our matching rocking chairs well into our 90's...

This time, this time I'm not sure I won't burst into tears, knowing in excruciating detail the meaning of the words. This time I know what I'm saying and how painful the disolution of a marriage can be. I'll still hopefully imagine the rocking chairs (yes, I still have hope or I wouldn't be doing this would I???), but I have a less happy alternate ending in my head too. I don't like the thought of it, but it is there nonetheless.

I've made Carl promise that I get to die first. In good humor he has accepted this challenge - and reassured me that he's always felt he'll live to be 90.

He'd better!

(so funny, in previewing this before I posted I realized that CARL is also a four-letter word - just for clarity - FEAR is the word I'm referencing. HA!)

Cliff Diving

Lately I've been taking some risks with my emotions. I don't know if I'm feeling stronger, or that I am learning that memories can begin to heal me. For the longest time I didn't look back to any of my prior writings. I put pictures and albums away, and have yet to unpack them from my move last year. Yet, in the last week I have begun opening some journals, and looking back at early entries in my blogs, both pre and post Michael's death.

Yesterday I had my extended family visiting. They don't live that far away, yet most of them had not taken the time to drive south to see my new home, or to really check in with me. When the weekend arrived one of my brothers called to ask what it was I really needed right now. Do I need quiet, or do I need company. He said he was aware that it was that time of year again. The time of year that is counting down to Michael's final days two years ago. He said he realized it must be quite difficult for me. I said yes, it was that time of year, and yes it is difficult most days. Yet I told him that more than anything, I need to have family around me. I need to know that they are there for me, and I need to be able to sit and share my thoughts and memories with them.

On Saturday we were all gathered, and my mother asked if I had any video, or recordings, of Michael's voice. I said that yes, I had a DVD of our wedding day, and Michael is saying his vows, and later giving a toast. I also told her that I haven't watched that DVD for about 18 months, as it always knocks me to my knees with grief. Everyone stopped what they were doing, and turned to focus their eyes on me. I could see that they were feeling the intensity of my emotions. My sister in law said of course it would be too difficult to watch right now. I took a deep breath, and moved the conversation in a different direction. I began reminding them of how much Michael loved all of them, and how much he loved our family gatherings. It was a very nice day.

Since then I have been replaying some of the last conversations I had with Michael. Today I was remembering the last birthday celebration I had with him. We had gone to Sedona for a week, and had a beautifully peaceful time. He gave me a beautiful pocket watch for my birthday, and a card with a picture of a cliff diver on it. He wanted to remind me, before it was too late, of how fearless I was, and how much he loved me. I cherish this card with all my heart.

Today, I have chosen to share it with you. I will edit out the beginning, as it is far more personal than I am prepared to share, but I do feel like I want Michael's voice to be heard today. After all, he is why I am here. And no, it is not my birthday, just a random memory that serves to remind me of who I was in his eyes. By remembering this, I can continue to reclaim the me that I thought was lost forever.


My Dearest Husband,

I suppose cliff diving would not phase you too much by now. You've taken so many great leaps of faith (like marrying me!) already.

Thank you for all your love, support and faith. I love you more and more each day. Like a fine wine you really are getting better each year, and I somehow got so lucky to share in your life.

Happy birthday, and every day after. Hope you like the watch. When you hear it ticking, think of my heart beating with yours.

I love you so much.

Michael