A Note from Our Editor

Thank you all for your comments, suggestions, and kind remarks regarding last week's Tuesday and Wednesday posts. What I find equal parts amazing and challenging about leading this blog effort is attempting to meet the multitude of needs of our readers; allowing for the variety of opinions expressed regularly; and at the same time working to offer something valuable at each of the multiple stages of widowhood. As a team of people who essentially work in a vacuum, we do our best to share our widowed journey as we live it.

When I asked each of our writers to join the WV team, I asked them to write about their life NOW...not THEN. I asked this very purposefully. The mission of Widow's Voice is to allow our readers to walk beside us through the ups and downs of widowed life. If we write about the past, we are able to do so with perspective. I have challenged our writers to courageously share their now, even though they don't know where now may take them. I can't count how many times I have personally hit "publish" on this blog with trepidation. We throw ourselves out into the web universe naked and vulnerable, never sure what the reaction to our words may be. Our commenters have the option to post anonymously, our writers do not. I couldn't be more proud of the ways in which they endeavor to light the path for those who read this blog. Always aware of the fact that we will never be able to meet every reader's need, try as we might.

Every person who is a part of the WV team wants to reach out to the widowed community. We don't get paid, we sometimes weather less than positive responses not only virtually, but in person as well, and we commit to sharing our lives week after week after week...whether we are sick,busy, tired, or just don't know what to write. We do this because we know. Because no matter how far out we are, we will never forget THAT day. Because we care about you. Because we want other widowed people to know they can survive. If we did, you can too.

I also want to assure you  that we really consider every comment made to this blog, including the ones I choose, for various reasons, not to publish. I will continue to edit out overly negative or demeaning comments, because I don't feel they serve our purpose here. Comments of all kinds are noted, and your kind words to our writers make their day. Sometimes when you write week after week you wonder whether your words are making a difference, so thank you for letting us know when we do.

Additionally, this is a space for you to support each other. I loved a comment over the last couple of days reminding everyone that this is a shared space and we have a real opportunity here to support others who are seeking hope. Your words matter as much as ours do. So please do feel free to share your feelings, stories, and words of encouragement.

As a team there has been much discussion about what changes we can make to the blog to better serve our community. Starting tomorrow, most writers will be changing writing days. By mixing up the order of bloggers, we hope to balance the dating/not dating, parent/not parent, women/men perspectives a bit. We will be adding a new writer over the next couple of weeks who began this journey only five months ago. I am also working on creating some easier to find links from our archives that share parts of the early journeys of each of our writers. All of the changes coming through the next month or two are intended to better serve this community, we hope you will be patient with us through the process.

When I began this blog in 2007, I never imagined that some day it would be read by nearly half a million people who live in every US state and in 130 different countries. I really hoped one person would find comfort here. And I still do. One person matters. YOU matter. Each time we change one life, we have fulfilled the mission of Widow's Voice. Thank you for sharing your widowed journey with us. We'll be here tomorrow. And the next day, too.

Yours in hope,

Michele

Widow's Voice Editor

Midnight in Paris

Today's post was written by guest writer David Hallman...thanks for sharing your journey with us David!

I walked by the building, intentionally, on the way home from seeing Woody Allen’s new film “Midnight in Paris”, a poetic reflection on the seeming attraction of former eras.

The access to the building is now sealed. Not just boarded over with plywood that I could pry loose. Not even with brick that I might be able to chip away with the right tools and enough sweat. No, the former door is now a solid wall of impenetrable concrete cinder block.

Thirty-five years ago, I walked through that door and met Bill. We created a new life together that evening, one that continued for over three decades during which we lived large in laughter and music, in art and politics, in travel and work, in pain and suffering, in love and loss.

That life is over and it feels like memory is all I’ve got left.

Without giving away anything too crucial about the plot of “Midnight in Paris”, let me just say that Woody seems to conclude that the past is not quite as romantic as we might imagine nor the present as pedestrian as we might fear.

The movie prompts reflection on memory and verges, I think, on deprecating memory as ultimately shallow—quaint and curious nostalgia that is unreliable as a guide to life in the present. That’s my take on it anyway. Many may disagree with my interpretation and I’m prepared to admit that my reaction may be coloured by more than a little defensiveness about the place of memory.

Paris was a special place for Bill and me. We had both studied at the Sorbonne before we met and we returned to the city of lights many times during our years together. Those are some of the memories that I cherish, that I hoard, that I guard with an army of emotional weaponry. Yeah, I’m a bit defensive.

But just so you don’t send the straight-jackets to take me away quite yet, let me reassure you that there is, I think, some good news.

I’m not only wallowing in the memory, though I do do that. I’m not dysfunctional and incapable of getting up and making breakfast each morning though that is difficult on many days. No, the good news is that I’m working with those memories, mauling and molding them, creating meaning out of them to help me understand where I’ve been, where I am now, and where I may be headed.

This memory work for me is through writing. This memory work is not easy. It does suggest though, that if memory is all I’ve got today, it is not all I will have tomorrow. I’m not prepared to just stare at that sealed-up door and walk away in despair.

In Between

I'm currently in between jobs. Because I wasn't exactly sure when my new job would begin, I had to play it cautiously, and give two week's notice to my most recent employer. It was a matter of jumping through many pre-employment hoops, then play the waiting game of all the required documentation to be returned to the Human Resources office, for them to then schedule my initial orientation. Well, all the doc's didn't return as quickly as I would have liked, so now I have two weeks of no work to deal with.

Everyone was keeps telling me how fortunate I am to suddenly have two weeks free. Everyone seems to think that having time on my hands is a good thing. Everyone but me.

You know, I'm doing really well these days. I'm making all kinds of progress, feeling good about myself, and making strides to propel my life forward. What most don't understand is that it is all very carefully choreographed, and the slightest change can set off a flood of emotion. I need my daily life to be full. I need to keep busy. Too much time, and the flood gates come crashing down. It's sad to admit this, but it is so true.

Open time. Free time, creates cracks in the facade of strength. Tears can overcome me at any given moment. Just today, I'm driving back from paying my mother a Mother's day visit. It's a two hour drive home, and my 12 year old is fast asleep in the seat next to me. It's too quiet in the car, and it's too damn quiet in my head.

Tears.

I come home, and find a huge, I mean three feet by tw0, card, with a lovely bouquet of roses, sitting on my front porch. It is a Mother's day gift from my daughter, letting me know that I'm the best mother she could possibly have. A big smile on my face. Then without much thought, massive amounts of tears.

Why does this have to happen? I look at the beautiful flowers, and think about the roses I used to receive from Michael on every special occasion.

Massive amounts of tears.

I pick myself off the bed, go wash my face, and tell myself to just keep moving.

As I previously said, I'm really doing quite well these days. I'm not just in between jobs, I'm in between the world of being widowed, and being single. I've joined the world of Internet dating. I learned early on that loudly stating my widowed status was a real turn off to most guys. I changed my profile to appear less dark, aiming for something a bit more uplifting, which my life actually is, and placed the fact that I am widowed further into the description. It feels like a better fit actually.

I am learning to become more comfortable with my in between status. I don't always need to be hiding at home in my mourning clothes. I can reclaim my fun and sensual side, shed the darkness, and can even be a bit flirtatious. I'm enjoying the pursuit. I'm finding that it is better to pursue others, than sit at home feeling less desirable as the widowed guy. I'm finding that when talking to new guys, I can quite comfortably talk about what I am looking for in a potential relationship, and at the same time talk about what I am going through with the loss of my spouse. It feels quite geniune actually.

Being in between is kind of freeing. I don't have to feel married to any particular role, rather, just be who I am, and speak from where I am, at that given moment. Is it always going to feel this way? Maybe not. Yet, just knowing that it doesn't always have to be gloom and doom, is a good awareness to have. So, for me, a good place to be right now, is in between.

Even If The Shoe Doesn't Fit, Try Wearing It.

Talk about having some big shoes to fill. Or in my case, some tall stilettos. I am very gracious, and honored, that Michele has given me this opportunity to share with you on a weekly basis. I know that many of you looked forward to reading her words, or taking inspiration, from her journey. Yet, I do understand her decision to modify her course just a bit, as we must always take time to reflect on where we have arrived, and where we want to go next.

This journey of mine has been an interesting one. Never in my past did I think that I would soon become a widower, or that I would grieve so publicly. I was single most of my adult life, and had chosen to have children as a single parent. It wasn't an easy life, as my children all have some special needs, but it was a full life. In those years, I knew that I wanted a loving partner in my life, but had come to accept that it may not be part of my journey. When I met Michael, it was like kismet, as our lives both had some circumstances that seemed like a perfect fit. I felt that God had brought us together, and that by our union, each of our lives, and those close to us, would truly be enhanced. The night we met was filled with fun, laughter and passion. We ended the night with him driving me to my car, and me having to explain why I drove a mini-van. As I shared about my three children, he explained about his significant role in the life of his nephew and two nieces. All of our children were born into a family with parental substance abuse and chaos. Each of us were committed to make our children's lives better.

Four years later, I sat bewildered in our bedroom, holding his ashes in my hands.

Around the time of Michael's death, I was surrounded by our loved ones. Some stayed around for a few weeks more. Then the time of seclusion began. I became cloistered in my grief. I looked around me, but I couldn't find my reflection in any one's face. I took to the Internet, casting out a net that was much too small. My Google search for 'gay widower' came back with only one book, whose editor had died just a couple of years prior. I realized that if I wanted support, I was going to have to make it happen. I was going to have to put myself out there for the world to see. I was going to have to cast a larger net.

When you take to the Internet in this way, you don't go finding people, they find you. By identifying so publicly as a widower, others began to appear. There were a couple of guys, and many, many women. I began to realize that men, in general, don't often seek out this type of connection as part of their grief journey. If I think back in stories, or images, there is a strong archetype for the widow, but not for the widower. Still to this day, it is rare for me to meet another man who identifies as a widower, yet I have met many women along the way that do.

At times there has been some hesitation on my part to join in on some conversations, or gatherings, as I felt like I was intruding. I know how important it is to have some safe space, where you can talk among those you most closely identify with. I know that not all women will feel as comfortable expressing themselves so vulnerably if a man is present, as I have at times felt that way in groups of all women as well. In time I have learned to make my presence known, but allow for those around me to invite me in. At the same time I have created a safe space for lesbian and gay widow(er)s with my own blog, and with my online support group. All this to say, that I have found, and also created, safe spaces for me to grieve, and to share in other peoples journey.

I truly appreciate the opportunity to have this space on Widow's Voice, to write on a weekly basis. I recognize that 95% of those who leave comments are women, yet two days of the week are filled by men, Matt and I. This speaks volumes to Michele's generosity, and her understanding that in spite of our numbers being low, there is a need for our presence. We are here to speak of our experience in the event that a new widower throws out his own narrow net. We are here to speak of our experience because our female peers value our voice, and we speak here because in the end, we are all in this together.

If you are a new widower, gay or straight, looking at this blog for the first time, know that yes, it may feel a bit awkward standing out in a crowd comprised mostly of women. It may feel like an awkward fit, trying to balance yourself in shoes you never expected to wear. Yet, I promise you this, the more you open up, the more you will find others gravitating toward you. The circle of strong arms there to hold you up may come from somewhere you never expected, but they will be there.

If you are a new widow, reading here for the first time, know that you have an enormous, and loving community here for you. You should have no trouble seeing your reflection in the face, and experience, of the multitudes of women here, waiting to extend a hand. At the same time, know that you have the opportunity to expand your search, to hear the stories, and points of view, of some that may not otherwise have crossed your path.

Life is often a balancing act, and my healing process has definitely been about creating balance. Not so easy to do when you are made to wear shoes, or stilettos, that you never tried on before. Yet with time, as with any new pair of shoes, you will find that they bend and shape closely around you. Eventually, you stop thinking about the awkward fit, and you just keep moving forward.

I Just Need to Tell You Something

Hi honey,

You are probably wondering why I am writing this letter. Usually I save the letter writing for the anniversary of the day you died, sort of a look back on the year gone by, but today I ran into D at the grocery store and realized that there are still some stories that only you would understand. Since the celestial phone appears to be out of order, I turned to my old staple, the keyboard, to update you on some news.

Our friend D has put her husband M into a full time care facility. He has been diagnosed with a complicated mix of dementia and Parkinson's disease. I haven't seen D in years and as we stood in the aisle catching up on marriages, babies, business, fitness, and all things small town...I asked, "How is M?" Her face fell and she told me about his new home like she was confessing a sin. As she stood quietly telling me the story of their medical journey, my mind flashed to our dinner out with them at that Italian place. Remember the one where the portions were so big we nearly rolled away from the table? The next memory frame was of the four of us riding bicycles down the trail getting them ready for that trip to Holland. You were so patient with M who was already struggling with memory loss and a sinking self esteem. I remember the nights you and I wondered about how long D would be able to take care of him by herself. As we lay in our dark room discussing the inevitability of what D and M would eventually face, we held each other a little closer as if to ward off the coming travesties of disease and mortality. All of this flashed in my brain as I stood between the chips and the sauces searching for the right words to let D know that we believe she is doing everything humanly possible to care for M.

As I walked away from our dear friend I turned to talk to you. I felt you next to me, and knew that for a moment we were standing side by side reaching out to someone we care about who is in a pain we knew would come. All the way home from the store I felt this need to call you. I wanted to ask you how it could be so long since we talked to M and D; relay the ins and outs of the story so you could ask questions that would identify any details I missed, and I wanted to revisit the days when we held each other a little tighter to ward off the long shadow of future trouble. But you and I have come to know the unpredictability of the future rather well, and we have been schooled in the reality that sometimes the shadows we don't expect are the ones that overtake us. Would we ever have thought that poor D would outlive strong, healthy, prime of your life you? Six years ago that idea would have been unthinkable, but what did we know then?

After fighting with an unsettled feeling all day, I sat down here to let you know that there are still days when you are the only one who will understand what I have to say. There are parts of my history so intertwined with yours that no amount of explaining to another will yield the same result as a good sit down chat with you. For a long, long time this realization was a searingly painful part of my everyday reality. But over the past five years I have learned to be grateful that you and I share a portion of my life that will never be repeated. As I forge my way forward into a future that unfolds with new wonder every day, I take comfort in knowing that there are parts of my past that belong only to us.

I love you,

Michele

Mantra

I get up each morning, turn off the alarm, then go downstairs to get my boys up for school. I shower, get dressed for work, make sure the pets are taken care of, then off we go. My days are getting busier now that I am working once again. I go about my day, eager to learn all the new things about my job, getting to know new people, and putting on a smile whenever I pass someone in the halls. As the morning continues, I feel myself sink, and I find myself taking in deep breaths of air.

Hang in there. You can do it. Just one day at a time.

I move forward, remind myself that I am a survivor, and keep going. After awhile I can get distracted from my reality, and I am able to to laugh with my peers. As the work day comes to an end, I am able to think about all that I accomplished, and walk out of the office feeling good about how I spent my time. I walk through the near empty office, smile and say goodnight to all that pass my way, and head out to my car.

It's there that it happens. Tears.

I take in a few deep breaths of air.

Hang in there. You can do it. Just one day at a time.

I am sinking, back to feeling numb, and wonder what all the effort is for. Something needs to change. I don't like this emptiness that is taking space once again. When does it stop? Does it stop?

It's time to ask for help. It's time to seek out companionship. I realize that I have done it again. I have isolated myself. Easy to do. He is not here.

I remind myself to take a few deep breaths of air.

Hang in there. You can do it. Just one day at a time.

Full Circle

I have been feeling kind of lost lately. I'm a bit unsure about a lot of things. For one, I have been renting a house for the past few months while I sell off my house in San Francisco, which has provided the kids and I a temporary home while we get settled into San Diego. As of today, I no longer own a house. Yes, my house sold, which is good, but it also comes with mixed emotions. I lived in that house for 17 years. It is the house where the kids and I have many happy memories, and also some sad ones, such as Michael dying. I suppose the latter is not strictly a sad memory, as it was also a beautiful experience providing Michael all the comforts of dying in our own home, and in our own bedroom. Yet even with all these positives, it was time to move on.

Ever since Michael died I have had an urgent need to leave my home, and start over somewhere new. I know that it goes against conventional wisdom to make such a big move, such as leaving your job, home, city and friends, during the first year of grief. But I knew it was a good move for me. By the time the first year anniversary of his death came around, I was already in a new environment, which helped me get through that terribly rough time. I think it would have been even more difficult for me if I was still in our home at the time. Maybe this wouldn't be helpful for most, but for me it was exactly what I needed.

Last week was the second anniversary of our wedding. It wasn't the first time for this occasion to come around without him, as he had already died when our first anniversary came around. One of the things that came about with our first year anniversary was my decision to begin blogging about my grief journey. The experience of writing about my process on a daily basis was quite cathartic for me. There were definitely some very dark days, days in which I didn't think I was going to make it. But here I am, full circle, one year later, and I have survived.

I think about where I will be by next year, and I kind of come up empty. Not that I don't have expectations, more that I don't really know what I want, or what I can expect. All I do know is that after coming full circle this time around, I can honestly say that life is getting easier, if not better. I now have the benefit of looking back, and clearly identifying the many changes and milestones that I have successfully grown through. This is my history, and if history repeats itself, then I can expect this next year to get even better.

The Gay Widower

In the days following the death of Michael I began to realize that in addition to losing my husband, I was losing part of my identity. I was having a conversation with someone about Michael when I began stumbling over my words. I hadn't quite thought out how I would describe him. Up until a few days prior, he was my husband, my spouse, my partner. He wasn't my ex, as we didn't end our relationship. Was I still married?

Why was there a need to redefine our relationship? Wasn't losing him enough? During the previous year we were part of a fortunate group of gay couples who were able to legally wed in California. The Courts even held that while gay couples were no longer able to wed as a result of Prop 8, we were still married. Suddenly I felt removed from this group.

I realized that I had no role model to prepare me for my new identity. Growing up there seemed to be plenty of female relatives who had survived the loss of their husbands. They were referred to as widows. But the men I knew who survived their wives were few, and the gay men I know who have survived their spouses were fewer. In the decades past we lost many gay men to AIDS, and many of them left lovers behind. Yet in recent times people of living with the disease, and fortunately we are not seeing as many gay men having to suffer losses like before.

At age 50, I find most of my friends are married or partnered. As I look around me, none are widowed. This awareness seems to emphasize my feeling of being alone. During this journey with Michael's illness I found support through an online brain tumor caregivers group. In the time that I was active with the group I was the sole male participant. How telling is this reality? To what degree is it that we men do not seek support, and to what degree is it that we are not provided with the images that support us identifying as caregivers, and later widowers?

So here I am, a widower, a gay widower. I feel as though I have undergone a significant shift in my identity. I went from being a lover and strong caregiver, to feeling like a broken widower. Broken, because my spirit is badly wounded. Broken, because I am feeling robbed of an identity that I loved.