My Best Friend Got Married

Michele is filling in for Michelle D. today...who is currently lounging in St. John....

My best friend, and fellow widow, is now married.

The readers here have a unique view of this new marriage, because the majority of us have outlived a spouse. We KNOW how it feels to be "parted" from our loved one by death.

I'd wager that many of us said the word 'never' if asked when we were planning to date (let alone remarry) after becoming widowed. I can tell you first-hand, Michelle did. In fact, I believe we each said, and meant, 'never' regarding the possibility of another love in our lives as we navigated the waters of grief on our side-by-side surfboards.

For us, I believe the word never was fueled first by pain, and then by fear. During the darkest days of grief we couldn't figure out why the sun had the audacity to shine, let alone imagine a future that wasn't full of painful longing for the life from which we were unwillingly separated. The pain caused by death was blinding, all consuming, disorienting, feverish. I wanted to claw my skin off to stop the agony. There was no room for fear at first, because desperation and disorientation ruled. We were so lucky to find each other. Each time one of us dangled over the pit of despair unable to summon the strength to tie a knot in the proverbial rope with which to hang on for one more moment, the other one stepped in and provided a reprieve.

As the pain dulled slightly, fear came to visit. We began, each in our own way, to mold new lives. We dove into the multitude of tasks and responsibilities that were once shared, but now managed only by two hands. Every day brought a new challenge, and we shared them via phone calls, text messages, e-mails and sometimes late night tear-filled cryfests. Fear hovered in the background, and time and again we pushed it away in tandem, challenging each other to face the darkness and choose the light.

Over the years we have become accustomed to facing fear, choosing hope, encouraging each other as well as our larger widowed community to take the risk of loving life. Because at the end of the day, that was the source of our deepest fears. What if we truly love our life again? Will the carpet be swept out, and the fall into despair begin again?

The answer, of course, is maybe. Life gives no guarantees. Ironically though, hiding from life doesn't keep you any safer than living it large. I guess that is the lesson Michelle and I have taught each other. Live big, love big, and face your fears with a good friend by your side.

 As I shared your wedding day, my heart sang for you my friend. Long live love, and here's to jumping off of curbs!

making cookie batter together

photo from here

Jackie sent me a message last night to let me know that one of her little ones is sick, and she hasn't been far enough from a pail to write for today's post. My job as editor means that if a writer is unavailable, I am on duty...but you already heard from me yesterday...so I looked over some past posts and realized that Jackie had an unfinished draft of a post that I love. So, she wrote the first half and I wrote the second...hence the title, Jackie and I are making cookie batter together! We hope you enjoy the result!

I am a widow. Yes, it's a huge part of who and what I am now. But it's not the first way I would choose to describe myself.... anymore.

If each role we play in life is like an ingredient, like a batter of sorts, can't widowhood be the cream in the "Hazelnut Cream Cookie" rather than the first ingredient mentioned? I am afraid that having the widowhood portion of my dough become one of the unmentioned contributors (i.e. eggs or flour) would be doing a huge disservice to the memory of Jeff, and I am still not at the point where I can erase "him" from my cookie title. But I am certainly ready to have my widowed status demoted to the second word identifying me as a cookie.

I don't want my title of "widow" to be my primary identity. I want to go back to being "Jackie". I want to be described as "funny", "kind", even "bitchy" if necessary....I despise knowing that I have been described as "You know the young widow with two little kids?" Yes, I am a widow. But I am a mommy, a sister, a daughter, an auntie, a friend, a neighbor...and so many other things too. Yet, the one thing many people remember is that my husband is dead.

As my heart heals bit by bit, I realize that not allowing my widowhood to be my most important identifying attribute is not dishonoring my late husband. In fact, learning to describe myself by using words that point out my unique qualities reminds me of all the reasons he fell in love with me in the first place. Without him by my side it is easy to forget that Jeff thought I was beautiful, kind, funny, and a great mommy. I am more than what has happened to me. I am all that Jeff saw in me, and I can't be defined by just one word. So for now I may be a Hazelnut Cream Cookie or a Oatmeal Toffee Crunch Cookie...just know that this cookie is made up of a variety of quality ingredients...not all of which you will find in my cookie title.

the unhelpful helper

Photo from here...

When I first became a widow, I wanted everyone to go away. I did not want to talk, discuss, be comforted, or hear anyone. I found everything overwhelming and the need to communicate with others verbally was not at all on the list of desired actions.

I was annoyed by the needs of others. Their want to know I was okay or that the kids were surviving seemed intrusive and obnoxious. I felt that they all just wanted the gory details or the notoriety that goes along with death. Although the realization that my feelings were not "fair" or even logical always accompanied these angry thoughts, I couldn't help but feel myself growling internally when someone attempted to break into my quiet, lost and introspective bubble.

I had extremely close friends that I leaned on and a sister with whom I told the majority of my thoughts, but the only person I wanted aside from these confidantes was Jeff.

Now, three years later, I find myself in a strange spot.

Recently, two friends have lost their husbands. Neither of these women are close friends, but they are certainly women who I would stop to say "hello", share a hug and have a chat or a cup of coffee together should I see them on the street prior to their loss.

They are both early in their losses. They don't want to talk. Or if they do, it's not to me. And I SO get this. I know this feeling so very well and empathize totally....

But I find myself compelled to tell them that. I feel almost panicked in my need to let them know that there are others, just like us, who know this pain. That they are not alone. That the community of widows is an amazing and supportive one.

I itch to reach out to them. I want to help them with the ridiculous amounts of paperwork that accompanies a death. Or to deliver a meal or mow a lawn.

I want to take away any pain for them that I can. I feel anxious that they are hurting and may not have the support they so need (although I am sure they have so very many loving people surrounding them begging hoping to be of some assistance).

I know that it is all TOO much right now. And I hope that months from now if the phone doesn't ring as often for them and they slowly awaken from the dull, aching void that envelopes early on, they know that I will be here whenever they need someone who gets it.

In the meantime, I wish them well on their own private journey and hope they know where to find the rest of us.....

The F Word

Amanda is closing out the school year in Australia this week, and guest writer Wendy Doyle Diez is filling in for her on WV today...thanks Wendy!

F…A…T.

I’m a fat widow. 

Yes I am. 

You don’t need to give me an awkward smile and insist that I’m not a fat widow. 

I am and I own it.

I give other widowed people a bad name. I shatter the image of the grief-ridden widow/widower by eating and actually enjoying it.  And I’ve been doing this for nearly three years now.  I feel guilty not just because I should have better eating habits to begin with but because somewhere in my subconscious, I believe that I should have lost interest in anything food related when I became a widow.  This seems to be the norm for others I know.  And some still have trouble eating even after a couple of years.  Who are these people?!  I know.  They are the ones who insist they are full after eating half an apple.  I apologize if you are one of them but I need a minute to be truly confounded by you.

Don’t all widows drastically lose weight in the beginning of the grief process?  For the love of chocolate peanut butter ice cream, why didn’t I? 

As someone who has struggled with weight issues for a good number of years, I must confess that a small part of me searched for the silver lining when Chris died.  I thought I would for sure lose my appetite and shrink down a few sizes.  Never did I think that my new normal would include 40 extra pounds. 

To be fair to myself, I had just had a baby when Chris died and I knew I needed to eat because I was nursing a newborn.  I don’t recall the pediatrician or any of the baby books suggesting that I eat several meals a day of chocolate products to ensure proper nutrition for Claire.  But I do remember feeling like nothing in the world made me feel better than snuggling up with a candy bar late at night once my kids were in bed.

What this all comes down to is that I’ve realized I have been judging myself and others on this one particular aspect of widowhood.  

Skinny = proper widow/widower for grieving correctly by not being able to eat.

Fat = widow/widower who must not have cared enough about their spouse since they indulge in whatever food is pushed in front of them (and sometimes even aggressively go after it).

Our community is often outraged at the unreasonable judgments that those who’ve never walked in our shoes cast upon us.  And yet, here I am casting those same judgments not only on my peers but upon myself.  I think I need to give our community and myself a break.  Because defining what is an appropriate widow is, um, a weighty issue.  

At this point in my grief journey, I am actively working on being healthier (with some stumbling along the way).  But I’m also working on letting go of the stereotypes that are holding me back.  Now if I could only let go of the chocolate bars too, I’ll really be on my way.

"Kevin"

Photo from here

Kevin Findlay was a fictional character on the award-winning Australian television series “Sea Change”. 

Kevin ran the local caravan park and on the surface, he appeared to be a fairly one-dimensional character – a gullible, but honest single-father doing the best he could on minimum wage and abilities. ..... but doing it with an air of a man who was seemingly happy with his lot in life. ...and he loved his son. A lot.

He was the kind of bloke that quietly went about his business, giving a hand to anyone in need and asking nothing in return. Kevin could fix a toaster or a VW Kombi van and he did odd jobs for the townsfolk of the fictional seaside town of “Pearl Bay”.

Kevin’s worth to the town was only really discovered when his Kombi van broke down. Suddenly, the elderly people of Pearl Bay were either lined up in court on traffic offences or lined up at the hospital after a run in with the pointy end of a lawn mower. ..... and that’s when the townsfolk realised that half the town was running on the good nature and handy-man skills of a happy-go-lucky bloke that most people wrote off as a bit of a simpleton.

You see, Kevin ferried those elderly people to the grocery store and to doctor’s appointments in his trusty Kombi as he knew their driving abilities were poor. He visited them in their homes, mowed their lawns and fixed their houses. He cared about everyone and he was always happy to lend a hand.

Kevin was the glue that held that community together.

I am lucky enough to know a real-life “Kevin”.

My “Kevin” is my parents’ neighbour.

He tinkers about with old engines and runs a side business in fixing lawn mowers. His backyard is strewn with “useful things” that his wife complains about.

He has two 20-something children, one of which is diabetic. He works as a driver for a local company and he never complains about his lot in life.

He does odd jobs for his friends and neighbours. He services their (and my) cars, fixes plumbing problems, mows lawns and takes care of people with a smile. (My parents and I insist on paying him in cash or food even when he never asks for payment for his time).

He was the person who drove me home to collect clothes and toiletries so the kids and I could stay at my parent’s house the night that Greg died.

...and today, he came to my house and replaced the fan-belt in my clothes dryer and was happy to be paid in two-dozen fresh eggs from our hens.

I don’t know what I would do without the “Kevin”s of this world who don’t say “just ask if you need anything” (hear that one before? Well meaning I know, but I can never think of something appropriate to ask for ... ). The “Kevin”s of the world just DO the little and big things efficiently, kindly, unobtrusively....

And I’m so grateful that I have a “Kevin” quietly helping me.