This Life

Six and a half years ago the worst thing happened. I wasn't prepared, I had never imagined (who does I guess?), and even if I did spend anytime pondering what life would be like if my 39 year old husband was hit and killed by a car, I still wouldn't have dreamed up the life that has come after that worst moment.

I could not have imagined the brutal pain of waking up in an empty bed.

I could not have imagined picking up the phone to call him, over and over again...I would have guessed that eventually I'd figure out that he wasn't going to answer.

I could not have imagined six years after his death STILL thinking I saw him standing on a street corner.

I could not have imagined how my heart would break when I read what one of my children would later write about that day, or the ways in which his death would change their lives.

I could  not have imagined being surrounded by other widowed people. And if I did imagine such a thing I am sure I would have expected us to all be sharing kleenex instead of laughter.

I could not have imagined telling my story in front of hundreds of people or the tightness in my chest that would accompany that storytelling each and every time. I would have imagined getting used to the words, that somehow saying them over and over would make them lose their power.

But more than any other thing I could not imagine on the day that my love died, I could never have imagined the friends I would make as I put the pieces of my shattered life back together. My widowed community changed my life. I wouldn't be who I am today without the people I have met along the way. They inspire me. They encourage me. They lift me up, and also anchor me to this world. The one I am left with now. The one that is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined 2,402 days ago.

This I Believe

I wrote this in June of 2009 to describe how the death of someone I love so much redefined life's important (and not so important) moments. Every time I happen upon this essay, I renew my commitment to never lose sight of what death and grief have taught me.

As a young woman entering into adulthood with lofty goals, sterling ideals, and great hope for the future I could have easily created a long list of my personal beliefs. This list would have included ideas about both the tangible and the intangible; broad concepts and specific ideals; God and mortal beings. There would probably even have been a mention of death and eternity…but only in the abstract because my beliefs about death were untested until August 31, 2005.

My husband’s untimely death in a tragic accident turned my personal credo upside down. The day I lost my husband was the same day that theory became reality, and faith became more than just a concept to which I paid lip service. Grief is the ultimate test of faith. Faith requires trust. Death robbed me of the sense of security on which trust is so often based, making the idea of trust incomprehensible. And the whole vicious circle renewed itself daily as I tried in vain to determine why I was living a sorrow filled nightmare. My inability to escape the reality of widowhood forced me to evaluate my idealistic beliefs and determine whether they could withstand the blinding glare of grief.

As the reality of my husband’s death set in, I began to imagine the following personal truths as tall pillars that I view through a cloud of dust and rubble created by a major earthquake. Though everything around these support beams has fallen, they miraculously remain. I rub my eyes to look again, because for any structure to survive an earth shattering experience of this magnitude seems impossible…and yet these columns stand tall amongst the debris of loss and grief.

I believe in everlasting love. I believe that God is not a being who resides in a structure, but a spirit who lives in the hearts, and hands, of loving people. I believe that the length of your life is not an indication of your impact on the world. I believe that time is indeed a gift. I believe that human beings have the power to heal each other. I believe that shared experience can bond individuals in a unique and life changing way. I believe that our lives are a tapestry and each experience, wonderful or terrible, adds richness to the final fabric. I believe that tomorrow is only a dream. I believe that life is too short to hold grudges. I believe that people are inherently good. I believe that buying lemonade from my daughter at her new job is more important than spending an extra hour at my own work. I believe that the people who come into my life do so for a reason. I believe that kindness changes lives. I believe that this too shall pass. I believe that life is a gift, but like all gifts must be opened to be truly appreciated.

These are a few of the pillars that have survived my personal earth quake. I lean on them when I feel unable to stand. When grief occasionally stirs the dust of sorrow, I look for them to steady my course. My widowhood experience has taught me that when faith requires me to walk forward blindly, those pillars will guide the way.

Would Our Spouses Be Happy .....

 picture from here

..... to know that we're in a relationship with someone?  Would they be happy to know that we might even love someone else?

A friend asked me today how it's possible to reconcile the love of two men ..... one very much alive, the other .... very much dead.

I told her that I'm not sure how it's possible, but it is.  And that's a fact.
I consider it to be the way a pregnant woman feels when expecting her second (or later) child.  You wonder how in the the world you are going to be able to love this next child as much as you love your first.  And you doubt that it's possible.  But then ..... the moment that second (or later) child arrives .... you wonder what in the world you were thinking?!  You hold that baby and forget any doubt that you ever had.  The second that child arrives your heart grows bigger.  Big enough to hold another person.

It's the same when you fall in love.  At first, you can NOT imagine ever loving another person the way you loved your spouse.  You know that it's not possible to love another man/woman .... ever.  In fact, you find that thought appalling.  You still feel married.  There is no room in your heart for another love.  And there never will be.

But then one day, when you least expect it ..... you meet someone.  Someone who is special enough to catch your attention.
And you feel a strange sensation in your heart.  Like it beats a little faster.  Or skips one or two beats.
You decide that you'd like to know more about this person.  And he/she feels the same way about you.
Then one day, one day that seems no different than any other day ...... you realize something.
You realize that your heart has somehow grown a bit larger.  And you never saw it coming.
You didn't really feel it happening.  You just wake up one day and know that something feels "different".
Your heart now holds love for two people.  And it's nothing short of a miracle.  And 100% possible.

And I'm here to prove it.
Jim is in my heart.
Jim will always be in my heart.
Always.
Forever.

And yet my heart has grown larger.  And now holds love for another man.
A man who is different from Jim.
A man who knows he's not in a competition with Jim.
A man who is secure in the knowledge that I love Jim, will always love Jim ..... and now I love him.  I love him as much as I loved Jim.
And that is truly a miracle.

What would Jim think of this?
What DOES Jim think of this?
I think he's thrilled.
I believe that he's as happy with this new love as I am.
I know that in Jim's heart ..... after God ..... I was number one.
Just as he was in mine.

He wanted me to be happy.
He wanted me to feel loved.
And secure.
And special.

Just as I would want him to feel.

People who have not been widowed don't get it.
Just one more thing they don't get.
I'm glad that they don't.
I hope they never need to.

But the rest of us ..... we're learning things we never wanted to know.
Like it's possible to love another person .... and not feel guilty or disloyal to our spouse.
At least I hope that you're all learning that.  Or will learn it.
Because true love wants only the best for its love.
Always.

I know that Jim wanted nothing but the best for me.
And he would love the man who loves me the way he did.
A man who puts me first.
A man who loves me unconditionally.

Yes, there have been times when I've wondered if it's worth it to love another man ..... and risk losing another one.
Is it worth giving my heart away again ..... perhaps to lose it all over again?
There have been days when I've thought, "No.  Don't love another man ..... you'll never survive that kind of loss again."

But I know that Jim would not want that for me.
He wouldn't want me to guard my heart so tightly that I never feel love again.
He wouldn't want me to be afraid to give my heart away ..... to feel too fragile to love and be loved.

And truthfully, I don't want that for me, either.
If I had my life and love to live all over again with Jim, knowing that I would lose him as tragically and as early as I did ..... I would still choose to love him all over again.
His love was worth the grief.

All love is worth the grief.
Being loved, feeling loved, giving love ..... is worth the risk.
Jim would think so.
And I've learned to agree with him.

You Can't Fix Me

Today's post comes to us from guest blogger Amanda, a lovely Aussie...who gets this widowed thing too! Thanks Amanda!

Sometimes I want to scream at people: “You Can’t Fix Me”.
...because sometimes, I get so sick of hearing that I need to “look after myself” or “do something for myself” or “make it happen” or “chin up” or “forge ahead”.

Sometimes it’s just too much when friends and colleagues minimise my grief in their misguided belief that they would know how to grieve properly if our positions were reversed.  (The same people that go to pieces if they have a sniffle and won’t make it to the gym that day.)

No, they’d grieve properly, have it together within a year and make rational decisions to take their lives onwards and upwards.

They’d “go to counselling” and “get the help they need” to get on with their lives.
Maybe a tasteful shrine with a few candles on the mantle to remember their love.
A weekly visit to the cemetery: fresh flowers on the grave.
They’d get themselves that new job that fits in with their altered lifestyle.
They wouldn’t suffer the grief fog, the loss of short-term memory, the sudden tears, and the incapacitating sadness that saps all energy yet prevents you from sleep.
They quote some random bereaved person that their aunt’s girlfriend’s hairdresser’s mother knows who has “coped admirably” with grief…. and cite it as “if they can do it, you can too”.  Never realising that the person they speak of most likely is showing them the brave face and not the face screwed up in the agony which is widowhood.

No, not for them this incorrect grief.

I am tired of explaining that life doesn’t work that way.

That I have to live this life every minute of every day and even sleep is no respite because half of my bed is empty when it shouldn’t be.
That even if I filled that side of the bed with someone new, it wouldn’t take away the grief for my lost love (and my lost life that I was supposed to have).
That my “happy place” isn’t happy anymore because the person who used to live there is gone.
That “The Secret” isn’t based on scientific fact: you can’t just wish you woes away anymore than you can make your beloved rise from the dead.
That the exhaustion of trying to function on broken sleep and a foggy brain is sometimes overwhelming.
That much of my adult identity was founded on being one half of a couple even though I am a strong, intelligent and independent woman.
That my best friend, lover, confidant, and comforter is gone and nobody else “gets me” like he did.

I wish they could know how hard this is without me having to spell it out.
I wish they didn’t overlook the incredible feat of strength and endurance I go through on a daily basis Just To Get Through The Day.
I wish they could see the progress I’ve made.
I wish they could see that I am helping myself ... that I am doing everything in my power to move forward.
…and that I am doing a bloody good job of it.

But mostly I wish they’d stop thinking that they know how to fix me.

How Did You Two Meet?

Filling in for Taryn today...told you I wouldn't be gone long! ;)

Recently I spent eight days with one of my favorite people in the world. You all know her as our Tuesday blogger, I call her tacalla. You've heard one or the other of us use that term here on the blog (tacalla is the Spanish word for two things that share the same name), as a way of explaining our shared Michel/lleness. Just imagine for a minute the hilarious looks on the faces of our fellow vacationers when we introduced ourselves. Hi, I'm Michele. And I am Michelle. Yes, we both said Michel/lle. No, we are not twins. Yes, we confuse people all the time. No, we aren't sisters...our parents did not suffer from a serious lack of creativity or a desire to adhere to an age old family tradition. After several questions to determine why we share a name the person being introduced to us inevitably asked THE question...well then how did you meet?

Now this is where things get really interesting. Because whenever we are asked this question (we've been asked by honeymooners, couples celebrating anniversaries, people celebrating all manner of birthdays, relatives, friends, friends of friends...mostly in circumstances where the word death causes stunned silences) we make a quick joint decision...do we tell them? Michelle and I have gotten really good at this over the years. When someone asks the loaded question, we quickly glance at each other. Should we? Will you tell or will I? The whole story or only one part? A quick blow or a longer version of the hows and whens? All this we communicate in one quick meeting of the eyes. Then the predetermined bearer of bad news takes a deep breath and dives in to the murky waters of men who died too young, kids without dads, women who you'd never guess were widows (widows really?!), and the uncomfortable shifting of weight from foot to foot, eyes that dip from our faces to the floor, and the silence we so often fill with the description of the gift we Michel/lles are to each other.

When we met five years ago Michelle and I didn't know how much we would need each other. When I sent her a card two months after Phil's death, and two weeks after Daniel's (at my sister's request because her husband is Michelle's cousin) I did not know that she would become my lifeline as we surfed the turbulent waves of grief side by side. In fact, I didn't even know what to say to her. All I knew then was that grief was eating me alive...I wondered at the time if you are supposed to say that to someone whose husband just died. But anything less seemed unfair. Why pretend what lay ahead for her was pretty? Or easy? Or even just terrible? I finally decided to write her a note and tell her I would be available (as a stranger to her I was pretty sure she'd never call) if ever she wanted to talk. Four months later, to my surprise, she did. And we haven't stopped talking since.

The funny thing is we spend about 90% of our time talking about life, not death. We taught each other how to pick up the pieces of our shattered futures, and begin again. As every day passed we listened, even when the words spoken hurt one as much as the other. We poured out our pain in a long stream of e-mails that we both have saved as a part of our history. But woven through the pages of agony, were always glimpses of hope. That is the gift we continually give each other. And the sunny spot we point to when our dark history overshadows our joint introductions.

Really, I can't blame unsuspecting folks for their reactions to meeting two 41 year old women, with the same name, similar features, and dead husbands. But these mind bending statistics are not the most amazing part of our story. The really cool piece is the fact that one relationship is the basis for a movement that has touched hundreds of thousands of grieving people around the world. Hope is a gift that keeps on giving. Michelle and I first gave this gift to each other unwittingly, and that light has been passed from hand to hand ever since.

So reach out, even when all you see is darkness. Find a friend (we can help you...www.sslf.org). Follow the light, however dim. Know that pain shared really is lessened, and joy (there are still joys spinkled throughout the lifestunting pain) shared doubled. For Michelle and I that joy just happens to share the same name.