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.

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.

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.

Aging Gratefully

I am filling in for Jackie today because her computer is in the shop...but she will be back next week!

 Today is my birthday. I am 42 years old, three years older than Phil was when he died six years ago (crazy to think he would be 46 right now!). My first birthday without him I remember wishing time could just stand still. I didn't want to age without him;I didn't want to celebrate being alive with birthday songs and presents; and I didn't want to continue on a forward path that moved away from the life I loved with Phil. Overall, December 29, 2005 was not my best birthday.

Truthfully, finding a way to appreciate the opportunity to live another year took some time. I moved from being down right pissed off about my repeating birthdays to being a bit ambivalent about the passing of time to finally accepting the fact that until my number is called my job is to seize the day.

Seizing the day is a broad concept that, for me, includes both taking as many opportunities for adventures as possible, and also taking time to cuddle a baby without looking at the clock. When I am living my best life I say what I mean, and I follow those words with actions. Making the most of the time I am given is a goal that is never far from my mind, and is firmly planted in my heart, because I know that one person can make a difference. Phil taught me that. But I didn't know how huge his influence on me was, until it was too late to tell him. I try to remember that the words I use may become an enduring memory for someone I care about, and I try very hard to speak words of both praise and gratitude. I may have only one chance to utter them. Time is something I no longer take for granted.

In fact, time is now something I relish in ways large and small...I love giggling with my kids, and running with good friends. I've discovered that Alaska has rain forests, and that Texas is actually huge. I've both cried, and laughed uproariously, with widowed people from all walks of life. I've witnessed both births and deaths and found them both to be an amazing honor. Over the past six years I walked on beaches on the opposite side of the earth from my home, hiked in majestic mountains, and looked over my shoulder for bears while trekking through the above mentioned rain forests. I spent New Year's Eve in New York City, and have driven alone on country roads from Ohio to Indiana. I've walked with friends through cancer, divorce, the loss of a home, and the pain of losing a baby. I have not been just an observer of life, I have rolled my sleeves up and jumped in with two feet time and time again. Because life is short. You and I know that better than most. So now I choose not to waste a single day that I could be making a difference.

President Abraham Lincoln suffered through the deaths of three of his four children, and was well known to be prone to depression. Having come through one particularly dark period, a good friend told Mr. Lincoln that he had been afraid his despair would swallow him whole. President Lincoln responded:

"I have an irrepressible desire to live until I can be assured that the world is a little better for my having lived in it."

Cheers to another year full of opportunities to improve the world, one small bit at a time.



**If you believe that Widow's Voice, and the programs of Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, have made a difference for you, we'd be honored if you would consider us for a tax-deductible, year-end donation of any amount. SSLF is a non-profit organization that creates and maintains communities for widowed people around the world. We believe in the power of shared experience to heal, to inspire, and to lead the way to a hope filled future for widowed people everywhere. Thank you for sharing your widowed journey with us all year long. Donate now in support of SSLF. We are so grateful for the many ways in which you all support our mission.

Speaking to the Ghost of Christmas Past

The day Phil died, my world was irrevocably changed. No amount of crying, wishing, or begging could switch my new reality back to the reality of what seems like only moments ago. The first Christmas without him, I sat on the coach alone watching the kids open gifts that only I chose, purchased, wrapped, and stowed under the tree...barely able to keep from bawling all over their happiness. I swear I could hear my heart breaking again as reality slapped me in the face on what is touted as the merriest of days. I didn't believe the pain of missing him would ever lessen. I couldn't see how that was possible if Phil was still going to be dead...and unless there was some kind of amazing magic wand under the tree that could reverse my reality, Christmas seemed doomed for ever more.

What I know now is that the pain of missing Phil hasn't lessened. In fact, because the pain is part of my everyday life I have stopped watching it with a wary eye. So on occasion that powerful longing has the ability to sneak up behind me and sucker punch me in the gut...taking my breath for a moment in an unexpected swoop. But I now find this breathlessness bittersweet. Because missing him reminds me of how much I still love him. Temporarily being unable to believe that he really is dead oddly cements his memory over and over again. And each Christmas I find myself briefly visiting in my mind's eye the me that sat alone on the couch that Christmas morning in 2005, and wishing I could tell her that she will never forget the moments she is living.  In fact, she will revisit them time and time again. But not for the reason you may think.

So today, I'd like to share a few things with my Christmas 2005 self in the hope that if you find yourself sitting alone thinking that this will never get better these words may help you, too....

It's okay to cry. You won't drown, though I know you are afraid that you might. Let people love you. It really is the only thing they can do, on Christmas Day or any other day. Life could be worse. I know that is hard to hear right now, but it is true. Hold onto that. You won't forget. Even though the timber of his voice will fade, you will never forget the way he spoke to you or how his voice in your ear made you feel.

Life will keep moving whether you like it or not. And eventually you will move, too. It's okay. Phil did not take the best part of you with him when he died. No, he didn't. Don't argue with me. Forever does not apply to life, but it does apply to love. You will always love him. The holidays aren't the hardest days. Rainy days when he would have called you ten times hurt worse.

Ask for help. I know you hate appearing needy, but you can't do this alone. You need people who care. On that note, when you ask for help you give someone who loves you a gift. They want to help, but don't  know how. Help them help you.

Don't worry about always hating what has always been your favorite time of year. YOU will come back, it   just takes time. I know that patience is not one of your virtues, but this time you will have to wait it out. There is no shortcut.

This is not the end of the road for you. You have so much to do in this life, and so many opportunities to honor your love for Phil by living large. He would want that and deep down you know it. You will never be the same after losing Phil. Someday you will value this fact.

As the tears stream down your face many times today, know this: You can survive Phil's death. And you will.

The funny thing about the above list, is that even if I could have told myself all of these things, I doubt I would have believed them. But that's okay. I believe them now, for me and for you. One day you will value the tears you cry today. They are streams of love.

Merry Christmas, darling. Loved, and never forgotten.

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.

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

Ode to a Frog

(photo from: kissingfrogs.net)

Kim's blog this weekend got me thinking...fondly reminiscing about the "joys" of dating again. This blog isn't really a poem...more of an epic journey, the story of a quest.

I met my husband at the ripe old age of 16, and married him at 22. We did date other people for a while in college, but really - he was "the one" from the beginning. Fast forward through marriage, college, grad school, the birth of a wee one, and a deathly battle with cancer....(not to go quickly through that important stuff, but those fabulous years are not the topic of this blog). The scene is set with a suddenly widowed 36 year old woman wondering...WTF now?

At first, I had no intention of dating, and had clearly stated "NEVER". Really? Who wants to go through that? If there is a 100 percent chance that we don't make it out alive...I was not interested in the odds of reliving widowhood. It sucked once, but twice? No way. Besides the obvious risk of death, there was also the equally obvious: my husband was awesome, and those still single this late in the game are single for a reason. I didn't want to find out why they were single. They could stay single far, far away from me.

But, as a woman who had been happily married and really missed it, I eventually became curious. Could I find something like that again? Initially, I went out on a few dates as a horrible experiment. Horrible is really the magic word here. Not good at all.

I had a couple of dates with "sensual in public man" - quite charming and entertaining, but inappropriate PDAs when there was no private interaction to back it up. Cool as a cucumber when we were alone, and hot for me when we were in public. Awkward. I'm pretty sure he was gay and trying to prove to his friends that he wasn't.

Next came "I will fix you" man. This one saw me as his pet project. His goal was to erase my past and replace all hurt with happiness and light. We only went out for a few weeks, but his agenda was clear: make poor hurt woman forget about past - eradicate all painful memories by replacing with flowers and jewelry. This was interesting for a short time, but the pressure was intense. I took a break from him and from dating...I think I was dating out of boredom, but my heart just wasn't in it.

About a year later I met "Delegation Man" - this guy was charming and fun for a while, but was intent on engaging me in the running of his life. He effectively managed all things in his life via delegation. It took me a little while to figure out how useful I was to him and how much my work load had increased since I'd met him. I was an only parent with a full time job and suddenly had an additional dependent. Not good, and his expectations only grew over time. He wasn't looking for a partner, he really needed an executive assistant. On the other hand, the experience with this one made me realize that although he wasn't the right one, I missed having a last call before I went to sleep at night and a date for the Christmas party. Maybe dating wasn't all bad, just dating this one wasn't good.

Shortly after ditching "Delegation Man" - Michele and I dared each other to try eharmony. She signed up first and a day later I joined the madness. She met Michael the first day...and is now living happily ever after. I was not so fortunate. The list of frogs grew with my eharmony membership. Fortunately, it was a relatively short list. I can usually tell in a single coffee date whether there is something amiss, so no kisses required to weed out the bulk of them. BUT, a few made it passed my initial inspection. I went on a few dates with a fellow widower, but the chemistry just wasn't there - he wasn't really a frog, and I didn't kiss him, so I guess he doesn't really count. Next, I dated "I'm almost divorced" for several months before determining that "almost" has a variety of definitions. He served an important purpose though, "almost divorced" made me realize I was capable of letting down my guard and allowing someone in my life. He wasn't Mr. Right, more Mr. Right Now, but he wasn't without value. He taught me a lesson and prepped me for the future. He helped me to see some of the things I didn't want and solidified for me that I did really want someone in my life.

There were several others, most one or two dates at the most - "gift giving man", "i hate women but you seem different guy", "dirty txting guy" (only a single drink for 30 minutes led to a dirty txting episode...awkward), "you're my best friend now guy", etc. I hope you get my point here. There were multiple attempts to try to get back into dating, and multiple breaks to decide if it was worth the hassle. I kept telling myself you have to "kiss a few frogs", but how many???? I'd taken about an 8 month hiatus when I decided to try eharmony again at the suggestion of Grayson, who said "how do you expect to find someone if you're not even trying?". Whatever, don't use your powers of logic on me, punk kid....
Okay, okay. I'll try.

I'd been back on eharmony for a day or two when Carl turned up in my matches. A few days of fun electronic correspondence followed by a drink that turned into a four hour conversation, a few fantastic dates and a crazy impulsive trip to New Orleans (we booked the trip on our 3rd date and hadn't even kissed yet...stupid....but it worked out!) and suddenly we were inseparable. It was a few months before I could believe the frog was indeed a prince, but he's fabulous and I can't believe my luck.

Wait a minute....LUCK? No way. Perseverance is more like it. I'm lucky Carl came along, but it wasn't because he fell into my lap. I decided I really wanted to find someone special. I kept looking, hoping he was out there, and I kept risking the frogs in the hope that the prince would appear. Thank goodness he did.

Keep on going, and the chances are that you will stumble on something, perhaps when you are least expecting it. I never heard of anyone ever stumbling on something sitting down.~Charles F. Kettering

The Dance of the Deathiversary

This post dedicated to my best friend. Our feet have so often marched to the same drum, and though we both would have abandoned the dance given the chance, I couldn't ask for a better partner in the dance of hope and life. Love to you as the sixth anniversary of Daniel's death approaches. No doubt he would be proud (and unsurprised) by the amazing way in which you continue to embrace life.

I dread deathiversaries, "with my whole soul", as my daughter would say. This dread is instinctual, and has nothing to do with how happy I am in my current life. The creeping feeling of impending doom sneaks up on me at the same time every year, and at odd times when I am distracted by nostalgia or lost in a happy memory. Sometimes the feeling of dread appears as a great crashing wave, hitting me full force from behind and knocking me into the swirling sea of despair, shocked and unprepared. Other times I can hear the drumbeat of the death march from afar, and I have time to steel myself for what lies ahead.

I am amazed by the way my body takes over as the days before Phil's death day unfolds. Singing along to the radio in the car can be suddenly halted by a realization that I am living in the moment when we visited my parents for the last time. How does my body know this, when my mind is completely unaware? The simple act of walking through the front door is fraught with danger when the death march has begun, each time I step over the threshold I imagine a random moment when Phil did the same. Pancakes become tearjerkers, cyclists cause a lump in my throat, photos now stacked haphazardly around the house are dusted and petted, and the memory of the life I used to live whispers my name over and over again.

The craziest part about this death march is that I am happy. Life is good. There are still difficult grief moments, but I am more aware of the goodness in the world, and in my life, than I have ever been before. So why does the death march have this hypnotic power over me? Why do my feet dance to the beat of the drums before my mind is aware that they have begun to play? Why does knowing the outcome of the story not alter in anyway the dread I experience as the day approaches? I don't know.

What I have learned is that the death march is worse than the actual anniversary. I have realized that honoring my feelings, and allowing my body to move to the rhythm that I can neither anticipate nor control, does help. Allowing the people who love me (including my new husband) to walk a portion of the march with me keeps me from isolating myself in the sometimes overwhelming sorrow. One other thing I know from experience--all marches come to an end. When this one moves on, I find myself still standing and holding onto the memories of a love for which I am eternally grateful, and moving forward into a life I am blessed to call my own.

She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

Special thanks to our regular guest contributor Matthew Croke who is filling in for Jackie today!

The first day of pre-school was minutes away.  You could see the parents glide into the room as if on hover shoes, their little ones following closely behind.  My Molly, holding my hand tight and almost hugging my leg, walks in the room with me.  She sees the sand table, pulls away from me like my hand is on fire, and I am quickly forgotten.

The teacher, Mrs. Linda, is a woman in her sixties, but possesses the energy of a twenty year old.  She bounces from parent to parent collecting all the mandatory paperwork and vaccine records.  She bounces her way over to me and I hand her the papers. “Anything we should know about Molly that is not in here.” she blurts out, catching me off guard.  From the tone of her voice I could tell she is expecting a “No.” and then off to the next person.

“You should know her Mom died when she was only 3 months old.” I said, watching her face make the same expression when I tell people the news; cheeks drop, eyes slightly close, and lips held in a forced half smile.  “Thank you for telling me. I am so sorry. Don’t worry, when Mother’s Day comes around, I will make sure we make a card for grandma or an aunt.” she says.

I have gotten better at this, and a few years ago I might have acted awkward which would make the situation more awkward.  But I place my hand gently on her arm, “Thank you so much for looking out for her, but I do want Molly to make a Mother’s Day card for Lisa.  She has a Mom, she’s just in heaven.”  The teacher’s forced smile relaxes into a natural one. “That’s good to know, I sometimes don’t know what the parent wants.

There is something about a death, where the instinct of others leans towards the “the person never existed” phenomenon.  I have a good friend who once brought up Lisa, and at the end of the conversation actually apologize to me for talking about her. “Don’t apologize.” I said “It’s not like you’re bringing up some night in Vegas where hookers were involved.  This is Lisa; she was my wife, I’m proud to talk about her.”

Trying to keep the name alive of the one we lost is a challenge.  But for today, at least I know Molly’s very first teacher will support my wishes of letting her know she does indeed have a Mom, we just can’t physically see her.  

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.

A Look Back

 I was looking through some old posts today and this one caught my attention.  I wrote it on December 18, 2008.  One year after Jim died.
I wrote about that year, and how far I/we came in those 365 days.
I thought I had come a long way.
I had no clue.
None.

I still had so much further to go.
But still .... after reading it today .... that's what I thought:  But still ....
It was .... a year.
It was a lifetime .... in 12 months.

Which must mean that I have now gone through almost 4 lifetimes.
At least.

And you know what?
The lifetimes have gotten better.
And richer.
With every passing year.

And I guess that's what I want you to know.
In sharing this.
My life, and all of its lifetimes, has gone from a dark year of just trying to breathe, just existing, just trying to make it from one day to the next and everything that year held ....
to becoming years with more richness and texture ....
and living.
And joy.

So keep breathing.
Keep existing.
One day you'll look behind you .... and be surprised at much life you are living.
:)


Looking Back ....

Well, Honey ...... I'm not sure where to start.

It's been a ride, that's for sure.  And not a ride I chose to get on, or wanted to stay on, but I seem to be strapped in for life.

I started to just write about the year and post pictures from events, but there were way too many to post ..... so many that this entry would've taken several weeks.

     I guess I'll start at the beginning, which ironically, is an ending.

A year ago today.  Around 2:00 a.m., to be more exact.  You were there ...... and then you weren't.

I like to picture you as you are in the above picture .....  up in Heaven, just looking out at everything and taking it all in.  And waiting for me, of course.

Since you left you obviously missed the most amazing memorial service I've ever seen.  I was in awe.  You would have been embarrassed.  You never knew how very well thought of and loved that you were.  I wish you had.  I hope that you do now.

Anyway, you left and then the kids and I left.   We ran away from home, from Christmas, from all things/people familiar.  We took a cruise and skipped Christmas.  I'm glad.  I wish I could've done it again this year, to be truthful.  

So last Christmas did not exist and therefore does not count as our "first" without you.  That is definitely this one.

     We came back home and shuffled forward .... and backward, mostly.  The kids all went back to school.  And we continued shuffling. 

I took the kids to the farm at Easter.  We needed to see your mom, who wasn't doing well.  It was the last time 4 of them saw her.  The next month she joined you and now I picture her standing next to you, waiting.  And loving having time with you.  I'm jealous.

     You missed the letter that told Daughter #1 she gained an interview with Harvard.  You missed that beaming face that lit up most of Texas.  (I'd like to think that you didn't really miss it, but I'm not sure where I stand on that.)  She doesn't beam all that much, as you know, so it was a big deal.  And I'm so thankful that I was there when she got the letter.

     You also missed the letter that told her she got accepted to the graduate program there. One of only four people.  We always knew she was intelligent .... too intelligent for me sometimes, but Harvard?  You would have been so very, very proud.  I'd like to think you are.  She left in July and she loves it.  She's even putting up with the cold, knowing that it's only a wee preview of the cold she'll find in Moscow in February.  Our little girl.  Our first baby ..... going off to Russia.  We did a good job, Jim.  She's very much like you.  :)

     You missed seeing Daughers #2 & #3 in the yearly college program "Sing" .... our first one to not see together.  They were amazing, as usual.  I went with several supportive friends and the other kids.  We had a good time.  Even though I cried through it all.  Another "first".

I hate "firsts".

   In May there were several of them.  Son #1 graduated from high school.  Our first without you.  He had his 18th birthday.  Daughters #2 & #3 had their 21st.  Big birthdays.  You left a big hole in those days.  

     In August I took Son #1 to college.  And didn't cry as much as I thought I would.  Of course, that's what I have Xanax for, too.  

I'm sure it's no surprise to you that he's loving it and that he should've been there at the age of 6.  He is so You.  It's unbelievable.  He would've made you proud in the way he's stepped up to take care of me ..... as much as I let him.  I never want him to feel pressured to be You.  Because he can't.  I think I've surprised him with the things I've done on my own.  Heck, I've surprised myself.  I'm sure you haven't been surprised at all.

     At the end of August I took Son #2 to military school.  I'm not going to lie, Jim ..... I have shed many tears and have had many angry words with you over this.  This is the ONE thing that makes me the most angry that you're not here.  I should NOT be doing this alone.  I should NOT have to put up with the anger, the frustration, the depression, the hateful and hurtful words  ..... not ANY of it .... alone.  Very, very alone.  I do not pretend to understand God's will in any of this.  I do not pretend to understand why I have to suffer losing you and go through this at the same time.  Sometimes I wonder what I must have done to piss Him off so much.  Or what I'm not learning that makes him keep slamming my heart to the ground.  

And so I shuffle. 

Son #2 seems to be trying to do better these past few weeks.  I wish you had been here to see him in his blues uniform.  You would've cried.  Don't try to deny it .... I've seen you cry over things related to the Marines many times.  You would've been proud .... and proud to have tears in your eyes.  I pray ...... sigh, I'm not sure what I pray for anymore when it comes to him.  I mostly cry and pray with groaning, trusting that God does indeed understand those prayers.  

But that son also makes me smile.  And he can make me laugh.  He has a great sense of humor and a deep and faithful heart.  He is going to do something big some day.  God has a firm grasp on that one, Jim.  I just wonder if I'll be around to see it?

And then there's Son #3.  You missed his football season this year.  His undefeated, District-winning football season.  He did a great job.  He's done a good job of helping, loving and protecting me this year.  He takes his job as "only child" quite seriously.  He certainly was God's gift to us, wasn't he?  

The house is much quieter.  After all, last year there were 6 of us living in it.  Now there are two.

So it's been a year.  A year of many, many "firsts".  Some horrible, some easier, all lonely.

Some days I can't imagine feeling any worse and then I get up the next day and .... I do.  

Some days I can't imagine feeling anything good and then I get up the next day and .... I do.

I have learned many things.  First, never expect things.  Just take each day as it comes.

And appreciate the time I have with our children.  And our wonderful, supportive friends.  Their acts of love, kindness and support would also have made you cry.  And you'd be proud.

I've learned what an awesome man you were.  I mean, I always knew that, but not to the extent that it goes.  

There are people from all over the world sending notes to me to tell me what you meant to them.  To tell me how you impacted their lives.  One of your accounting professors even called me at home the other day to tell me what you meant ..... way back then.

And tomorrow there will be a dedication in your memory.  A building here has your name on it.  Go figure!  You will go on impacting our school district, its teachers and its children for many more years.

I thank God for you every day.  I did it when you were alive (I'm so thankful that I always knew how blessed I was to have you)...... I do it still.  

There are no words to express my love for you, for our children and for the life we had together.  You were my heart, my soul and half of me.  I'm so thankful to God for putting us in that Speech class together 28 years ago.  I'm so thankful for the time we had, for the children we have, for the fun, laughs, tears, joys, frustrations, travels, love we had.  And for the love the kids and I still have for you.

And will always have.

And that, my Love, will carry me on into the next year.  God is still doing mighty things through you, Jim Eggers, and He is using the loss of you to do good.  

I love you.  I miss you.  I cry for you.  I smile and laugh at the memories of you.

And I can NOT wait to be with you again, hand in hand.

Give your mom a hug for me.

All of me,

Janine

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!