I Know Him But We Never Met

I am filling in for Janine today, she will be back with us next week!

Tribute Tile Wall from Camp Widow West 2011

 Soaring Spirits is moving into a new donated office space...and even though I am writing this on Tuesday night, boy has it been a long week! While making room in our new digs, the relocating of desks, file cabinets, book shelves, and storage boxes has unearthed a variety of photos, old stationery, Christmas decorations, and two appointment calendars from the 90's.

The thing is these calendars belonged to the late husband of one of our board members. As I turned the pages and viewed Carl's writing I was struck by the proof of his existence...staring at me from small boxes marked with words written by his hand.

I never met Carl, but I feel I know him. I have heard his voice only once (on a cassette tape actually), and when I listened, somehow the timbre sounded familiar to my ears. Carl is someone I can pick out in a photo; I can tell you that he was meticulous and funny and fiercely loyal. I know that he helped his step-kids avoid their mother's wrath when they found themselves in hot water. He loved to give jewelry as a gift...I have seen the evidence! Carl was respected by his peers, valued by his employers, and kind to his family. When his daughter was diagnosed with cancer, he tried desperately to bargain with God to let him trade places with her so that she and  her young family would not be at risk of losing each other through death. Personal details, daily habits, food and wine preferences, and favorite travel destinations: all this I know about a man I never met, which I find odd and amazing at the same time, because my friend Barbara shared her love with me.

As I stared down at the maroon colored book in my hand today, I realized that not only do I "know" Carl, but I know so many other men and women whose hands I have never grasped in my own. You see, as a widowed community we share our late spouses with each other through stories, photos, tears, and laughter. When you leave a comment here, or send a message to us at SSLF, we meet your loved one for the first time through your words. Then every story you share there after, adds to the total picture we have of the person with whom you shared your life. Slowly but surely people we never had the privilege of sharing a meal with become dear to us, known to us.

In this beautiful way, our loved ones live on. Not just in our hearts, or even in the hearts of those who knew them in life, but in the friendships we share as widowed people trying to make our way without the people we miss and love so much.

Thanks Barb for sharing Carl with me. And thanks to each and every one of you who share your loved ones with us. Our community includes not only you and me, but all the people we love who have changed our collective lives. What a gift.

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.

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.

I Don't Like Broccoli

Thanks to guest writer Matthew Croke for filling in for Dan today!

I’m thinking about getting a second family, one with a wife and kids.  I could take out an ad in a newspaper, “Man looking for wife and kids to help him figure out his own children.  Family must know man and his three children will live in another house.”  That should get me married in less than two weeks.

Why, do you ask, am I going all ‘Big Love’ kid version?  Because all of a sudden my three-year-old will no longer eat her Lucky Charms for breakfast.  She won’t do it.  Two spoonfuls and she says “I’m no longer hungry.”  It’s Lucky Charms!  It’s as close to giving a child a bowl of sugar and a straw for a meal.  So I tried a different cereal, no dice.  Now her non-eating  is spilling over to dinner, I come home from work and see a plate full of food on the kitchen table – the table has since been long been abandoned by the children - and my Mom tells me “Molly said she wasn’t hungry.”

So then the question I ask myself the most, when it comes to my children, finds its way to my brain.  “Is my child being a three-year-old who is inserting her independence, or is she being a three-year-old who lost her mother and is acting out.”  Do I go with the flow, “Oh, those kids” as I scrape the plate of pasta, carrots, and chicken into the garbage.  Or do I jump on the phone and set up an appointment with a therapist as I take the uneaten food, put it in a zip lock baggie, and mark it with a black Sharpie: Exhibit #1.   

Yes, I know kids don’t eat full meals. 

Yes, I know kids don’t listen to their parents.

Yes, I know my kids will get in trouble and break the law and drink someday.

I get it, I truly do.  But it’s also a mistake not to keep an eye out for signs they need a little more attention due to me being an only parent.  It’s a bad idea not to look for context clues from the kids struggling with not getting enough affection.  And trying to guess their pain is challenging, because they don’t come up and volunteer their grief; you have to be creative in having it come out.  I do belong to some amazing groups that help the kids and I deal with this part of grief.  I do.

However, it’s still difficult to resist the temptation of every time they hit one another, to sit them down and say, “Now, do you really miss mom and you are looking for someone to hold you and instead are replacing it with negative contact that leads to anger which in itself is easier to emote than love?”  The child looks at me and says, “No, Haley knocked over my Lego tower on purpose and I’m mad.” “Oh… then off you go. Just don’t hit her in the face.”

Can you see where my second family would come in handy?   I can be sitting down for dinner and my middle child will say, “Dad, I don’t like broccoli, I’m not going to eat it.”  I can then get up from the table, hop in my car and go to my second family (where I have a wife), join them in the middle of their dinner, turn to the middle child and say, “Hey child number two, you have a mom and me as a dad, no issues there, are you going to eat your broccoli?”  “Are you crazy Dad, I’m a kid, I hate broccoli!” I can get back up, run out the door, go back to my house, go over to Kelly, pick her up, and swing her around in circles saying, “You’re not traumatized, you’re just being a kid.”  

Only to have her throw up all over me and my eldest daughter say, “Dad, why would you spin her around like that during dinner?  Did you forget, or is it because you miss Mom?”

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

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.

The Closer

Special thanks to guest author M,atthew Croke, for his excellent guest post today! Kim is moving and will be back next week!

I want to be a closer in baseball. Or at least I want to think like one.  I was watching a game on TV and one of the best closers in baseball gave up back to back home runs and his team lost the game.  The next night he gets another chance to close out the game. This time: he walks the first batter, hits the second batter, and the third batter hits a double which scores two runs.  They lose again.

Reporters swarm the closer after the game, hoping to get a swearing, out-of-control athlete who will throw equipment and have a meltdown for all to see.  The network news will then reply his weak moment over and over again, happily letting the world see a man who has failed.  The viewing public will stop everything they are doing to see this piece of entertainment every time it’s shown.

However, to the dismay of news producers, the baseball closer sits at his locker; ten microphones shoved in his face, and without flinching, tell the reporters what they don’t want to hear.  “If you are going to be a closer in baseball, you have to have a short memory.  You walk off the field and take the loss, you forget it happened and get back out there the next day and do your job.” He says picking a piece of string off his jersey as if the cameras don’t exist.

“But you’ve blown two in a row, do you feel you’ve lost your confidence?” barks a reporter from the back, trying his best to get the player to lose his cool.

The closer, looking at the piece of string before tossing it over his shoulder, looks back at the reporter and shrugs his shoulders.  “Those games are over, they’re irrelevant to me.  Tomorrow I will wake up and start all over again.”

A few nights ago, I had a bad night putting my kids to sleep: they took forever getting their pajamas on, they were playing instead of going to the bathroom, and every time I’d get one in the bedroom I would see another one come back out to play. By the time I had them all in their room to read stories, I was yelling and told them “no books” and left the room to crying children as I turned off the light and barked one more “Go to sleep.” for good measure.

I went upstairs and without turning on the lights, sat in the living room; the darkness allowing my brain to form a complete thought. It didn’t take long for me to be disappointed in myself for not having enough patience.  I wanted to the day to be over and what were kids being kids, I used as an excuse so I could get out of going through their entire nighttime routine.  It was the end of the day and I blew the final inning. I walked the first batter, hit the second, and then gave up a double to lose the game, kids crying and all.

“I blew the game tonight.” I told myself. “I need to have a short memory, for when I go to bed and wake up in the morning, I will be given the ball again, and if by chance, I happen to blow it two nights in a row, then the day after that I will go back out and try again.”

The difference between a Hall of Famer and a player in the minors isn’t the blown saves, everybody loses games. It’s the ability of the Hall of Famer to walk off the field and forget about it before he steps into the locker room that makes the difference.

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!

Hope Personified

The people in this photo have experienced despair. These smiling faces have cried buckets (okay maybe an ocean) of tears because someone they love is not coming home, ever. Some of us were called to an emergency room or opened the door to a uniformed officer who told us the news that would change our lives; while others sat by a bedside day after day, night after night...climbing into a hospital bed to say the final good bye.

Our widowed journey began anywhere from a few short weeks ago to more than ten years ago. We are women, men, married, not married, remarried, straight, gay, religious, not religious, some of us have children while others do not, we came alone and in groups, we have met on-line or never before....but none of this mattered. For three lovely days in San Diego, California what mattered was hope.

Hope was a palpable presence wherever we gathered. We overcame fear of travel, or rejection, or not fitting in, or the awkward first steps in getting to know a new person in order to embrace the hope that we tasted in the air. To allow that hope into our hearts we were willing to say words that have been stuck in our throats (maybe for years); shed tears we thought were dried up; listen to another story with a tragic ending; accept  the word widow as a role that impacts our lives; and stand side by side with others who were both like us and different from us. Sometimes the last step that was necessary to get to the hope that was within arms reach, literally, was terrifying. I watched many of these faces battle internally with whether they would take that last step towards hope...towards another widowed person. But time and time again hope led people to climb over their walls and take a risk.

Each person in this photo radiates hope. Sometimes they may not recognize the glow, and many times when despair knocks they are covered in shadow. But underneath the blanket that grief throws over our lives is the light we each carry within us, still flickering. When you gather 275 flickering lights in one place, hope burns brightly.

Thank you to each and every camper for: taking a risk, reaching out, embracing the widowed person next to you, being willing to let down your guard, facing your fears, and allowing your personal light to shine. Together we made a difference, together we are more than just one word.

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.

Flooding

Special thanks to guest blogger Matthew Croke for filling in while Kim is at Camp Widow...we appreciate you Matt!

I hate to think I need bad stuff to happen to put life in perspective.  Haven’t I already tortured myself enough, trying to understand painful life lessons after my wife’s passing?  After three years, haven’t I come out on the other side a better person?

On the three year anniversary of Lisa’s passing, my parent’s basement flooded due to record rainfall in Chicago.  The very same basement my three girls and I moved into a year ago, after we sold our house.

A basement, where I specifically did not clean up before the weekend, as I was going to give myself a break to focus on the emotions of her passing.  Thus, toys, books, and clothes that on Friday night were on the floor, by Saturday morning, floated around the basement, like lily pads on a pond.

I place three fans throughout the basement to dry the floor which just hours ago were inches deep in water.  More memories are taken away from me as an entire collection of children’s books are ruined, water pouring out of them like a soaked sponge, as I lift them from the bottom shelf to the garbage.  Lisa use to read these to our girls. 

Today it seems personal. How much more headache is life going to throw my way.  I thought I was getting better feeling the world is not picking on me.  Today I am being bullied.  I can feel the anger build in my stomach.

I take a break from clean-up and go upstairs to get a glass of water.  I drink it fast as if I can, as if I’m trying to douse the fire that is roaring in my belly.  My Mom calls from the living room, “Matt, the news is on and they are showing the flood.”  I walk in the room and the first image on TV I’m greeted with, is an older man on oxygen cleaning his basement which is damaged far greater than ours, “What can you do?  You gotta clean up and rebuild.” he says, his shirt as wet from his perspiration, as his pants are from the flood waters.

His words throw a blanket over my anger inferno.  “The world isn’t picking on me” I say to myself, “I am looking for a fight.  Everyone is hurting tonight in my area; I’ve just made a choice to make it all personal.”  This is not how I want to live.

I go back downstairs to throw more soggy furnishings in the garbage.  While I’m at it, I decide to do a little internal cleaning and throw away some soggy anger that needs to be put by the curbside also.  When the clean-up is done, both places will be a healthier environment to live in.

Plus One

Wendy Diez is filling in for Jackie today who is headed to Camp Widow. She will be back next week. Thank you Wendy!

Not long after Chris died, I received a wedding invitation addressed to "Wendy and Guest."  It was one of the first visual affronts to my newly-acquired widowed senses.  I remember looking at the envelope and wondering, "Who the heck is Wendy and Guest?" 

I certainly sympathize with the couple who sent the invitation.  I'm confident that they struggled with how to address it as well.  They really couldn't win.  Address it to just me, making it obvious that my husband really was dead, and expect me to endure the beginning of their happily-ever-after all alone?  Or address it as they did, making it obvious that most people attend weddings as one half of a pair, but allow me to make the decision as to whether or not to drag some poor soul along.  I wound up not attending the wedding at all partly because I couldn't bear the thought of how painful it would be (regardless of how honestly happy I was for the couple) and partly because I had no idea who I would bring.  My mom?  My sister?  My 2-year-old son? 

Part of the sting of this situation is that I got married at the age of 34.  I went to many a wedding as "Wendy and Guest" and a lot of times it was just "Wendy."  When I married Chris, I thought my "and Guest" days were over.  It never occurred to me that I would be relegated back to this god forsaken place of no guaranteed dance partner so soon.  I don't like being in this place (can you hear the temper tantrum starting?).  This place is filled with uncertainty about whether I will ever go anywhere again as something other than "Wendy and Guest."  Let's face it, this place is....lonely. 

After two and a half years, I think it is finally starting to dawn on me that life is going on without Chris.  As much as I want him here with me, my life is moving forward and I am starting to envision what the next phase will look like. Instead of seeing "Wendy and Guest", I'm starting to see "Wendy and _____."  I guess that is what some people might call healing.  And that is a good thing.

By the way, if you are inviting me to an event before _______ appears, invitations addressed to "Wendy and George Clooney", "Wendy and Hugh Jackman", or "Wendy and Patrick Dempsey" will be perfectly acceptable.

Home

Six parts of your Widow's Voice home at Camp Widow 2010

Home is where you hang your heart, not only your hat. When Phil died, the four walls of my home became both a refuge and a prison. I hated going out; I hated staying in.

The outside world was too bright. I felt blinded by other people's lightness, innocent happiness, and especially by their apparent disregard for the fact that the world had stopped. I kept forgetting that their world didn't necessarily halt because mine did. I remember very clearly (and it has been 1,981 days) that when I was in public I felt see through, as if there was no substance to me.

But when I was home the familiarity was excruciating. Everywhere I looked there was some misleading evidence that Phil would be right back. Shoe in the corner, lunchbox on top of the fridge, toothbrush in the holder...all signs that the owner of these items had just stepped out. Loneliness seeped from my pores and left a miserable residue on every surface. Home wasn't home. There is a line from a Mercy Me song (Homesick) that best described this feeling for me: "If home's where my heart is, then I'm out of place." Oh how I ached to be home.

Then I found you. This community became a safe, homey place. My widowed friends held bits of my heart for me while I picked up the pieces that were scattered by the winds of grief. Each time I found another sliver, I could just hand it to the people who would eventually help me work out how those fractured shards could once again take the shape of something beautiful. 

On the blog this week this comment was addressed anonymously to a new reader who is hoping that finding this community will help him deal with his loss:

"Come back here. To this blog. I can tell you - it saved my life. I almost didn't make it this winter, it was too painful. It was a very dark time. When it was at its worst, I came here. To the place where others understood. Where someone knew what it felt like to not want to carry on. The widows voice community has offered such wisdom and support and hope. That I can say now 7 months from my spouses death. I am doing better than I was. I still have dark days and hard nights but when I do - I know I am not alone. I come here and read the stories and hear the way others have coped and I know I can carry on. I hope you do return."

Thank you anonymous.

This is what I mean by home. You are home to me, and we are home to each other, and as you heal, grow, and make your way through this whole new crazy widowed world...I hope you will always remember that one home is only a click away.

Are YOU a Widowed Blogger?

Soaring Spirits is thrilled to announce a unique opportunity created by a coalition of widowed bloggers. Read on for details and if you (or someone you know!) are a widowed blogger, this is a great chance to be a part of a weekend you will never forget!

Widowed Bloggers -- win a ticket to Camp Widow!



Write a post sharing WHY you want to attend Camp Widow 2011. LINK your post to the homepost to make sure we see it (you can also send us a note when you post it, to supa.dupa.fresh AT gmail.com).


Camp Widow is a exceptional weekend for widowed people of all ages. We will choose one (possibly two) bloggers to receive a PARTIAL scholarship that covers Camp registration and some incidental expenses. NO ACTUAL CAMPING IS INVOLVED. Learn more about this event, which is in its third year, at campwidow.org.

How do I enter?

Please write and publish a blog post telling the world WHY you wish to attend. You can include topics such as how you expect to benefit, or share about some of the widowed people you've already met. You do not need to demonstrate financial need though if you wish to write a separate note discussing your financial circumstances, you may do so. Send those notes to supa.dupa.fresh AT gmail.com.


Who is eligible to compete?

Widows and widowers of all ages who started blogging before 4/1/11 and who are interested in attending Camp Widow 2011.

Please note: you should be prepared to pay for and arrange your travel to and from, and your lodging in San Diego. (We can help you find a roommate to reduce costs). If our generous donors can pay more, they will, but please don't apply unless you are prepared to make the trip (including arranging child care, taking time off work, etc.).

Schedule:

You must publish your blog post AND notify us by midnight EST, Tuesday, May 31.

We will notify the winner(s) within 2 weeks.

Camp Widow will be held August 12 to 14. Details are at campwidow.org.

Winner MUST arrange and purchase his or her your own travel and hotel reservations. Scholarship covers Camp Widow registration fee plus some incidentals.

Questions? Want to help fund this scholarship?

We want to hear from you.

Supa.dupa.fresh AT gmail.com.

(Disclosure: This competition is hosted, managed, and funded by an independent group of widowed bloggers. We're not being compensated for creating this competition and those judging entries are not eligible to win.)

normalcy

week three of

my trip around

the country

talking about

that thing I worked

on for madeline

it's been a week

 since i've seen

my baby.

(well a week since i've hugged my baby. I saw some photos that her grandma broccoli sent my way of maddy covered (and i mean covered) in temporary tattos, and some more that the other grandparents have sent my way.)

it has been

awful to be

away from her,

and i have been feeling

terribly guilty

but then i reminded

myself that if

things has been

different, they

probably would

have been the same.

(but yeah different).

i would still

be at my old job,

still traveling

to and from india

every few months,

still missing some

important moments,

still missing my baby.

all of it

to give her the

kind of future

she deserves.

so even though i

miss her more than

i can adequately describe,

it makes me

long for tomorrow.

(something i never expected).

and i hate to say it

bit its nice to know

that i can

(finally?)

find some

normalcy in our situation

(something i never expected).

Written by Matt, posted by Michele due to some technical difficulties....

Last Person Standing

A week ago I showed up for a meeting in a different state, that was planned over a month before, to find that the person who was in charge of the agenda was missing. The reason for her absence was that she just found out her best friend has cancer, and her dear friend's diagnosis was delivered to her around the first anniversary of the death of her brother from the same awful disease.

Later that day,  I was able to sit with my fellow non-profit director and listen to her tell the story of her friend's diagnosis, the heavy reality of the prognosis, and witness the stubborn look in her eye that said, "I will be there until the very end." I just sat in awe of the strength and grace that is required to be the last person standing....the one who will empty the bed pan; the one who will read or joke or sit quietly depending on what the mood calls for; the one who will give a pedicure, wash the hair, and brush the teeth of the person they love; the one who will relish the 'good' days and stay steady through the bad ones. What a priceless gift to give to your loved one, caregivers are heroes. I realized as we talked that I was not only looking at a person who was capable of this courage, but that I have become that person as well.

You see I literally watched my husband die, but I did not have a chance to nurse him or feed him or comfort him. In fact, up until a year ago I was almost sure he felt no pain when the car hit him. I believed his life was literally knocked out of him. But through the trial process I discovered that in the moments after his death one tear rolled down his cheek. I wish I knew what that tear meant, and more than anything I wish I could have been there to wipe it away. But that was not our course.

I have been asked countless times which is worse...to suffer a long good-bye or to get no good-bye at all. To be honest this question makes my stomach turn. Death is a personal tragedy, time and time again. Who am I to say what is more or less painful? People argue about this, because our logical minds want to make some sense of death, when there is none to be made. The eternal question of why will not be answered in this lifetime, nor will comparing one death to the next mitigate the pain of either party. Death sucks in every form and someone somewhere will be left reeling in its mighty wake each time a life ends.

So though I never uttered a good bye to my Phil, I know for sure that given the opportunity to say a long good-bye to someone I love in the future that I will not hesitate. I won't waste time wondering if I am strong enough, because I am. That crazy truth is another lesson learned through grief. I know the meaning of courage. I know the value of facing my fears. I know that avoiding the end won't avoid any of the pain of loss. I know that I will want to be the last person standing. Thanks for that strength grief, before I met you I didn't know I had it in me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am filling in for Michelle today because she is in the hospital after having her appendix removed. I will confess to many moments of anxiety (because of all the lovely lessons grief has taught me!!) as I awaited the news that she was out of surgery and recovering well, but I am happy to report that she is and if you'd like to leave her some get well wishes please do in the comments and I will pass them on!