How you can help

I originally found this here. I didn't write it, but it's perfect and needs to be brought back to the surface every once in awhile. With everything coming back up again after my friend lost her husband last week, I wanted to share it again:

"How You Can Help Me"

Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk about him, and I need to do it over and over.

Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.

Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that."

Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.

I am not strong. I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don't see me. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my loved one's death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had for our children, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.

I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.

I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right. And remember, I was a capable adult before his death and I still am.

Please don't tell me I can find someone else or that I need to start dating again. I may not be ready. And maybe I don't want to be. And besides, what makes you think people are replaceable? They aren't. Whoever comes after will always be someone different.

I don't even understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on, I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.

I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.

Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you some ideas:

(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together.

(b) Send me a card on special holidays, our wedding anniversary, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.

(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may say no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone.

(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by couples, to walk into events alone, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.

Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.

Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve. Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience.

Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding.

And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.

--Author Unknown

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.

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.

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.

Sticky Toffee

Guest blogger Wendy Diez is filling in for Jackie today...thanks Wendy!

Picture from here

I’m on my way to pick up the kids at preschool and decide to stop at Panera to grab a decaf with extra, extra cream and no sugar.  I wait in line thinking about all that I have accomplished in my kid-free two and a half hours when I hear the woman in front of me order a Sticky Toffee cookie.   I’m transported back in time.

I’m in England five years ago with my dad, stepmom, stepsister and Chris.  We’ve just spent a week in Ireland and are finishing up our vacation with a three day stay in London.  We are eating a traditional English meal at a pub and after our dinner, our waiter asks if we would like dessert.  He lists the options and ends with, “And then there is the Sticky Toffee,” with a typically British accent that makes the dessert sound much grander than it actually is.  The delivery is so convincing though that, don’t you know, five minutes later we are all enjoying several servings of this delicious concoction and cracking ourselves up by repeating to each other over and over again, in our pretend accents, the words: Sticky Toffee.  

“Would you like some Sticky Toffee?”  Cue uproarious laughter.

“Why, yes, sir, I will have some Sticky Toffee!” One of us coughs out a chuckle

“Would you be so kind as to bring me some more Sticky Toffee?”  Giggling erupts through Sticky Toffee-stained teeth.

“Have you heard about our world famous Sticky Toffee?”  Someone actually snorts.

The pints of beer we consumed earlier in the evening only intensified how hilarious we thought we were.

This was our running joke for the rest of the trip.  A few weeks after we returned, my dad, stepmom and stepsister came over to look at the pictures from the trip and Chris surprised everyone with homemade Sticky Toffee.  He was a fantastic cook and his version rivaled the original one.  And again, we amused ourselves by sitting around repeating the words “Sticky Toffee” to each other.

After a few weeks, as can happen with inside jokes, the Sticky Toffee references came less often and eventually, we dropped it altogether.  Only on rare occasions would it randomly come up when our Ireland/England trip was referenced.  And then, I completely forgot about it.  Until the woman in front of me at Panera orders a Sticky Toffee cookie.  

Now all I can think about is that trip and how my husband was a saint to agree to take one crabby, old man, one sweet but slow old lady and one thankfully normal stepsister on a vacation with his wife of just one year.  As an extremely experienced traveler, Chris took on the responsibility of planning the entire trip from the towns we would visit to the places we would stay to the sites we would see.  He was the only one brave enough to drive a car through the unpredictable terrain of Ireland all on the wrong side of the road.  He tolerated complaining, cancelled plans, unexpected delays and way too much family together time.  I won’t say he did it all with a smile on his face because anyone who knew him, knew that he liked things to be a certain way.  He liked to be in control of his time and didn’t normally have patience for people that slowed him down. 

And yet, he did it.  He embarked on this adventure because he knew I wanted to do the trip this way.  He did it because he knew it would make me happy.  He did it because he wanted to see Ireland and England with me even if it included some tag along travelers.  He did it because he loved me that much.

I could hug that woman in front me at Panera who ordered the Sticky Toffee cookie.  She just reminded me how lucky I was to have experienced that kind of love. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Routine

Today's post is written by Amanda, who shares her  perspective on the love of her life and her widowed journey, with us from her home in Australia. Thank you Amanda for this peek into your heart.

 I’m trying to keep us steady in this new normal…this Clayton’s normal…and there are some moments where I feel like we are OK, we three.

We joke around. We talk about our day. We read and laugh and play. We do chores. We have a routine that ensures we joke and laugh and read and clean and play….….and I am the supreme leader with whom resistance is futile.

Wake UP sleepyhead. Eat your breakfast. Dishes in the sink. Get dressed. Dirty clothes in the hamper. Brush your teeth. Do your hair. Wash your face. Put your lunch in your bag. Make sure you’ve got your homework and your hat. Get in the car. NOW! Walk to class. Say “Goodbye Mummy, I love you”. Do your school work. Eat the lunch I made for you. No you cannot have tuckshop. Meet me at 3pm. Get in the car. Lunch box on the counter when you get home. Do your homework. Play outside. Come in when it’s dark. Have a bath.  Eat your dinner. Tidy up your things. Brush your teeth. Read to me. Go to bed. I love you, goodnight.

That’s it. That’s out typical day: rigid, ordered, routine.

Sometimes I feel so bad about having to keep such a tight rein on the kids, but other times I can see the pay-offs:

We function.

We eat and we sleep well.

We wear clean clothes and eat healthy food from clean plates.

Sometimes we do something interesting and fun….

… like wake up early to watch the planets align.

… like soccer training.

…like fishing and riding scooters and eating ice-creams at the beach.

But it’s all a pale comparison of the life we were supposed to have: the life with a husband and father in it. The life where the burden of being responsible for small people was shared between two. The life where the workload was halved and the love doubled. The life where fun was spontaneous and the routine less rigid.

…and I mourn the loss of that life as an additional loss to the loss of my husband.

Two Year Anniversary

We are joined today be guest blogger April Torres. Thanks for sharing your story with us April!

 

 

About April: In January 2009, I found out I was 5 weeks pregnant. A week later my soul mate and the love of my life passed away unexpectedly at 32 years old. I was 29, pregnant and grieving. The darkest, saddest, most miserable days followed. I thought I'd never smile again. But, 2.5 years later, I have a beautiful, healthy son who makes smiling easy. I don't think I will ever be 100% and will never stop missing my love, but I have slowly realized that I can be happy and that life does shift forward, no matter how much you may want it to pause and stand still. 

 

The quickness of time bewilders me. Two years has passed since you were taken away from me. Two years, and yet my heart still wears the imprints from your last touch. Two years, and yet I can still close my eyes and smell you. I can still taste you on my lips. It astonishes me – how well my senses know you. How they remember you so vividly. I still hear your laughter; still see that smile.

Someone asked me a random question the other day without knowing the situation. They asked me how long I had been single. It was a simple question but one I could not answer. I didn’t know how to explain that this question had no simple answer. Should I have provided the technical answer to this simple question and responded with: two years? Or the truth; no matter how complex that answer would be. 

Should I have simply said that I am not? That I am still very much in a relationship. Still very much with someone. That even though it has been two years since I last had physical contact with you or a face to face conversation, that you have been with me, every day. That we have shared conversations, even though they were one-sided. That you have answered random doubts I have had, in some form or another. That you have still been my “date” at many a gathering.

How do I explain that I still wake up to your face smiling down at me? That you are still the first and last thought of each day. So much time has passed and yet, you have never left my side. Or rather, I have never left yours. You are still my sun. How do I explain to someone that even though we’ve been apart physically for two years – we’ve grown closer than the two years + that we were together? 

How do I explain to someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to lose your love, that even though yes, the answer to the question might appear to be: two years, the truth is: I’m still very much in love. That my heart still very much belongs to you. I don’t. I won’t. I can’t.

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.

My Other Ring

About four months after Phil's death, I returned to my nail salon for the first time since being widowed. As I sat in the chair trying to keep it together while idle chatter swirled around me, my manicurist looked up and asked if I was going to take off my rings. Absently I handed them to her (my engagement ring, my wedding ring, and Phil's wedding ring were all crowded together on my finger) and she set them down awkwardly on the table next to us. Then she looked up at me and said, "Isn't your husband dead?" At first I was sure I heard her wrong. "Excuse me?" I said. Turns out my hearing was fine, because she repeated herself.

I almost jumped out of my seat. If it weren't for the fact that one hand was in warm water, the other was being filed, and my rings were out of reach...I think I would have run out the door. Instead I stammered something unintelligible, as she indicated that the only reason she asked was because I was still wearing my wedding ring. I felt like I had been slapped. First with insensitivity, and then with reality.

My first instinct was to let her know that I was NEVER going to take them off. But I couldn't find the words. I just twitched in my chair until I was finally free to go. I ran into the parking lot silently quaking. How dare she? What does she know? That is what she thought was an appropriate thing to say to someone whose husband just DIED?! Forget her, forget that remark, forget the idea that my wedding ring told others that I was currently married. But the seed was planted; I couldn't erase her words. Slowly, every time I looked at my rings I was reminded not of my marriage, but of the fact that my husband was dead.

One particularly tearful evening as I sat crying and twirling my rings, I experimented with taking them off. Looking at my bare finger caused an avalanche of feelings which resulted in me laying on the floor in a ball shaking with sobs until I put them back on. I just couldn't imagine an empty place on my hand where the symbol of my commitment, of OUR commitment, belonged. But I couldn't figure out how to keep the reminder of our amazing love and also avoid the uncomfortable assumptions that wearing a wedding ring encouraged.

My solution became clear sort of out of the blue. Phil and I fulfilled our promise to love each other till death do us part. No matter where else my life may take me, I did that. And so did he. In fact, as far as this life is concerned, I will be his one and only wife. To honor that fact, I decided to re-size his wedding ring and wear it on my right ring finger. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I walked away from the jewelers the day I dropped it off, and it took every ounce of control I could muster not to run back in and tell the kind person behind the counter that I changed my mind. But when I slipped Phil's ring on my finger for the first time, I knew I'd done the right thing. He was with me, his love was with me, and I could literally feel the fulfillment of his promise against my skin.

So what became of Phil's ring when another amazing man placed a beautiful new piece of jewelry on my left hand? It stayed put. When I told Michael about the band I wear, and why I wear it, I followed the explanation with the announcement that I planned to continue wearing my right hand ring for an undetermined amount of time. Then I held my breath. His response: "Why wouldn't you? It is a part of who you are now."

And so it is.

I rarely use words like never and forever these days. What I do instead is honor what I need right now. For the moment I still need a physical reminder of what was, and am grateful for the fact that my present is willing to embrace the past that made me who I am today.

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.)

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!

kinship

Photo from here....

Nine months after Jeff died, my beloved grandfather joined him in the great fishing grounds in the sky. My grandmother was, understandably bereft. She asked me, "Does it ever begin to feel any better?" In that moment, I was struck by one thing. We were now not only linked by blood and family, but by the kinship of grieving our spouse.

Marriage always ends. Either by divorce or death. I am unaware of a "sister/brotherhood of divorcees" as, fortunately, I have not had to endure this. But I have definitely become part of the fraternity know as "widowed".

I am so very often struck by the kinship and kindness that runs through this group. The nods of understanding and the gentle acknowledgement of each other's pain. Whether 20 or 80, we understand. The details are always different, but the pain of loss is always the same.

Us widows? We have each other's backs. We stand up for each other. We support each other. And we assist each other.

If I have to be part of either group, although I hate what has brought me here, I am glad to share it all of you. Thank you for holding my hand, laughing with me through hysterics, helping me to jump my hurdles and lending an ear.

Let's all remember to be empathetic and sensitive to each other. Because at times, we are the only ones who understand. And I want each and everyone of you to know how much you are appreciated.