Laughing my way through

A bloggy friend of mine has just suffered an awful loss - she has miscarried IVF twins at about 6 weeks.  She and her husband have been trying to fall pregnant for over 5 years - this was her first pregnancy.
To say I am gutted for her is an understatement ... but she has a wicked sense of humour and I know that this is something that will get her through the grief.

Another friend has faced many, many difficulties in her life.  She has experienced a different kind of loss to those of us who have had our spouse die.  But she knows the darkness well.  .....and she chooses to laugh in the face (butt) of the Universe (as it opens its dysenteric bowels above her head time and time again). 

We have all been tarred with the same dark brush in many ways ..... we seem to live by the motto: when all else fails and the world about you has turned to ashes, laugh.  Preferably at something dark or obscure.

Dark humour is something that only those who have truly known darkness can pull off.  All other attempts are feeble and not laugh-worthy.  Or at least grimace-worthy as are most of my satirical attempts.

So despite the amount of extra misery dumped in my lap this week (nothing serious - if you don't count a pathological fear of vomit and sick children) , I choose to laugh.

I choose to see the funny side.

Maybe it is only a distraction from grief, but its working for me today.

Thinking about dating again: tell me it gets better...

Speed dating announcement in Paris (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

please.... Please???

So I made my online dating profile visible again during the school holidays in an attempt to push myself out of the doldrums.  You know - maybe I could lift my spirits by having a coffee and a good conversation with a male to make myself feel like I am still young and attractive and not an old crone waiting for the grave.

When signing up on one site, I got 30 e-mails within half an hour of activation...... which sounds fabulous until I read through them and most were veiled suggestions of something rather sordid and soooooo not for me.  Although there were quite a few really nice ones as well but I got freaked out by the speed of the e-mail responses only minutes after I signed up and never contacted them.

On another, I got some lovely e-mails .... just a shame they were all from men at least 12 years older than me. (I am quite specific about wanting someone who is a non-smoker and under the age of 50 ... don't judge me!  I am looking to reduce my chances of being widowed too soon again.)

..and it is easy to see why so many people get discouraged.  .....

Men nearing 50 stating that they want a 25 year old woman with a 'hot body' (seriously??? when I was 25 with ...ahem ... " a hot body" ....  I thought anyone over 35 was ready for retirement). (and  HELLO  men aged in your late 50s and 60s, this 42 year old woman is looking at you like you are writing from your nursing home and low on your meds when you write to me and make lewd suggestions).

Or the young whipper-snappers who are looking for a Mrs Robinson or some sort of mother figure. No.  Just No.

Something in my waters tells me that I will meet someone I can truly love again..... I know it in my heart.  But as the holidays finish and it is back to school tomorrow, I know I will hide my dating profiles yet again whilst hoping that Mr Right just strolls into my life and finds me.

.....here's hoping!
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P.S. I hope nobody takes offence at this - I am just trying to make light of my own self-sabotaging nature and the absurdities of internet dating, and being Australian, I do that by "taking the piss" out of the situation. 
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P.P.S. - If you have found a new partner via internet dating, I'd love to hear your success story ... and what site you used..  Alternatively, if you are at the point of looking around again on internet dating sites and have some "interesting" stories to share, I'd love to hear them.
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P.P.P.S. I am aware of the irony of the last two paragraphs. 
 
 

why Christmas concerts suck

Image from here....

I have been working really hard at being upbeat and positive this Christmas. I consciously remind myself of the wonderful things in my life - amazing kids, great friends, a rewarding job, an amazing community, etc. I don't want to whine. I certainly don't wish to have others internally groan and roll their eyes if I talk about how lame the holidays are as an only parent or a widow. I keep beating myself over the head with intentions of positivity and quotes about gratitude. I very often feel that I have reached the lauded grieving stage of "acceptance".

But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel myself thinking, "This sh*t blows."

I had one of these moments yesterday as I raced to my kid's Christmas concert at school. Parking was terrible and as I ran down the road I could see pairs of other parents converging on the school together.

Inside the gym, I grinned maniacally at my kids trying to instill the feelings of "Mom, is so proud!" "You're doing great!"

Briar stared back woodenly dressed in a floral apron whilst limply holding a large spoon. He was surrounded by numerous other five year olds who sang about Christmas baking and cookies for Santa. His look implied that he was truly annoyed to be forced on-stage with all the tres eager little girls singing their hearts out and shell-shocked little boys who mouthed the words quietly. Jeff would have laughed hysterically at the expression.

Liv looked so tiny sandwiched between two enormous classmates. Her little mouth framed each word perfectly and I felt that I could hear her voice clear above all others in the gymnasium. My eyes started to well thinking about the pride Jeff would have felt watching her long and gangling little arms act out the required motions to the obscure carol her class sang.

All around me parents stood together giggling at their children's antics and video taping the show for later viewing. Some held hands and others took turns holding babies or getting cups of hot chocolate from the treat table for each other.

I know there were other "single" parents in the crowd....but at that moment, I could only see all the lovey Hallmark card families....And it made me want to spontaneously cry and spit on them.

I was afraid the kids would witness my melt down so I attempted to distract myself by getting Briar to smile. As I watched him stare back at me with a look that imparted his immense displeasure, I covertly administered bunny ears to the father standing against the wall beside me. I stuck out my tongue. I pretended to pick my nose. Nothing worked and I worried that he possibly was looking around and noticing, as I had, all the perfect sets of parents filling so many of the seats.

When time came for me to deek out the side door and head to work, I waved to Liv and mouthed "I love you the whole pie".

As I ran up the hill back to my car, I had tears streaming down my face. It broke my heart to be the only parent witnessing my kiddos triumphs and insecurities. I hated, in that moment, those Christmas joy-filled parents and all that their togetherness represented.

I realize that, to my children, this is the life that they lead. That this is the one that Briar has really ever known and, that to Liv, it is now normal. But I felt angered and horrifically saddened by this.

I don't want to be the ONLY one who loves them ferociously. I am sick of being the one who has to think up stories to bolster Briar's belief of Santa when he comes home from kindergarten saying that a bigger kid told him that the man in the red suit is all a lie. I feel the injustice of having to decide on my own whether "re-belief" is the stance to take or not on my own. I don't want to attend this shit alone.

And amid all this un-advanced grief, I know that I need to just accept that this is how life is now. That no amount of railing against Jeff's death will fix it. But right now, I just want to cry and stomp my feet instead. Maybe tomorrow I will choose to force myself into positivity again....But right now, this shit sucks.

All I Want for Christmas

Photo from here...

Anyone who reads this knows what each and every one of us would like for Christmas if we could have whatever we wanted....We also know that's an impossibility.

We could sit and count every moment that we are missing our love. Every scenario that lacks our spouse. Every tradition that falls flat without their presence.

Or we can try to find the glow that once existed in the holiday season. We can remember the laughter and hope to feel the love that was and, hopefully, is somehow still held for us by our loved one.

There are times that I feel that the "celebration" part of December is lost on me. There are certainly moments that I fantasize about ripping off and stomping on those reindeer antlers affixed to jolly people's car windows.

But this year, I can't help but think, "What would Jeff want me to do at Christmas?" And under all my gloom and "bah humbug-ing", I find a little bit of holiday joy bubble up from somewhere forgotten.

I remember his beloved traditions - lifesaver books in the kid's stockings, homemade stuffing (dressing) in the turkey that resembled liver (he always had to make me a separate batch without the giblets), and drinking large amounts of Irish cream all day in his morning coffee.

My favourite memories involve waiting for the kids to fall asleep and attempting to be as quiet as possible while giggling maniacally over his rendition of a dark-haired, tiptoeing Santa Claus or his hilarious ways of wrapping my presents (in toilet paper for instance).

So this Christmas, I will buy the lifesaver books, stock the cupboard with large amounts of Baileys and attempt to create stuffing (aka dressing) that resembles an internal organ.

Although I will most likely forgo the strange wrapping paper, I will buy myself something that HE would have bought me. Something that would make me smile and feel loved. Something just. for. me.

And I will force myself to stop my fantasies involving vandalizing the ornamentation on Christmas revelers vehicles......Okay, maybe not. But I won't actually do the damage.

I am sure that there will be sad and lonely times. But I will be damned if I do not smile and let the warmth of his love and the love of my family warm my heart. Because, really, that is all anyone could want or need.

Don't get too close

I went on a date a few weeks ago. It was a truly enjoyable evening spent talking, laughing and being with another adult....a man.

Although he talked a lot, he was funny, kind and really, really sexy. I wanted to reach out and touch him almost immediately.

The day after, he texted me to make plans for a few days later. I was thrilled!

But the day before our next date, I found myself finding excuses to not go. I could hear my mind scrambling for reasons that this particular day was just too busy. Searching for reasons to feel guilty for spending any more time with this man and sussing out any and all failings in his personality and appearance.

I am not proud of this behaviour. And when I left him a message that I had to cancel, I felt a bit sick to my stomach. But I managed to convince myself that he wouldn't care and that he probably had a lot to do as well thus alleviating some of my guilt.

Days later when he phoned, I acted cold and distracted. And when we were scheduled to hang out again, I cancelled....again.

To any outsiders, it would appear that I had found him lacking and was trying to shake him off. In actuality, I had developed a crush on him. I liked him. A lot. I wanted to be with him. To tell him things. To snuggle up to him.

But therein lay the problem. If I "liked" him, I might one day "love" him. And as I am well aware, he is going to die. Then I am just where I have been for three years, in love with a dead guy.

So instead of allowing myself some companionship, I chose to sabotage any amount of fondness that someone may have for me because I don't want to add to the *collection of urns under my bed. Ridiculous.

Because don't get too close....or I'll ditch you.

*The collection of urns under my bed isn't as morbid as it sounds....at least to a widow. It contains just one husband and two family dogs.

old shoes and wooden spatulas

Photo from here....

I've been sorting through our cupboards and closets and purging the least needed/most outgrown items lately in anticipation of living mostly indoors again after a summer in the backyard and beach.

I have found mismatched gumboots, lost flashlights, a dried up snail and the odd coin. Most surprisingly, I have unearthed copious amounts of Jeff's clothing despite thinking that the vast majority of it had been distributed among family, friends and the Salvation Army.

As I have worked on this task, the kids have been playing together...or re-enacting small-scale wars in the back hall. Today, their fighting somehow led to the playroom door (for which there is no key) to be locked.

Since I imagine myself to be somewhat of a handi-woman, I attempted to pick the lock. Failing this, I attempted to break into the room from an exterior window. Then, I removed the door knob not really realizing that the bolt would still be intact...without a knob. After this, I tried to shoulder the door open with brute force. Sometime later, I gave up and called a friend.

As he kneeled on the floor peering through the impenetrable knob hole, I stared at his large sock-clad feet which brought to mind a pair of new, brown leather shoes I had unearthed at the back of the laundry room closet.

"Hey, Dave," I said, "Do you need any shoes?" He turned and looked at me quizzically.

"I found a pair of brand-new shoes of Jeff's at the back of a closet and thought that maybe you could use them."

"Um. Well. Not...I don't know, Jackie," he stammered, "That's...um, very nice of you. But, um, weird." He went on to explain, "I have never had anyone offer their dead husband's possessions to me. It feels really odd...and wrong."

I sat and pondered for a moment. I thought about how uncomfortable I would have felt in the same situation three years ago. How I may worry about accepting some one's beloved's possessions would ultimately upset them or that I may be terribly close to catching "dead".

But then I started to laugh, "Dave, I am sure when we are in our 90s and most of us have lost many of our loved ones and close friends, offering a pair of unused shoes or a wooden spatula that once belonged to a dead person will be nothing short of common place. This is just the beginning, my friend! And really, Dave, I do not think that you have to worry about Jeff needing them back."

But this evening as I washed dishes, I wondered again if it was wrong of me to ask a friend if he had use for something that had once belonged to Jeff? WAS it odd? Did I cross some taboo barrier? Was this a "widow's faux pas"? Am I still too young for my peers to "get" how ridiculous this attachment to a dead person's unused possessions is? Or is my way of thinking off-track?

I truly just wanted someone who could use them to have them....I suppose it will have to be a stranger who will use them. And that is okay too....they won't have to know that the shoes have "dead germs" on them. :)

The same??? a cranky rant

Image from here....

First posted on my personal blog on June 25th, 2008 (Three months after Jeff died) while still in the throws of "death anger"...

The kids and I went to a small toy store to find a little toy for Liv and Briar on our way to the wedding on Sunday. The saleswoman was one of those types that drive you insane while shopping by following you around and making comments on anything that holds your attention for longer than 3 seconds. She must have been curious about why we kept referring to ‘Daddy’ in the past tense. (Daddy didn’t like that. Daddy thought that was funny. Etc…) When I went up to pay, I explained that I was trying to find a few things to keep the kids busy while I was doing photography at a wedding. She says, “Well, where’s your husband?” Like it’s any of her business. What if he left us for some skanky, gymnast with a leashed pet bunny named Gerome? I just said, “He’s dead.” I’m so tired of the questions and the ridiculous euphemisms for death (passed away, left us, in heaven, etc.) I find if I just say ‘it’ they usually stop. Not this chick.

After getting past her questions about the circumstances relating to his death (I STILL have a hard time telling people that it’s none of their business and that I’d rather not talk about it to a total stranger, she begins this fucking stupidly long story about her grandfather’s death in a car accident when she was 3 years old. I didn’t quite understand why she was telling me all of this. Now, I don’t doubt that her grandfather’s sudden death caused her family a lot of pain and that it was hard for her family. But she then says to me, “So I totally know what you’re going through.” Huh?

I fail to see very many parallels in these two events other than that they were both males and they died suddenly. UNLESS:
- She was over say age…..5.
- She was in love with her grandfather and not in the grandfathery sort of way.
- They had children.
- Her and her grandfather’s children were there when he died.
I could go on, but I am sure that someone will take offence to this anyhow and I think you probably get my point.

I think often people don’t know what to say and so they just spout off the first experience that they’ve had with death and assume that it’s all the same. Maybe after I left, she thought “God, I’m a dumbass.” But I doubt it.

are you ready for this?

Photo from here...

One of the questions I've asked myself frequently since Jeff's death is "Am I ready and do I want to date?"

Aside from the need for physical contact, I can't say that in the first year I was at all ready for "dating". Last year, my second year of widowhood, I thought I was. With trepidation and large amount of humility, I took a look at online dating.

I "chatted" with a couple of men. I was embarrassed by this and certainly didn't divulged to many of my friends that I was looking to date....especially via an online dating service. I felt that if these people were indeed single, there was probably a very good reason for it and they were most likely society's dregs.

Despite these prejudices, I agreed to one date after many emails and a couple of evenings of instant messaging one eligible bachelor. I felt I was ready to know more about this single father who lived aboard a boat with his young son. I was sure there was some flaw within him that rendered him "broken" but I thought I might as well get my feet wet without any strings attached.

After gearing myself up and looking fabulous (if I do say so myself), I sheepishly left my children with the babysitter. I felt terribly guilty. I almost turned back a few times as thoughts of "Am I really ready for this??? I can't believe I am paying a babysitter to be with my children when I am going out with some man....not their father. What must she think?" and "How can I still love Jeff if I am going to meet another man for a date?" and "What would my family say?....What would JEFF'S family say?"
I told myself I was ready for this. That it was time to reach out and feel cared for again. That Jeff would not mind one bit and that probably our families would celebrate that I was trying to keep living.

As I sat across from this man, this relative stranger, I heard myself telling him about my life thus far and vaguely listened to his tale of what brought him to this place. He was kind and funny. I grew more comfortable as the evening progressed. After dinner, dessert and coffee, he walked me to my car.

I felt almost nauseous, however, when we arrived at my car and he asked, "Can I ask you a question?" Thoughts of "Oh my God. He's going to ask me to kiss him. I don't think I can. What the hell? Maybe it won't be so bad. This is awful. Why have I done this?" sprinted through my addled brain.

Instead, with a smirk, he asked, "Do you think it's a good idea to show your date a picture of your husband the first time you meet?"

I am sure I turned purple with embarrassment as I thought of how this must seem. That I was pining for my husband.....And then I realized. I was. I had just shown a man that I was hoping to "date" a picture of the love of my life and extolled all my beloved's virtues all night. I was far from ready.

I thanked my date for his company, dinner and the lesson. Until I am ready to share a meal with another man without whipping out Jeff's portrait or talking endlessly about him, I am not ready. Like the other singles out there on the online dating services have a very good reason for being single...I'm messed up too.

But this year, my third, I think is the year. I no longer only talk about Jeff and his death. I am sure I am a much better listener and make far better company than I have in the last couple of years. And I can imagine myself sharing the company of another man without guilt.

But, maybe, just in case, I'll remove his picture from my wallet before any date just to make sure I am not tempted.....

guilt and acceptance

First posted 7 months post-widowhood on personal blog

I have worried since Jeff's death that he didn't know how much I loved him. The stupid things I did and the things I took for granted have weighed so heavily on my mind. I have felt terribly and guilty for the things that I complained about and the issues I thoughtwere important.
Since Jeff's death I have realized that these 'things' were nothing. Not important. Not worth the words or the breath I used to express them.
I have always known Jeff loved me. I have always felt his comforting presence and his teddy bear gentleness when it came to 'us'. I have never doubted that he loved me and I was his 'Snuggles'.
A friend recently expressed her worry that when she dies, it will be after she has lost her patience, yelled or been in a generally foul mood. She worried that this would be the last thing her kids or husband remembered about her. I assured her that it wouldn't. That they'd remember all of her and those times of stress and anger would be forgiven and almost forgotten.
I told her of the last few minutes I had with Jeff before he died. He had been an ASS. He had told the doctor that he thought I was hoping he was having a heart attack so I could 'be right'. I had replied, "No, Jeff. I am concerned about you. I am worried and I want to find out what is wrong."
Jeff didn't like going to doctors. He didn't like to admit that anything was wrong. He could be combative and angry trying to dissuade me from taking him to a doctor. Years ago, he once told me that he would leave me if I took him to the hospital again after he had passed out on the floor and was turning blue. It became the source of laughter just days later. But it didn't mean he didn't love me. It meant he didn't like going to the doctor. He didn't like being 'told what to do'. As simple as that.
Since telling my friend about these incidents, I have been thinking about it. I am realizing that even though I have had my complete 'ass' moments, Jeff most likely had the same feelings about me. That I am human. I obsess about ridiculousness much to my detriment just as he did. Even though he was angry with me for dragging him to the doctor, I was there. I was trying to save his life. I loved him enough to go up against his defiance and fury to find out what was wrong. Even after he used these angry words, I tried to save him. I would have no matter what he ever said, did or was. I knew he loved me. And I loved him. He died in my arms as I tried to save him. And, now, I am sure he knew I loved him. And it is a relief. I can let go of my guilt. I can realize I am human and like everyone else, I am imperfect. He loved me despite of it all. And I loved him despite any of his faults. And he knew.

i'm a jerk...a widowed jerk

Picture from here....

I am strong. I am brave. I am a survivor. I am usually empathetic and kind. But...... Sometimes I'm an angry whiner. I wallow in my self-pity and the life that I now exist in.

I realize that life is a gift and that we must be grateful for the amount of time we spend with our loved ones and upon this Earth.....But there are times I can't help myself but to gnash my teeth and spew angry thoughts of self-pity.

Such as:

You find "single parenting" exhausting? Try "sole parenting". Being the only one to dry tears, the only one to prepare cupcakes for the bake sale, the only one arranging childcare, the only one there to get up in the night, the only one....it's especially fun when you are sick!

You were heartbroken when your grandfather died? Yes, it IS awful. But it is NOT the same as losing the love of your life when you were supposed to grow old together and BE grandparents together. It's an entirely different grief.

You find making your pay cheques spread across all the bills difficult. Do it with one check while needing to pay for the same amount of things as if you were two - hydro, gas, groceries, laundry detergent, etc. You wish you could find someone to fall in love with and share your life with? How about finding that person, loving them with all your heart, warts-and-all, and then unexpectedly having them drop dead. Now you're lonely, sad....and still in love. But with a dead person.

I know that these thoughts are horribly belligerent and one-sided. I realize that I am being a jack-ass. But sometimes, I don't want to hear their shit. I want to wallow in my own well-earned self-pity and flip the bird at any other person's troubles or griefs.

*Please admit I'm not the only one with these thoughts.....

Pretty Panty Problems

Photo from here...

There's an old adage that says that you should make sure that you are always wearing nice underpants in case you end up at the hospital and some health care worker witnesses the terrible state of your undergarments.
I remember this and other silly issues causing me concern at one point.
I could worry about this still...if I worked at it. But now, it is a choice.
I can care that someone believes that I am too old for my nose ring. I may occasionally wonder if I appear to be a socially responsible human. I might stress about the length of the lawn.
Since Jeff's death, I truly realize that "Life is short". All of us reading this blog are painfully aware. Our hearts ache and we may wonder 'why' this has happened. Why we have lost our loved ones.
But if we can look through the mesh of fear and sadness that our loss has created, we can see the gift that this loss has given us.
It's the gift of knowing what is important. Truly important.
It's not the whole-y undies that matter - it's the person that's wearing them. Their deeds, their heart, their memories. Well-loved and saggy, rainbow tie-dyed underpants can be replaced. The fabulous human who sports them cannot.
Although this lesson has come with a heartbreaking price, I am a kinder, better and more fun and confident person because of it....And if you look inside, I bet you are to. And I now feel that many of our everyday issues rank down there with pondering "pretty panty problems".


P.S. Nice undies!!!!

safety freak

Photo from here

My minivan has a back-up beeper installed and I never fail to safety goggles when required.
I realize that teenagers at the bus stop snicker as I stride by sporting my safety vest covered in all its' reflective glory and a red light flashing out a constant reminder of the whereabouts of my hindend.
And in the past, I would have worried that this safety gear would identify me as a complete dork. A safety freak. Now I see it as protecting my kids.
By wearing this protective paraphernalia, I am hopefully preventing the possibility of creating two little orphans.
I am terrified of leaving them alone in the world. Without Daddy....and then without Mommy.
I have stopped short of wearing bubble wrap beneath my clothing. But I do get my flu shot and wear a helmet when riding my bike. For my kids. I'll do it because they do still need me.

the anger

Photo from Hardcore Stress Management

**My apologies for the raw and rude wording of this post. It's been written in the heat of the moment but I feel it would lessen it's 'feel' if I softened the wording. I hope no one is offended**

There are times I hate him for dying. Two and a half years later and I could spit fury at his lack of care for his health, for his concern for our welfare, for his love for us.
I feel so lost still at times. So alone. So bereft.
I watch others who have found love again. I see those who have never lost theirs. The jealousy and envy I feel are almost tangible.
The agony of being half of a whole is so filled with melancholy....and at times, humiliation.
Who wants the damaged goods that a widowed mother of two has to offer?
The only people who offer their services as companion or 'lover' are either already 'reserved' or are the kind of human who would whack off on a webcam to an unsuspecting stranger in an attempt to get their thrill.
I am tired of the lack of touch. I could almost molest my hairdresser for gently brushing my hair - and she's a pregnant female. I feel pathetic. And desperate. And furious at Jeff for causing this. Fucking asshole.

senseless socks

Photo from here...

One of the biggest lessons I've learned on this journey of widowhood is that grief is not logical. It makes no sense. It's arrogant and naive to believe that we think we know how we would react in any stressful or painful situation. Segments of our lives, portions of our morals and many of our ideals become frayed and scattered.

When we begin to remake our lives, things, us, are decidely different.

I've had people tell me that they would never be able to part with their husband's things should he die before they did. I've had others report to me that they have thought that I am clinging to the past by keeping some of Jeff's belongings. I don't know which camp is right....I just know that there are some things that I had never given a thought to and that now have such meaning....or maybe not 'meaning', just value to me emotionally that I am unable to part with them just yet.

There are items in this home that I will never be able to use, I can't remember a specific moment that signifies importance or that are truly undesirable to anyone besides myself. Logic does not, at all, enter my thoughts in the hoarding of these objects.

The specific thing I am talking of....Jeff's mismatched socks. Can't do it. I don't know if I will EVER get around to discarding them.

They lay tangled in a basket on the shelf above our washing machine with the kids and mine. The only distinguishing factor between the socks is that his are decidely larger....and dirtier. They no longer smell like him. I have never found their mate crammed behind the washing machine or at the bottom of the hamper. So they sit in the missing sock receptacle...and wait.

Everytime I reach into the basket to attempt to match the socks thrown in there at the end of a laundry folding session, I find his single socks. I don't know if it is the symbolism of being left behind, if it is the thought that these are the last of his personal effects that are tied in with our daily lives or if it is just that I can't bring myself to throw out something that holds proof that he walked with us. It's simply not logical.

But the lack of pragmatic thinking does not make me discard them. I still smile inwardly and occasionally shed a tear when I attempt to match his single socks. Because grief, it really makes no sense.

Photo from Reader's Digest - laugh yourself to good health

Being a widow is a lot of things. Scary. Sad. Lonely. Guilt-ridden. But an unexpected side effect of the loss of my spouse is the humour and hilarity.
Maybe I was funny person before. Maybe it has been in me all along. But after spending time again this year at Camp Widow, my cheeks hurt from laughing....and I didn't spend the time giggling at myself. Either death finds funny people or funny people just curse those around us.....or maybe, when life has you scraping the barrel, you begin to not take it as seriously. You realize that you can't jinx yourself with a belly laugh and no one has ever ceased breathing for joking about the ceasing of breathing.
I now find it more comfortable to be able to face the sadness and fear down and speak it out loud....and then laugh in its' face. Unfortunately, lay people sometimes seem to be either very uncomfortable with this M.O. or they seem to think that I am flippant or nonchalant about losing my beloved Jeff. I can assure you I'm not.
But a sign-in sheet at work for the staff party where it inquires whether each staff member will be bringing their spouse fills me with a desire to answer in the allotted box, "No. The seat belt won't properly hold the urn."
A man who approaches me at the bar surrounded with other widows who have attended the widowhood conference states to me that it is such a coincidence that he has the same tattoo on his forearm as I do. "Oh?!", I say, "So your husband died too and you got an anchor to signify both his job as a fisherman and his role as an 'anchor' in your life????? Wow!!!!! That IS a coincidence!" Shocked, he tells me that I am mean and rude. I just thought it was plain funny.
A woman at Camp Widow sported a shirt that said, "My husband died and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." This shirt has brought me many moments of mirth for the last week as I recalled it.
I love that we can find humour at such a deathly grave situation. We are not (as) afraid anymore. We now know that you will not be struck dead for a good chuckle.