"Until my dying day..."

"...until my last breath."  My wife Megan and I had those words tattooed onto our forearms on February 8th, 2014.  It was my suggestion, and she was completely taken aback by it.  Not because she wasn't sold on the idea of a little ink (she had sixteen tattoos already), but because I suggested it and came up with the whole plan.  I only had two tattoos at the time, so it wasn't my "thing", and she found it one of the most romantic gestures I had ever made.  Yeah, we were weird like that.  

Megan and her younger brother were born with Cystic Fibrosis.  I won't get into the details of it, but in summary, the symptoms are effectively like having permanent pneumonia.  Look it up if you're interested, but prepare to be depressed at what some people have to go through just to live.  Her brother Jason only made it to age 19.  I was at his bedside with Megan in 2005 when he passed.  I was 24 years old.  That is the very moment that I knew that I would be seeing this scene play out again, probably before I turned 40 years old, but it would be my wife lying in that bed.  Four days after her brother died, Megan and I were married, in the same church where Jason's funeral was to be conducted the next day.

Talk about sobering.  She was sick before I even met her in 2002, just after being honorably discharged from the Marine Corps.  She was sick when I proposed to her, at the hospital, no less, in 2004.  She was sick when we married, and she was sick in 2007, when our daughter Shelby was born.  She was sick until 2011, when she received a double lung transplant, and we finally got three healthy years where we maximized every moment we had, not worrying about when her time would come, but knowing in the back of our minds that it would come entirely too early.  She wasn't sick again until January 2014, when the "pop" was felt when we were at Crossfit together.  That "pop" was the first sign of those recycled lungs beginning to be rejected by her immune system.

On November 19th, 2014, at age 33, Megan took her last breath.  I held her hand and watched as her heart rate went from 90 beats per minute to 3, then zero.  The tattoo, after spending less than a year on her body, had just taken on its true meaning. 

So here I am, writing about my dead wife on the internet.  At age 34, with an eight year old daughter, I'm a widower.  I was gifted 12 years with an amazing woman.  My perspective is somewhat unique, because after the initial shock of losing her, I came to the realization that I don't feel "cheated" like many other widow(er)s justifiably do.  I made a deal with the devil, because I loved Megan "in sickness and in health, until death do us part.  There wasn't any fine print on that contract.  It was all there in big capital letters: IF YOU MARRY HER, SHE WILL BE DEAD BEFORE YOU'RE 40.  

I simply refuse to let something that I knew and accepted would happen someday destroy my life.  It's not too bad.  It's too soon.  Of course, I wanted more time with her, and would have sacrificed anything to grow old with her and never have to be here, where I am, right now.  She would have never let me do that though.  She was guiding me long before she died, and she's still doing it now.  I can't help but think that she actually lived, and gave her life, for Shelby and I, and I am eternally grateful.   

Did her death change my life?  Obviously, but it did not destroy me.  I still get mood swings or bad days like everyone else, full of rage and hate and pain and fear of self, but generally those days are followed by ambition and an intense need to scream out that I will not let life take me down.  Those bad days are the ones that let me know that I'm human, so I wipe the snot off of my face, get the hell off of the couch, and get shit done.  Feeling sorry for myself accomplishes nothing.  When that switch flips from suffering to determination, it is simply not possible to feel more powerful.     

All of my strength and love and fire went into Megan, involuntarily, for 12 years, and now that she's gone, I've got one hell of a surplus outside of Shelby.  I'm still trying to figure out what to do with it all, but I've got a pretty good idea that it shouldn't be left to collect dust.  The odd part, and the part I've still got to figure out, is that I don't get to just decide where that all of that fire gets applied.  She's somewhere, still stoking and handing out those flames to whomever she sees fit, and I have no choice in the matter but to awkwardly accept it.

Her smart-ass personality (and her brother's) will find it hilarious to watch me flounder around, but I know she only wants what right for Shelby and I.  I'm falling down life's staircase, and she's at the top, laughing her ass off at my misfortune as always, but still helping me crawl back up by bringing people and events into my life that even I don't understand yet.

Breathe easy babe.

When Sick was Pretty

This past week, I've been under the weather with a mysterious illness. On Tuesday, my lymph nodes started to swell up. By Wednesday they were the size of golf balls and very tender. And then some glands in my cheeks started to do the same. Needless to say, by Wednesday night I looked like I had gained twenty pounds on my face. I actually had no other symptoms of any kind save being a tad achy and tired - so when I went to the doctor on Friday, even he was stumped. Whatever it is, it seems to be subsiding with the antibiotics he gave me though, but the whole week of dealing with this has been awful.

I've been sick since Drew died a few times - colds, flus, stuff like that. But the last time I remember my anything that changed my physical appearance was when I got my wisdom teeth removed a few years ago. And he was by my side the whole time… laughing at my chipmunk cheeks and making me laugh which made me look even dumber and made us both laugh even harder. Funny as it was, I knew I looked awful, yet here I was looking completely beautiful through this man's eyes.

Even with gauze shoved into my face and swelled up cheeks for miles, there was this man. This man who drove me there and waited with me at the dentist. Who calmed me and held my hand because I was so scared to have a tooth pulled that I was getting anxiety. This man who picked up my medicine for me at the pharmacy and got my soup. Who watched with loving humor as the Codeine took affect and made my already very talkative self about 1000 times more talkative…. until I totally crashed 3 hours later. For all of that, and for all the many other ordinary, vulnerable moments, he was there…. Looking at me with those beautiful blue-hazel eyes that said everything about being sick was pretty. Even the stuff that wasn't. Because those were some of the most tender and most beautiful moments of showing our love for one another. I really miss that.

This week, I did not feel beautiful. I felt hideous, and fat, and so completely self conscious that - despite having no other symptoms and feeling pretty fine - I did not leave the house for four days. Not even to have dinner with his/our family - whom I still live with. I did not want a soul on the planet to see my looking this way. I only wanted one soul to see me - the one who I knew really saw me… him. It made me realize just how fortunate I was to have had the kind of man who would take such wonderful care of me. A man who was so in love with me that I could see my own beauty through his eyes - and that even after he died, his love continues to make me feel like the most beautiful girl most days.

Just… not on the days when your head swells up three times its normal size. On those days, it doesn't matter how strong and unbreakable your love is, you want your person THERE. Really there. I wanted so badly for him to look at me from behind those glasses with hint of a smile that tells me everything I need to know. Or to feel his arms wrapped around me, embracing me and my puffiness. Or to have him make me laugh at my own ridiculous of thinking I look hideous at all. Those are the things I really miss. The ones I would give anything to have back.

~~~

Instead, though, there was a different kind of love there for me. His mom's love. It was she who called me every day around lunch to see how I was feeling and what the doctor said. She who brought me home Gatorade and soup - and not just soup, but like ten different flavors… a buffet of soups. It didn't make me feel beautiful, not in the way his love can… but still, I have felt so deeply loved and cared for.

For a gal who lost her mother as a child, it is impossible for me to take for granted these moments. I was eight years old the last time my own mother cared for me while I was sick. I'd given up on ever feeling any sort of deep motherly nurturing long ago. Now, twenty four years later, I am feeling that love through his mom and our relationship that has been fostered and deepened in the wake of his death. In a way, it is also feeling her son's love for me through her - and her love for her son, too. It's a gift beyond gifts and one I never imagined I would hold. She is, as many have called her, my angel.

So there was still much love this week. A different kind. Nothing will ever be the same as how he made me feel when I was sick, but I don't guess there's any need to compare. I suppose sometimes we just have to allow our partners to send their love to us through those who are still here to give it.

Wishing you good health as the cold & flu season comes.
And if you do get sick, don't forget to let the love and caring of others help make the sick days more beautiful.

"I'm Ok"

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"Don't lie" shouted my step-dad from the other side of the room.

This exchange happened while my Mum was in ICU in April 2008.  My dad called to check up, and we had our auto-pilot introductory exchange.  My step-dad called it for what it was. 

My step-dad also said during this time, "Never get married.  Loosing a spouse sucks".

Well look what I up and did.

I've been feeling in the last week or so like I've not actually allowed my grief to do it's thing.

I'm not a crier; never really have been.  My personality sits on the stoic end of the spectrum.  At Ian's funeral, when I did cry over his coffin (and had the out of body experience of "I'm not really doing this, am I?  This just isn't 'me'"), my dad and step-mum told friends that I'd be fine, now that I'd had my breakdown.  Probably correct at the time; but too much of an expectation now.

Let's add to this mix: my family culture is you don't let someone dying stop you from living your life, which has often come from the person dying.  

The morning after my grand mother died, my step-mother and I headed interstate to a conference that Grandma had wanted us to attend.

Six months after Mum died, my step-father died from an aggressive cancer while I was at a conference in Mexico, after I'd travelled through Cuba (via London, from Australia). I'd offered not to go, but he'd insisted that I go on this trip which I'd been planning for 3 years.  He apparently loved getting the emails I could send from Cuba. 

He'd also told my sister that he and mum wouldn't come back and haunt us as long as we didn't stop living just because they'd died.

So when Ian died, I just kept going. 

Working...  

Picked up university study...

Adjusted to being a single mum... 

Kept on keeping on.

I finally crashed in April last year 9 months after Ian died, as I've mentioned before.  I had a short course of visits to a psychologist, but although she got me through the immediate situation, she and I didn't really "click".  And had a bit of a rough time in March/April this year, but I felt ok enough to manage on my own.  But emotionally/psychologically, that's about all I've had rear it's head since Ian died.

The big thing I've had is illness; recurrent sinus infections hitting each month that I wound up having surgery for last September.  That seemed to fix that problem.

Since the start of the year I've been getting this nasty recurrent cough and at my widow's group this week, after it hit yet again, someone mentioned it sounds asthmatic.  Someone else had ventolin on them, so I had a couple of puffs and thankfully the cough went.  Off to the doctor's the next day, and she said that I responded to the ventolin, that's pretty much diagnostic since I get shocking hay fever which sits on the same gene.  Yeah, hello adult onset asthma.

With that in the background, in the past few days I've been feeling like I've not done this widow & grief thing in the most healthy of manners, even if it's the way I'd 'naturally' process it, and my body is telling me this.  I'm sure some around me will go 'finally, she's got it'; others won't understand why I'm struggling now since there's been the passage of time. 

One of the mantras at our group is your mind only lets you deal with what you're able to at any given time. 

As I approach 2 years, now I have all the practicalities in place, maybe I'm ready to look into other therapy and/or counselling options and intentionally look at my grief head on for the first time.

Immunity, or lack thereof

 

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I'm now in my death-march. 

February 22nd was the 2nd anniversary of the surgery that resulted in the complications that lead to Ian's death, and for me is the start of my 'bad period' in the year of some 4 months.

And yet again, I am sick.

My general immunity has been, quite frankly, crap since Ian got sick.  Anything that gets within striking range seems to take up residence in my system.  And since I have a child in childcare, I get exposed to just about everything going through town.

It took a really nasty dose of sinusitis and bronchitis hitting at the six month mark to realise the correlation between dates and illness. Strangely, my illnesses weren't hitting on the death date being the 14th of the month, but the 4th, our wedding anniversary. 

Sinus infections were/are my main signal. I went down with them again, and again and again.  Anything minor, even a simple cold, would convert.  Heck, a stubbed toe would seemingly convert to a sinus infection!   I have taken so many antibiotics in the last two years, I have developed a reaction to penicillin.

In the last year I've managed to knock back the frequency and severity of the infections with a combination of acupuncture and sinus surgery.  Within 24 hours of the surgery I felt physically well for the first time since Ian got sick, and have ticked along quite nicely since it was done in September. 

But with the death march, I've got one back. And am feeling more than a little blah physically. 

Emotionally, I feel all right. But I'm probably not since the physical's telling me otherwise. 

6 Month Slump

I have been in a slump.

It started with me catching a cold in October. I had a nasty cold, it didn't matter how much I slept, I was beyond exhausted. I couldn't stay awake for the life of me, even driving the 10 miles to work every day was a little sketchy. I chalked it up to depression, a different kind of depression.. a kind I have not had before. I thought the exhaustion was just depression, even though the depression I had before left me suicidal with no will to live. I had just passed the two year mark, so of course it was depression, why wouldn't it be?

I never really got over that cold. After 2 months of having a never ending sore throat, and sleeping 14 (plus) hours a day, I decided it wasn't just a cold anymore. I went to the doctor and had a full physical. They did full blood work, to check all my vitamin levels, hormones levels, even checked for cancer. When my doctor told me she was going to do a blood panel to test for cancer.. my heart broke all over again. Getting cancer after my husband’s death would be the end. I don’t think I would have the will to go on and fight it. I didn't dare tell my mom about the cancer talk my doctor and I had. I just couldn't do that to my mom.. unless it came back positive. (My mom is now just reading this and learning about this, yes mom.. there was serious talk about cancer. I am sorry I didn't tell you!)

After an anxious wait, my doctor called me with my results. Everything came back normal... 

Except I tested positive for mono.

I took my doctors advice, and whenever sleep came a knocking, I slept. I slept non stop. I called into work several times, just to sleep. I wish you could have heard my bosses’ voice when I would call in and say “I’m too tired to work today.” He was always like… “Err.. ok??” He didn't get it, and that is okay.

This was the beginning of this slump. I have been exhausted since then. I still have had a never ending sore throat. But now my blood work shows I have an “old” infection of mono, not an active infection.

The last 6 months have been pure exhaustion. Every day is a struggle. I haven’t had the energy to do the “normal” things in life, such as cleaning or grocery shopping. In fact, it has been so bad, I would rather just not eat then go to the grocery store or fast food joint because going to get food took far too much energy. Energy I couldn't afford to waste.

I took this exhaustion phase and just accepted it. I decided to “sit” with it. Not fight it. Unlike in the past, I have fought the depression, anxiety and exhaustion, until I crumble under the pressure. So I decided to just be with it. Just allow myself to be exhausted. Allow myself to sleep as much as my body tells me to. Allow my house to be a mess. Allow my life to be a mess. All to take care of myself.

I started thinking I would never get out of this exhaustion. I started wondering how I would manage life when I don’t have the energy for any of it.

I grieved a lot during this. Because I refused to push my body past its limits, I sat with it. I sat with the grief. Sat with the mono. I had 6 months of a lot of sleep and time on my hands. I had some really bad days. Days where I was sick of being sick, sick of the exhaustion, and sick of the grief. Days where I couldn't see an end to it all.

Today, a day after the 33^rd month anniversary, I realized I have come around a curve. I have more energy. I want to do the things I enjoy again. I want to be out in the sun. I want to be out and meet new people and try new things.

How did this curve happen so slightly, that I didn't notice at first? Why can’t I take a very sharp turn, look back, and think, HA! I passed a turning point!

I am pulling out of my 6 month slump.

Maybe it was mono. Maybe it was depression. Maybe it was grief. Maybe just pure exhaustion from the busy life we live. Maybe a combination of all of this.

Or maybe it was meant to be. Meant to make me sit still. To sit with grief and life. Maybe it was to make me slow down, rest, and do the bare minimum… for once in my life.

One thing I learned out of my 6 month slump is.. just to sit with it. Accept it. It’s okay to dwell in it. It’s okay to have a pity party. It’s okay to have my house a mess. It’s okay to be lazy. It’s okay to sleep all day long.

After all, worse things have happened then dirty dishes. The dishes will still be there tomorrow, but if I don’t take care of myself today, I might not be here tomorrow.

I have realized life is too short to dwell in having a spot less house and an empty soul. I choose to do what makes me happy, and not do the things I am “supposed” to do.

The dishes will still be there tomorrow, they aren't going anywhere. But will I do them? Probably not. My soul needs to be outside, working in my garden, and not dwelling in dirty dishes. 

Worry Wart

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When Dave died it was as though my brain got a reboot. I think of it as though my thinking brain went offline from the shock and my mind was led more by my emotional, intuitive brain. The chronic worrying I had before ceased. Vacillating over a decision stopped. Giving a shit what anyone thought about me ended. I was fearless and though I felt insane with grief, looking back now, I can see that I'd actually gained some sanity because my overly vigilant thinking brain was largely silenced.

But as the months rolled on, the old thinking brain has slowly returned, bit by bit. Lately, it's been back with a vengeance. I've been struggling to listen to my intuition over the roar of my thinking brain. I've been struggling to sleep over the sound of the loops of worry. All the bad news in the world seems to stick to me like glue and all of this is affecting my health (as of course, it would).

So what to do?
A book (saving me yet again) has helped a bit so far. It's called The Worry Solution*.
The title made me suspicious, but less so than another one called The Worry Cure. I have no patience for too-good-to-be true bullshit. But I took a chance with this one because it's brain science based.

It's helped me to learn that scientists believe that the brains of those who've lived through difficult childhoods are wired to be more vigilant. I can see that my brain is wired to worry. It's to protect me. Also, worrying for all of us was (and still can be) evolutionarily helpful. When we used to live in the open plains and get stalked by saber toothed tigers, we needed to be vigilant or we'd be lunch. But now, we have so little to actually worry about day to day and yet our brains are still worrying. It's as though they need something to worry about to protect us so they find something. Even if it's something that probably won't even happen. Also, when we worry about things we can do something about, it usually spurs problem-solving and becomes productive.

Knowing that this is what our brains do helps me feel less alone in my worrying.

The other thing that is starting to help me is imagery.
Imagery comes from the emotional part of our brain. It bypasses the verbal, thinking part of the brain that does all the worrying.
I've been practicing imagining a superhero me (cape and all) kicking the hell out of the worry when it begins. Then I imagine holding the worry out into space and letting it blow away. Last night I asked Dave to take it from me. I know he'd do that for me. On earth he'd do anything for me, so why not imagine him doing the same now?

And finally, before bed each night, I've gotten out my notebook, listed my worries, one by one, and then refuted them. Most of my worries are the kind I can do nothing about and will probably never come to pass. So I refute them. If my worry is "I'll be rejected" then I refute it (in writing) with reasons there isn't evidence to support that worry.

I also imagine all my worries stacked up over the years and think about the percentage of them that actually came to be and compare the two. The stack of worries reaches the moon and the events that really came to be can be counted on my hands.

The thing is, though, those of us who've had a spouse die, know what can really happen. And those of us who've suffered more losses on top of our spouse's death, are hyper aware of how bad things can get. It's possible our losses train our brain to be vigilant and the worrying is launched as a way to protect us (though it does no such thing most of the time).

What makes me most determined to kick my worrying habit is the fact that the worrying has the potential to suck the joy out of the current moment so that when something bad does happen, I don't have a lot of joy in the bank to sustain me through an inevitable rough patch.

My big worry lately (for some reason) is that I'll get sick and need help and my friends will have to take care of me or I'll just suffer alone in my condo. Yesterday I did feel some yuckiness coming on and took to bed, almost more as an excuse to lie in bed and watch movies than because I really felt seriously ill. As I lay there in my comfortable bed, listening to the rain outside and feeling the cool breeze from an open window slide over me, I realized that I had a lovely moment right there. Worrying about how sick I might actually be and how I would get help if I became really sick was not only ruining a peaceful time, but also probably making me sick.

I decided that instead of worrying, I'd consider myself lucky that I got to go to bed in the middle of the day and watch 80s movies with a napping cat tucked into my side.

Later, I took a bath, made my worry list, listened to the rain some more and slept through the night. Which is a miracle all its own.

I'm getting there.

*Disclaimer - There are some annoying bits of this book that I won't get into here, but there's just enough in it to make me think in different ways and that's what I wanted this post to be about.