endings and beginnings

Photo from here....

This post marks my last post as a regular writer for Widow's Voice. It is a truly bittersweet moment for me.
Mostly, the feeling that is most prevalent is gratitude. I am so thankful for the opportunities that writing for this amazing this organization has provided me.
My life has been enriched by the community of widows and widowers who know and understand every trial and victory associated with losing your spouse. I am forever in wonder of the kindness and empathy that we share for each other and for the comfort and support given to me and others like me.
Writing has allowed me to truly examine this journey that started on March 25th, 2008. I believe it has allowed me to step back from the the loss itself and analyze each feeling, thought, and death-laced interaction. I have grown and learned more about myself and this journey than I ever thought possible.
I have found now that often when I sit down to write, I am often find myself mulling over thoughts that I have had....numerous times in the last few years. They have become part of me. Part of the fabric that is woven into my being. I don't think it's right for me to keep hammering them into a forum that needs new and fresh thoughts. New voices and new journeys.
I want to thank each of you who have read, commented on or supported my musings here. You have been a lifesaver to me and I hope the newest Widow's Voice writer, Veronica King, finds it as soothing and cathartic as I have. I know you'll love her and her writing!

XOXOX

the glamourous and lovely world of the widow

photo from here....

I went to the movie store last night to rent a mind-numbing and entertaining movie that would transport me to another existence temporarily. It's not that mine life is so bad or that I'd like to replace it. However, there are times that I seem to missing the "plot' of my own life and seeing the finite moral in a movie is comforting.
After after asking the woman behind the counter for some recommendations, I noticed that there are a fair few movies with either a heart-broken widower in need of love and understanding or a young, hot-bodied widow with a huge life-insurance pay-out as the protagonist. I suppose that they introduce these characters that have lost their spouses as a way to have a character who is hurt but not angry? Or to add a twist to the single status they wear aside from "single because there is a flaw here that does not make for good television"?
The clerk went on to tell me that "P.S. I Love You" was one of her favourite movies of all time. After making a mental note to never ask for recommendations from her again, I launched into, seemingly, 50 million reasons why this movie sucked. Hard.

I told her that in the first stages of grief, you NEVER look good. Your eyes are so swollen from crying you look as if you've been in a prize fight. There is one heck of a lot of snot involved and your hair never falls in romantic waves on your shoulders....more in a tangled rat's nest at the base of your skull.
I told her that although it was a lovely and romantic idea that this woman's husband had written her ten letters, it is highly unlikely that he was able to have the energy or the ability with a terribly invasive brain tumour clogging up his brain.
Also, I've been to Scotland. Yes, it's not Ireland....but they have great whiskey and fabulous accents too. And not every "bloke" in the pubs were charming and good-looking. In fact, a fair amount were missing teeth and had trouble keeping upright on their stools.

In real life, many of us widows/ers are left either without a life insurance policy or a loop-hole which allows the company to forgo payout. The "fortunate" of us who do receive payment are often bogged down with bills, payments or family issues requiring so very much energy and money.
I did love that the movie portrayed a growth and a fearlessness that occurs when you have lost the love of your life. That you shed a piece of yourself that is not necessary and tend to hold onto and rekindle the parts that require nurturing.
Now, looking back over the time I have spend as a young, not-so-hot-bodied widow, I see have truly grown and I can see my own plot....snot and all. But it is not at all glamourous and maybe I am just truly jealous of those last ten messages....

perspective driven purging

When we moved two years after Jeff died, I was forced to go through many of his things. At first, it truly saddened me. I stared at the mass of accumulated items that he had kept for sentimental reasons....sometimes I scratched my head. Sometimes I cried. Often times, I was furious. Why the hell did he keep this collection of bottle caps and an assortment of baseball caps from seemingly every godforsaken place he had ever visited. I was appalled by the amount of "life dandruff" he had accrued that had no meaning to anyone who would be left behind. This "stuff" certainly wouldn't have told a stranger anything interesting about Jeff aside from the fact that he liked hockey and drank a lot of beer. I told myself that he was a bit of a pack-rat and that I would never have so much "junk".

Last week a friend of mine dropped off a trunk of mine that had been stored in her basement since a move five years ago. We hadn't been able to fit it on the moving truck or in our little house (I can't totally remember why now) and had planned to retrieve it soon-ish. Life has gone on. Our son, Briar, was born. We have since moved twice. Jeff died. The trunk was essentially forgotten.

When my wonderful and funny friend dropped off the trunk, I was at work. She left a note saying, "Jeff was not the pack-rat. You were!" I scoffed thinking, "All the stuff in that trunk is IMPORTANT! She just doesn't know...." But then I took a look inside. Sweet love of all that is good and holy. I was a pack-rat. A bad one.

That night, I removed every item from that trunk. Sorted every letter, toy, item of clothing, and set of seagull wings (yes, sea gull wings. I don't get it either). What I found was a realization that not only had I changed over the years since Jeff's death but that my ideas of importance and sentimental significance have changed dramatically.

Since cursing and sorting Jeff's stuff and realizing that much of the "stuff" has no relevance to who he was and his journey as a person....at least from a separate person's eyes, I realize that the majority of items I have retained over the years will have absolutely no significance to anyone after I die. It will be a pain in the heart and the ass to my family, children and friends to have to sort one-eyed dolls and broken clocks when I die. But the old journals and handwritten letters from friends were interesting and certainly chronicled my life and my being.

From now on, I will turf anything unimportant. A few letters, many photos and special cards can stay. Drawings from the kids and one or two special items can stay. But everything broken, unused, or forgotten for sometime will be sent to the secondhand store or the dump. I now know that just as Jeff left everything behind, I will as well. The detritus from his life is just stuff. And mine is too.

This week, I have let go of about 75% of the stuff in that trunk. And I feel better. Lighter. And more aware of what I will leave behind and the snapshot of the person it leaves.

trying

I am going to start by apologizing that my post for today is so late. I'll admit that I am frazzled and busy. I can also tell you that I tried to post last night but after an unexplained computer shut-down, I was sceptical that my article had posted. So at 5 AM, I checked. No post. No post and I had to get up to get the kids ready for school and get myself ready for work. I felt like crying. Actually, I felt like swearing and crying. So I did. Started the day with tears and obscenities.
This is the reality for me lately. Over-stretched and trying to get as many things done as I can. Attempting to patch up things needing repair. Hoping to provide all my kid's need and desire. Trying to live as "everyone else" does....
But I am failing. I feel overwhelmed and on the verge of tears much of the time. I am living moment to moment and stumbling through life hoping that in the years after my kiddos finish their youth, they can say they had fun, happy, love-filled childhoods. But I truly don't feel like it is working.
My kids used to be homeschooled. I was a stay-at-home mom. We lived on organic and home-grown food. We did crafts and played in the mud. They had two parents to love and provide for them. They had someone to spell off the frazzled and tired parent.
Now, they attend public school. I often work hours after school and on weekends. At times, my kids have prepackaged food in their lunches. I no longer spend hours in the backyard with kids and chickens chasing each other through the mud as I can just imagine the laundry these types of activities will burden me with. At the end of the day/weekend/morning, I am beyond frustration and am a crabby/crazy/erratic parent. A lone parent.
I am now known by my children from my cries of "I am TRYING!!!! I only have TWO hands!"
I feel guilty and tired. I am wondering if this is just the life of parents in general? Or is this exhausting situation that does not seem to let up or alleviate in anyway a symptom of living/parenting/grieving after the death of a spouse?
Again, I apologize for the late post. I am sorry that I have let those of you who rely on a voice through this path to be here when you need it. Please....bear with me.

Crocodiles and other absurdities

Photo from here....

I live in our little house physically alone aside from my two young children and our pets. All the belongings in this home are ours and paint a vivid and accurate picture of who is housed within these walls. But if you were to dig deep enough within cupboards and closets, you would items and articles that seemed at odds with these inhabitants and their actions. It would almost seem as if someone was hiding another person's things. Things that don't match. Things that come from another time or place. Random odd articles. Misplaced and mismatched items.

Buried deep in my deep freeze is a package of crocodile....er, maybe alligator meat. I never plan to eat it and never set out to eat it from the moment it entered said freezer.

It was Jeff's. He had bought it to feed our daughter. He was determined to have his children not be picky eaters. I remember he and three-year-old Liv sharing a chair in the kitchen together eating from a jar of pickled herring or dining on a dinner of rattlesnake meat.

As with most things, he didn't face the issues of childhood sustenance halfway. Instead of insisting that our daughter dine on asparagus or cauliflower, he would thrust something at her that was barely food in my eyes. But she trusted him and she ate it.

So many of these odd and mismatched things that line the backs of closets, shoes boxes and freezers mark who Jeff was and what he stood for. His beliefs. His idiosyncrasies.

I have thought about giving the freezer-burnt crocodile/alligator meat to the dog. But I have refrained. It is a reminder of a man who was funny, loving and passionate about his little family. As all the remaining small and possibly seemingly insignificant items he left behind, they hint at who he was and how strongly he loved his little ones.

Although I have donated many of his clothes or shared some of his more memorable belongings with his family; it is these small items wedged in the corners that speak of him most and remind me while I dig for dinner at the bottom of the freezer of who he was and how much he is missed.

someone who knows

Photo from here...

"My dad is married to my aunt," my friend, Jenny, said. "I know," she said, "it's rather....Jerry Springer-like."

She went on to explain that after her mother died when Jenny was a teenager, her father eventually found love again with his sister-in-law.

Jenny seemed a bit sheepish when she explained this to me. But she needn't have.

I have heard of this phenomenon quite a few times actually. When a spouse loses their beloved through death, occasionally they find understanding, and love, in those who grieve most closely alongside them. Sisters of spouses, best-friends, cousins....

I can totally understand this. I can imagine what a comfort it would be to be fully able to share your grief with another who had known just what you had lost and to be able to share a intimate relationship with that person without fear of being misunderstood or worrying about their feelings of "measuring up" to an unknown person.

I wonder how many of us widows/widowers have found love, comfort or even just close and meaningful friendships with our dead spouse's friends or family after their death?

I wish I had that now and then....Someone to share Jeff's loss with me.....

happy?

Photo from here....

Originally posted on my personal blog after one year of widowhood....

Occasionally, I am now bouyed by a lightness and happiness that I can't explain. I worry at times that I have 'lost the plot' so to speak. That I'm a nut job about to slip over the edge. I mean, really, I've had a shite of a last year. I lost my husband/best friend, my sweet and wonderful grandfather and my beloved 15 year old dog. I am scraping to make ends meet. I am alone. My kids are somewhat damaged from the monumental changes in their short little lives....But somedays, inexplicably, I am happy.
I feel traitorous saying that and even worry that some people will misinterpret these pockets of joy thinking that I don't miss Jeff with every breath I take while wishing he were here to enjoy these upswings and bubbles of bliss.
In fact, I only think that it is because of the loss of Jeff that I can feel this. Before he died, I was bogged down with worry about vacuous and frivolous shit. I could see how I had been wronged in every situation. I could find fault and anger everywhere. I am still 'blessed' with this ridiculous and terrible gift....but I am also learning to be able to turn it off. I am concentrating so hard on trying to see the positive, to feel joy, to search for the good in an effort to not drown in grief, that I am learning to shut out that sinister and nepharious self-destructive voice. When that voice is silent, I feel joy. Pure, warm joy. I can feel sadness and pain alongside it, but I can still turn my face to the light and smile. This, the ability to force myself to stare through rose-coloured glasses, has been the largest gift that Jeff has given me....it is just such a shame that it has been in the loss of him that I have found this gift. I wish we could have shared our life together with this realization in mind....and not just the cognitive recognition of this, but the actual realization that I have had since losing my love.

Real or remembering?

.Photo from here...

I was walking the dog in the sunshine earlier today. I was listening to a fabulous song that makes me think of that bitter-sweet sensation.

The feeling where you could swear "they" are with you. That you can almost feel their breath on your neck or hear their familiar sounds in the dark? The feeling that they are thinking about you or have just whispered that they love you in your ear?

Is it real? Is Jeff really non-physically "with" me? Can he see me? Is he expressing his love for me through some sort of cosmic vibrational love? Or is it just a chemical memory of a hormone cocktail that was once specific to our relationship? Merely a jolt of misfired oxytocin?

I want to believe it is his essence/spirit/soul slipping into the spot beside me and holding my hand or stroking my face with whatever energy would have once controlled his large calloused hands. I want to hope that he can feel and hear my thoughts. That he can know the loss that is still felt without his body next to mine.

But the pessimistic, rational scientist that lives within my brain scoffs. I begin to wonder if it is a similar phenomenon to deja-vu - scientists claim that this occurrance is merely a misfiring of the brain's chemistry creating the illusion that you have already experienced this exact moment.

In my heart, though, I can feel him. I have known the love of others. Though not a deep or profound, I have loved other men. And what I feel when I sense him near is not the residual effects of generic love. It is a feeling specific to him...and me.

Maybe I am crazy or naive. Maybe I am just allowing myself a fairytale to alleviate some of the feelings of loss and to provide hope that I will be with him again. But I really do feel like he is with me. Not all the time. But when I do, I sense him so breath-takingly close that I freeze and hope that this moment lasts just a little longer. That for just this second, it is just he and I.

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.

the unhelpful helper

Photo from here...

When I first became a widow, I wanted everyone to go away. I did not want to talk, discuss, be comforted, or hear anyone. I found everything overwhelming and the need to communicate with others verbally was not at all on the list of desired actions.

I was annoyed by the needs of others. Their want to know I was okay or that the kids were surviving seemed intrusive and obnoxious. I felt that they all just wanted the gory details or the notoriety that goes along with death. Although the realization that my feelings were not "fair" or even logical always accompanied these angry thoughts, I couldn't help but feel myself growling internally when someone attempted to break into my quiet, lost and introspective bubble.

I had extremely close friends that I leaned on and a sister with whom I told the majority of my thoughts, but the only person I wanted aside from these confidantes was Jeff.

Now, three years later, I find myself in a strange spot.

Recently, two friends have lost their husbands. Neither of these women are close friends, but they are certainly women who I would stop to say "hello", share a hug and have a chat or a cup of coffee together should I see them on the street prior to their loss.

They are both early in their losses. They don't want to talk. Or if they do, it's not to me. And I SO get this. I know this feeling so very well and empathize totally....

But I find myself compelled to tell them that. I feel almost panicked in my need to let them know that there are others, just like us, who know this pain. That they are not alone. That the community of widows is an amazing and supportive one.

I itch to reach out to them. I want to help them with the ridiculous amounts of paperwork that accompanies a death. Or to deliver a meal or mow a lawn.

I want to take away any pain for them that I can. I feel anxious that they are hurting and may not have the support they so need (although I am sure they have so very many loving people surrounding them begging hoping to be of some assistance).

I know that it is all TOO much right now. And I hope that months from now if the phone doesn't ring as often for them and they slowly awaken from the dull, aching void that envelopes early on, they know that I will be here whenever they need someone who gets it.

In the meantime, I wish them well on their own private journey and hope they know where to find the rest of us.....

a blessing for all things

Photo from here.....

The unthankful heart discovers no mercies; but the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings.

-- Henry Ward Beecher

I have found that at times, I am a whiny, ungrateful little sap. I moan at life's injustice and cry out at the lot I have been given. I beat my fists against fate and want to scream when I hear "It happened for a reason". What the hell reason could it be that I had to lose my love so early? What reason is there that my children have to go to bed without their daddy's furry kiss?

But this quote and a few others like it help me to remember that perhaps there isn't a "reason" but a blessing for all things.

I am not blessed that Jeff is gone. But I am stronger, more empathetic and kinder since losing such a huge piece of my heart and life. And I am thankful for this....

I am thankful for my community and friends who support me with their love and generosity, reminding me that I am not alone.

I am thankful for the other widows I know and continue to meet for although we are all broken, we all seem to share a wicked sense of humour and an understanding of the truly important things in life.

I am thankful for every day that I am able to spend holding our small children's hands for I could have been the one who died.

I am thankful for the love he gave me and memories I have stored in my heart available when I need him close. It is NOT the same as having him here, but I am thankful that I did for a time.

And I am thankful for the opportunity to learn, grow and become who I am.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

a better widow than me

Photo from here...

Last night, I finally threw Jeff's toothbrush in the trash. 3 years, 7 months and 22 days, since he used it to scrub his teeth clean.

This action was precipitated a few days ago when I had spoken to a dear friend who is known for being outspoken and blunt. She doesn't mean harm at all but is very Northern European in the delivery of her very strong beliefs and feelings.

During our visit, she told me that I had to "get over" Jeff. She said it was time to stop grieving and that I needed to get rid of the active reminders of, not only his death, but his life as well. Photos, personal effects, etc. All these should be removed.

She told me that I was teaching the kids to grow up grieving. That they would never "get over it" if I didn't move on. My lovely friend told me that she had lost grandparents who she had been close to and favourite friends and that she had had to move on.

Although I told her that I didn't agree that I was stuck in my grieving process and defended my beliefs and action; the confidence that I have grown in the last three years in my abilities, my intuition and strength took a bit of a bruising.

For the last few days, I have intensely analyzed all my post-Jeff actions. I have wondered if they are "normal" and "appropriate". I have scrutinized my grief and that of my children.

I find it interesting that to someone outside our home, it looks as if I am still struggling horribly in my grief. But inside our home, Jeff's life is celebrated and because of this, ours is so much richer. We have lost so much but manage to laugh and share a closeness that many other families do not. Death is not a taboo subject in our home. Neither is joy, anger, frustration or love. All types of emotions are wrapped into the learning experience we have all had due to Jeff's death...and we don't hide them. Just as we have these thoughts/feelings due to Jeff's death, we have a truly rich life that has nothing to do with our loss. Three lives that are celebrated everyday for the mere fact that we still live and will do so, richly and happily, until each of our time comes.

Ultimately, I have come to the conclusion that grief, specifically the loss of a spouse, is something that you have to live through to truly "get". I feel that just as everyone is the best parent they will ever be and know exactly how to parent BEFORE they ever even have their own children, everyone is the best widow/er before they have lost a spouse to death. I, too, have lost my beloved grandfather, very close friends, even an ex-boyfriend, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, could have prepared me for this.

So this morning, I fished that old toothbrush out of the garbage bin.....and put it in my sock drawer. No one has to see it any more, but it is still there, marking his place. Marking his existence until I am ready to remove it from our home.

i dream of you

The credit for this photo is uncertain and if anyone can verify the photographer that I will be happy to site credit for the image.

I've had many dreams of Jeff since his death. There are a few that are terrifying renditions of the last few minutes of his life; but the vast majority centre on seeing him again in a variety of surprising locations.

I've found him on dairy farms slogging through the mud. I have glimpsed him on boats passing bridges that I stand upon. I have found him sitting at the dinner table expectant for his next meal.

In each one of these absurdly set dreams, he is smiling, joyful and laughing. His mirth spills from him with such force that I believe that he is alive again and this whole death business has been an unfortunate ruse.

After hugging him forcefully and smelling him deeply, I usually beat upon his chest swearing at him for inconveniencing me with having to plan a funeral and all the painful outfall from the belief that he has been dead all this time.

He never utters a word but gleefully smiles at me and holds me tight. I always seem to come away from these dreams feeling that he is "okay" and that he is happy.

These dreams shifted recently when my dream of rearranging furniture into the perfect configuration was interrupted by a dreamland telephone ringing. I was too immersed in my activity to answer it. Jeff's good friend, Finnegan, answered, laughed and replied to the unseen person speaking, "I'll tell her...." He turned to me and said, "Jeff asked me to tell you that he loves you the whole pie and he's thinking of you." Outraged that Finnegan had hung up, I flung myself at the phone fervently trying to remember Jeff's contact number for wherever the hell he was.

I woke with my heart beating frantically and my mind attempting to grasp that telephone number to god-knows-where....As my head cleared, I realized I was looking for the number to "Heaven"....

Although I was frustrated and saddened that he was just beyond my reach, I was relieved that again, he seemed to be "here" and he was "alright"; in fact, he seemed happy.

I wonder if others have these dreams when they have lost someone so very dear to their heart? Is this my mind playing tricks in an attempt to soothe my heart? Or is Jeff reaching out to me from somewhere to let me know that he still loves me and will be with me always?

the little things

I wore Jeff's work coat the other night - Halloween night. It was the first time I have worn it in the three years since he died. I haven't wanted it to lose any of his smell, cells or presence by donning it myself. But with it on, I felt warm, cuddled and protected from the cold Autumn wind biting at me as I followed the kids down a variety of driveways while they asked strangers for candy.

Although I could have used his coat many times in the snow or stacking wood in the days since his death, it has hung in his closet collecting dust and the smell contained within said closet.

Later in the evening after staying warm and dry wrapped in his jacket, I reaching in the pocket hoping to find a tissue to wipe Briar's chilly little nose. Instead, I found a slip of paper. Written on the paper in both my and his signature font was our last grocery list together. My bubbly and embarrassingly juvenile scrawl married with his fluid, grown-up handwriting.

I marveled at the thought of how unknowing and naive we both were while jotting down these items. I tried to remember the meal. I wondered what we had talked about and if we had eaten fish or chicken along with the green beans, mushrooms and basil.

It also made me realize how far away that life is now. How far I've come without him. And although I really, truly never thought that the vacuous minutia of everyday would ever slip back into my life, it has.

My grocery lists now only contain my print/writing with the occasional kid-written word "candy" or "juice". But I am still doing buying the groceries. I am still feeding our kids. I am still walking upright. And although I still live everyday missing him, I can keep part of him close. His coat, or his kids, or his memory. He is with me. In my heart. In my memory. In my closet.

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.

medication of mourning

Photo from here...

Written 13 months after Jeff died....

When someone asks me casually, "How are you?" I often feel that I am being honest when I say "fine", "okay" or even "good". The truth is that many times, I don't give it much thought, not even out of negligence, but out of a need to cope. I am doing SO much better than I was a year ago. Somedays, I think I'm a bloody master of grief. But I am always, always too cocky for my own good.

The waves of grief and shock still smack me upside the head unexpectedly. I am always surprised when I am forced to my knees by sadness again. I am always missing him. I am always aware that he is gone. That I will never feel his love again. That I have lost him forever. It's always there in the background, running like the far-off sound of the fridge in the kitchen. But now, I am getting somewhat better at muffling it. So when that 'appliance noise' gets loud again and drowns out everything else, I've always put my ear plugs away and am left reeling with surprise when the caucophenous noise erupts within my patchwork heart.
Why am I surprised that it is hitting me again?
I have told others how I think that these waves are our way of coping with grief. We can't take it in full-force. We need small sips or the strength of it will destroy us. Like a horrible tasting medication that you loathe, it is necessary to heal. But, I always wonder if I've taken my last dose. That I am 'better'. That maybe I can be whole now. I'll have to keep reminding myself that this medication needs to be administered again and again until I no longer need it...So I must need it now. I must relish that this pain and sadness is in someway healing this broken heart. I can't turn my head away. I have to take it or I will become even more ill.
I have a sneaky suspicion that this medication is now a lifetime prescription, but at least it doesn't need to be administered as often as it was initially. Right?

commemoration

First written one year after Jeff died....

Since Jeff died, I have carried this wound of loss inside me. To anyone passing me on the street this scar is hidden. But it is there nonetheless.

I have tried to think of a way to commemorate the loss of Jeff that makes this scar, not only a sign of an injury, but a symbol of survival and strength. Something that calls my love to my mind and helps me to feel closer to the strength and his abilities of self-assurance that he was so capable of. Jeff was my anchor and the loss of him has forced me to grow so very much since his death.

So, in memory of Jeff, I went on the anniversary of his death to remember him with a symbol. An anchor to symbolize Jeff and his love of the ocean and mehndi style flowers and feathers to symbolize growth and flight.

Although I am sure that its' placement (on the inside of my right forearm) will cause a few raised eyebrows (my grandmother wasn't hugely impressed), I am okay with this. This is me. This is my life. These are the marks placed upon it by the happenings in my life. These marks are to remind me that Jeff loved me flaws and all, that I am strong, forced to be even stronger since losing him, and that he will always be with me in someway. When I wrap my arms around my children, this symbol will be held close to them. When I clutch at my chest with fear or sadness, he will be close to my heart...

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. :)

first

Written one year after Jeff's death - 3 years 5 months ago.

Picture from here....

We made it. Through all the firsts. The firsts without Jeff at birthday parties, Christmas morning, through illnesses and accomplishments. His absence has been an aching void....almost a presence in itself.
But time has continued its' slithery journey. I look back over the time without my love and see that 365 days have gone by and no time at all seems to have passed. But it has and I have grown stronger.
I will try to look forward to the future. To make plans. To smile more often. To remember my sweet, loving husband but without so much of the ache that goes along with the remembering. To rejoice that he was, not cry that he is now gone.
I am going to hold my head up. I have no more firsts -which fills me with both relief and sadness. It is time to go forward and hold my head a bit higher. I know that my path will be full of potholes and the occasional mud pit but I am going to stop crawling. I will walk. I will walk tall and hopefully be able to jump over the puddles now and then. I'll stop and rest when I need to but I refuse to be as broken as I have been. I refuse to be crushed. I refuse to remain broken and beaten. My children need their mommy to be strong and to show them that tragedy is hard but it will not defeat us. That daddy would not want us to fall. He would want us to smile again one day and notice the sun on our faces. I will try....I will try my damnedest. I am not and will never be 'over' this terrible loss, but I will carry it, like a scar and it will shape who I am now. And then maybe, I can use it for 'good'. Maybe something I can manifest something 'good' from this. Maybe I can help someone. I would so love for there to be some 'meaning' to this nightmare. So, here I go....