Missing out

Last week one of the parents of a child I teach had a bit of a tantrum after school one day*.  It seems her daughter missed out on having an iceblock with the rest of the class because she had been away the previous day.

In her seething mother-rage, she shouted at me "It's not FAIR that Cathy misses out on an iceblock.  The rest of the class had one and she DESERVES one too".

I was a bit gobsmacked.

I stood there wanting to say to this deranged woman that it was an ICEBLOCK that cost (me) 50cents.  She missed out because she was away that particular day and she'd just have to build a bridge and get over it: sometimes you miss out on things in life.

Instead I apologised and organised another iceblock for that child.  The mother then said "you can't imagine what its like!  She has a food intolerance and misses out on so many things already".

...and that was when I wanted to shout at her.

I wanted to shout that my kids miss out on things every day!  That she (happily married mother of two) could not imagine her kids doing without a father.  Doing without any male influence in their lives.  Doing without two incomes and family holidays.  Doing without a second parent who could take some of the slack and give them some of that much-needed one-on-one time that I am always falling behind with.  


Doing without ..... yeah - we know what it feels like.  (Clarifier - In a very First-World Problem way .... in the wider scheme of things, we do OK on quality of life front with all the fresh food, clean running water and all).

but.....

I have never ONCE pulled the "not fair" card when it comes to my own children (one of them ironically, has mild food intolerances) .  I have never done the ranty-mama-bear thing about them missing out on something because their father is dead. 
I might have thought it, but I have never said it.
Because I know that they also have so much love.

So next time I am faced with a parent trying to make every part of their child's life perfect, I will stick to my guns and point out that NOBODY has a 'perfect life'. Somewhere along the line, everybody has to learn to do without something.

... even if it is only an iceblock.

It might just  build their resilience in case they ever have to cope with a REAL life challenge (like losing a parent).




* details changed slightly as I can't share the actual incident.  You get the idea though.....

Dad vs. Daddy

source

The other day, Steve overhead the very thing that most blended family parents hope they never hear from our 7 year old:

“I love my daddy, but I don’t like my dad.”

Ugh. I hate that it was him that overheard it, and not me. She was talking with her cousins, I don’t know what about, but I know how deep those words can cut. Now, I feel ok sharing this because I know that she doesn’t really feel that way. She and Steve have a great relationship and she is always writing him notes or making pictures for him, playing and teasing with him…and one of the last texts she sent to him from her ipod was “you’re a great dad.”

Nonetheless, it hurt my heart. When I addressed it with her, I know she felt terrible, and she did confess that she didn’t really mean that and there was nothing she was upset about….but it got me thinking that perhaps she’s got her daddy on a pedestal. In fact, I think most people do. That’s kind of what happens with the dead – we elevate them to an inflated ideal of who they are, and forget the flaws (as it should be).  So I felt the need to remind her that when her daddy was alive, he did all the same things her dad does (discipline when she’s not acting appropriate, or get frustrated when she misbehaves) not because either of them are mean, but because they love her and want to make sure she grows up to be the best girl she can be. I never want my daughter to see her daddy in a bad light, because he loved her with everything he had, but I also want to remind her once in awhile that he was human. She also needed the reminder that her dad loves her and would do absolutely anything for her. 

There will be days like these. There will be days when my daughter isn't fond of me, either. But a little perspective goes a long way, and I want to make sure she remembers her daddy that same way I do....the good AND the bad. Cause that's the man I loved and the man who loved her dearly.

Juggling

....and the sole parent.


I always said that when I was pregnant, it would make evolutionary sense that I also grew an extra set of arms .... I know I could have used an extra pair of hands when my children were small.

....and then this week, I haven't needed more arms, I really need a clone. So many places that my children and I need to be, so few minutes during which to be there.

...and its times like this that I feel overwhelmed by this sole parenting gig*. 

I never planned to do this parenting thing alone.
I never realised how oriented our society is to families with two parents (and apparently, endless other willing aunts, uncles, grandparents who are all fit and healthy and ready to help).
Between school excursions I can't get my child to and am almost begging for someone who can drop them at the meeting point,  to music camps that I have absolutely no hope of ever being on time to collect a child from, I get the tut-tuts of those who say that they are sad that my children are "missing out". (Like I have a choice?  Like they aren't already missing out on having a father? Like I haven't asked for help already?)


When I explain that it Just Me doing everything, nobody gets it.  I've tried variations of the following to try to explain....

Feeling seedy yourself and a child starts vomiting? Guess what, you're up on vomit duty.  All night if needed.
Fighting through a mountain of work and a child is not dealing well with their grief? Guess what, you're up for endless hugs, backrubs, hours of listening and calming and worrying about just how messed up they are.  Your work can just sit there and wait.
Fancying a bit of "me" time with a glass of wine and a good book? Someone is bound to require you to drive them somewhere and you forgot that you promised to drive them.
Too tired to make dinner?  Tough luck, it's you cooking or the kids eat toast for dinner for the third night in the week.
Child needs surgery in hospital and you are falling apart at the thought of it?  Suck it up and be strong, this isn't about you right now.

They nod, look concerned, then offer me no help whatsoever.



So now I think that since I never grew that spare set of arms and I can't convince the local scientific institute to clone me, I guess I am going to have to learn how to juggle.




* - I am not looking for anyone to offer me "solutions" on what I "should" do, I am just sharing in the hope that someone else says "yeah, I get what you are saying.  Sole parenting IS hard".

Disappointed kids

 

.... and the furious Mama Bear.

I wasn't going to blog about this today. 
I was going to think of something else to blog about but I am So. Damn. Furious. right now I have to write it out.

You see, today my darling kids were excited to go to a special holiday program for gifted and talented kids* and K was especially excited about going.

She got her invitation to attend last Monday and I immediately wrote to the event provider to enroll her.  I got a message back, thanking me for her details and telling me how to pay..... but no further information.

My son H didn't get his invitation until last Thursday (the day before the entire nation shuts down for the four-day Easter break) and I frantically sent off another e-mail.  I got no response so sent 2 more e-mails and 4 phone calls .... no reply to any of them.

Based on the pathetic response we received to the first e-mail, I assumed that since this program was run by G&T teachers, that perhaps organisation might be an area they lacked skills in, and we drove to the other side of town thinking that both children were enrolled and all would be OK.

When we got there, neither were enrolled and the staff had no paperwork.  I demanded to see "the boss".  She fobbed me off, blaming the school for not sending the notes home in time.  I asked how much time the school knew before I did.  She said "3 weeks". 
Ummmm - sorry??? 3 weeks??? 3 weeks during a school term is as good as writing a letter and flushing it down the loo in the hopes the message will reach the target.  School terms are hectic and the last three weeks can be absolutely frantic as testing is done and staffing shuffles are made.

So we turned around and came home - two very disappointed kids and one Mama Bear who is absolutely furious.
....I'm just not exactly sure who to be furious at but I suspect that both the school AND the G&T organisation can shoulder a big lump of blame each.

.....and "why" you may ask, am I so damn mad about this and what exactly does it have to do with a widow blog?

The short answer is that I am mad that my kids have had more disappointment that could have been avoided with one single phone call or e-mail.#

I am mad because they were looking forward to it and missed out through no fault of theirs or mine.

I am mad because there is that extra straw of disappointment added to the pile on their backs

I am mad because I forced myself to get into the car and drive further and longer than I amcomfortale with.

I am mad because I had to drive along roads that I have avoided since the accident.

I am mad because of the grief and "woe is me" feeling that this has brought up in all of us.

I am mad because I suspect that if Greg were here, none of this would seem like such a big deal.

I am Mama Bear and I am FURIOUS.



* My kids are not technically G&T - they are just very bright.  Well ... maybe they are mildly gifted in academic areas (mostly maths) but they are not baby Einsteins.

# I am aware that life is full of disappointments, but this could have been so easily avoided if the organisers had bothered to respond to any of my e-mails, phonecalls or texts.  Kids with dead dads already miss out on lots of things in life and sometimes even tiny disappointments can add enough to the already large burden and result in the floods of tears we've seen today.

....and yes, I have already sent a letter of complaint to the event organisers and will send a carefully worded one to the school as well.

"Read, Daddy"

Jeremy in the sailor suit, and his other mini-me, Carter bearing the same sweet features.

Now the school is in full swing and we've kinda (and I use that term loosely) got a routine going, I've been able to spend a lot of one-on-one time with my man cub. I haven't had just one child with me in over 5 years! It's been nice to just play with him, talk to him, and watch him grow. His life thus far seems to have gone by in the blink of an eye and I know I was checked out for the first part of it. I feel like I've missed a lot.

Spending more time with him has made me face a lot of grief associated with his life, though. Watching him learn new things and knowing that Jeremy will never get to see him grow. The ache that comes with the understanding that Jeremy never got to hold his son. Thinking about the day he was born never ceases to make me emotional. Sometimes I think that day was harder in some ways than the day Jeremy died. We talk about 'daddy' all the time - he associates my necklace with Jer, the pics of him around the house, the tattoo on my arm, even the Toronto Maple Leafs logo he recognizes with his daddy. It's so incredibly bittersweet.

Last week, I sat down and showed Carter the video I have of Jeremy reading "Barnyard Dance" to Faith and Caleb. He was mesmerized. And I was full of tears and smiles. We went about our day and week until the other day, Carter was pointing to the table throwing a fit because I couldn't understand what he was wanting. When I finally figured out that he was pointing to my computer and saying "read Daddy, read Daddy" I burst into tears. 

He remembered.

Not only did he remember, he wanted more. More of his daddy. He wanted more of this presence he hears referred to all the time but hasn't met him or touched him yet. To hear his voice, see his face, and see him snuggle up against his big brother and sister made an impact on that little 19-month-old heart. He watched it again and again. 

For all the times I worry that Carter may not understand or I might share enough....I realize that Jeremy really is a presence in our hearts and in our lives. And he's in the heart and life of a little man cub who's never met him face to face, but who lives out his legacy as the spitting image of his daddy. 

The tough days

Birthday Candles (Photo credit: Chealion)

Tomorrow is Miss K's birthday.
She will turn 10 years old.
I can't believe she is already in double digits as I swear I only gave birth to her two years ago.

Except I didn't.

Two years ago was when I became both mother and father to Miss K and her younger brother.

Of all the wounds of widowhood, grieving for my father-less children has been the hardest.

Miss K was 7 and a half when Greg died.  Mr H was 5 and a half. 
Too young to have lost their father.

For the most part, they cope OK - much better than I could have dreamt of two years ago.

But that may be due to them being oblivious to the loss which is blindingly obvious to me: they simply don't know any different whereas I know what Should Have Been.




Recently, H asked me: "Did my Daddy like riding his bike as much as I do?" 
"Of course he did - don't you remember him riding along beside you on the bike track?"
"Not really Mum.  I don't remember him that well."

That kills me.
KILLS me.
This beautiful baby boy of mine does not remember the tower of love that was his father.

His memories come from photographs and half-remembered dream-like moments from his first 5.5 years of life.

This is despite me talking about Greg All The Time.
Making and reading memory books All The Time.
Telling them stories about their Dad All The Time (you get the picture).

But nothing replaces having a Dad who is right there with you.

Miss K remembers more about her Dad, but then, she was older when he died. 
Certain things are etched in her memory.
Most of them are good, but some of them are for the times she was "naughty"..... she was cranky that last morning and she has that memory burnt into her brain. 


....and I feel sad for all the things that he is missing.
Does he know that our beautiful nearly-10-year-old girl is growing up? 
Does he know how clever she is? 
How beautiful?

Does he see that our boy has his engineering brain? 
Does he know how proud his son is of his perfect hero of a father? (in H's mind, his father is the greatest superhero ever).
Does he hear him tell anyone who will listen that he will grow up "Just Like My Dad"?

I'm guessing that he does..... after all, what  is heaven if not to be able to see your loved ones .... at least that's my idea of heaven.

But this coming week of birthdays (H's is the following Monday) is tough .... for me more than them I think... they are young enough to only dream of presents and cake and not dwell on Who Is Missing. 
But me - I've lost the person who can remember the moments after they were born and who loved them as much as I do.
The memories are now only mine.
There is no eye I can catch and know that we are sharing the same memory of birthdays past, or the perfect pinkness of their newborn faces.  Nobody to remember the exact tone of their one-year-old voices stringing sentences together.  Nobody to marvel with at just how amazing they are....

....and it hurts.

But I smile and wrap presents and make preparations to make this a happy birthday for each of them. 
....and I hope that when I tell them that their Daddy is here too, looking over their shoulders and giving them big birthday hugs that they can feel the certainty in my words and know he is really there.

Long Term Forecast

This week marked four years since of Lisa’s passing..

We were in the car driving when I told my girls that the next day was the date Lisa died – no need to give them a longer heads up, not sure what I would want them to do with that information.  I asked the girls what they would like to do.

“Go to the cemetery.”  The six-year-old yelled back quickly. My girls all seemed to have figured out the statistics of: The idea that is shouted out first has a better percentage of being implemented.

Kelly hasn’t asked to go to the cemetery before and hasn’t been since Lisa was buried and she was two.  The response surprised me.

Haley, who is now old enough to sit in the front seat next to me responds, “I don’t want to go to the cemetery.  It freaks me out.  But if you’re going to force me to go, that’s fine.”

Molly says nothing as she is focused on pressing her window button trying to figure out why she can no longer put her window up and down and up and down and up and down.  I waited until her window went back up (after the fifth time) and then hit the lock button right next to me – a power I have yet to reveal to her I possess.

“Haley, I’m not going to force you.  Someday you will be ready, and when you are, you can go….”

“Daaaadddd!” Molly cries.

“I don’t know Molly,” I respond before hearing her question as I know what’s coming. “Maybe the window is tired from going up and down so much and it needs to rest.  Anyway Haley, you can go at your own pace, I will never force you.”

For Haley, this isn’t her time.  It very well may be that her time could be in twenty years.  Maybe there will come a point in her life where she is searching for answers and a trip to visit her mother’s grave will provide some missing pieces.

It’s a reminder for me to be open for all three of them that every now and then, their mourning will show itself.  Even for them now, it’s not an everyday issue, not even an every month issue. But it will always be relevant.

We ended up taking a cousin who at the house with us as well as Molly - who asked as she was putting on her shoes, “Are we going to meet God?”  I told her it was a great question and I would explain how this all works while we were in the car.

I took some paper and markers and the four of us sat around the site and drew pictures.  We collected sticks from the trees nearby and used them as push pins to keep the drawings stuck in the ground.  Pictures of hearts and silly designs now decorate where she lies.

The girls, being kids, asked if they could play tag.  They could get over how much room there was out here.  I was about to say no when the image of Lisa being with us struck me and I thought what a nice way to celebrate her life to let her children run around and laugh.

“DO NOT step on the gravestones on the ground.” I said. 

“Don’t worry dad, I love obstacles,” Kelly said, as they all took off running.

I cringed at the word of obstacles when talking about sacred ground. I am going off the premise that all those who are laid there love the company and have no issues of seeing people who are alive enjoy life.  Little different premise than the movie Poltergeist, but I know how Hollywood likes to sensationalize.

I was happy how my kids treated the day and I was very happy Haley let me know she was not ready for this.  After the cemetery, I took them to Culver’s for dinner and frozen custard.  I picked up Haley along the way, frozen custard she was ready for.  As for the rest, it will be at her pace, whatever that may be.   

The Wall - Tested

This is an unintended third part to my past posts about the wall.  I just finished writing a two-part blog about building walls after Lisa passed away.  Focusing on excuses and outside forces that allowed me to place brick after brick to build my wall and isolate myself from living a full life.  Talking about how I have torn down the wall and letting myself be vulnerable.

Two days after my post, Haley’s brand-new guinea pig died.  Haley, my eleven-year old daughter who was Madison WI with her two other sisters for a week and luckily wasn’t home to see what happened.  We bought a dog last year and it didn’t work out.  Girls were too jealous of the attention I had to give to the puppy.  So we sold it and I was mad at myself that I allowed a poor decision to take something else away from them.  So I went the safe route a bought a guinea pig (see first sentence of this paragraph to explain how that’s working out for us).

Having this happen so close after writing my last post, I took my own medicine.  My first thoughts were to come up with solutions that would minimize the damage (thinking about telling them I had to bring hers back to the store because of a previous ring worm problem and the store said we should get a new one).  With all that she’s had to deal with, I’ll be damned if I am going to give her more bad news.

But I knew going anywhere near that route would just add more bricks.  No, this is a tough world and we are going to try and live using its crappy rules.  I would tell her of this after getting home from me picking them up from Madison – of course on the drive home I get“I can’t wait to get home and cuddle with JJ, I’m sure he misses me!”  Sticking proverbial knife deep into proverbial chest. Ouch.

I took her to the backyard and simply broke the news.  Her face was in shock and I kept talking, “Haley, you’ve been through a lot and this is sad news.  I’m sorry.”

She took it well.  She decided she wanted to get another one.  She also asked me if it was okay if she let her friends know that he died –which I found as a very interesting question.  I don’t know why I found it interesting, but I did.

The one call I did make that I am happy I did, was instead of throwing JJ away, I went to the woods and buried him.  I even carved his initials on the tree by where he is buried – put the little guy in a backpack, went into the woods, found a tree, buried him, carved his initials, stood up, said some words, and headed back home.  I felt like I was in an old western movie.

When I told Haley what I did, her face lit up.  She asked if she could go visit the tree to which I said yes.  Haley has been too afraid to go to the cemetery to see Lisa and I told her I would never make her go until she is ready.  I’m glad she wants to visit JJ, this might be the perfect stepping stone to addressing something bigger.

I told her I was proud of her and I'm sorry. She said, “It’s okay.”  As I put her into bed she said, “Dad, people say animals can’t go to heaven, but we’re animals.  What do you think?”  I wish kids would give us a heads up for the big picture questions.  “Haley, I believe that God loves you and mom is up in heaven.  Why don’t you give them both a little prayer and tell them what you want.” 

Her head lying back down on the pillow, she let out one more thought before closing her eyes, “Yeah, maybe mom can make him understand me so when I get to heaven I can talk to him.”

I’m glad I didn’t sugarcoat this situation.  I was scared of how she would react and fear builds walls.  No bricks today and tomorrow we go get another guinea pig to bring us right back to being vulnerable for something bad to happen.   It's the only way to go.

Remembrance Candle

            I know the holidays are way over, but I wanted to share a Christmas experience I had with my children, when we lit a candle in remembrance of Lisa.

            The monthly grief group my girls and I attend has a holiday service where the family lights a candle for the person we are remembering.  Our family was not able to make the event this year, but a one of the widows thought of us and took Lisa’s candle and dropped it off at our house. 

            On Christmas Eve, I always let the girls open a couple of gifts as a way to get Christmas started –  truth be told, I basically get the night off as they are busy playing with new toys.  It’s a win win for both the girls and me.  This year, I sit them in a circle with their gifts to my left.  I pull out the candle and let them know that tonight we will be starting the holidays by lighting this candle to symbolize mom.  The holiday music behind us sets the perfect tone as Bing Crosby croons "Silent Night".

            I pull out the matches as the girls sit on the floor looking at me.  I put match to box and strike.

            “Tonight, we will start Christmas remembering our Lisa,” I say and light the wick.  “As we light this candle, let it be a symbol….”

            “Oooh, can I blow out the match?” Haley asks.

            “No Haley. I’ll blow it out,” I say and try again.  “As we light this…”

            “How come she gets to blow it out?”  asks Kelly.

            “She’s not. No one is blowing it out, let’s focus…”

            “Me me me me me.” my three-year-old, Molly, joins in.

            I blow out the match to end the discussion. “Girls, please, this is about mom.”

            “I wanna say something about mom.” Kelly says.

            “Sure Kelly… I was… talking first though, trying to say some…”

            “Are we done? Is it time to open presents?” Molly asks.

            “Hey Dad, If I say something first, can I open up a gift first?” Haley asks.

            “No! That’s not fair! Dad said I was going to say something first.  Right Dad?”

            “Girls, everyone stop,” I pick up the candle.  “Can’t we just focus a little for the sake of mom?” I pause, holding the candle, waiting for them to self realize their insensitivity.

            “Dad, careful, you shouldn’t hold that candle so close to your face.” says Haley.

            “Hey can I at least blow out the candle.” says Kelly.

            “No, me me me.” says Molly.

            I watch them fighting and bickering, so I decide to try a different approach. 

“Who wants to open up presents?”

            A chorus of “I do” explode with hands shooting into the air, accompanied by three of the sweetest faces and a look of… well, of kids about to open presents at Christmas.

After the girls are playing with their new toys, I go into my bedroom and redo the candle ceremony – party for one.  About 20 minutes later, Kelly comes wandering into my room holding Tinkerbelle, flying her through the air.  She sees I have re-lit candle and there’s a new burnt match on the side.

“Shoot, you blew out another match, I wanted to try it.” Kelly says.

            “Here,” I say and reach over and light a match.  Her eyes widen and a big inhale is followed by an even bigger exhale as she blows enough air to knock out 50 matches.  She picks up Tinkerbelle and flies her out of the room.  I sit back and watch the candle when Haley and Molly come running in.

            “Kelly said she was able to blow out a match to remember mom.  Can we do it also?” Haley says.

            “It wasn’t to remember…yeah sure.”  I pick up the box and strike the match for Haley.

            “Love you Mom, miss you.” whwhwhwwhhhh

            Next match for Molly.

            “Misssss you.” pthpthpththh  “Another one, another one!”

            “No Molly, just one,” I say, as they both leave faster than when they came in.

            My remembrance candle ended up reminding me, not to try to have the kids grieve like I do.  It also reminds me, I need to go with the flow, as where I think I may be failing, it might just be that I am creating a different tradition that could end up being better than what I originally had in mind.

Wake me up when December ends

It’s December 1, 2011.

I bought a new car today.

My very first new car ever.

The very first car I have bought all by myself.

Something bright and shiny and new to replace the old and falling apart, frustrating and faded.

I should feel happy.

But I don’t.

I am gripped by the worst grief I have felt in months.

“A new car – you are so lucky” she said.

“I am not lucky” I wanted to shout. “The only reason I have to buy this is because Greg is dead. If he were alive, he would have fixed the old car.”

“...and all that bright, shiny money I paid for the new car wouldn’t have been available because it would have still been sitting in his superannuation account.”

This conversation never took place though.

The second half of it ... my half of it... took place in the shower as I washed off the dirt of the day like so much armour surrounding my heart.

...and I broke.

By the time I dragged myself from under the hot water, big, fat, salty tears were plopping onto the bath mat at my feet.

I gripped the door frame for support as drop after drop fell from my eyelashes to puddle onto the floor.

My whole body was heaving with silent sobs as I crawled into our (my) cold bed, and as I lay down the tears ran in a steady rivulet down my face to soak the pillow behind my head.

...and I wonder if I am feeling this way because today marks 21 months since Greg’s head and chest were destroyed so badly by the bulbar of a truck, that I never saw him again.

... or am I feeling this way because I am having to face my second Christmas alone.
....my second Christmas as a sole parent.
...trying to put some sparkle into the children’s lives to make a semblance of a happy childhood.
...trying to fake a joy that I don’t feel and trying to summon a belief in God and goodness that has long since gone.

I don’t know.

Right now, all I want to do is to sleep through this horrible season and wake up when there is some light back in my world.

Just wake me up when December ends....

Guilt of a Happy Widow

Got this little Nutella freak from here

“Hey! How are you?” she asks.
With that question a hand is placed gently on my upper arm. Her eyes are round, her voice soft and kind, as if she were talking to a person who is old.
I wonder “Do I look ill? Is the lack of sleep that apparent?”
My friend wants to know, to
…really
… know
how I’m doing.
Only her assumption is that I’m not doing well. After all,
I
Am
A
Widow.

And all I want to do is smile and say “I’m doing….

GREAT! Today, the kids got ready for school by themselves and this included Langston (age 14) folding his laundry. The very same laundry he put into the wash AND the dryer by himself the night before.

I had to tell Ezra this morning as he dilly-dallied over his breakfast to “put down the book or I’d have to take it away from him." This same child, 2 months ago, I had to cajole into picking up a book.

Pallas is using me as her confidant (I know this will change) she comes into my room and we talk about friendships and bodies and nail polish color.

Me. Well, I closed my business and I feel free. I have an informational interview next week and you never know where those end up! Our new place is great. I like that there aren’t all these places to disappear to. If Langston is not in the great room then he’s in his bedroom or the bathroom. That’s it. No where else to look for him. And did I mention that it was 75 today? And I wore shorts that I couldn’t fit into when Art was alive because I am now healthy skinny not a holy-shit-my-husband-is-dead skinny? “

I want to tell her all of this. I want to go on and on and on to show her the other side of widowhood, the side that is beyond just getting through another day.

But I don’t. Because I also don’t want her thinking that it’s all OK again. I don’t want her to walk away from our conversation thinking I am “over” Art's death.

And then I feel guilty. Guilty for feeling good..

Guilty for thanking Art for dying. Without his death I would never have become 70% fearless. 89% authentic, and 100% alive. I really like all the ways I have been pushed to grow and expand and live.

Guilty because the kids and I are actually ok. We laugh and have fun without him, without thinking about him.

Guilty because the intense bouts of grief come further and further apart from each other. I can go weeks without crying about him. I can go days without yearning for him.

Guilty because most of the time, when I think of him, it is with sweetness, laughter and a deep sadness that doesn’t overwhelm me.

And honestly part of me doesn’t want to disappoint her. I want her to know that as a widow my life will never be "back to normal." I want her to know that I am still different from her and she absolutely CANNOT complain about her husband to me. I want her to know that it’s still a struggle – just less and less of one.

So instead of answering her, I simply change the subject.

Sudden Grief

Got this photo from here

I’m with her and we are walking to find the bathroom in Macy’s. Pallas (my daughter) and I have just been bra shopping...for her.
A momentous occasion full of “Moooommmm!” and “Why are you looking at me that way?!”
She has requested this shopping excursion and I go along, resisting the urge to take photos and whip out the recorder to “document” the occasion. (Langston forbid me from documenting his first shaving lesson with our wonderful neighbor.)

We walk towards where the sales woman said we would find a restroom.
Completely unaware of the time, the casino-like lighting making me feel out of touch, in a dream like state.
We pass the mens clothing on the left.
I think “Huh, Art would look good in that.” Then chuckle, remembering his frustration. The day Banana Republic started selling tall clothing online was the day I tossed those ugly, but long enough jeans! His 6’6” frame too long for regular clothes.

I stop to touch a shirt as Pallas and I pass the rest of the lingerie department. I see the restroom sign off to the right.
I stutter step in my mind
“Fuck, is he?
Really….no way!
It just simply can’t be.
He’s never coming back? How can someone never come back?
I don't understand.”

The thought encases me in what feels like a full body plastic bag.
I run toward the restroom.
Hands to mouth to catch.
Open stall or not, I don’t care, I need to get it out of me.

It. Out. Of Me!

Pallas is running behind me, “Hey," she says disappointedly, "you can’t just decided to race without telling me!” Using her longer-than-mine legs to catch up. She notices my hunched run, reaches for me and says “Mom are you ok?”

There’s an empty stall
Lunch, bile and tears mix together
Into the toilet
which automatically flushes.

Loss swirling down.

He’s Not Here

Last weekend we moved. 
Our new place is smaller, more intimate.
I like it.

It’s simpler to manage. (There are only so many places Ezra’s left shoe can be!)  It makes sorting through the boxes and boxes of stuff I should have sold, much simpler.  (If it stays, exactly where is it going to go, Kim?) 

And I feel lighter here, less weighed down by stuff and keeping track of the stuff so I can find the stuff. 

But today, I walked out of the bathroom, I looked at my bed and I realized…

Art’s not here.

He’s nowhere in this new place.  Not in the decision of which draw to put the utensils in, nor in which painting to hang where.  He’s not in the money spent at Ikea nor will he be in the car when I return a few things. He’s not in the assembly of the shelves, or the finding of the toothpaste.

He’s not in the walk in closet.

He’s not in third call to Xbox Live in two hours about the hook up issue. He’s not there when the electrician, plumber, handy man and old renter all arrive within 20 minutes of each other. 

He’s not in the dinner I cook, the good night kisses I give, or in the bed where I collapse.

He’s not here. 

It was not till I left the house that I see that I have left him too.   I didn’t think I left him. I thought he was coming with us. But here in this new place, I see that he was in every damn thing in the old place: in the walls, in where the toilet paper was stacked and where the breakfast trays were kept. He was in the lights he put up around the large kitchen window that looked out onto the back yard. He was in where the canned soup goes, the best place for the dresser and the fiction book order:  black writer fiction, black female writer fiction, dead male writer fiction and damn good fiction to reread over and over again. (Yes we really had the books divided like that!)   He was in the up high shelf with the extension cords and the bicycle tools tool box.

There was this weird potential, like maybe, just maybe, he'll show up again.

I could hear him sometimes, in the catch of the kid’s voices as if, for just a moment, they might forget and call to him, instead of me.

In this new place, their voices are clear and call, with piercing clarity, only my name.

The potential is gone.  

This feels like this is where it begins.  Where our new family starts, this family of four.

Our dinner table no longer has the extensions out.  It is square: one side for each of us.  Tonight, I looked at each of my kids, one across from me, two on either side of me and sigh. We are a family of four now.  Four sides of a square for four people.

The most weird, unnerving, pleasant and peaceful thing about this observation is that

I’m OK with it.

In 2009 we became a family of four. It was not what I wanted, not what was planned.

In 2011, it is what I have accepted and come to embrace.  It is what we are, it is who we are. It is neither bad nor good. It just is.

My new place just taught me that. 

the "d" word

Photo from here...

In preparation for my son's first day of Kindergarten today, I attended an interview with his teacher yesterday. It mostly entailed questions of, "Can he tie his shoes?", "Does he feel shy in new situations?" and "Can he wipe his own bottom?"

At the end of our little meeting, his teacher asked about his special interests. I listed off his favourite play things (Lego, cars, his bike), the things he likes to do with his friends (swim, play hide-n-seek, jump on a trampoline) and his favoured topics of conversation (monster trucks, chickens and death).

His teacher stared at me for a moment after the latter item. "Oh...," she replied, "What does he say when he talks about death?"

"He often ponders over what it feels like or what you see when you die. Sometimes he wonders when he or I will die," I told her in a tone that suggested this was common-place and not really worth a huge amount of detail.

She listened with a faint look of concern on her face. This look turned soft as she asked, "Do you think he would benefit from speaking to our school counsellor?"

I suppose with the fact that this, death, is such a common topic in our house it hadn't occurred to me that this type of conversation might be cause for concern at his school. I thought for a moment about her suggestion. An avalanche of thoughts tumbled around in my brain, "Is it bad that he talks about death? But I want him to feel comfortable talking about his concerns! Are other parents going to be upset when their child quotes my son's occasional morbid thinking? I can't guarantee that he will even say anything to other children. Are his questions abnormal? This IS normal to him!"

All night I thought about this conversation. It struck me as odd how as parents we are instructed to talk to our children about their bodies and how they work. We are expected to teach them how to be healthy and strong. We even teach "sex ed" to ensure that our children are aware of all that our bodies are capable of in a reproductive sense.

But we do not talk to them about the end of our body's life. We do not talk about the imminent eventuality of our body either wearing out or "breaking" prematurely. Although it will happen to each and every one of us, we treat death as a possibility. Not an unavoidable inevitability.

I don't think dodging the subject or treating death as a four letter word is the appropriate way to help our children, or ourselves, develop a healthy view of death. It's unfortunate for them that sex is more accepted as a topic when it is not even a guaranteed act for every human on this planet. But death, well, it will happen to each and everyone of us. I don't want to shy away. I hope to let them know that it's okay to talk about it. It's fine to wonder, to question and even to worry about what and how it happens.

So I've decided that unless my son develops a habit of hiding books about death under his mattress or giggling about it with his friends in whispered tones, I am perfectly happy discussing it with him and I do not think that he requires a counsellor to tell him what to believe or when is an appropriate time to talk about the "d" word. He is sorting that out himself....and he is talking to me about it as he goes.

Sick, Clothes and Backwards

The last two days I've been sick.
Fever.
I found myself lying in my bed, the wrong way.
Backwards (head where my feet usually are, feet where my head usually is)

The fever is making me feel backwards.

I'm preparing to move from the house the kids, Art and I have been in this home for 6 years. (Huh. The kids and I have been here for six, Art only 4.) It means going into his closet and getting rid of the rest of his clothes. The ones that no longer smell like him. It means going into the attic and going through the ones I put away for the kids and this time asking them what they want to keep.

I am at peace with this idea.
Settled.
OK
Ready.
That feels backwards.
"They" said I'd know when the time was right to get rid of the clothes, to take down one of the photos. I couldn't imagine there would ever be a "right" time in his wrong death.
But without looking for it, it has arrived.

The time is right.
There is peace and gratitude in letting more of him go...
or
is it the fever?

------
Post from
August 27, 2009.
4 months after Art died.

Yesterday, I took Art's remaining clothes out of the closet. I divided them into the one's I want to keep and the ones to give away. Today I drove them to the Mission in downtown LA. Some tall homeless person with size 14 feet will finally have clothes and shoes that fit him.

Yesterday, I took down the get-well cards friends, co-workers, familiy members and students had sent him. This wall reflects me.

I am that wall. I am empty, vacant, not complete. I am not surprised at the depth of the grief, just disappointed in it. I am surprised at how quickly I begin to hyper ventilate, and how powerless I feel. I can't talk, even though I wanted to call a friend.

I think we are fine and then it hits, the wave and I swear that I will drown. And I cry so deeply and so completely that my whole body gets involved. I shake and feel nauseous. I force my breath. My nose quickly fills. My head aches, my arms tingle. My feet move rhythmically back and forth across the sheet. I hold myself, I let go. I punch his pillow. I hold myself again.

I know I need to call someone. Anyone. But what will I say? What is there to say? I don't want to be cheered up, I don't want to be soothed. I want to be held, to be allowed to grieve, with the noisy blows from my bulbous red nose and with the lines of tears from my swollen eyes.

I don't want anyone to tell me it'll be ok because right now, it's not. I want someone to wrap their arms around me, to sit with my pain, to stroke my hair and my back. To NOT say "shhhh." To cry with me even. No judgment, no better world. Just this grief here and now.

Tomorrow is my 45 birthday.

----
August 28, 2011

Today is my 47th birthday.

I am in awe at how different I feel, strong, relaxed and ok with my widowhood. It is a feeling I can't describe, the opposite of the black hole of grief (which is equally indescribable). I'm content, at ease, peaceful words that three years ago I couldn't even understand let alone feel.

Today I cried, not from sadness but from relief and gratitude. I'm OK, but for the grace of God and time, I'm OK!!!!

Happy

photo by Ezra

I’m gonna come out and say it.
I’m happy.

I’m a widow and
I’m happy.

It’s not because of another man either,
and I didn’t win the lottery.
I didn’t discover extra life insurance money or an extra $20,000 in my savings account.

I still haven’t found a new place to live. (If you live in LA, I’m looking for a 3 bdrm, 2 bath on the Westside. Hey, ya never know!)

And no, I have not been drinking or smoking the funny stuff.

I haven’t been eating ice cream or chips or cake for that quick high.

I’m happy because today Ezra and I had a good day and this day would not have been possible if
Art were here.

If Art were here,
my two oldest would not have flown on separate flights by themselves back east. They would not be forging their own, significant relationships with my sister and my in-laws.

If Art were here,
I wouldn’t have taken Ezra to the Venice Beach boardwalk. We wouldn’t have marveled at the roller skating guy, the skate boarders, or the guy in the turban with the electric guitar. I would not have been told, “Wow, they don’t’ make them like you anymore!” by the dummy and his ventriloquist.

If Art were here,
I wouldn’t have insisted (a bit meanly) that Ezra buck up and get on his new skate board. I wouldn’t have dared him to fall 5 times. (He fell 7 times and said he won!)

If Art were here,
I would not have been at the neighbor’s pool. I would not have heard “Mom watch this!” only 9 times (a record low) and been amused that I actually DID watch 8 times.

If Art were here,
I would have said, “I’m too tired, you take him.” Who am I kidding, if Art were here, we’d be somewhere else.

If Art were here,
I’d be in Maine, suffering my in-laws.

But
Art’s not here
and still
I’m happy.

I can’t believe I wrote that.
I’m too happy to even bother justifying that statement.

I am happy.

I’m happy.
Down to my hair follicles happy.

I’m happy because without Art here
I found this new strength, this courage, this audacity to just fuck it all and
be happy.

Without him here,
I have found
something
that was lacking when he was here.
A deeper,
more loving knowledge of
who I am,
faults included.

Without him here,
I like what I’m left with.

A long-term thing.

My daughter is 8 years old. She will be 9 soon. Her Dad died when she was 7. She is a bright, beautiful, thoughtful, intelligent child. My blog name for her is Miss K. ...
...and Miss K has had a rough day.

For Miss K, most days are rough: she misses her Dad.
But she copes with her day at school.
No..... she does more than that ... she loves her days at school.
and at home.
But at night, she often feels the loss of her beloved Daddy more acutely.
Because he is so obviously missing from our lives.
...and we talk about her feelings a lot.
...and she sometimes talks to a psychologist about her feelings.
... but really, the verdict is that she is behaving and acting "normally" for a young girl in her situation.

BUT

...sometimes, the sad feelings show at school.
Like when the school play unexpectedly shows life savers reviving a swimmer as part of the play.
And her emotions float to the surface.
.....and she cries. (so did I).

....and this scares other people.
this idea that children are emotional beings.

Other people tell me I should worry more about her.
I do worry.
But not overly.
But I struggle to explain to others that she NEEDS to feel sad.
She won’t get over this quickly.

This sadness is long term.

Even though we are working through our grief … together.
Even though we might function OK.
Even though some people think we should be “over it” by now, or able to move on or able to function as we were in the Before.

This sadness is here for the long-haul.

And you know what?
It probably should be that way.
Grief shouldn’t go away overnight.
Grief shouldn’t go away within a year.

It needs to be felt, everyday, until we can run our fingers over the scars without screaming , and see how strong we are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...and while I know that people here at Widow's Voice will understand, I struggle to explain this to other people: Grief is a long-term thing.