Weeping Willows

Hey babe,

Do you remember this place?  Do you remember how much Shelby loves coming here?  It was the first place that Shelby and I ever took a hike, and it's the final place, a year ago, that you and I took a walk.  I can still remember Shelby running around, picking up last year’s acorns, the few remaining ones left alone by the squirrels at least.  I remember holding your hand and just walking, letting her be fascinated by nature, as she always was, and still is. We strolled...slowly. You had already been in rejection for a few months, but you weren't sick enough yet that you couldn't shuffle along.

We could smell the dogwood trees blooming, and I remember you commenting on how they smelled so much better than any perfume that anyone had ever worn around you, and how, for a change, a potent scent didn't make you cough.

I remember being terrified at the time that this would be the last walk we would ever take together. Turns out, my fear would become reality in November..
 

God, how many times we came here, and walked the different paths through the various gardens, but we always ended up here, at the “Weeping Collection”.  

You loved weeping willows.  They were your favorite tree, and every time we would pass one on a drive, you would always comment on how much you loved them.  I always wished that we lived somewhere where I could have planted one for you.  They need more space, and our little white house with the white picket fence on a ⅛ acre city lot in Akron just would not suffice.  I wish we had gotten even just a year or two more...long enough we could have moved, and I could have planted that willow for you on the little mini-farm I always wanted to live out the rest of my days on.  I knew you weren't going to be around forever, but I had at least hoped for the chance to get you out of the city.  

We would have renewed our vows on our 10th anniversary, this coming August, right here under this weeping willow in the gazebo.  I had decided upon it on our walk, but I never got the chance to tell you.  

So, I came back here today to write this to you.  I had to come in the spring, just to remember that walk, and all the sights, sounds, and smells. Honestly, what I needed most was to sit and mourn you for awhile.  I haven’t mourned the loss of you for some time because frankly, I've been happy.  I needed to sit here and talk to you, honestly, deeply, and frankly, in a place that was one of the last that you and I shared before sitting quietly among industrial tile floors, a ventilator pumping away, and IV poles for six months, and I needed to do it alone, at least this first time.

I’m sorry babe.  I’m sorry that I didn't move fast enough in life to plant that willow for you, or to renew our vows under the little gazebo covered in wisteria.  If I knew then what I know now, we would have done it that very day. There was no sense in waiting for a specific date, because honestly, the vows I took, and wanted to renew, meant the world to me no matter when they were stated.  I guess there is no sense in renewing them now, as now that death has done us part, they can never be broken. I am morbidly proud of that fact.  

Unfortunately, we can only know what we know now.  I know now that you were preparing me, for 12 years, to be the man I am today.  I know now that, other than still being alive and healthy, you wouldn't have it any other way for Shelby or I.  I know now that I am supposed to continue my life as if you were still here with us, but with someone else that is just as special as you were, and that I can love just as much as I loved you.

I know now that every spring, I should come here, walk, talk to you, mourn you, and thank you for being who you were, and who you continue to reveal yourself to be.  I know now that the same thanks should have been given to you while you were alive.  I know now that those who deserve thanks and love should get it then and there, when I’m feeling it, and not on some arbitrary “special occasion”, because there aren't any guarantees that the special occasion will occur.

You taught me all of this, Megan.  You've taught me that I can love even more than I ever thought possible, and that my love for you will continue to grow right alongside my new love. You've brought me to where I am today, and you'll continue to take me where I'm going. In that sense, we're still holding hands, walking together, and I know you'll be there by my side the rest of my life. Shelby? She's running just ahead, taking in everything on her own terms, but always under both of our watchful eyes.

Thank you.

Take care babe, I love you.

Mike

617 Days and Counting

I reached another widow milestone this week: on Thursday Dan had been dead for 617 days. The same number of days that I was blessed to have him in my life.  One year, eight months, two weeks and four days. That's all the time we had together.  

I'd been dreading this moment for months. For some reason, I even have a countdown app on my phone, so I could watch the days ticking down.  You know, just because I seem to enjoy torturing myself!  As the days ticked over; 612; 613; 614; the anxiety and dread intensified.  

I couldn't bear the thought of being his widow longer than I had known him.  I didn't want to be that far away from our last kiss.  We were only married for 45 days before he died, so the milestone of 'being his widow longer than I was his wife' passed very quickly, when I was still in deep shock.  So I had held this 617 day mark as a point in time, down the track, when surely life would be easier and the pain wouldn't be so bad.  I guess that probably is the case, but it's harder to see when you're in the midst of it.

As is common with these milestones, the actual day itself wasn't as bad as the lead up had been. I cried myself to sleep the night before, but woke up on Thursday feeling... well, normal.  To my surprise, it was just another day.  He was still dead.  It still royally sucked. But his love was still all around me.  

I got up, went to work, and managed not to do that weird thing where you blurt out to people that your husband is dead or that it's a difficult milestone day (especially one that someone not familiar with grief would never understand!). 

But, I missed him.  Oh, how I missed him.  Lately, I find myself thinking of him every moment of every day.  How much he would have laughed at something on tv; how he'd have enjoy a meal I'd cooked; the way he'd carry on, circling pictures of the Easter eggs he wanted in the shopping catalogues that he loved pouring through.  Every time he pops in to my mind I whisper quietly 'I miss you' and clench my hand, as if I was wrapping it around his.  Yep, I miss him a lot at the moment. 

And now I'm in the middle of the Easter long weekend with my family, who are awesome, and all I can think about is how much I wish he were here.  One moment I'm laughing at memories of him (like the year we spoilt each other with chocolate eggs and then, in a moment of weakness, decided we should give them all away and be committed to getting healthy for our pending wedding... before turning up at my sister's house the following day and admitting we'd made a mistake and wanted them all back!).  And the next moment I'm wiping away tears because such a big part of me is missing. 

He made every day fun and special. His laugh was infectious and his hugs were second to none. I miss my husband.  I will continue to miss him, regardless of how much time passes and how long I'm his widow. Because those 617 days we spent together changed my life and made my heart sing and I will always wish that we'd had the lifetime together that we'd planned.  Death sucks. 

What is a Partner?

As an artist, I believe that every piece I create is coming through me from some other source and meant for one person out there. I've come to believe this because of it happening to me with many of my photographs and written pieces. Someone will come forward to share how important my image was to them, and how perfectly it aligned with something in their world, and I will know instantly that it found its home.

Nothing made me more certain of this idea than finding this painting last weekend. My girlfriend and I went to a local art festival, and as we walked into this woman's booth, my friend gasped and called my attention. As I looked up, I was speechless. There on the walls of her booth hung an almost exact painting of MY photo of my fiancé and I. And I knew instantly - I was the person she made that for, even though she did not know me at all.

Of course I bought it. And as I was paying her, I looked up the photo on my phone. I told her the story of my fiancé passing and then showed her the image - and she was as blown away as I was. We both teared up a little. I've had it resting on my writing desk since I came home… and it lights me up inside to look at. Not only because of the photo it represents, but also of the story this photo reminds me of...

A week before Drew and I began dating, we took a trip down to Padre Island together. We were best friends back then, just on the cusp of something more. One night, we went out to the beach to do some stargazing. There was a moment we both stood facing the blackness of the ocean, side by side. We joked about how scary the water looked at night, and how there could be a giant sea monster five feet from us and we wouldn't even know it. And then we just stood there beside each other in this incredibly strong, powerful, safe silence. And in that moment of quiet, with a vast blackness stretched out for miles before us, I knew for certain this is what I wanted. Someone to stand strong next to me. Not in front of me. Not behind me. Not leaning against me. But standing solid in his own power next to me. Ready to take on all the vast unknowns of life with me… even when it looks like something dangerous could be lurking just feet away. Someone on his own journey, who wants to stand next to me on my journey.

There was a serious change in me that night in understanding exactly what a partner is. We'd not yet made love, or kissed, or even held hands. But I didn't seem to need any of that to understand what I truly wanted was standing right next to me and had been all along. The rest… the romance, the intimacy, it all unfolded beautifully as the result of beginning from a place of such profound trust.

This painting reminds me of that night. It reminds me of the moment in my life when I finally understood what a partner should be. And it reminds me of the man who taught me this lesson - a man of integrity who - for the next three years of our lives together - always had my back. A man I trusted more deeply than I even knew was possible. He gave me more than just his love, he gave me a lesson that I take with me for the rest of my life. This painting reminds me never to forget that lesson; that - when the day comes to choose another partner - I will not accept anything less than the one who will stand beside me - both in the light and in the dark.

Living Adventurously In Loss

Even though our adventure together did not last a lifetime as we expected - my fiancé and I certainly lived our days adventurously. He convinced me to go skydiving a week before we began dating to my surprise. I am not an adrenaline junky, but somehow he had a way of making me surprise myself by the things he was able to bring out in me. I always liked that. He took me up for several helicopter flights while he was in flight school. He was so elated because apparently I was the only girl who ever accepted his invite to go up with him for a flight - and not only did I accept - I was extremely excited. It's beyond me that anyone would have had any other reaction to someone asking them "do wanna go up in a helicopter?" Certainly one more reason we fit so well together.

In the three years we had together we did lots of other adventurous things. We took a rock star trip to Vegas, took up kayaking together, did lots of camping and hiking, hot air ballooning, parasailing, race car driving school for a day… this was most assuredly NOT the girl I was before I met him. It was the girl I wanted to be - but without the right companion to do it with. I think that is one of my favorite things that he brought into my life - a perfect match for my sense of adventure that brought it out even more so in me.

But that spirit wasn't just in the grand adventures. It was in the little everyday things too. When we took frequent road trips across Texas to visit his family, we would often get off the main highway and take some other winding road we'd never been on. It always took longer, but we saw things we'd never seen before and even enjoy laughing at ourselves if we got lost sometimes.

We were big foodies too. We enjoyed going to restaurants and eating slowly and savoring every flavor - trying to pick out the ingredients we were tasting in each dish. And cooking at home was always fun too. He would find a new inspirations for a main courses, and I would chime in with ideas of what sides would go great with it. We'd go to the store together thinking it out and creating it as we went along, then come home and create together in the kitchen with some good music going - which could be anything from classical to jazz to country or rap depending on our mood. Cooking together was most definitely one of my favorite everyday adventures we shared.

Our conversations were adventurous too… sharing a sharp wit and flair for the sarcastic - we would often lock into an effervescent one-upmanship, trying to impress each other with twists and turns of our humor. A road trip or long day's hike would often result in talks spanning american history, gun ballistics, inspiring new artwork, outer space and the universe, achieving goals and dreams, the rapture of flying and favorite new music. There was never a dull moment and we never ran out of things to talk about.

The joy and beauty that our shared adventure brought to my life makes continuing to live adventurously very important to me. It brought me a profound feeling of aliveness… of being and living fully and deeply in the present moment. Adventure - no matter how big or small - has a profound ability to do this for us. And that's not only possible to experience in the midst of grief, I think its absolutely VITAL. At no other time do we more need the reprieve that a feeling of adventure can bring.

The joy and beauty our adventure brought to my life is also the reason why its so HARD to continue to live adventurously. Because without him here to live wildly with - it can be so easy to focus instead on what is missing. Being unable to ask my partner "Hey! You want to go kayaking tomorrow?"and hear back an excited reply of "Hell yes! Let's do this!" makes it harder to even remember to think about going kayaking (our kayaks still sit in storage collecting dust, 2 years after his death). I've found that my desire to do some of the things we did together just hasn't been there.

But I am still trying to think adventurously like him. Trying to keep the spirit alive inside me… because I know more than anything that he is telling me its time to go out and have a whole new adventure of my own. He is telling me to get out there and keep surprising myself. Even though there are a lot of days when I don't WANT a new adventure. Even though there are a lot of days still when the pain is too great to be able to see that there is still an adventure in this life of mine to be had. Still I never stop trying to mix adventure into my world - I never stop hearing him in the seat of my soul whispering for me to grab life by the horns.

And so I take trips, and I try things I've never done before. This year, I started  giving art lessons to an elementary school boy… something I never imagined myself doing in a million years. Its been rewarding and healing for us both. I also had my first solo art exhibit - a collection of the past 2 years of my photography since his death, a life long dream of mine that has totally changed my whole viewpoint of myself as an artist. And in just a few weeks… I'm blowing money I probably shouldn't be to go with my best friend to Hawaii. Two years ago I'd have been far too frugal to drop that kind of cash just for fun. But I have the money, I want one big travel adventure this year, and dammit I deserve it!

In the life of someone widowed, it can be so easy to become apprehensive… to get caught in a fearful loop of thinking to yourself dreadfully, "What's going to be just around the corner?". Continuing to take chances to see and live life adventurously has been one of the biggest ways of helping me change the whole meaning of that statement to "What's going to be just around the corner!!" To be excited by the unknown instead of paralyzed by it. This is the one of the most life-changing lessons that my fiancé brought into my life, and one that has stayed deeply seated in me even after his death. As he once said "Pain is going to happen. You've just got to not let it get you down." So I keep on trying to not let it get me down - at least not for too long - and I keep setting my eyes towards new adventures. Towards surprising myself pleasantly. Towards hope.

Yes Honey, I know.

source

To get to our church and a particular café where a volunteer group often meets I have to drive through our central business district.  I find that I always drive the route that Ian always drove.  That's probably why I go that way.

It is one of the most efficient ways to cross the city from the north-west corner to the south-east, but also the most memory-laden route for me.

It passes a pub that he worked at during his university days, a job he very much enjoyed.  EVERY time we drove past he'd say 'I used to work there'.  And every time I'd say 'Yes honey, I know'.  And now often I drive past and hear this conversation - sometimes I find I even respond aloud. 

I also used to work at the other end of this street, and Ian would always pick me up from work.  

Sometimes I don't have a problem driving past the pick-up point; I'm focused on what I'm doing.  Other times I get flashes of grief, especially if I get stuck at the intersection.  It's very much a heavy heart moment the times they do hit, and I find I have to look at other things happening on the street to bring me back to the present.

Of course, when Ian was driving me home from work, we'd have to go past his old workplace:

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

'I used to work there'. 
'Yes honey, I know'.

I do feel sorry for my son... I feel I'm getting close to (repeatedly) saying 'Daddy used to work there'.  

I guess in time I should expect 'Yes Mummy, I know'.

Silver Lining

Source

I made the mistake of going through mine and Seth’s old emails.

He was in school full time. I worked a desk job. So we both sat in front of a computer all day.. and emailed each other during slow times.

I have a million emails between us.

Which can be a good thing and a bad thing.

I came a crossed an email that reminded me of right before my husband died. It also reminded me of times I had forgotten.

A lil back story. Since 2001 I needed shoulder surgery to correct snapping shoulder. I had two different doctors tell “Put the surgery off as long as possible, some people don’t need surgery and can manage the pain.”

I reached my pain limit in May of 2010. I was putting off surgery until February 2011, which is when my vacation at work would renew. In February I would be able to take time off work and recover from surgery without taking a loss in pay.

Thanks to the emails, I remember surgery was originally scheduled for February 2011. Come July 2010 and I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I was in so much pain I could barely brush my teeth.

My surgeon rescheduled my surgery to July 22^nd, 2010.

I don’t remember any of this.

I remember all this now due to the emails Seth and I sent to each other about me reaching my pain max, my surgeon scheduling emergency surgery, and talk of how we would manage me taking time off work without pay.

I went through surgery just fine. The only downfall was I couldn't do anything myself. I couldn't move my right arm at all. I am very right handed, I’m not left handed at all. Seth had to do everything for me, even brush my teeth.

I would sit in the bathtub with the water up to my waist and he would bath me.. and shave my body. Careful to not get my incisions wet or cut me while shaving.

He would then change my bandages, dress me while I sat in a chair, brush my teeth, blow dry my hair, curl my hair, do my makeup, and drive me to work. He did every single thing for me. My mom was there to cook, clean and help me get around while Seth was at school or work.

Five days later on July 27^th, 2010.. my love ended his life. Five days after my shoulder surgery.

Now.. I don’t remember his death being that close to my surgery.

I remember (now) that I went to my surgeon alone on July 26^th, because my husband had gone missing that morning.

I (now) remember sitting on my surgeons table, getting my stitches removed, getting my shoulder pushed and pulled on, dealing with the pain.. alone. When my surgeon asked me how everything was going (meaning my shoulder) all I could come up with was “fine.”

Really.. my world was falling apart.

Now I usually don’t say suicide is selfish (see this post I wrote a couple weeks ago).

But my husband killing himself five days after my shoulder surgery, when I couldn't take care of myself, was selfish.

But was there ever a good or convenient time for my husband to die? Probably not.

When I read the emails, reminding me of my surgery, and reminding me of how close to surgery my husband’s suicide was.. I was angry. How dare him leave me right after I had surgery! How dare him leave me when I needed him most.

Now counting back the days and going over his toxicology report, I realized he stopped taking all his medication a day or two before my surgery. How could he stop taking his medication when he knew I needed him for my recovery?

I read these emails a couple of weeks ago and have been trying to process the anger and thoughts.

I have finally come to see the silver lining in this.

The last four days of our life together was spent TOGETHER. We spent very intimate moments together during that time. I’m not talking about sex.. I’m talking about my husband bathing me.. and shaving me in places I wouldn't let anyone get close to with a sharp object.

Taking care of me in ways I wouldn't let just anyone take care of.

These are my last memories of him. Watching him carefully wash my hair, carefully wash me head to toe, attempting to not cause me shoulder pain or get it wet. My last memories of him is not the bipolar stricken person I had come to know. It was my husband that loved me, took care of me when he obviously couldn't live one more day.

His last four days on this earth revolved around taking care of me.

While I have been angry with him for leaving me in such a way, I will forever be thankful for this time we had together. The time he took to take care of me.  The times I sat helpless in the bathtub and just trusted him to do everything for me.

Ironically if I hadn't reschedule my surgery, I would have had surgery seven months after my husbands death. I wouldn't have had this time with my husband. And my mom would have been taking care of me.. including bathing me.

Maybe there is a silver lining in everything after all. 

A picture is worth...

source

...1000 words.

Or, so they say. Whoever 'they' is.

But, I think a picture is worth so much more than that.
A picture doesn't just convey an endless amount of words, but it can also capture an emotion that no words can describe.
It can preserve a memory that might otherwise have been forgotten.
It can make you laugh or cry just at the very sight of it.
And for us here, a picture is priceless - something that can't be duplicated or repeated.
It's tangible proof of the intangible.

This ironic thing happened when Jeremy died. I stopped taking pictures. Just when I lost everything most precious and was seeking whatever I could find in the few pictures I took....and always looking for more - for something I missed - I couldn't seem to take pictures for myself.
For one, I looked like hell and didn't want to be in any picture.
I didn't want to fake a smile.
I didn't want to pretend.
But it was also just too painful.
It hurt to capture my beautiful children's faces without their daddy there to ever see it.
It hurt to take pictures of friends continuing to live life seemingly unaffected by the world flipping upside down.
It hurt to see life moving forward and I wanted no part in it.

Eventually, my yearning to capture life's moments came back to me. After my brother died, I searched for as many pictures as I could find and felt so much heartache that I didn't have more of us together. The day of his funeral, after our family got together for the evening, I decided to take pictures with the people I loved. Now, whenever we all get together, I quickly stand next to each of them and snap a picture. I started to hurt when I had no pictures of my friends anymore and they were all taking pictures together without me. So now I try to make sure I take the pictures that I don't want to forget. I'm now the mom who is constantly stopping my kids for pictures....it's gotten to the point now where I hear "Mom, take a picture of me doing this!" on a regular basis. And I'm pretty sure at this point, I have more pictures of Steve and I together over the last 20 months together than I have of mine and Jer's 8 years together. Because I've learned the hard way how precious those can be.

I find myself often looking back at pictures...
My old profile pictures on Facebook.
The pictures on my iPhoto library.
My instagram photos.
The pictures tagged on Jeremy's wall.
It can be painful sometimes, but I am always drawn to recreate those moments in my heart and my mind.
To remember.
To somehow capture as many pieces as I can before it's too late.
Because someday, they might be all I have left.


"If you want to know what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph."

Untouchable

The other day, my 2 1/2 year old found one of Jeremy's mementos - an autographed baseball still in the box. I had it in one of the boys top drawers to keep so that they might have it one day when they get older.

Naturally, he wanted to play with it. He took it out of the cardboard box, unwrapped the tissue paper around it, and started throwing it around the house. As soon as I realized what he was doing I gently put it away and told him he couldn't play with that particular ball because it was daddy's and it was special.

source

Later that afternoon, when the rest of the kids came home from school, my 6 year old son found it (apparently I didn't do a good job of putting it away) and was playing with it in his room. A very devastated toddler came crying down the stairs yelling "Cayub can't pay wif da ball....it's daddy's!" I called Caleb down and explained to him that it was special not only because it was daddy's, but also because it was autographed and might be worth something one day and we needed to keep it nice. My two year old chimed in, eyes still brimming with offended tears "It's so so special...you can't touch it!" He continued to repeat that it was daddy's over and over.

It occurred to me that Carter was genuinely upset, and I wondered suddenly if I had put too much pressure on him to keep all things 'daddy' sacred. This little man, who never got to meet his daddy, has only connections with him through stories and pictures. It is my mission to make sure Carter grows up to know his daddy, even if he never got to meet him face to face. But I never realized that I could potentially "over-do it" in that everything daddy-related was sacred and untouchable. He seemed so upset by the thought of ruining something that was daddy's.

At the same time, my heart leaped to see how much he respected what was Jeremy's and understood, even at such a young age, that his daddy was something special. I want to make sure that Jer is remembered as something real, and not just an idea or something he has to walk on eggshells about. But how can you really do that with a child who has no tangible memories of his daddy, only the aftermath of everyone else's memories?

I don't know the right answer, but I am pretty sure there isn't one. Hopefully, the tender heart of my 2 year old will grow up knowing that someone very special loved him more than life before he even came into this world. The rest I'm just making up as I go along....kind of like parenting, in general. Now that I think of it, kind of like life.

I Remember

Add caption

I have plunged back into the cold, dark, hopeless place I felt buried in the first few weeks/months after Dave died. I've been struggling to eat, sleep, clean up after myself, and find comfort in anything. Everything feels like sandpaper against raw nerve endings. I can't stand to be alone. I need help. I've reached out. I've especially sought out the hugs and love of the women in my life who are best at sitting with me in my pain. They make me feel safe to let go entirely. They've saved me. And they have their own lives, so I return again and again to my own empty home to try to ease my own pain. 

The other day I felt so desperate for help and healing that I booked a session with a Reiki healer/medium. As I talked with her on the phone to schedule an appointment, she said "Are you OK?" and I broke down and sobbed "No". She said "I can see you today at 4:00". 

She sat down with me and began to do her medium thing. She wasn't able to come up with Dave's name on her own or say anything about me losing my husband, but once I told her his name, she began to say things that did make some sense (I still don't know if I believe any of this stuff I just take any comfort any way I can get it).

She said she smelled hospital all around me. She said he was surprised by how fast it all happened and said he still wasn't sure what happened. He wanted to know what had happened. This makes sense. There were mistakes made by the medical professionals and he crashed so fast no one could have anticipated his dying that suddenly. 

She said he was calling me "babe". She said he kept apologizing for leaving me and that he knew how hard it'd been for me these last few years. He said he'd like for his ashes to be in the Snake River. I vaguely recollect Dave talking about this river, but it wasn't necessarily one of his favorites. 

He said he wanted his mom and me to stop crying so much over him (fat chance). 

He said he was shocked by how many people came to his memorial and he was so proud to see them there surrounding and supporting me. 

"Do you have anything to ask him?" the medium said. 

"Did I make you happy?" I asked (choked out between messy, wet sobs). 

"Oh silly, those were the best years of my life," she said he said. 

At this, I bent over at my waist and sobbed as hard as I can remember ever sobbing. It felt like I'd rip into a million pieces. She held me. 

Then she said that he wanted me to start thinking more about the happy times and less about the times when he was sick or sad times in general. This part is something I've been thinking a lot about lately. A coping strategy I've had is to turn away from happy memories because they hurt too much. Far too much. 

It doesn't make any sense to focus on the bad memories or the sadness, but it's not a logical decision. It's what my subconscious does to survive. In order to heal, though, I know I'll have to start to look back at all the joyful memories and let that love and happiness wash over me. I'm just not there yet. I find it hard to even go there in my mind. It tears me apart. But I'm moving in that direction. 

 I remember the time he pulled a camping folding chair down from a hook in the garage and a chipmunk who'd been living inside it jumped out, landed on Dave's neck and rebounded off of him with his little claws. I could hear Dave's girlish scream all the way across the yard and ran to find my manly husband running around in circles, hands flapping in terror, screaming at a pitch only certain dogs can hear. "IT WAS A BAT!" He screamed. "A BAT CLAWED MY NECK!". 

"Oh, this bat?" I asked, peering behind the woodpile to find a chipmunk cowering in fear.

I remember the time he ate a fiber one bar before bed and told me the next morning that he was amazed that I'd slept through the incredibly loud and bountiful farts he'd trumpeted all night. He never ate a fiber one bar again.

I remember our beautiful trip to Italy. Our incredible Hawaii adventure. I remember how when he was around, I slept like a baby. I remember how when he came into my life, his presence helped me be the best person I could be.

I remember that I was loved. Dearly and truly and deeply. I remember that I made his life better and he made my life lovely.

I remember Dave.

Bring On The Rain

Yesterday was my three year sadiversary.

I woke up yesterday and look outside. Of course it was raining, just like it has on July 27^th for the last 4 years.

My brain took me back to July 26^th, 2010.

This memory has been forgotten or locked away in my brain, for my own protection.

July 26^th, 2010 is the day my husband went missing.

The detectives had called me and told me they had pinged my husband’s cell phone, pulled video surveillance, and knew my husband was up at the top of Snowbird (a local ski resort) somewhere. It was early in the day when they sent out search and rescue.

However, they told me they considered my sweet husband armed and dangerous..

That they could not use normal search and rescue… they had to use SWAT to look for him.

As the day wore on, no news came. I was hoping no news meant good news.

They called me that night around 8pm and told me it was snowing very heavily at Snowbird and they had to call off the search for the night.

I remember going to bed that night thinking about how my husband was in the mountains somewhere… getting snowed on in zero degree weather.. I was especially concerned because I had seen the video surveillance. My husband was wearing a light shirt, shorts and flip flops and was not carrying anything.. I knew he was not prepared for this weather.

I suddenly woke up at midnight. I sat up in bed, and instantly knew my husband was gone.

As weird as it sounds, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew he wasn't suffering anymore. I was okay with the fact that my husband was gone.. because I had watched him suffer for so long. I felt selfish for asking him to fight for so long.

The next morning around 9am the detectives called me and said they needed to meet me. In my heart I already knew my husband was gone.. but hearing that the detectives needed to meet with me, cemented my gut feeling.

They came to my house and told me they had found his body.

The pain and screams that were released from my body.. scared me.

When the medical examiners report came back they ruled the day and time of my husband’s death midnight on July 27, 2010.

The same date and time I woke up in middle of the night and knew he was gone.

Every year since then it has rained or snowed on July 27^th.

When I woke up yesterday and saw it was raining, I couldn't help but think about how ironic it is that it rains every year.

The rain brought back this memory.

Now I look at the rain on July 27^th with a sigh of relief.

I miss my husband dearly but I do not miss seeing him suffer.

No one should have to suffer that badly.

Memories of Pulling Weeds

Tuesday night I finally connected with a widow that I had reached out to last September.  We talked briefly but the conversation was difficult.  We really didn’t click which made me sad.  Maybe it’s because she’s about two years out while I’m pushing the 4-year mark.  After we got off the phone and using my personal blog, I traveled back in time to remind myself where I was when I was two years out.  It’s amazing how crystal clear the memories of the feelings are of my life back then - a moment that seems not that long ago.

From March 2011…..

------

You’d think after almost two years I’d be used to the silence in this big house on Sunday mornings.  I’m surprised at how thick it still is.  Sundays were fun days for me and she.  Inevitably, she’d spring out of bed with a little dance, a smile and a plan:  work in the garden, go for a walk with the pups, brunch, paint, something.  She was always moving, it seemed, moving and smiling.  Now Sundays, once my favorite day of the week, are my most lonely.

Today will be a continuation of a process that started a long time ago.  But today is different; I’m bringing in help.  Mom Mary and Sister Lori are coming over and we, together, are going to sort through some more of Maggie’s stuff.  There’s still so much to go through.  I’m not sure how much we will get done but any progress is movement forward and movement is good.  Still, I both fear and look forward to the work.

I suppose until Mary and Lori get here I could go work in the garden.  It could certainly use some love.  It’s been several years since we tended it together and working alone seems so….  Pointless. But watching the plants and flower grow do make me smile still, just not as sweetly.  I always felt as we worked the dirt together we were building a foundation for happy times to come as a couple.  Now, I’m not sure why it’s worth the effort.  Sure, it looks nice.  I enjoy the flowers.  But it just doesn’t seem as meaningful.

Over the last number of years I’ve let the yard and garden really go.  It used to be a breathtaking work of nature (and our hands.)  We loved working in it, on it and watching it grow.  It was a labor of together love.  But as she got sicker, priorities had to be rearranged and the gardening fell out, that is, unless she wanted to go play in it.  Then, later, I pretty much lost interest.  Well, that’s not quite true.  I still love the garden.  I just didn’t care about anything anymore.  It’s funny how this garden has reflected the health, both mental and physical, of the people in this house.

….

Even though moments have passed since you started reading this post, hours have passed since I started typing it.  And in the hours, I did go out and work in the yard.  I didn’t do much; I evicted some quite large weeds that had taken up residence and had been bothering me for quite some time.  It was cathartic.  I was surprised, actually, at how hard it was to pull some of them from the hard dirt.  They really, REALLY didn’t want to go.

When Mary and Lori got here we started our work for the day: underneath Maggie’s bathroom sink.  It’s not particularly complicated work but nonetheless it’s kept me perplexed now for, well, nearly two years.  Various bottles of hair stuff and face stuff and nail stuff that took up residence when we moved in or soon after had all but spoiled.  Many garbage pails of stuff had to be thrown out.  It surprised me at how hard it was to pull some of them from underneath the sink.  (I think it surprised Mary and Lori, too.)  But it was time for all that stuff to go… Some to Mary…. Some to Lori… Some to unknown recipients… Some to the garbage.

After we finished the monumental task of clearing out one (exactly one) counter, we were emotionally drained.  We packed up the dogs and headed to Red Barn Nursery to peruse the fresh spring plants.  It was quite a contrast to just moments before when we were separating out hair gel from hand lotion while unearthing under-the-sink emotional land mines.  Here, while we looked at caladiums and oxalis, my mind raced through years of memories of Maggie and me (and Niko) spending hours (and many, many dollars) at Red Barn, picking plants for our garden.  Now, I was there with Maggie’s mom and sister (and Niko and Kali) while they picked out plants for their gardens after spending a couple of hours throwing away my wonderful wife’s, their wonderful sister’s and daughter’s things.

I wish I could avoid the metaphor here.  I was certainly relieved when I finally pulled out those pesky few weeds that had been bothering me for so long.  I can’t really say I can feel relief about clearing out one more stack of stuff of Maggie’s.  Right now, when I look at the places her stuff used to be, I see great big holes, just like where the weeds used to be in my yard; there are big divots in the ground that are all dirt and no grass.  These empty holes dot the yard, just like the empty spots on Maggie’s side of the bathroom sure do stick out.

But I know grass will grow back in the yard and fill in those holes.  The grass around it may be a little shocked from the winter, but it’s good strong grass planted in good strong dirt.  It’ll take time but eventually, I won’t even be able to tell where those weeds used to be.  Heck, I might not even remember that they were there.  Ya know, before we started clearing out the cabinet, I took pictures.  Maybe I should have taken pictures of those weeds, too.

1000 words

source

They say a picture is worth 1000 words.

I've noticed lately that I always think I have more pictures of Jer than I actually do. The more time that passes without him and the older my kids get, the more I realize that all the pictures I have are not enough. No amount could have been enough. I was looking through pictures of Faith and thought surely there must have been a more current picture of her and her daddy together. But no, she was 4 when he died...she's about to be 7 in two weeks. Caleb was so tiny, and he's grown leaps and bounds and is the spitting image of his daddy...surely I have some recent evidence of that. They look so little in those pictures, and it always leaves me in shock that Jer hasn't gotten to see them grow since then.

There's no way I don't have pictures of Jeremy and Carter together, is there? I mean, Carter knows him by name and by face. He recognizes any picture of Jeremy...he's just not in any of them. How can there by a whole life breathed without one moment together? It's utterly heartbreaking.

After Jeremy died, I couldn't bring myself to take any pictures for awhile. It was too hard. But now, I understand how special and important they are. Even the most insignificant picture can tell a story that could mean the whole world to the right person. I am so thankful for all the pictures I have of Jeremy and our life together....I bet they're each worth significantly more than 1000 words.

If only 1000 words were enough.

Recipe

Seems like there is almost always some new revelation or event that sparks a Monday post idea for me. This time, Sunday night snuck up on me and I realized I didn't have anything that seemed to want to be written.

Then, I was making dinner when I realized I was out of lemons for squeezing over steamed asparagus and broccoli. Trying to improvise, I mentally scanned the contents of the kitchen for something that would work for the tangy part of the dressing. Suddenly, I remembered a dressing I'd make all the time before Dave died and happily pulled out the ingredients and began to whisk them together. As I stood there, tasting it to check for the proper ratio of flavors, I realized this was the first time I'd even thought of this stuff, much less made it since Dave died. I used to make it all the time. It wasn't a favorite of Dave's, so it's not as though I just hadn't had him here to remind me. It was one of many recipes I made for me alone because I liked it. Somehow it got stuck in that life and didn't make it over into the new life until that moment, almost 19 months later.

And it got me thinking. How many other parts of that life are just left behind that I don't even know are gone? What else is missing?

I've lost so much, and to think of what's been left behind causes panic to hover just nearby. How much has fallen through the cracks? Inside jokes, favorite meals, facial expressions that translated into complete sentences, a whole new language born of our relationship of 15 years, moments we had together? All are in danger of slipping away forever to be stuck in that old life. They might be gone forever. They might come back (like my dressing recipe). I don't know. Not knowing is scary and losing what little I have left of that old life feels like another tragedy.

So, to counteract the sucking power of grief, I did a little self coaching out loud to make it really sink in and told myself that it's okay that some things were left behind because nothing stays the same and starting over doesn't have to be all about loss. There are many good things, and not just recipes, that I've incorporated in my second life. I may have lost both the irreplaceable and the relatively unimportant in this explosion, but I've picked up what I could from the remains and added to it.

I've added even healthier eating habits. Dave was never really comfortable going as healthy as I wanted when it came to our pantry and refrigerator. I shed an emotionally stressful job for the opportunity to pursue zoology. I picked up crossfit, Bar Method and hot yoga, and ran a 5K. I started a blog or two and I've traveled. I've made new friends I can't imagine not knowing now.

As much as I want to cling to those little bits of my previous life, the more I do, the less I'm able to let the new in. I don't want to spend so much time looking back and trying to preserve the details of a  life I had to part with that I miss out on now.

So, it's being grateful for those pieces of the old life that can work their way into this new one. It's being thankful for having that old life at all. It's making room for my new life to unfold and bring with it the newness, the unknown. It's getting the chance to run everything that comes my way through a new filter: Do I alone think that will enhance my life or diminish it?

I have the bittersweet opportunity to be selfish and single-minded. When the focus is entirely on my needs and development, I get to sculpt my second chance as much as humanly possible. Of course, this is no easy task, but it's my second chance and I don't want to squander it trying to make that old life work when it's missing its center. I'm the center, now.

I Need to Make a List ......

                                              source

...... to keep track of all of the lists around here.

Not my lists.
Jim's.

The man was a notorious list-maker.
He made a list for every occasion, every trip, every goal.

I would often tease him about his lists.
He probably kept a list of every time I did that.

Yesterday I spent most of the day looking through the house for a notebook I needed (I found it today in the most obvious place I could've placed it.  What IS with that?!).
While I was searching the study, I came across a bundle of papers that I had placed/hidden in the bottom of a file drawer.
It was a bundle of lists.
Jim's lists.
His personal lists.

I hadn't read through them at the time I put them away.
I just knew that these were papers I did not want to throw away, purposefully or by mistake.
And so I kind of ...... hid them from myself.
To be found ...... and dealt with at some other time.

I guess that time was today.
(Yes, I found them yesterday, but I knew then that I couldn't deal with them at the time.  I had a meeting to attend and a notebook to find.  I knew that dealing with that bundle would not only set me off course, but it would most likely bring on a gravity-sucking wave that I wasn't prepared to deal with. So I set them on my desk, in plain sight, to be dealt with sooner, rather than later.)

When I got home this afternoon and finished doing all of the tasks that I had in my head to keep me from doing the one task I loathed/longed to do, I went into the study.  I looked at the stack of papers on my desk, sitting where I had left it.  I wanted to turn around and shut the door behind me, without touching the stack.
I wanted to pick up the stack and hungrily devour every word that Jim had written.  
I hadn't even read anything and I already had a love/hate relationship with those papers.

That seems to be par for the course, at least for me.
I have a love/hate relationship with so many things that have to do with Jim now.
Important days ...... well, important to me.  His birthday.  Our anniversary.  The kids' birthdays.
His clothes that we've kept.  Some pictures of us.
His orange extension cord.
(That was just to see if you're paying attention.  :)

His lists.

This stack was made up of his prayer list, his professional goals list, his marriage goals list, his parenting goal list, his physical goal list, and a few others.
(I wasn't kidding when I said he was notorious for these.)

I managed to get through most of the lists without having an emotional meltdown.  I surprised myself.
In fact, I was able to smile at more than one item.
But then ...... then came the item that transported me instantly back into my ocean of grief.  
This item caused me to feel like the sand under my feet was being sucked back into the ocean,  and the shallow water I was standing in was being pulled back along with it.
If you've stood in the shore of an ocean, you know that physical feeling.
You know that the sand and the water gets sucked back from the beach right before a wave comes charging in.

If you're reading this blog, you probably know that emotional feeling as well.
You know that the air and calm get sucked out of your body right before that wave of grief slams into it.

This wave came over the top of me and pulled hard at me, after I read this:

"3.  Write the kids a letter about what is really important"

That was it.
That's all it took.
And that wave has left smaller waves in its path all evening, which have had the ability to leave tears in their wake.

He didn't have that item checked off of his list.
He never wrote those letters.
And my heart broke all over again for all that my children lost that day that changed our lives forever.
And for what they continue to miss.

Children shouldn't lose their father before they're even out on their own.
Daughters shouldn't lose their father before they've started seriously dating someone.
Sons should not lose their fathers before they start/finish high school.

But they do.
And most probably do without receiving letters telling them what their father thought was really important. 

Yes, I experienced a wave today.
And while it was a large wave, it didn't knock me down.
It shook me and rattled me, but I kept my balance.
I didn't fall beneath the weight of that wave because I also know what's really important and it's this:
My children will always know what was important to their father.  Always.
Even if they didn't have their own memories, they'd have mine.  And they'd have the memories of our families and our friends.

Yes, a letter would've been something special for each of them.  But the memories that they have, that we all have, are priceless.

If they need something more tangible than that ...... they can always read the lists.
:)

It's Just a Cord ........

                                                      (not wound so perfectly after I used it)

........ or at least that's all it appears to be.  Right?
Yeah, that's what I thought, too.
A very long, very bright extension cord.

One day last week I noticed that some of our shrubs were looking like they had "just woke up hair"(yes, I do have some "shrubbery", for those of you who know what that means!  :)
Branches were sticking up at embarrassingly odd angles ...... kind of like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

So I decided to give them a trim, before I received an ugly note from our home owners' association (don't get me started).
I hauled out the hedge trimmer and the extension cord to get the job done.
But then something hit me ...... and I was stopped cold.

The extension cord was not just an extension cord.
As improbable as it seems, it was a "wave".
Not a huge wave, but enough of one to really stop me in my tracks and take a few deep breaths.

You see, Jim was the last person to use, and thus wind, this cord.
It was perfectly and tightly wrapped around the plastic frame.
Still tightly wound after he last used it ...... 5 years ago (which I realize gives you more of a mental picture of what our shrubs looked like :)

When I reached up to take the cord off of the shelf, I never suspected that it would be anything more than an extension cord.
I didn't see that wave coming, so it hit me from out of nowhere.
And as I sit here and try to tell you this story, it seems very silly and rather difficult to understand, as well as to write.
But I know that you get it.
Or at least I hope you do.
It makes more sense in my head than it does in written form.
But I'm going to forge ahead and hope that it makes sense to someone else, too.

No one had touched that cord since Jim had.
And for some odd reason ...... that realization hit me like a wave.
I was going to have to unwind that cord, thus erasing yet another sign that Jim had existed.
I was going to have to un-do something he had done.
And even though it was a silly orange extension cord, it mattered.

I stood there in my yard, letting the wave wash over me.
If a neighbor had been watching, he or she would probably have wondered why I was hesitating so long ......  just standing there staring at a cord in my hands.
And if someone had asked me what I was doing, I would've replied, "Remembering."

Because that's exactly what I was doing.
This wave that had snuck up on me wasn't the usual type that threatens to knock you to your knees ...... and seems to suck all of the air out of your lungs.

It carried several emotions with it, as they usually do.
But it also carried memories.
And they were good.
As were most of the emotions.
I think it was the first time I didn't mind getting hit by one of the waves.

I still hesitated about unwinding the cord, but not for very long.
Yes, unwinding it would be un-doing one more thing Jim had left behind.
But now I know that there are very many things he left here that cannot be undone.

Like our children (who can't be undone even though there are sometimes brief moments when I might wish otherwise!).
Thankfully, the different ways that they each look like Jim cannot be undone.
Nor can the love that he filled them with.
Or the lessons he taught them.

The impact that he made in our community and the legacy he left behind in our school district can't be undone.
They might one day be forgotten, but not for a very long time.

The time that he spent on a weekly basis with a group of middle school boys in our church can't be undone.
Nor can all of the Indian Princess/Indian Guide campout memories he gave to our children.
Or his wonderful, dry, sarcastic sense of humor.

And, no matter how much time goes by, or how many things change during that time ...... no matter who may come into my life, and into my heart ...... the love he gave me, and the woman it grew me into, will never be undone.
Ever.
I am who I am today because of him.
The unconditional love, support, acceptance, accountability, security ...... and confidence he gave to me  will be with me for the rest of my life.  And with my children.

So yes, that extension cord was more than what it seemed.
It was a wave.
But it was a wave that left me smiling, rather than crying.

And I'll take that kind of wave any day.
:)

The Ripple Effect

source

I've mention that grief has been lurking around every corner lately. Not super intense, I am just very aware of it and it has made my heart heavy. I think the realization that I am coming up on two years in November is suddenly hitting me.

Just like any other day on this widowed journey, it feels like yesterday and forever ago all at once. I start to hurt when it feels like Jeremy slips through my fingertips each passing day, further away from me. Then I look around at my life and realize how vastly different it looks now than when he died, and how different it would look now if he were still here. That makes him feel far away too.

Just when it feels like forever, or when Jeremy feels far away, I remember all the day-to-day proof that he was just here:

Jeremy's password I still have to put into my phone to update all my apps

The fact that I still have and use his iPhone.

The black shirt in Faith's drawer that she loves to wear cause Daddy picked it out for her. It still fits.

The death certificate I just got back in the mail from the alarm system I cancelled.

A worship set he scribbled down on a piece of paper.

The smell of him that overwhelmed me when I went through his stuff in the basement this week.

The Lady Antebellum CD that he picked out days before he died that was sitting on my desk.

The video game of his that our nephew asked to play when he came to visit.

The pamphlet for the 2nd annual Jeremy King Memorial Pheasant Hunt that will happen at the end of the month.

The gestures, expressions, and smiles of our children.

These are all marks of a great man. Not just a great man, my great man. And not just a distant man who lived long ago, but a guy who was JUST HERE. The marks he left in this world are still visible, still rippling through my life and through the lives of those he touched. The big things are there, no doubt, but what amazes me is all those little things. The details of simple day-to-day life don't just go away when you do, they carry on. They continue through those you care about, through stories, habits, rituals, memories, and love.

Especially love.

Even though it can be painful, I'm in awe watching the ripple effect that Jeremy's life still makes. Not the deep defined ripples anymore, but they're visible; subtle, smooth, and steady. And I've realized that I myself have become a ripple in Jeremy's life and I carry the effect of it everywhere I go, forever.

Death Week

I am in the midst of one of the toughest grieving weeks of the year for me. Last week it began with my wedding anniversary with Jeremy. Then, Friday I received the news that my Grandma Wanda passed away due to some complications after a surgery. Devastating. Today (Wednesday) is her birthday, and also the death anniversary of my brother, Brian. This week my mom will have her birthday as well. Needless to say, it's been a rough week.

One of my favorite memories of my Grandma Wanda took place while preparing for my brother's graduation party. Jeremy and I were down in the basement with Brian, putting together a decorated box to collect all the cards for the day. Upstairs, my other very rude Grandmother started bickering about how I wasn't helping and how ungrateful I must be while my parents would be paying for our wedding (Jeremy and I were engaged). These accusations were of course ungrounded and false, but she just likes to have something to complain about. My 4-foot-something spitfire Grandma Wanda starts yelling from the basement sticking up for me and telling her to shut her mouth. And then began to tell Jeremy how much she liked him and not to worry about haters.

I share this story because it hit me suddenly yesterday while I was sharing it with Steve that 3 out of 4 people involved in that memory are dead.

Not here anymore.

How is that possible?!

It was too much for me to understand. It's just not right. And to top it all off, it's all flooding me in the same week, at the same time. Three precious lives that have meant so much to me in different ways no longer exist. Yesterday, I'm pretty sure I cried at the drop of a hat - all of it was weighing on me.

Today I had made plans to stay distracted. But what was really pulling on my heart was to face grief. I needed to spend the day with my parents and grieve this horrible day last year when I felt my brother die in my hands. I wanted them to know how much Brian was and is loved. I want them to know I'm still here, still hurting with them, still healing. So we cancelled our plans and headed to my hometown to my brother's grave. What a sight it was to see today:

So many people had already been there today. Notes, pictures, flowers, plants, keepsakes - everyone leaving pieces behind. We added to the bunch with letters from the kids, flowers and balloons.

It felt right to be there.

Inevitably, when I face grief, it all gets mixed together - I grieved for Brian, Jeremy, and Grandma Wanda today.

It was heavy, but necessary.

You'd think the more people you lose close to you, the better you'd get at figuring this stuff out. Turns out it doesn't work that way. It just sucks every time.

I'll be glad when the week is over.