The First Mother's Day

Two days ago, I experienced my first Mother's Day without Megan.  Had you asked me back in January how I would have handled it, I would have expressed sheer terror at the prospect.  At that time, just two months since losing her, all I could imagine was that I would be an emotional train wreck, and would probably have just called my mother and mother-in-law to wish them a happy day, and stayed holed up in my house.

That isn't what occurred, however.  Yesterday was "OK", for lack of a better term.

Our tradition for the past few years had been for Shelby and I to wake up early, go downstairs, make a mess of the kitchen preparing bacon, eggs, pancakes, and coffee, and bring it to Megan in bed, along with a card and a small gift.  Shelby would turn some cartoons on and we'd sit and talk, all three of us, until Megan was ready to get out of bed.  It was a simple acknowledgment of how special she was, and that we would do anything for her.  We would clean up the kitchen and get our day started, where we would be visiting our parents and probably going out to dinner in the evening.

I woke up Sunday at that same early time that I always do, fully aware that it was Mother's Day, and painfully acknowledging the fact that for the first time in eight years, Megan wasn't there to cook breakfast for.  The dogs, having woke me up, were fed and let outside, and I went back to bed.  The bacon stayed in the freezer, and the coffee pot sat there cold.

Sunday was, well, just Sunday.

After a few hours, I roused and went downstairs to find Shelby watching some cartoons, and the dogs, as per usual, passed out on the couch beside her.  I asked if she was hungry, she responded with a yes, and asked if we could cook.  This suggestion seemed completely foreign to me for some reason.  I think that I may have forgotten in that moment that cooking breakfast wasn't just for special occasions, and I casually suggested we just go to McDonald's.  Even Shelby was somewhat miffed at this, as it is very rare that we eat McDonald's period, let alone on a Sunday morning.

We returned home, greasy, bagged food in hand, and sat out on the deck to have breakfast.  I began to think about what Mother's Day would or should be in the future.  I don't want random Egg McMuffins at 10:00 AM to be our new tradition.  This was one of those times where it would just be nice to shoot a text to Megan and say "What do you think we should do?"

I felt incredibly "single" at that moment.  This started as neither a depressing nor contented feeling.  It was just present, acting as a catalyst to my thoughts.  I'm a single parent.  Within the four walls of our home, Mother's day has lost it's happy connotations.  Now, it only sharpens the focus on Megan's death.  It serves as a reminder that Shelby will never make breakfast in bed for her own mother, ever again.  At just 8 years old, Shelby is celebrating Mother's Day by sitting on a deck and eating fast food with her dad.  This is not what I had in mind.

This brought me to thinking about the woman I am now dating.  Shelby adores her.  She has no children of her own, but I know she is an incredible mother nonetheless, and she understands (and sympathizes with) how confusing this journey is for not only me, but also for Shelby.  I am indescribably lucky to have someone that I can at least bounce things off of, and not have it seen as "baggage".  Undeniably, the thought crossed my mind that she may be celebrating Mother's day with us in the future.

As I sat and let all of these thoughts manifest, Shelby began playing with the dogs and laughing.  It was one of her deep belly laughs, the one you hear when you know she doesn't have a care in the world.  It was then that I knew that it will be Shelby that dictates how we celebrate her mother.  If it means cooking breakfast, and eating it ourselves, then so be it.  If it means eating fast food, then we'll do that.  She is old enough now that she can make her own judgments, and I will support her in whatever she wants to do, just as I did Megan.  Mother's day will now be Shelby's day.

I may make suggestions to her, but ultimately, I still have my mother to celebrate.  Only Shelby truly understands what it's like to have lost hers.  Perhaps in this case, she should be my guide.

My Two Mother's Days

I have struggled with Mother's Day all my life. I lost my own mother when I was nine, many of you know. I don't really remember my father knowing what to do with that day anymore afterwards. We had no other family around to celebrate, and so it just kind of became a non-holiday in our house. I sometimes wish we had continued to make it about her - but maybe he had the right way of doing things. Maybe it was too hard for him, and so he changed it. And perhaps, that was just the better way for us, who knows.

Through my twenties a few times, I tried to celebrate this day again in her memory... it went disastrously. The first time I went to a little french bistro and tried to order a lovely single dessert to just take home with me. The ten minutes I was there turned out to be a festival of triggers I was not prepared for. Mothers and daughters and daughters and mothers... I was surrounded on all sides. I held it together just long enough to get my dessert and anxiously bolt out the door... upon which the tears began to flow instantly. I don't even recall what I did the second time I tried, likely I decided to block the traumatic event from my memory entirely though. Needless to say, after two attempts, I decided Mother's Day was no longer a day I was going to associate with my mother. It didn't work anymore.

In my late twenties, I met Drew. Having no parents myself, I quickly became part of his family and began instead celebrating his mother on this day. It was always fun but bittersweet for me. I usually could not get through the day of watching him and his siblings with their mom without breaking down. It was still wonderful to celebrate his mother, but also compounded my awareness of mine not being here.

In a very odd way... Drew's death changed this for the better. Now, I have a new job on this day... to honor his mother FOR him. It has brought new purpose and meaning to this day and allows me to not only honor his mother but also him. I hate to even admit his death has brought good things... but this one I cannot deny. His mother and I have a bond now that we would have never had if he hadn't died. We both wish he were here and that we didn't needed to have such a close bond, we are both eternally grateful.

Now, almost three years after his death, that is still how I am doing things. His mother, and his grandmother, are the center of this day for me. And my mom? She still has a Mother's Day... I just decided to move it to her Birthday instead. I figured out that this works better because it is not a holiday EVERYONE is celebrating... instead it is just OUR day. It makes it far easier and eliminates all the triggers so that I can just focus on my mom. I buy her a card and write something to her, buy myself some flowers, and a small piece of cake or dessert and some wine that I enjoy for her. I honor both her and myself on this day, as I think honoring me would bring her such joy. It's also a great excuse to eat some seriously bad-for-you cake.

I think when anyone we love dies, we are forced to make a decision - either adapt ourselves to the traditions or to adapt the traditions to ourselves. It sucks. But there it is. Sometimes, we might decide we don't even want to celebrate certain events or days anymore. And that's okay. We might decide to change it or even walk away from a holiday entirely for a few years and revisit it later when we are more healed and ready. Maybe not every holiday is like this, but there will be some.

The point is... We always have the permission to change things. To do it our way. To find a new way that works for us and our immediate family. Even if that means moving Mother's Day to February 26th like I did... or choosing not to celebrate Christmas at all until you are ready, like a good friend of mine did for several years after her husband died. Or assigning the job of hosting Thanksgiving to another member of the family, like my mother-in-law did after Drew died. We always have a choice to change it if it isn't working or if it feels like too much. No one will hate you. And if they do, that's their problem.

Now I celebrate my mother--in-law and all of the other mothers in my life on this day. It has taken many years and a very long and winding road through grief, but now I am able to see all mothers as an extension of my own mother's love... and so honoring them in fact is always honoring her, too.

The Accidental Mother

"Happy Mother's Day!" the waiter says to me, followed by saying that he isn't sure who is or isn't a mom so he just says it to all the women coming in to eat lunch at the restaurant today. I laugh at his over-kindness, and say thank you. But then, as he walks away… the feeling sinks in.

Now, normally I'm very good at keeping the whole children thing at bay. My fiancé and I were not planning to have children anytime soon, so although we often talked about our someday children and how we would raise them, it was still something that was at least 4 or 5 years out. I also never really cared about having kids until I met the man I wanted to raise them with, so normally other parts of my pain seem to take precedence over this part and I don't spend much time grieving it.

But not when someone wishes me a Happy Mother's Day.

The longer I sat with that waiter's well-intentioned wishes, the deeper it sank into me… the knowing that I am not a mom. And that I am not even close to becoming a mom. And worst of all, that I will never get to share parenthood with the man I wanted to most.

But today in particular, the thoughts that pained me most were not about him not being here…  and not because I'm going to run out of time to have kids (we are planning to adopt anyway). Not for any of those reasons. The pain came from the realization that since he died, I have become the kind of woman that I want to be as a mom. Before his death, I honestly still had a lot of growing up to do myself. I had a lot of pain still from losing both of my own parents, and a lot of fears around parenting because of that. I really wasn't even close to being on board with the reality of having kids. I mean hell, I was just barely overcoming my fears about getting married when he died.

So today, for whatever reason, that's what is really hurting. Not running out of time. Not even the fact that he's not here to share it with me (although that is a whole other side of the pain I DO still feel). The one thing that really kills me is knowing what an incredible mom I would be now. Knowing that I would pass to my daughter strength, self respect, independence and - as my fiancé once wrote of me, "a creative streak a mile wide"... but also compassion, and kindness, and an open heart to lean on others and let them lean on you.

She would know that it is okay to be vulnerable, that she is most beautiful when she is doing so, and that needn't put up with anyone who cannot value her at her most vulnerable. She would know she can never be too emotional, too bold, too afraid, or too sensitive. I would let her know I believe she can do anything she sets herself to in this life, and that her most important job is always to be authentic to herself. To walk away from anyone or anything that does not honor her, but to also always strive to see things from all sides. And of course, that no matter what happens, I will always have her back and always love her. (I'm not even sure why, but I've just always had a feeling he and I would have daughters, hence this default).

Yup, I'm really truly feeling the weight of missing out on motherhood right now. It hurts. It hurts. It HURTS. I have managed to find one positive in it though. It's a reminder that I am growing. And healing. A reminder that I used to see myself as a girl - no where near capable of adult things like marriages and children. These 2 years I've trudged through the agony of grief daily. And  simultaneously I uprooted my entire career to go for this crazy idea of making it as an independent artist and writer - which brought its own intense freak-outs and fears. I've gone through hell and back in more than one area of my life. And even though its all still pretty up in the air, I've come to a new place where I see myself - not as a girl - but as a woman. And even cooler - she's kind of the woman I always wanted to be. How did that happen?

It's a cool realization for sure. It doesn't take away the pain. Nothing does. It still really freaking sucks to have become this woman now - after he is gone and our chance of a family went with him. And yes, everyone likes to say… I am still young. Only 31. I might still have a family one day. In fact, I DO believe I will have a family one day. I very much still intend on adopting as we planned. And when I love on those little girls, I will think of him as being the man who made me the woman that I needed to become in order to be their mother. It will still be sad at times, and it will still hurt, but there will also be good. Even though I'm in tears right now, I'm trying to hold on to that and know - he will be a part of their lives no matter where he is. Through me.

Child of a Widow

My dad, my cousin and me about 2 years after my mom died

When I was five, my mom lost her fight with cancer and my dad was widowed at almost exactly the age I was when  I was widowed. The Universe has a really strange sense of humor, by the way.

The two of us had to navigate this new life we didn't plan for. He never got us any professional help and he didn't have much of a support system that I know of.

At school I was the only kid who'd lost a parent. I felt utterly alone and Mother's Day was torture for me as I tried to pretend I had someone living to make a card for.

At Camp Widow West this weekend, I was a part of a panel of amazing widowed people who came to a session to hear from adult children of widowed people. The facilitator and I were the two of us who were both widowed AND children of widows. As each parent took their turn to share their story, a common theme revealed itself. They just wanted to do their best to make sure their kids were okay.

Then I was asked to talk about what helped me when I was a kid and I realized that what would have helped me tremendously is if my father had reached out for help more often like these parents were doing.

Regardless of how he handled his grief or my grief, I turned out okay, though. I'll grieve the loss of my mom my whole life, but I'm okay.

I wanted so badly to reassure these parents that their children would be okay, too. Showing up at Camp and reaching out for help on the journey was a step my father didn't and couldn't really take advantage of. I can only imagine what it might have been like if my father and I had had the resources that SSLF and other grief groups offer.

He needed support for the Herculean task before him and he didn't have it. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, but I do know what it was like for me. I needed to talk about my pain and my loss. I needed to be with other kids who'd lost their parents. I needed female figures in my life who would take me under their wing and provide some mothering. I needed my teachers to know ahead of time that I didn't have a mommy so they could help soften the blow of Mother's Day. I needed to see a counselor. I needed to keep some things of my mom's. I needed to keep her memory alive as much as possible. I needed to feel loved and wanted by my remaining parent.

Most of this I've managed to either find or create for myself as an adult, but ideally I would have had them as a kid, too.

If you're raising kids as a widowed person, I want you to know (from the other side) that it will be okay. Reach out for help as much as you can. You can't do this alone. Please don't hesitate to have you and your children seen by professionals. If you can, find a camp or a support group for your kids so they have a community of children like them to be a part of. Reach out for help whenever and wherever you can.

And come to Camp! There will be so much support for you there. So many people are out there, doing their best to raise kids after widowhood.

I won't tell you that my childhood wasn't difficult, but most of what made it so was my father's inability to reach out for help, not my mother's death. You are not alone. Please remember that. Reach out for others who are traveling this road, too. We need each other.

The small things

When Michele asked me to write here, there is only one thing I clearly remember her saying in the brief - write as honestly as I can from where I am NOW.

So that's what I try to do each week.... write my now.
my truth.
As honestly as I can.
My soul stripped bare.

Some weeks, I am OK.  Good even.  But other weeks, I am not so good.
This is one of those weeks.

I am sick.  My chest rattles as I suck air in and out. My head pounds.  My eyes leak. My energy has evaporated and I am light headed whenever I try to do anything.
I am tired.
I am sick of the petty squabbles over who farted on who's pillow.
I am tired of cooking and cleaning when I am not working or preparing for work.
I am sick of being in charge of everything.  All the big things and all the small things.
I feel like I'm sinking under the weight of a life that was meant to have two parents involved in bringing up the children.
I am angry at a God I no longer believe in (I said I was being honest - I didn't say my thoughts had to make sense to you).
If anyone had told me I'd still be feeling this aching pain 26 months later, I think I would have given up right then and there when I first heard the news that he was dead.

I feel like I am going backwards into my grief when I have been trying so long to move forwards through it.
This is not like me at all.
I am a do-er.
A pick-yourself-up-er.
A set-your-goal-and-go-for-it-er.
A great believer in the almighty I CAN do it.
And I always achieve what I set my mind to.
Except when I don't.

Early this morning, I sat on our my bed and the tears just ran in rivers down my face. I wanted to be held by his arms.  I wanted someone to look at me like I was the most beautiful and precious jewel they'd ever seen.  I wanted someone to tell me they loved me above all else.

....and then my kids came in with their hilarious home-made Mother's Day gifts.
The small things they had painstakingly made out of bits and bobs they had collected.
....and they hugged me, and told me I was the best mother in the world (they are easily pleased).
...and I realised....
I am loved.

Life still sucks beyond the telling of it, but I am loved.
These two little souls are here, in front of me, looking at me like I am the most precious jewel they have ever seen.
Holding me in their arms.
Telling me that they love me so much.


....and I say a silent prayer of thanks to the God I no longer believe in.
The God of small things....

Handmade jewels

Balloons, Python, Mothers

            One of the ways I like to torture myself is to do useless comparisons about the different aspects of being a widower.  One of my favorites, and I’ve even brought it up while hanging out with my widow friends, is which is worse: sudden death or a long drawn out passing?

There never seems to be a definitive answer, nor do I think one exists.  For some reason it’s just a topic I like to delve into to when I want to go to that dark place.  Not sure why I like these topics, I’ve never been much of a masochist.  The closest I come to abusing myself is to eat a half box of Cap'n Crunch until the roof of my mouth is bleeding – I’ve never done a full box yet, but I’m only in my early 40s.

            Another topic I like to go over and over and over in my mind as I lie awake at night,  thinking of ways to make myself feel like crap, is which is worse for the girls growing up, no mother, or no father.

            Of course I’ll always convince myself it’s no mother.  The bond of a mother and her children are priceless, growing up without the loving touch, the nurturing hand, the sympathetic voice of reason, are tangibles no child can live without.  I lie there looking at a dark ceiling I can’t see and convince myself that no matter what I do or no matter how hard I try, my kids are screwed.

            I’ve tried to make up for no Lisa around the house.  I thought if I could make mom still very much part of us, the kids won’t really notice she died.  Last Mother’s Day, we all made cards and I bought helium filled balloons to tie the cards to and release them to the sky.  I made a big production about it and oversold the benefits of this to my girls, “See, by making cards and tying them to balloons, we still do have a mom to do things for, she’s not totally gone,” the thoughts race in my mind. 

We get outside and the wind is blowing so we move to the front of the house to avoid power lines.  I make a much longer than needed speech and we release the balloons and watch them, as the top of the tree acts like a magnet and all three balloons fly right into the branches.  Kelly breaks the silence by stating the obvious, “I don’t think Mom is going to get those.”  I say something overly nice about how mom can still see what are in the trees – or something stupid along those lines.  The kids walk back in the house pleased of the launch while I’m obsessing about how better their life would be if Lisa were here.

            Although embarrassing on how I sometimes arrive at validations of my parenting, I will still share with you my latest train of thought on the topic.  I was watching TV, flipping through channels, when I came across Monty Python’s The Holy Grail - one of my all time favorite movies, and yet a movie I haven’t sat through in almost 20 years.  As I sat and watched, I was amazed at one aspect of this film; it's a slow movie with no ending – they totally punted on the ending.  But it doesn’t matter because there are so many great bits and catch phrases that it more than makes up for any of its poor scene transitions or lazy ending. 

            My kids won’t remember every moment of every day we live.  Heck, I clearly didn’t remember how slow the entire move of The Holy Grail is and I’ve seen it like 100 times when I was younger.  We remember highlights and good moments, and I do give my kids those.  I can honestly say that I don’t need to revisit the topic of which is worse, not having a mother or not having a father, because the answer is, not having someone at all who can give you those good moments to help you forgot the slow and difficult parts of life. 

            We’re going to do the balloons again today, but I will skip the speeches and overselling of the meaning of the day. The fun part is watching balloons go up towards the sky.  I don’t need to fill an entire day of importance; I just need one good moment.  I’m going to make Mother’s Day just like Monty Python’s The Holy Grail, except I will leave out the fluff and get right to the good stuff;   after all, it’s all they’ll remember anyway.

                                    __________________________________

King Arthur: I am your king.
Woman: Well I didn't vote for you.
King Arthur: You don't vote for kings.
Woman: Well how'd you become king then?
King Arthur: The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am your king.
Dennis: [interrupting] Listen, strange women lyin' in ponds distributin' swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.

Happy Mother's Day?

Kids and I on a hike. 2007

Since Day 365 I have been haunted by Art. It’s like making it to that day I somehow expected that he’d show up at the door and yell “Just Kidding!” …at which point I would beat him to a pulp and then cover every bloody inch of him with kisses. After Day 367 that fact that he's not coming back is more real, almost tangible. And it makes me so very, very sad. It’s like this low level hum, not quiet irritating, not quite clear, but there, vibrating fast of enough for me to know it’s present, not loud enough to make me crumble. It seems to make my movements, my speech and my joy, not less bright but well, less something more empty perhaps. Like they are in a shadow.

Happy Mother’s Day!

(But where is the guy who helped me become a mother?)

This is a day we honor all mothers

(He’s not coming back, is he.)

You are special.

(Not special enough to bring him back.)

Today is the day we honor what you have given to the world.

(His mother would dispute that I’m sure. That world took her son.)

You are the unheralded heroes who raise our future citizens.

(This hero found nothing to say when her youngest was crying about his missing father today.)

You are amazing, full of courage and fortitude.

(OK I’ll take credit there.)

The world is better because of your guts to grow and change and adapt and then change some more.

(True again. I did make to Day 365 which means I will make it to Day 730 and beyond.)

Your love for not only your children but for others determines how we love ourselves.

(Huh. Ya know… getting through this I have learned a lot about self love, about my own

strengths, about how to shine.)

How much we do owe you for your kisses that heal wounds both physical and emotional.

(Not all wounds can be kissed away. I am a mother, not God. But thanks anyway for the kind words.)

So make sure that you honor yourself on this Mother’s Day.

(Two years ago, wow now I say two years ago, he was gonna arrange for me to take the car (minivan back then), fill it with mother friends and head to the mountains for a long hike that would ended with us, the mothers, toasting to ourselves with mimosa and cheese and crackers. He was good, no?!)

So this Mother’s Day honor…

(I will honor. I will honor him for helping me to become a mother. This Mother’s Day I will say thank you to him for making me, the mother of his children, happy, angry, disgruntled, joyful, daring, faithful, tough, humble, fierce and too many other things to be named.

This Mother’s Day I will honor the way good, the bad and the way ugly of our 14 year marriage.

And next Mother’s Day

When I will say "three years ago,"

I will go to the mountains with mimosa’s and cheese and crackers packed by me but enveloped in his love.)

Happy Mother’s Day to me.

Happy Mother’s Day to you.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us.

We matter more than we will ever know.

Mother's Day Memories

Our guest blogger today is Jo Rozier who lost his wife Deltha to a brain aneurysm on 3/16/2006. Jo is the single father of two teens, a founding member of our Widower Match program, and as he says, "a fellow traveler" on this road called widowhood. Thanks for sharing Jo.


Dear Kids,

Mother’s Day, our fourth since Mommy died.

So often you share your memories of Mommy with me by saying, “remember when Mommy….”

Well, so much has happened over the past three years and it seems like so much is happening right now that this Mother’s Day I wanted to share with you the things that I remember….

I’ll never forget our first Mother’s Day without Mommy? No way we were going to church or anywhere near a restaurant but we didn’t want to stay home either. That hurt too much. We agreed on going to the beach, Mommy’s favorite place. I remember walking slowing, silently near the surf and when I suddenly bend down and wrote in the sand “Happy Mother’s Day Deltha” you both came up and signed your names in the sand beneath my words. It became our “card” to Mommy.

I remember the second Mother’s Day. You awoke early, came into my room and showed me a card you’d gotten for mommy. It was one of those pop-up birthday cards. The front asked the question, “Mom, can you guess how much I love you?" Once opened, two paper arms reach way out on both sides and the card reads, “…this much!” Later we went to the cemetery and cried together at Mommy’s grave and it rained on us? It was as if the sky itself was crying with us.

I remember last year when went to church on Mother’s Day for the first time in three years and we celebrated the fact that God gave you the best Mommy ever and later gorged on our favorite takeout foods.

But you know what else I remember? I remember Mommy’s happiness when she learned that she was going to be a mommy. I remember how determined she was to be the best mommy possible. I remember the joy she experienced over every single thing you guys accomplished… walking, talking, pooping, sports, music…no matter what it was, little or big she was your biggest fan and loudest cheerleader. I remember her excitement over you growing up. I remember the prayers she said over you. I remember how much she loved you.

No matter how busy I get or how crazy things seem at times, know that not a day goes by that I don’t remember Mommy. I still love and miss her too.

Know what my favorite memory is this Mother’s Day? I remember that because God blessed you with Mommy, I now have you two. That is a memory and fact I would never change.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Love, Papa