My Parallel Universe

Some of my incredible widow friends, who help keep me sane

I've had a really tough few weeks.  In some ways, it has almost felt like I'm right back at the start - crying from the moment I wake up without him in my bed until I pass out each night from exhaustion.

Thankfully, it has lifted again in recent days but in the depth of this latest low I realised I was withdrawing from the people in my life in a way I hadn't done before. I just felt so disconnected, like no one could relate.

When Dan died last July, the shock and pain resonated out from me in waves through our family, friends, neighbours, work colleagues and acquaintances.  People openly grieved, their lives halted while they came to terms with this unimaginable loss - this wonderful man taken from our world in such a tragic way.  In the weeks and months that followed, there was unquestionable support and understanding, people were so gentle with me, everyone 'got it'.

But it's different now.  As the seven month, eight month, nine month milestones were passed, the support grew quieter.  The phone calls and messages from most of those closest to us slowed down and then stopped.

Eventually I started feeling like people had forgotten.  They had gone back to their routines and life went on, in some cases, largely unchanged.  Dan's death was something they faced sporadically, whereas I am still sitting here, struggling to breath from the pain of missing him.

I understand why... my husband played the leading role in my life but a supporting role in others’.  For me, his presence was constant and intricate.  His absence has left a gaping black hole that I navigate around every waking moment. 

Coming up to the first anniversary, I am still in my 'early days' of grieving.  I accept it's going to be a long road.  But when I'm laying in our bed, in our empty house, crying for him, aching to hold him again... I can't help feeling like the world has left me behind.

I will never 'get over' losing my husband but my friends are celebrating pregnancies, enjoying romantic weekends away, cuddling up with their partners on the couch to watch the Game of Thrones finale... living a normality that I can only envy from afar.

I felt so detached from them.  It wasn't exactly that I was resentful, or jealous even - I just felt like I was existing in a parallel universe.  I couldn't call for help even if I had the energy, because no one could reach me.  I was in a very lonely place.  A place they couldn't understand. To be honest, a place they wouldn't WANT to understand.  

Then I realized, there were some people who could understand - my widow friends.  They got it.  They hadn't moved on.  They may not have known my husband (because I met them after his death had connected us), but they knew my pain. My widow friends were a shining ray of light, breaking through the despair during these dark days.  I think this realisation is what pulled me out of that deep sadness. 

Then, as the grief started to shift again, I began to feel really, really excited.  It hit me - in two days time I will be getting on a plane and flying from Brisbane to Los Angeles, before travelling down to San Diego for Camp Widow West.  Where I will be surrounded by the kind of understanding and support that only a widow can give.

When I think about attending Camp Widow I feel a mixed up version of excitement, nervous, relieved, hopeful, scared and anxious.  I can't wait to meet Michele, the founder of Soaring Spirit, who has been an incredible inspirational to me since I met her via email six months ago.  I can’t wait to talk to her about the possibility of bringing this event to Australia, for all my friends here and the countless women and men joining our ranks every week. 

Despite being quite shy, I am also surprisingly excited to meet new friends. As a very introverted person, I only really become confident and outgoing when I've had the chance to grow comfortable with someone.  So travelling to a new country, on my own, to explore new cities and attend a three-day event with people I don't know is waaaay out of my comfort zone.  Yet, I am doing it because my urge to connect is stronger than my urge to hide.  I know my husband will be by my side and will be proud of me and excited for this new path I'm exploring. 

So for those of you travelling to Camp Widow next week, keep an eye out for the quiet, slightly awkward Aussie and please feel free to say hello and give me a hug.  I really miss hugs.  See you soon USA!!

The Past vs. Support

A friend posted this on facebook. The sad part is, I see it to be true.

I often forget that a lot of people in my life now, have never met my husband.

I will randomly bring up a memory, to someone that has never met Seth, and will get the look along with “Aw, I never met him, remember?” Which gives me a major case of whiplash.

Trying to blend the before life and after life, is a hellish experience and major chore.

I wish everyone could have met Seth. So they could have seen how funny, compassionate and dorky he was. I wish everyone could have met this amazing man, that I grieve over daily.

I wish I could bring him back, just long enough to have a “come meet my dead husband party” so everyone could meet him.

There has been so many times, even on a date with a guy, that I have said “I wish you could have met my husband”. Sure, if he wouldn't have died, I wouldn't be on a date, but I still wish everyone could have met him.

It pains me that my nephew has no memory of Uncle Seth. It pains me that my husband will not make memories with my nephew, and hell, he will never learn about the new me.

Because of his death, I am the new me, but I wish he was here to see it.

Through his death, I have met amazing people. Some of my best friends are widows. If Seth wouldn't have died, they would not be in my life… as we started out as widow support for each other, and became best friends. Without his death, I wouldn't have those friends.

Through my journey, there are things that I am glad he hasn't been here to witness though.

Things like his family blaming me for his death, accusing me of homicide in court, and trying to take his estate from me. As horrible as that was, I’m glad he did not have to witness his family treating me that way. I can only imagine what his reaction would have been.

I am also glad he doesn't have to witness people telling me I’m grieving wrong, that I should be over this by now, it’s time to move on, and yada yada.

I admit, I have grieved wrong. For the first year after his death, I was drowning myself in alcohol. That for me, was grieving wrong. But that doesn't mean it’s wrong for everyone. It just wasn't working for me.

I’m glad he doesn't see the pain that people cause me by telling me I should be over that by now. I’m glad he doesn't witness me fighting the internal battle over my grief.

You see, when someone tells me I should be at x, y and z in my grief, it leaves me second guessing myself. It leaves me hurt, feeling unsupported and that I’m not trying hard enough (Yes, someone told me I wasn't trying hard enough, ironically on the one year anniversary).

When someone criticizes my grief, I feel like they put unfair expectations on me. Expectations that I most likely can’t live up to. When I know I can’t live up to someone else expectations it makes me angry and makes me second guess why they are even in my life to begin with.

What bothers me the most, is that people think I can get over this. That I can forget my husband.

While some days it would be easier if I did forget my husband, it’s something that will never happen. I will never forget my husband, and I will never get over this.

Grief is my lifelong disease. I will always have to take care of it, just like a diabetic has to take insulin. But instead of checking my blood sugar levels, I have to check my grief levels. With high grief levels, I have to admit myself back to my personal intensive care unit.

This will be a lifelong process that I will always have to check on and take care of.

If you are reading this, and are not widowed, please be supportive of those that are. There are not many ways to grieve wrong, and by telling someone they are grieving wrong, you are damaging the person emotionally and damaging the relationship you have with this person.

If you don’t know how to support a widowed friend, then don’t say anything. Just listen.

All we really want is someone to listen. Doesn't matter if you can relate or think grieving should go in a certain order, we just want you to listen and care.

I always remember what my mom taught me growing up. “If you have nothing nice to say, then say nothing at all.” 

Earthquakes and Aftershocks

           

           I stand helpless as the first thing I see fall is the painting that hung over the mantel.  The sound of the windows rattling grows and the ground beneath my feet tries harder and harder to make me fall down.  One by one, knick knacks start to tip over and roll off shelves, falling to the ground and smashing into pieces – too much damage for even Humpty Dumpty’s men to put back together again.  I resist my gut instinct to try and catch the falling pieces, I don’t know which part of this room will start falling apart next, and I could get hurt if I don’t keep my eyes open.  Better wait until the shaking stops.

            The small table with a lamp on it is shaking, and it’s even money whether the table tips, taking the lamp (a lamp I’ve carried around with me since I was a kid and all of the good memories I associate with it), to the ground, joining the other broken knick knacks.  As I watch the bottom of the lamp start to weave back and forth like a top, the shaking stops.  However, some objects still love finishing the course of momentum, and then they too become still. “It’s over.”  I say to myself and look around the room.  There will be plenty of clean up.  This will be longer than a weekend project, and it is abundantly clear that even after the cleaning is over, this room will never look the same.

            I’ve worked on rebuilding the room for quite some time now, and although not thrilled at the parts of my room that I’ve lost, I am starting to accept my new normal of this layout.  I even moved the lamp to a bigger table that sits right below a shelf of my favorite books.  It’s different, but I’m dealing with different.  I sit in my chair and try to acclimate myself to all of the changes.  That’s when an aftershock comes and shakes the room.  It’s a small aftershock, lasts for only a few seconds, and not strong enough to rattle the windows or shake my lamp - which my eyes go to immediately. But what I didn’t realize is; during the first earthquake, the shaking of the room loosened my book shelf so much, almost all the brackets came out of the wall.  It was only being held by one small screw.  The aftershock loosened that screw, and the shelf, with all of the books on it, comes crashing down on my lamp, destroying it into pieces.

            Last week my wife’s step-father passed away.  He fought a really good fight.  Back in 1992, he was involved in a bad car accident.  Doctors thought he wouldn’t make it. He recovered, moved out to Arizona, and even though he had an array of health issues, lead an active life and lived for what ended up being another 30 years.

            If he had died before Lisa, I probably would have been less sympathetic. “Well, he should have never survived anyway, so good for him.”  But I’ve already had an earthquake, and he was an aftershock.

            When I heard the news of his passing, the first thing I did was equate him to Lisa’s death.  Experiencing an aftershock always brings me back to thoughts of the earthquake.  So after beating myself up that Lisa is gone and reliving all the “ should’ve, would’ve, could’ves”, I  put into perspective what his death means to others.  I think of his new wife, who has been care giving for many years.  How will she deal with her new life’s routine?  I think about his 102 year-old mother who is still alive – yes, still alive -and living in his house.  She will not handle it well, but her lack of memory will cure some of that pain.  Then of course, I think of Lisa’s sister, Andrea.

            She had quite a year in 2008.  She lost her mother in April and then lost her sister in July.  I’m sure there are people who heard the news of the death of Andrea’s father  and thought, “Sad, but at least he was older and lived longer than he should have.”  I myself would have probably been one of those people, if I hadn’t lost my Lisa.  But now I know that even though this is an aftershock for her, she is sitting in her room looking at more pieces that have fallen and is faced, once again, with looking to redesign another new normal.