A terrible day

Thursday marked the one-year anniversary of my husband’s suicide, and the day my world fell apart.  I can’t believe I’ve survived twelve months, it feels like such an unreasonably long time.  I hate even saying it out loud.  One year.  I don’t feel ready to be in my second year of grieving, it’s still too soon, too raw, too unbelievable. 

I can no longer think ‘this time last year we were…’ I can no longer tell people he died ‘recently’ or ‘a few months ago’. 

I know that in widow-terms I’m still in my early days of grieving, but to the rest of the world, it’s been a long time now.  I know people will start or have started forming certain expectations on where I should be, how I should be behaving.  I also know I need to ignore these people and listen to my heart, but I can’t help wanting the world to slow down – stop even.  To just wait until I can catch a breath and pull myself together again.

I don’t think I was fully prepared for how much the anniversary would hurt.  Obviously being on holidays overseas was a big distraction but in hindsight, timing it so that I got back to Australia the day before probably wasn’t the best decision (although, because my trip revolved around the dates of Camp Widow West, I was working within certain limits). 

Everyone says the lead up is the worst, and with our wedding anniversary and his birthday, it certainly felt that way. But with his death anniversary, it was very different.  The day kind of snuck up on me, I wasn’t prepared.  Not that I know what ‘prepared’ even looks like. 

With his birthday in March and our wedding anniversary in June I was somehow able to find positive things to focus on that day, to carry me through the pain.  On his birthday I was grateful for the amazing life he’d lived.  I spent the day with his friends and family, remembering good times, crying together, and trying to celebrate this wonderful man who was loved by so many.  On our wedding anniversary I was able to be thankful for the love we shared and cloaked myself with that.  I felt overwhelmed with gratitude that I met Dan, that I spent almost two years with him and that he gave me the honour of calling myself his wife. 

However there was nothing to be positive about on his death anniversary.  It was just a horrible, sad, f*#ked up day.  Knowing now the turmoil he must have been in that morning when he kissed me goodbye and left for work, my heart breaks for him all over again. We know that his suicide wasn’t planned – it was spontaneous and triggered by a psychotic episode caused by a bad reaction to his anti-depressant medication, but thinking about how scared and lost he must have felt just destroys me. I couldn’t get the images out of my head of him driving to work that morning and turning the car in a different direction. 

Images of him writing me his heartfelt letter, trying to explain that he loved me and was sorry for the hurt that his death would cause, but that he was losing his mind and needed to make this sacrifice before it was too late and he became a constant burden on me and our families.  Images of his final moments.  Of his death.  Of his body being taken away.

It was a terrible day, and it has hit me hard.  I cried the entire anniversary and as I write this, two days later, I am still crying, feeling broken and empty.

I guess there might be one thing to be grateful for right now though.  At least now that I’ve been in this place for a year, I know how to get through these dark, painful lows.  I know how to practice self-care, mindfulness and listen to my body when it tells me I need to slow down and rest.  I am laying low and being gentle with myself.  I’m gathering my people around me and letting them protect me and carry me.  I have received countless messages, phone calls and deliveries of flowers this week.  I know I am loved by many, and these people are keeping Dan and I in their thoughts and prayers. I know I’m not alone.  I will survive this and smile again, but today it is ok to cry. It’s a shitty day.

First Thursday

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February 11 is a happy day for me (also marked with some trepidation) ... it's my son's birthday.  He who is so much his father, is turning three.

But since I generally write ahead of time, making use of the time I can sit in front of a computer screen uninterrupted while he's in child care, and I'm writing on February 7, John's birthday is not at the forefront of my mind. 

Last night is.

I love my first Thursday of the month.  But I don't like why I have it to look forward to.

It's when my local younger widows group meets.  Usually we meet for a discussion or workshop, but sometimes we take the opportunity to go out for a meal with adults that get why sometimes a sadness or silence comes over the conversation (and aren't phased by that lull swinging quickly to laughter and chatter again). 

We talk about how and/or when we struggle with our grief, get angry or indignant for each other as we deal with the bureaucratic or family/friend issues that arise, cheer each other on as we tentatively or boldly take steps into exploring our new lives, gripe about the things that our partners did that drove us batty, talk about what we've learned from our loss and grief - about ourselves and life in general, and we nod in agreement or recognition of similar experience so much, you think you should be a bobble head on a car dashboard.

You know when you don't see a young child you know for a little while and your usual response is 'they've grown/changed so much'?  I find I have a similar reaction each month, particularly those who came for the first time after me, initially came in the depths of their grief.  Month on month, I can see the grief-fog lifting, the smiles and laughter become more frequent, the reaching out to someone not as far on the journey and connecting them to the group. 

I can see what maybe I couldn't/can't see in myself, but in acknowledging how far they've come in their journey, I can see how far I've come in mine.  And maybe can identify where some of the brick walls blocking my path are.

One thing I've learned is reaching out and connecting with others in person for peer support has been invaluable on this journey.

And I've also become conscious that good days for me may well be difficult or bad days for someone else.  So while I celebrate John's birthday, I also send hugs, prayers and positive thoughts to one of our group who today marks one year since her loss. 

Paying it Foward

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Tomorrow I move onto my second calendar year without Ian.  Moving from 2012 to 2013, to a year that was no longer the year I lost him, I found difficult, but got through with a small group of friends. 

Tonight I move one more digit further away from the 2012 in which he left us. 

I realised this morning that I will no longer be able to say 'he died last year'.  I'll have to say 'he died in 2012'.  And I'm not sure how I feel about that additional distance - if it's a turning point or a mill stone. 

But I'm doing something simple early in the new year to try feel a bit better in general...

 
"How can I/we help?"

I heard this question a lot while Ian was sick.  And thankfully I came up with an answer that would allow those around us feel like they were able to do something practical to help.

Ian received lots of platelets in hospital as he'd been on blood thinners, and the medicos needed to reverse the thinning in order to do the procedures they needed to.   I can't remember how many transfusions he had, but it was a reasonable number.

So I was able to tell people "donate blood if you're able to, Ian's needed a lot".

Which is a bit hypocritical of me, as it's something I'd always wished I could do, but for my needle phobia. I'm bad enough with ordinary sized needles.  Bugger going near the bigger ones they use for collecting blood!

However I had guilt about this phobia starting to gnaw away at me probably from about the six month mark after he died. 

It's just a couple of hours of my time, 3- 4 times a year.

It's just a needle; nothing compared to what he went through.

It may help me with my healing.

Other's donations played a part in giving us those extra three months.  Who am I not to give that time to someone else when quite frankly, I'm perfectly capable?

So I made my first donation around my 1 year widow-versary mark.  And it felt good. 

I've now booked myself in to make my 2nd donation on January 2nd.

As cr@* as it is that that pesky concept of time marches on, I'm feeling it's a positive way to mark the start my second calendar year without Ian.

One Year

From Here

One year ago today, I sat in a waiting room and stared blankly at a stranger as he told me my 38 year old husband was dead. Outside the hospital, the sun was shining and the sky was outrageously blue. I dimly thought that it shouldn't be a beautiful day. That it shouldn't be allowed.

After Dave died, I couldn't listen to music at all for days. There was no thinking involved in this, it was all gut-level stuff. I just couldn't bear to hear music. Previously, I couldn't make it through a day without hearing music. Actually, I am stunned to hear that there are people who don't really care about music (I've met some!). It is elemental to me, almost as important as food, water and shelter.

So, no music was a sign of the depths I'd fallen into. Eventually, though, I began to crave it again. For some reason I still don't understand, the only thing I could stand to listen to at first was Bon Iver. Anything and everything Bon Iver. I latched on to that music and didn't let go. All day long, it was Bon Iver. In the kitchen, bathroom, car, bedroom. I even listened to it through earplugs while I did yard work.

It sustained me like food. I could almost feel my strained and jangly neurons smoothing out as soon as the familiar notes began. This went on for weeks before I could listen to a broader range of music. I began to think of Bon Iver's music as a part of my recovery. Like medicine.

In September, almost 4 months after Dave's death, I saw Bon Iver live for the first time at an outdoor venue with one of my Superfriends who had survived the last four months right alongside me. It was the most emotional, spiritual musical experience of my life and I vowed within the first few minutes that I'd see Bon Iver live again in the near future.

When I discovered that they'd be performing at Red Rocks Amphitheatre just days before the one year anniversary of his death, I knew I'd be there, come hell or high water.

I optimistically bought two tickets, hoping superfriend or someone else would be able to come with me, but it was not to be. It must have been written in the stars that I'd go it alone.

Dave's death has allowed me to meet a me I never knew before. One who is scared but acts anyway. One who is stronger and more independent than I ever imagined.

This journey so far, has been a lesson in relying on myself, leaning on myself, believing in myself, and trusting myself to an extent I never experienced before.

So, it makes perfect sense that I'd go to that concert alone, even though I very much wished for a companion (ANY companion!).

Red Rocks Amphitheatre, just outside of Denver, CO, is the only acoustically perfect, naturally occurring amphitheater in the world. It looks like something from The Flinstones, or maybe a place where you wouldn't be surprised to see a dinosaur or two. It's perched at 6,450 feet above sea level and overlooks a panoramic view of Denver far below. It is like no other and stunningly beautiful.

The sky was just darkening as the first notes of the first song, Perth, began. The stars and the lights of Denver sparkled. The moon made its way over our heads to hover just above the soaring rust-colored rocks.

My eyes instantly filled with tears and I was sure my chest would burst. The altitude probably just added to the physical reaction I had to this music in this beautiful place. It felt like I my insides were carbonated.  I wanted to sit and close my eyes to better absorb every heavenly note, but I didn't want to miss one visual snapshot of the performance.

Time disappeared and before I was ready, it was over.

I had done it, I thought as I trekked back to my car. I had gone to a concert alone. I had made it one year. I had survived.

I also spent several days in Colorado alone and, while I missed having a companion to experience it all with me, the truth is I loved being alone, too. I loved not having to compromise or worry about someone else's needs.

There's a good chance Dave would never have come along with me, anyway as he didn't "get" my taste in music, nor did he have any desire to attend concerts. This somehow made the trip easier.

I'm finding that things that fit in better with my new life, rather than my old life, are easier to bear. There's too much pain wrapped up in the things we used to do together. Things we used to experience. Places we used to go. Stepping into this new life of mine, while bringing his memory along with me, feels better to me, than staying in that old life, waiting for him and the life I had with him to miraculously return to me.

It's funny, during the concert I didn't really feel Dave with me. It almost felt like he'd taken leave of the whole situation. I wonder now if he watched this unfold and thought "She's got this. I'm off to do my own thing for a while."

All I could think of was what a long way I've come, despite being heartbroken. I thought back in wonder, realizing that I often forget about my accomplishments and that they are many.

I'm a tough cookie and it's taken Dave's death for me to realize that, much less admit it.

My life goes on, and it didn't begin or end with Dave's death. I will never understand why he was taken from me. I would trade it all in to have him back, but I can't, and this means that I take what I do have and run with it. I keep experiencing life and all its beauty. I keep working on loving myself and healing. I keep moving and living.

I wouldn't have met this new woman occupying my body if Dave hadn't died. What a strange and terrible way to find out what was inside of me all long.