Both Feet In

This past week, a friend of mine shared a story with me about a woman she recently met while out shopping for boots at a western store. As they looked through the sale rack, the woman told her how she got through the death of her husband by promising herself a new pair of cowboy boots every time she had to do something hard in relation to her grief… like going to the mortuary, or collecting his will. Eventually, she had a whole shelf of them and she wore them everywhere she went. "Even to church" she said. "I medicated myself with old western movies and cowboy boots". My friend, who is actually a grief counselor, fully endorsed her grief medication. 

This woman's story made me smile instantly, and reminded me of my own boot story. About a month after my fiancé's sudden death, in June of 2012, on a horrible, grief-laden, sunny afternoon in Dallas, I walked my shell-shocked self into a local western store with one specific goal. To buy a pair of boots. Not just any boots, but THE boots. Golden tan with beautiful blue inlaid wings and red hearts. Meticulous stitching and hard soles for dancing, and walking a hard road. They were boots I had swooned over for the entire length of my relationship with Drew. The ones that were "too expensive and unpractical" to ever actually buy. The boots that were too bold and showy for me. 

At least... for the old me. 

The widowed me though, didn't give a shit about any of that. She didnt care about being too showy nor did she care about how expensive they were. So she walked into that western store, dropped $300 down, and walked out with the goddamn boots because she wanted them and she damn well deserved them. It felt SO GOOD. I knew right then and there, that these were the boots that were going to carry me through this mess. It was a glimmer of hope. When I walked this hard road, I would do so with wings on my feet. I would do so boldly, and proudly, and without apology to anyone. Those wings would always remind me of the pilot I love and of his zest and passion for life. They would remind me to keep on living, and that I can still be whoever I want to be.

I wore them to every art opening I showed my artwork in, I wore them to work, hell I wore them grocery shopping. Every time I put them on, it felt like wearing the essence of our love for all to see. Because we were bold. We lived and loved boldly and fearlessly together. We left no room for regrets and always walked a bit more confidently out into the world when we had each other. 

The boots provided some piece of that back, some reclaiming of my own power despite everything falling apart. They gave me a way that I could say to the world (and to myself) - I am still here and dammit, I am going to choose to live. I'm not going to lie down and let this destroy me. It may take months and years to get back to living life more fully again - but until then, these boots will remind me of the promise to myself - and to him - to keep on living life. 

Sure, you can see this sort of thing as silly. Or frivolous. Or a waste of money. And before he died, I did a good job of that. But when you're down in the pit, things look very different. It's dark down there. And pretty damned hopeless. And maybe, just maybe, a simple thing like a pair of fine-ass boots isn't so frivolous. It reminded me that no matter how broken I felt, I could still create my own hope by the choices I made, even the seemingly small ones. 

As it turns out, those boots became a symbol not just to live boldly. They became a reminder that I had the power to decide what would carry my feet through the day… and that was the first step towards knowing I had the power to choose how I would carry myself through this entire experience of living with his death. They reminded me to choose each day to try and live what's left of this life boldly, and with both feet in. 

“It Isn't Fair”

I recently overheard a widowed woman sharing about her experience and of being still in a very painful place with it all after 4 long years. Granted in widowhood, that isn't an extremely unusual circumstance. But I do think sometimes we err on the side of being so careful with those grieving that we do not say some more blunt perspectives that could also be helpful to individuals. I don't know that they would be, but I'm willing put it out there and find out I guess. I could be entirely wrong, you all may let me know.

So this woman was expressing that she is still in so much deep pain, and wishing she wasn't. She obviously felt as if she was “behind” in some way with her grieving. And then she went on to say that one phrase that really bugs me... “It isn't fair!”

Well no, DUH, it's not fair. It isn't fair that you lost someone you love earlier than your wanted to. It isn't fair that I did either. None of this is FAIR. I'm not even sure why this feels so harsh to say – we've been telling five year olds this for decades. But somehow it doesn't seem to sink in. And it's entirely true... life isn't about fairness. It never has been. It never will be. I didn't make the rule… and I don't like it anymore than the next person. But there it is. It's been this way since the dawn of time. I don't know when we all started thinking it was supposed to be fair - probably always. But why? Who ever said that to have a happy life meant a life without pain? That a peaceful or fulfilling life was a life without unfairness? That the horrible stuff will always just happen to someone else? It doesn't work like that.

I learned this lesson pretty early in life. When my mom died, I was nine years old. My dad was a handicapped alcoholic widower that had no clue what to do with a 9 year old girl. That certainly wasn't fair to anyone in the situation, me or him. He worked very hard to provide a roof over my head, food for me to eat, clothes, and kept me in a good private school. He started going to AA meetings and even stopped drinking for a good while, too. But he was also an emotional mess. And he bottled up everything. And he sat around his entire life saying to himself “it's not fair”. I watched this statement eat away at him over all the years of my life, until he died from complications of heart and lung disease when I was 26. He never remarried. He never dated. He never really even made new friends hardly. I watched the mental and emotional anguish that comes from sitting inside of those three words "it's not fair" for too long. From being the victim of your circumstance for too long. Perhaps that is why I feel so strongly about this phrase and about owning it instead of letting it own ME. Naturally, I don't want to end up like him. 

This, being widowed, is NOT fair. Absolutely it is not. I would not wish this experience on my worst enemy. And while there is a certain amount of time – which can only be decided by us – that we do need to sit and gravel in that unfairness... there also comes a time to own that statement. There comes a time when we must grab hold of it and not let it take us down. A time when we must stand up and say that phrase in a different sort of way. “Life owes me nothing” is how I changed it up for me. It's harsh, and not flowery, but it's absolutely what I need to remind me that happiness isn't just going to show up on my doorstep after a certain amount of time. I am going to have to WORK.

This phrase reminds me that it's up to me to decide everything that happens from here on. It's up to me to make something out of the aftermath of his death, and find a way for his memory and his life to live on. It's up to me to create meaning from all this pain. To drag myself through the mud screaming if that is what it takes to work through it. And to reach out my hand to someone else and help pull them through the mud when they get stuck there... because I think that is where the most meaning can be made – in seeing just how much we can give and receive from each other. It is also where I am finding balance to the unfairness.

No, my story is not fair. But losing this one incredible man has brought into my life a string of other hearts which I have influenced and who have influenced me in ways I never imagined. It takes work to open up to that. Really fucking hard work. I want to close off and shut down and let his death ruin my life sometimes. It takes work every day still - even two and a half years later. Some days I am still crawling through the mud. But I'm beginning to see now that this idea that a happy life is one without pain is totally false. I'm beginning to see just how beautiful this unfair life can be if I work for it and keep my heart open. I'm beginning to see that maybe there are reasons that so much pain has happened to me… because I am someone who can do something with it. Change it into something else. Help another because of my experience. And that is not just me, but also you. We all have that capacity. 

Life does not owe me happiness. That means that I have choices every single day to move towards something or sit in the unfairness. Some days, I say no, and I sit in the unfairness of it all. Hell, I did that most of the morning today. Sometimes I need to. But eventually, I remember that phrase "life owes me nothing". And soon enough I get up and go looking for my happiness, or my peace, or some meaning and purpose. For something that is positive. It is up to me to work for it, to find it, to make it when I can't find it, and to give it to someone else who needs it once I've got it. I suppose that is why I am writing this to begin with, after all. It was a bad morning, and I decided to make something out of it. Hopefully it finds its way to someone who needs it. 

A Powerful Destruction

Before I get into my post for this week, I just wanted to mention how EXCITED I am to be attending Camp Widow in Tampa this coming week! I mention it because last year, I attended but did not mention here - and it turned out there were a few readers who had no idea I was coming. For anyone out there who is, I am so looking forward to meeting you at camp!

I know many of you read my first post of the year - about the first man I've been romantic with since my fiancé died… and how, after a night of fooling around he took off and never called or texted me again. Days, then weeks go by, and I hear nothing. I don't need to explain how traumatic that was - you can read all of that here. Instead I wanted to share an update on the whole thing… one I am very glad for. And very proud of myself for.

After a few weeks of having no contact, I decided I had some things to say. So I wrote him a brief but to-the-point letter and sent it off this past week. Was it risky? Absolutely. Was I terrified? Beyond imagine. But sometimes you just have do the damn thing, even if it scares you.

There was no guarantee at all that this would end well. That I would even get any response at all from this person. But that no longer mattered. It was now about standing up for myself, respecting myself, an saying what needs saying without giving a shit what the outcome was. After all, if my fiancé is no longer here to defend my honor, then it is up to me to do it. No one treats me that way. Furthermore, I needed to leave the situation in a way that respects myself and the other person. Not because they deserve it, but because I deserve to walk away knowing I did the right thing.

I cannot express the anxiety of hitting send on that letter. But I did it. And I felt a huge weight off my shoulders as soon as I did. Amazing how quickly it can shift things inside of you when you speak your truth. That in itself was good. And then to my surprise, a few hours later, he actually responded...

It took me probably an hour to even open up his response. I was so nervous of what was on the other side. But finally, with the support of one of my girlfriends who was visiting for the weekend, I opened it. It was the best possible response I could have gotten. He was kind and respectful. Full of remorse and regret. Deeply apologetic. It showed me how broken he is - with his own set of problems that made him panic and run. In the end, he wasn't using me. It wasn't just a game. He just freaked out and handled it badly. We both agreed it went farther than we meant for it to at the time, and he was incredibly stupid, but we wish the very best for each other. Look at that. Resolve. Which never would have happened had I not risked approaching him and saying my piece. God damn, I am proud of myself.

Although this situation made me feel incredibly weak and hurt initially, it has come to bring much the opposite now because of how I chose to handle it. It has reminded me of a few really important lessons too. The old me likely never would have stood up to defend myself. And she certainly would not have done it with such incredible tact and grace. My words were not angry or overly emotional, but instead were bold, confident, firmly grounded in myself and unafraid. It quite surprised me at how powerful I could be. And that part of it had nothing to do with the other person at all. Even if I had gotten no response, I will would have been able to feel powerful for standing up for myself.

It seems, as widowed folks, that we feel pain and weakness so much for so long that we do not realize all along, we are becoming more POWERFUL. It's something I lose sight of ALL the time. But all of the fighting we have to do to survive creates an incredible force inside us - even if it's hard for us to see. It is oftentimes a new painful event that had the ability to allow us to choose our power and thus see it more clearly.

It's a force that can only come from the ashes of devastation… for it is precisely because we have to fight so hard to survive that we become so powerful. You don't spend every day of your life for years crawling through the broken shards of yourself without becoming more battle-hardened and more firmly grounded in who you are. You don't endure years of being broken open by a thousand smaller losses and come out with a heart that is weaker. Even if you feel weak, your power is there... in the choices you make. Hopefully, eventually, when those new experiences come, we are able to make the choices that reinforce how powerful we are… even if it scares the shit out of us to do it.

The Strength Among Women.

Source

The above picture is a specific shot of the Sex and the City girls that my girlfriends and I send to each other when we miss each other or just need a smile. It is - like the show is for us - a reminder that thru thick and thin, life and love and illness and death, it is your girls who were there for you. I'm sharing it because I was reminded of that tonight.

On this pre-Easter evening, I would like to say,  I really hate being vulnerable. I mean, doesn't everyone? It's definitely not the best feeling out there. Tonight, I felt so completely vulnerable. It's the evening before Easter - my in-laws are having a big party at the ranch. We are grilling and cooking up a ton of good food. I spend the whole day in the kitchen with my mother-in-law… partly because I really enjoy helping her out on these kinds of days and partly because just keeping busy with helping keeps my mind off the obvious person missing. So really, for the most part, I made it through the day alright. I made this amazing lemon-lime bundt cake that was "to die for" (I always feel odd saying that now). But the sadness was underlying. And eventually after dinner and several beers… the flood gates opened. Everyone was out back playing ping pong - I could hear them loudly cheering and laughing over the game and the country music. Laughter. That kind… you know, the kind we used to all enjoy? Yeah.

I snuck out to sit on the front porch. Alone. Crying in my beer. And looking at pictures of my fiancé and I on my phone. And crying some more. And wishing that someone would notice right away when I wasn't there, and would come to check on me. The way he used to when I needed it most. Wishing I was the center of anyone's universe like that again. Or that someone would just happen to come outside and notice me there and sit down beside me to be my friend. But no one came… except one person who walked right past, ignoring me. Which as you know, feels even worse than no one coming at all. And so I sat there more and more alone - just me, the glow of the porch light, and the june bugs occasionally thwacking into my back. I cursed aloud to… what? Someone. Something. My life. My stupid emotions. Him being gone. My pathetic desire to have someone rescue me. All of the above.

Eventually… I texted a few of my girlfriends. My best friend. And one of my also-widowed girlfriends. And my old high school girlfriend. It turned out we were all having pretty emotional nights for entirely different reasons. My best friend has just found out that this guy she really likes who she's been on several dates with is still hung up on an ex. My high school friend is pretty sad because her best friend just moved really far away, she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had to move back in with her parents to boot. I really wish none of us had been going through any of that crap tonight… but you know, it helped to know I wasn't alone. Even though their situations were very different, that didn't matter. Tonight… each one of us was in need of someone to be there for us and console us and love us. Each of us wanted that someone to be a man, and each of us didn't have that. So we turned to each other. And we found exactly what we needed in each other. Love. And support. And understanding. And a warm welcome that will always be there. And a powerful "I've got your back, you are amazing and don't forget it" sort of feeling that we all needed.

I didn't used to be very close to any of my girlfriends. Many years ago, I had a really hard time connecting with women and I kept my distance from them for the most part. Losing my fiancé has changed that world so entirely for me. I have come to rely on the women in my life in such a deep and powerful way. No matter what our situations or differences… when we are in pain, and we share that with each other, there is a sacred bond of holding each other up that occurs. Its like this unspoken code that all women seem to abide by. And it only occurs when we take the risk to be fully vulnerable with each other.

For the past month or so, I've been resisting taking that risk. It's so easy to do… to try and avoid being truly vulnerable - even with my closest girlfriends - because I just don't want to face it sometimes. But this week as I've had a few instances of both myself and my girlfriends hitting low points and really needing each other… I am reminded again how important, how powerful, and how healing it is to just let it all out to each other. Sure it felt better to let that out with Drew. More comfortable. More secure. But there is something equally powerful about baring your soul to other women. Something that I have never experienced until losing him.

I'm not even sure where I'm going with all this. Honestly, it's late, I've been on my feet all day cooking, and super stressed about a million other things, and I'm on my 5th or 6th beer (the fact that I can't remember which tells you something!). All I can say is that tonight, I am so incredibly grateful for the women in my life. The ones who are widows. The ones who are not widows who still seem to get it. The ones who are older and wiser and help guide me, and the ones who are right in the thick of it with me. I truly do not know what state I would be in today without each and every woman who has crossed my path since losing Drew. They, you, are the safety net that keeps me afloat. The wind beneath my wings. And the fuel that keeps me trying to make something big and bold and powerful out of all of this pain. We may not have the lives we want, but dammit, at least we have each other. And really, that's a hell of a lot.

The Power of We

My New We

Today is Blog Action Day 2012. The theme this year is "The Power of We".

Thinking about the word we brought back a vivid memory of the first few weeks after my husband Dave's death. I remember suddenly noticing how often I still said we.

I had many visitors in those first few weeks. I would hear myself telling them "We are getting new siding," or "We grew corn this summer but not last summer," or "We were going to go to Italy again," and the word we would punch me in the stomach, leaving me winded and nauseous.

My we had turned to me in an instant and my heart and mind hadn't had a chance to understand. The power of the loss of my we was immense and crushing. Almost a year and a half later and I'm still trying to understand it.

My we used to consist of Dave and me.  He was my family, my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan and the person I trusted most in this world. And then I became just me. Overnight.

Everything was still there. His shoes, his wallet, his phone, his email account. But he was missing and so was the me I had been when he'd been here on this earth.

He had been dead for less than 3 months when I went to San Diego for Camp Widow. I was 35 years old and was completely consumed with the need to find my new we.

I vividly remember the feeling I had as the escalator at that Marriott brought me to the second floor where Camp Widow check in was taking place. I looked around at all the people milling about and thought "They're all like me," and I swear I took a deep breath for the first time in 3 months.

I was comforted just by the knowledge that I was surrounded by my new we. It wasn't anything like my old we and it couldn't replace my old we.

It didn't make the pain of his loss any less devastating, but it was power in numbers, and I didn't feel alone anymore. That first camp was the beginning of my re-entry into life.

When I returned home, I would picture all of those people I'd met, doing incredible things, like Michele Neff Hernandez, starting the foundation that allowed me to find my new we in the wreckage of Dave's death, and Matt Logelin, finding strength in his daughter and getting his beautiful love story to her and her mom out into the world and I borrowed their light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't see mine yet, so I used theirs.

When I was sure I couldn't withstand the pain of grieving the loss of my old we, I would call someone I met at Camp, and even from several states (and a country) away they would extend a strong hand through the dark and pull me out into the light, reminding me that we were in this together at least for that moment.

When I'd do the same for them, I felt a connection almost as strong as any I'd felt before. It was as though I could suddenly feel the invisible cords from my heart to theirs, extending hundreds of miles, allowing strength to surge back and forth between us, as needed.

My identity from my before-life was gone, but my new identity was a WE again. A different we.

We widowed people are warriors.
We are heroes, the kind of people who have power from the depths they've clawed their way out of to find the light.
We are a force to be reckoned with.
We know intimately the true value of love and the impermanence of life.

I don't know if I'd truly understand that if it weren't for SSLF and Camp Widow.

Just the simple but incredible act of communicating online with widows from all over the world through this blog is a we that spans the globe and includes millions of people in its web of connections.

My neighbor, two doors down, just lost his wife to cancer and in my condolence card to him, I included one of the SSLF outreach cards I carry around. So, I've cast the net over him, too, including him in this we. Hopefully, he will not feel as alone just knowing that there's a we out there for him, too, whenever he needs it.

SSLF allowed me to have a we again, during a phase in my life that could have been isolating and horrifically lonely.

The power of we, indeed.