Living With The Hole

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A young widow in my on-line support group, who lost her husband to depression very recently, said something this week that really got me thinking.  She had one of those moments that happen in the early days where you kind of forget your partner has gone - she picked up her phone to text him about something and then it hit her hard, she could never contact him and tell him her news again.  

I had forgotten that feeling.  After 16 months without Dan, I've pretty much adjusted to being on my own again.  Sans-partner.  Table for one.  Lone wolf.  I don't like it - God no, it's bloody awful and lonely and it freaking sucks.  I miss him like my left arm, but I don't forget that he's gone anymore.  

That realisation that I've adjusted in this new life still takes me by surprise.  When Dan first died, the hole he left was so vast, I couldn't imagine how I would go on living and navigate my way around it.  But now I see, looking back, that I have.  I've slowly, step-by-step, started to rebuild my life around the hole. 

It is still there but I don't fall in as often anymore. I've gotten used to it. Then I've felt terrible for getting 'used to it' and confused by what that meant.  It's a long and difficult path but I have been walking it. I still don't really know how.  

Every time I've taken a step forward it's come with the complications of guilt and confusion along with constant self-analysis and judgement.  How can I be moving forward into a life where he's not here beside me?  So. Many. Things to feel bad about.  So much information and emotion to process and comprehend.  No wonder I'm exhausted all the time, with so much going on in my head.

I raised this with my grief counsellor and we spoke about the importance of trying not to assess my progress or determine my status in this process.  While it's wonderful to realise that I've made some kind of progress or grown in this after-life, I still get nervous when I'm having a good day, or disheartened when I have a bad day - because of my inherent need to 'assess' what it all means.  

Am I going backwards?  Have I turned some kind of corner?  Is this a milestone?  Ugh - so much pressure!  I am working really hard at letting go of the expectations I put on myself.  

She pointed out that people have good days and bad days - even when they're not carrying the extra complication of bereavement.  Before Dan died, I wouldn't sit and think 'But WHY am I happy today?  What does that mean!?  Will I ever feel sad or angry again or is that behind me now?!'.  

So I am trying not to question.  Not to assess.  And gee, it feels nice to stop worrying and just 'be'.  

My own worst enemy

The better past of last Sunday was spent laying in bed crying... while the cat persisted in trying to comfort me

I feel like I’ve been in a rut for more than a month now, since Dan’s first anniversary.  I’ve had days here and there where I’ve been able to smile and actually mean it, but in general, the pain has been very deep and the ache for him, overwhelming.

The grief has been so relentless that it’s started messing with my head and making me question if I was doing something wrong.  If I’d gotten stuck in it some how. Was I doing enough to keep moving forward? 

I mean, I know this dance well by now, the three-steps-forward, two-steps-back tango.  I know I need to keep my expectations realistic and that this is a marathon, not a sprint.  I know that I can’t project manage my way out of this, yet in the dark of the night when the tears won’t slow and my heart feels like it’s going to stop beating from the sheer agony, I forget that this moment will pass and I’ll take steps forward again.

I just don’t understand why I’m this hard on myself.  Losing your spouse in such tragic circumstances, so young and early into our lives together, would have to be up there with the one of the most terrible experiences anyone could be forced to endure.  Yet I can’t seem to give myself permission to stumble. 

As the weeks pass and I continue to put this pressure and expectation on myself, it has started to mount into feelings of guilt and inadequacy.  I worry that I’m bringing everyone around me down and taking up so much of their energy with my constant state of fragile melancholy.

So this week I spent a lot of time contemplating how and why I’m so hard on myself.   I think that sometimes I have trouble understanding the difference between accepting that there are going to be bad days where I don’t want to face the world; and just wallowing in my sorrow to the point where it becomes an excuse not to try anymore.  I know I have to be gentle with myself – but where is that line between acceptable self-care; and just using my grief as a shield against anything unpleasant or moderately challenging.  Does that make sense?

Don't get me wrong, I know there's no set answer. This pondering is more rhetorical than actually looking for a response. When I think about my grief and whether I'm 'doing it right' - there is no fair bench mark to asses myself against. Because everyone's grief is different. 

I can't look at what seems to be working for a friend and try to apply it to my situation because we're not fighting the same battle. No one can actually tell me if I'm grieving appropriately because it's MY grief, I'm the only one who knows it and feels it, so I'm the only person who can truly answer that question. That's the crux of my conundrum ... I don't seem to trust myself to make that call!

On Thursday, the psychologist who runs a local suicide bereavement counselling program and support group that I became involved in a couple of months after Dan died, called me to check in.  I told her that I’m doing ok, but was struggling with this concept of ‘am I grieving appropriately’.

I confessed to her that some days I just don’t know what to do with myself.  I just sit in the loneliness and cry for hours and think ‘I’m so sick of this sadness, I don’t want this life for me.  I hate this pain.  Despite the fact that I’ve been carrying it around with me for 13 months, I still have such a long road ahead of me and it’s just not fair.’ 

She replied that of course I’m sick of it, of course it’s not fair.   My husband died and how else am I supposed to feel? It doesn’t mean that I’m broken or there’s something wrong with me.  I’m grieving and it’s horrible.  She pointed out that everyone around me is giving me more acceptance and understanding that I’m granting myself. 

She reminded me of the progress I’ve made since those first few months.  I don’t cry at work as much; I’ve travelled; I’ve taken up new hobbies and made new friends. 

She pointed out that while I have bad days, I also have good days.  And on those good days, while I might take steps to keep life simple, I don’t use Dan’s death as an excuse for a free pass. 

Being reminded of that really helped.   I actually think I’m going to print it off and stick it to my fridge.  Widowhood is such hard work.  So many life lessons all being shoved in my face at the same time, it’s exhausting and overwhelming trying to take it all in. 

Plus, my memory isn’t the best right now so I forget a lot of things… like the fact that it’s ok to be this dreadfully sad and that there will be more good days. 

If only I could have that breakthrough and learn to trust myself. Like my counsellor said, if only I saw what others saw - and if only I gave myself the grace and compassion that was being shown to me by the people around me.

Reflecting and Persevering and Pushing

"You have one, maybe two weeks left," the doctor at MD Anderson told Maggie exactly four years ago today as I held Maggie’s hand. Such a statement, after all we had been through, was not a surprise to either of us. That moment will sit forever in my gut like a block of emotional lead. If you are reading my words today, I suspect you’ve felt that same feeling in some fashion, the feeling of your blood running cold. I hope neither you nor I ever feel that again.

As Maggie’s Angel Day approaches, I’ve been trying to live my life, to not reflect back, to not deeply ponder – or dare I say even savor – those last few days. I feel like I should in some way hold those painful memories close but then I feel like I’m doing exactly what some of my “friends” have accused me of – milking this situation or not moving on or choosing to being dramatic. Thus, I tell no one about my trips back to those poignant moments only four years ago, except you. I know you know and understand and don’t find fault in my continued sadness. Yes, I miss my sweet wife. Yes, after nearly four years I still carry a torch. Neither my tears nor the judgmental spit from others have managed to extinguish that flame. Damn it. Why does this still have to be so difficult? Haven’t I paid my dues?

Not helping my sanity is the unpleasant surge in difficult situations. I have three friends right now dying slowly of the same disease; two are married while one is sad she’s not. Another very dear friend of mine lost her dear friend suddenly last week; he was only 37. Then there’s the nightmarish mess in Boston last Monday and Wednesday’s tragedy down the street in West, Texas. Even tonight as I type, an MIT guard has been killed. Death, it seems, has become strikingly obtrusive. I can’t help but wonder how many of us they leave behind.

I’ve been told that I should feel invincible since I’ve lived through the unimaginable. Then riddle me this, Batman: Why do I feel so miserable… still? Is it because I’m watching many of Maggie and my friends get divorced? Or is it because I’m a sideliner to many of our friends sharing the joy of parenthood? Or is it because Maggie and I were just never given a chance? For whatever reason, being widowed is hard in ways that others can’t possibly understand, despite their wild, judging imagination. This widowed journey is only for those who aren’t living the life they dreamed with their loved one because their loved one died. It’s semantically obvious but simply incomprehensible.

I’ll keep trucking on, trying to figure out what to do with my life now. I don’t have any answers and, frankly, I feel stuck. Four years is a long time to be stuck. Maybe it’s time for one of my big pushes. It’s been a while since I’ve made a big ol’ painful push.

Hmmm….. Damn. There goes the weekend.

To Be Proud? That Is The Question

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For some reason, this memory was lost in the chaos of my mind.

And for some reason I remembered it this week and have been thinking a lot about it.

When I went to Camp Widow West in August, I went to host the suicide round table and to spread word about my FMLA petition.

I’ve written about both before, so I will skip forward to my forgotten memory.

As I was flying home from Camp Widow, Ironically sitting a crossed the isle from me was Supa Freshwidow,

“Your name is Melinda right? You are here for your petition, right?”

Taken a little a back, I say “Yes”.

She introduces herself. Even though I have followed her facebook and blog for a couple years now, I didn't recognize her. I somehow missed her through the weekend at Camp Widow.

And here we were, flying from CA to UT, sitting a crossed from each other.

She asked me how the suicide round table went, and I explained that it went really well, and I was proud of myself. That hosting the round table helped me more than I expected it would.

She asked me about my petition, and if I was proud of myself.

I had to actually think about that one. “Am I proud of myself?”

After some thought, my response was “no”.

She looked at me like I was kinda crazy. And said something along the lines of “How can you not be proud of your petition? You can potentially help a lot of people!”

I again had to think about it. “I guess I’m not proud, because it’s something that just has to be done. The laws have to be changed.  It’s hard to be proud of myself when it’s just something that has to be done. It’s not like I came up with the cure for cancer. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

She again looks at me like I’m crazy, and then says “You know it’s OK to be proud of yourself, right? You know it’s OK to toot your own horn, right?”

Me “I guess I don’t realize it’s OK to be proud of myself.”

This memory was locked away in my brain. I don’t know why.

I have thought a lot about this memory this week, and found myself asking “Are you proud now?”

The answer is no. (Yep, I said it).

I still feel like I’m just doing what needs to be done. I don’t feel like I have made some major change or discovery that will help all mankind.

Sometimes things just need to be done.

Like if I saw someone in distress, I would help them, just because it needs to be done. It’s something I wouldn't put much thought into; I would just reach out and help the person in distress.

I guess I’m not proud, because my job isn't done.

The petition is exhausting.

When I started it, I never thought it would be as hard as it is. I never thought I would be so emotionally involved with it that I would lose mass amounts of sleep over it.

It is mentally and physically exhausting.

Especially when I see someone who is newly widowed, having to go back to work immediately.

The laws haven’t been changed. I still have a long road ahead of me. And as long as I am on this road, I have to watch newly widowed people struggle with the exact laws I am trying to change.

It’s like a kick in the teeth. Knowing that the laws are flat out wrong and I can’t get the laws changed fast enough to protect newly widowed people.

I realized that not feeling proud of my petition is kind of like grief.

I don’t see the progress I have made. I just see that I haven’t reached the finish line.

Same goes for grief. I sometimes see small glimpses of my grief progress, but often times feel stuck and ashamed that I’m not “further along” in my grief. I haven’t reached the finish line in my grief.

I’m starting to realize with grief, there is no finish line. It will never end and my grieving will never suddenly reach the finish line.

Even if you can only see small glimpses of your progress, it’s OK to be proud of yourself.

It’s OK to toot your own horn. And to shout from the roof tops “Look, it’s been 29 months, and the monthly anniversary almost slipped by without me noticing!”

Be proud of where you are. Because if you are reading this blog, you have made progress.

You have stepped out, and looked for support.

That is a huge step.

Be proud of that.

Be proud of yourself!

(You can read my petition here and you can follow the faceboook petition page here - I post where the petition is heading and what support I need.)

Aaaaaand… Full Stop

I’ve been pushing with all my might since October 5th and I can claim many little victories: The kitchen is now mine.  The living room is now mine.  The closets – all except for the big scary one - are all mine.  But the house is a wreck with piles of stuff.  I have one pile of stuff that’s the Keep This Forever stack (that pile is filled with emotional land mines and prickly pear.)   Another pile is the eBay pile.  Another pile is the Give To Others pile. (The process of distributing those gifts will be all kinds of fun.)(By the way, that was extreme sarcasm, just in case it wasn’t clear.)  Despite the enormous emotional effort, I feel like all I’ve managed to do is shuffle stuff around while making a complete mess of my house.

And everything has come to a complete stop.

My faithful helper texted me Monday to ask if I wanted to make another big push forward this weekend.  My heart went cold.  I didn’t even respond at first.  I feel like I’ve hit a wall.  Go figure.  The last big push I made three weeks ago left me a slobbering mess of a man.  It was the hardest of all by far, except, possibly for that first big step.  Now I fear I lack the resolve to push through to the finish, the last big push: to clear out our closet.

I dismissed my helper’s request with an honest self-assessment of my timidity: I’m seriously rattled from our last bit of work and need some recovery time.  But yet I feel I must continue.  This process is just simply unforgiving.  I get weaker with each step I take yet I know that that despite the pain, this is the right path.

For now, like a climber’s respite at the butt of the final summit, I’ve paused, out of breath, out of energy, and out of motivation.  But where my wind, muscles and drive fail me, my devotion will not.  I am devoted to the pursuit of a life that would make Maggie proud.  She’s worth that.  And so am I.  While I may rest for just a bit, I will not stop my progress.

(Damn this is hard.)