Living With The Hole

Source

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'.  

Not Like Any Other Normal Day

While my husband was taking his last breath, I was at home re-potting these plants. Totally oblivious that my world - as I knew it - was about to end.

The shower drain in my bathroom really needs to be cleaned out, yet the thought of doing it causes the blood in my body to rush to my toes and leaves me feeling like I can’t breathe.   You see, the last day that I cleaned the drains in the bathroom, something catastrophic happened.  My husband died.

It started as a normal day. Daniel had hit snooze on his alarm a couple of times and was struggling to get up and get motivated.  I knew he was having a rough time, mornings were always the hardest for him.  Since being diagnosed with depression and starting on anti-depressants a few weeks earlier he seemed to be struggling even more and the medication started to take effect. However we’d checked in with our GP about it, who’d told us to stick it out and give it more time, assuring Dan that he would start to feel better soon.  Just earlier that week Dan had admitted that as mornings progressed he seemed to ‘warm up’ and the day got easier.  So I wasn’t alarmed that he was dragging his feet. 

I had absolutely no idea what turmoil he was battling inside.  I have replayed that morning over and over and over again in my head, looking for signs that I missed.  Trying to work out what was different that day.  Wondering at what point the disease took over and he came to the conclusion that he couldn't get through another day.  Wondering why I didn't see it; why I wasn't paying more attention rather than thinking about cleaning the stupid bathroom drains.

Did he know when he told me he loved me and kissed me goodbye?  Did he get as far as his office parking lot before turning his car back on to the highway?  Did he even, absentmindedly, find himself an hour away from home, at the location of his seemingly-spontaneous suicide, before realising what he was about to do?  Before deciding he was at the end of his tether and the time had come to end the pain?  These are just a couple of the hundreds of questions that I still struggle to let go of.  Will there ever come a time where I don’t torture myself with them?

As I cheerfully lugged bi-carb soda, vinegar and pots of boiling water up and down the stairs to our bathroom that morning, he was wrestling with demons that had him questioning everything he knew to be true.  Depression was telling him lies, convincing him that he was losing his mind to dementia and the best thing for everyone would be for him to remove himself from our lives. 

By the time I’d finished the drains and headed to our back yard to re-pot some plants that needed tidying up, he had written his final words in a letter to me, apologising for the pain this act would cause, begging for forgiveness and trying to explain that we’d all be better off this way.  While my gentle, intelligent and loving husband took his last breath, I was gardening. 

That seems so ridiculous to me.  I was doing these mundane, mindless, household tasks. Safe and secure in the belief that life was good and everyone I cared for was ok.   How could I possibly have been so naive and unaware, while my soul mate was fighting for his life and losing.  Surely I should have sensed something was wrong in my universe or felt an uneasiness?  Yet, I had no idea.  I was pottering around in our garden, without a care in the world, enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on my face.   

I think the fact that life was so ‘normal’ until that day plays a big part in why my brain still can’t process that Dan died from suicide.  It’s not something you ever grow up thinking could happen.  I used to worry about a loved one being hurt in a car accident, or a natural disaster – you just don’t ever comprehend that your new husband will take his life.  

I think I assumed that in a situation like this there would have been more signs; more opportunity for me to intervene; more time to fight the disease and get my head around the gravity of the situation that he was facing.  I know now that I was so naive about so many things.  But that’s not my fault, who WOULD be prepared for these circumstances?

When I think about that morning, the last moments before my world collapsed and the shadow of grief was cast across my heart, I almost feel guilty at how carefree I felt.  I recall my sense of contentment and satisfaction as I cared for our home and worked on building a nice life for us – and wish with all my heart I could go back to that time.  The biggest worry on my mind that day was getting my housework done in time to meet friends for lunch.  I had absolutely no concept that my husband was about to die from suicide.    

So, I don’t want to clean the drains again.  I don’t want to acknowledge that the word could have another blow waiting for me.  I don’t like looking down into the murky drain pipe while I wash my hair but I just can’t bring myself to do anything that vaguely resembles the course of events on that worst day of my life.  

Running on empty

Do you know that saying 'running on the smell of an oily rag'? Maybe it's an Australian thing, but it's the best description I can think of to explain how I'm feeling today.  I'm exhausted and my tank is low. My 'refuel' light is flashing and I need to pull up and refuel.

So, I'm trying to lay low this weekend and as much as I want to pour my heart out here and write about this past week, the first anniversary of Dan's funeral and what it's been like to creep into my second year, I just don't have the energy to scrape it together. I'm sorry, I take my commitment to Widow's Voice very seriously and I promise I'll be back next week, pushing the limits of my word count.

In the mean time I thought I'd share an extract from my personal blog that still applies to how I feel today. Thank you for checking in and remember - it's ok to put your own needs first sometimes, in fact, it's essential. I know you guys get it. 

"Most days I don't really think about HOW my husband died anymore. The shock of his suicide has eased and now my pain is mainly focused around the loss of him, how much I miss him and my sadness for the life we should be living.

There are still days, however, where it creeps in to my mind or I find myself needed to share my story and as I get to 'that' bit... the uneasiness in my stomach grows again.

This morning I saw a health professional and as we discussed the stress I've been under due to my personal circumstances, it became relevant to explain the trauma around his death.

After all this time, I still stumble with the details and struggle to deliver it gracefully. 

It seems so inadequate to just say 'he took his own life'. 

He deserves more than this, he was so much more than 'just' a victim of suicide and I feel compelled to try and explain his actions. 

The most adequate explanation (short of spending a good 20 minutes going through what a brilliant, good-hearted, thoughtful, caring man he was) seems to be along the lines of: 'he had depression, we had no idea how badly... His symptoms were predominantly memory loss and inability to focus, so he became convinced he was developing dementia and, during a suspected psychotic episode, took his life to save us from having to care for him.'

But the truth is, this is merely the picture I ended up with from the prices of the puzzle that I could pull together. Pieces like: the beautiful, heart-felt note he left me; conversations we had about how scared he was by his symptoms, as well as those he had with his doctor; the assumption by police that his death was not planned or pre-meditated, but carried out in a state of detachment; and the undeniable fact that he adored me, and would never have wanted to willingly cause me this pain.

However I will never truly know what happened in his head that day. There will always be questions that creep in when I let my guard down. I will never fully understand the 'why's, no matter how much I try to help others understand and accept.

Maybe the best I can hope for is to find peace in knowing I will never know, and one day I won't need to ask the questions anymore."

It's Just Not Fair

I was driving home from work recently, singing along to the radio in my own little world, when I passed a car the exact same model and colour as my husband's. Next thing I knew I was instantly transported back to That Day.

The last time I saw my husband, 11 months ago, was around 8am as he kissed me goodbye and left for work. But he didn't go to work that morning, he drove an hour away from our home, parked his car in a hotel car park, checked in and took his life.

Seeing that car triggered my grief and my brain went careering down that slippery slope: ‘What did he think would happen to his car?  Did he realize that I’d have to arrange to collect it?  Did he realize I’d have to find a new purpose for ALL of his possessions?  Did he know his parents would fly in and help me with that?  How did he think we’d be capable of sorting this out?  Why would he do that?  Why didn’t he TALK to me? What the hell happened to us?’

And I’m back.  Right there in that very moment where my husband’s suicide defines our existence – all there was and all there ever will be. 

So. Many. Questions.  He left a note for me, written on the hotel stationery (which indicated that he hadn’t planned or prepared for his death) but what about his parents?  His sister?  His friends?  They all wanted answers too.  Didn’t he realise they’d be just as devastated?

He left so many things unfinished – dirty laundry, paperwork, our weekend plans to visit friends at the beach.  He received and made work calls on his drive that morning, set up meetings even.  Did he know then that he wouldn’t be able to attend? 

I had planned to plant a garden in our backyard that day and sent him a photo of my handiwork via text message only 15 minutes before he died… didn’t he want to come home and see it? See me?  Hug me?  Crawl in to bed with me and tell me he was scared and let me help him and hold him?

These questions are such torture and I will never get the answers.  Why did this happen to him?  How did he get to that point?  When did he decide that this was his only option? If only I'd seen it, if only I'd stopped him from leaving the house that morning.

I’ve had intensive suicide bereavement counseling and I understand and accept that it wasn’t Dan that day, it was a disease in his brain, but in that moment I forget all the rationale and the questions build and build and build until I feel like I’m drowning in them. 

I finished my drive home with tears flowing freely and fell in to bed, muffling my howls with my pillow.  Until, almost like she I knew I was struggling, a message popped up on my phone from an old university friend I haven’t seen for more then 10 years.  We drifted apart but are Facebook friends now and even though she didn’t know Dan, she felt compelled to reach out when she heard the news and still checks in with me now and then. 

I replied to her message, confessing how distraught I was, telling her I couldn’t understand why and how this happened. 

In her reply, she said she understood more than I realized.  She opened up to me about her own depression.  Unbeknownst to me until that day, her battle was a fierce one, and ongoing one.  One that she had come close to losing. 

My beautiful friend told me that almost five years earlier she had been in a dark place, struggling with an abusive relationship and a stressful job.  Her depression was deep and she had thought abstractly about suicide but knew she would never, could never do that to her family.  It was not an option she would ever consider.  Until one day she had a sudden ‘brain snap’ and decided in an instant it was the only answer.  Within moments she had made a serious attempt on her life that failed purely because she had been in such a rush.  It was incredibly close though and only by pure luck and chance that she survived.  She eventually reached out to her family, admitting how serious her state of mind was and got the help she needed. 

Today, she still struggles with her disease, but she is strong and determined.  She wanted me to know that she came very close to a similar fate as my husband’s.   Under different circumstances he might have survived his 'brain snap' too, and gone on to get the help he needed.  We might be telling his story to other people who are suffering and giving them hope. 

It made me realise (again) that my husband wasn’t a man who took his own life.  He was a man who had a disease that took control of his body, and caused an incident that claimed his life.  I stopped thinking of his death as a suicide even, because in my mind that implies a conscious act or choice. 

This conversation with my friend calmed my raging questions but made me very sad.  Sad that she had been through such a terrible experience, one that lasted years and still affects her deeply.  Sad for so many others who are battling with mental illness and not getting the support and treatment that they need.  And it made my sad for my sweet, gentle husband.  My beautiful Daniel. My darling didn’t deserve to leave our world in such a tragic way.  If life was fair, he wouldn’t have died so young.  There wouldn’t be disease in the world taking such beautiful souls from us, there wouldn’t be accidents or murders or cruel twists of fate, there wouldn’t be so much pain.

It sucks.  Death sucks.  It’s just not fair. 

Questions

source

 

Where is...?

Who put that there...?

When...?

Why is...

...the bottle of brown sauce in the crockery cupboard?

Did I put it there... or did John? 

I don't remember doing that... but I don't remember seeing John in the kitchen while I was cooking dinner, either. 

It must have been me that put the sauce in there, but have no recollection what so ever of doing it.

Recently I've found often I'm not really conscious of what I'm doing.   Not really aware of what's going on around me.  More often than not just going through the motions, operating on auto-pilot.

I hope I snap out of this soon.

Brown sauce in the crockery cupboard isn't so bad.  Making the gaff with other options could get far, far more icky and stinky.

The Questions

Source - I took a picture of this heart (graffiti) last year. While searching the internet for a perfect "why"
 picture, I decided to take my photography and turn it into my own why picture. See more of my photography here.

For the last two years my life has revolved around questions.

What if? Why? Could I have done something? Did I do something to cause my husband’s suicide? Would of, could of, should of, why me? Why my husband? What did we do to deserve this? Why was love not enough to save him? Why was life not enough?

I have beaten myself daily with questions. For two very long years.

This week while reading I wasn't ready to say goodbye (by Brook Noel and Pamela D. Blair) I realized I don’t live in the world of questions anymore.

Somewhere in the last 6 months the questions stopped.

I still question why? But I have come to the realization that unless I walk in my husband’s shoes, the world of mental illness, I will never understand.

I will never understand what it’s like to see dead people or hear voices. I will never understand what it’s like to have the voices in my head constantly tell me “You’re not enough. Just kill yourself.”

I will never understand how the love of my friends and family is not enough.

I (hopefully) will never understand the pain my husband was in. Pain so bad that suicide is the only way to make it stop.

I will never understand how he could leave me. I will never understand the thought process of suicide. Even at my darkest moments when I was suicidal, all I could think about was my family and what my suicide would do to them. So I will (hopefully) never understand the deep dark hole he was in.. where the hole is so deep and dark that thoughts of your family can’t even leak in to save your life.

I will never understand the stigma that comes with suicide. See, because my husband had bipolar disorder which is not a physical disease, people don’t get it. With mental illness people think “Suck it up, get over it. It’s all in your head.” People don’t understand that bipolar is more of a disease then a disorder...  In my husband’s case it was a disease that killed him, not a disorder.

I will never understand the comments DGI’s (Don’t get it’s) make. “Just kill me now.” Perfect example - this week a sales rep said to me “I have so many customers screaming for product that I just want to kill myself.” There is a certain hand gesture people do that is very insulting and triggering. People don’t understand how devastating suicide is, and to joke about it is just.. There are no words for it. All I can say is it’s not a joke and it’s not something to laugh about.

There is a lot of things I will never understand. I just accepted that I will never have the answers. 

So I stopped asking the questions.

Not questioning all of this has brought me peace… and quite. My brain is a lot quieter. I don’t get the racing thoughts as often (Sure, they still pop up, as soon as my head hits the pillow) but it's not a everyday, all day, process. 

Somewhere along the line, the questions stopped so gradually, that I didn't even notice it. I had to see it in black and white on paper to realize the questions have stopped.

I find peace in knowing my husband was suffering so badly that his suicide was not impulsive. It was years of suffering that lead up to his suicide.

Sure.. I will always wonder why. But I know at end of the day, I will not get any answers. 

I also know when it’s my time to go, it will all make sense.

That brings me peace.

                                                                                                                                                                                    

Who Am I Now?

A logo my student made for our class. We were called 4D for Fourth grade and Deitz.

Until Dave died, I was a teacher for a living. I've been teaching or working in daycare since I was 19. It's all I know. It was my identity. I felt pride when people asked me what I did for a living and I got to respond with teach.

I didn't realize it consciously then, but with distance I can now see that I felt as though I had worth because I had a full time job with good pay and good benefits. I felt like I had a place in the world because I was a professional. Despite the fact that the job was causing me incredible anxiety and stress, I think I felt like a whole person because I worked a "real" job. 

After Dave died, I couldn't go back to work. I mean, I guess I could have if I'd absolutely had to, but I was incredibly lucky to have a principal who told me I didn't have to come back to work unless I wanted to. I took the last month of school off immediately after Dave died and then school let out for the summer. I assumed all along that I'd be back to work the following fall.

When August approached, though, I made the wrenching decision not to return to the classroom. I just couldn't imagine bringing those kids what they needed - a whole, loving, available me -  when I was so busy doing the draining work of grieving. I couldn't quite bring myself to go back. I wasn't able to pull it together in time.

I felt like a failure, and I missed my students terribly, but I also knew it was an essential act of self preservation. I took a year's leave of absence and figured I'd decide then if I wanted to come back to teaching.

When the time came again to decide, I realized it wasn't right for me to return to teaching and I resigned from my position. Again, it was wrenching because once I sent off that letter of resignation, the last trace of my identity was gone.

Wife no longer. Teacher no longer.

With both identities stripped from me, I have felt completely adrift.

It's true that teaching was becoming more stressful than fulfilling the last few years I taught. I was suffering from regular migraines and was sick to my stomach most mornings before work. The stress had finally taken its toll and I was fully burnt out. I know in my gut that staying on would not have been healthy for me even if Dave hadn't died.

On the other hand, if I'm no longer a fourth grade teacher, who am I?

So much of our identities are wrapped up in our jobs. When people ask me what I do now, I feel shameful when I answer "I'm not sure".

I could tell them the truth, that my full time job since Dave died is healing and rebuilding a life from the ground up. I could tell them that my job has been to say goodbye to the best friend I ever had, tear myself from the life we once lived, sell our lovely house, move, buy a new house, build a new community of friends around me, work on my self-image, delve more deeply into my inner me than I've ever attempted before, find a new therapist, try dating again, attend Camp Widow three times, run a 5K, write for two blogs, travel, walk dogs, and train to be a professional dog trainer.

I could say all that, but I don't.

Instead I demure and make excuses. I say things like "I'm in between careers" or "I'm not sure" or "I might go back to school, I haven't decided yet" and I desperately try to change the subject.

When I think of the fact that I no longer have my job, I feel a panicky catch in my throat and my heart starts pounding. I feel my mouth go dry with a nameless dread.

Who am I? What do I do? What's my career? What do I want to do? I have no clear answers for those questions and have the most challenging time learning to give myself some grace for not knowing yet.

I know logically that I am doing my best and that I'm not a lazy, unmotivated person. I understand that with part of my mind, but there is a deeply ingrained part of my brain that fights that and whispers worries to me when I let my guard down for a second. It wonders if I'll ever be motivated to really do anything wholeheartedly again. It wonders if I'm cut out to work full time again at all. It wonders if there's anything out there I really want to do badly enough to work hard for it. It wonders if the part of me that's able to function out there in the work world died with Dave.

It's been 15 months and I'm still not working full time and I feel so badly about this.

However, I picture myself several years in the future wishing I hadn't wasted a second of this period of my life bemoaning my lack of a job or feeling guilty about it.

The future me would say "Heal. Have fun. Live. Stop worrying. You've suffered enough." and I can logically see that she's absolutely right, but the present me is so scared. So incredibly scared.

I'm all I have now. I don't have Dave to depend on. When I was a part of a committed partnership there was a buffer. A cushion. If I fell flat, failed, lost my job, decided to change careers, got hurt or sick, Dave would  be there to cushion the blow, both financially and emotionally. We'd weather the storm together. We'd cling to each other when the winds picked up and thrashed us around this crazy life we sailed through.

I'm all I've got now. Yes, I have incredible support from friends and have no clue how I'd survive without their loving presence, but I have to support myself financially and emotionally now.

It's up to me and it often feels daunting. I know that many widowed people have it much worse than me. They have kids to support and bills they can't pay. I'm extremely lucky in many ways.
And...
I'm still scared. I still feel adrift. 
I still have a difficult time giving myself some grace.

I thought I'd gotten to a really good place with this until the other day when my fridge, oven and AC unit all began to malfunction at once. The AC unit leaked water slowly out into the hallway, damaging the wood trim and drywall. Home owners insurance covered the damage done, but not the repairs to the AC unit. The oven and fridge need new parts to work properly and insurance and the home warranty I purchased didn't cover either.

Something about the three appliances all crapping out on my at once, sent me into a tailspin of fear. How will I do this all alone? Why isn't he here to help me? How will I keep myself financially and emotionally safe when emergencies come my way? The questions crowded my mind and filled me with dread.

The questions aren't helpful because the answers are simple and obvious.

You just will.
Because he died.
You'll figure it out.

And yet knowing the answers doesn't make the fear abate.

I just have to keep working at it until my brain starts to learn to take a different path. A path of confidence, hope and pride. It's going to take hard work. Maybe that will be my full time job for a while, training my brain to be confident, hopeful and feel pride.

I have to be my own biggest fan, cheerleader and supporter but it'll take hard work. I've never done that before. It's my first time trying.

It will take practice and perseverance because I'm a baby at this, learning from the ground up.

The biggest source of comfort for me now is knowing that so many of you who are traveling this road with me will know this fear and will be learning this right along with me.

I am grateful beyond words for this. I feel stronger when I know that I'm not the only one feeling this way. I'm not alone in this journey and neither are you. We're doing it alongside each other and we can support each other in ways no one else can. I thank the heavens above for this and for you, my courageous fellow widowed people.

Second Best

source

A few weeks ago, I opened up the floor for people to ask Steve and I questions: about grief, about dating/getting remarried after widowhood, our relationship...whatever. We want to be as open as possible about our story so that we can try to bring hope to others. So, we'll address one today, and maybe the others next week. But today's question was for Steve, and he is perhaps the first non-widowed person to guest blog. I'm thankful that he can bring his own perspective and I don't have to speak for him on these issues. And since I know this is such a supportive group of people, I know you'll show him the same love you've all showed me.

Hi Vee, I give you a lot of credit for doing this. You are brave! Does your husband ever feel like he is #2? Does he struggle with living in the shadow of your late husband? Just curious as I recently started dating a widow and sometimes I feel like no matter what, I'm never going to be first in her heart. I will never be the only man she's in love with, and that will make me sad from time to time (other times I do understand and accept it it but that doesn't mean it is always easy). Would like to hear your husband's perspectives if that is ok. Thanks.

Steve: Sure - there are definitely times when I feel second best.  I think it is because I, like most people, want to be the only one our special someone thinks about, loves, or wishes to be with.  When you hear the woman (or man) that you love speak about someone else, even if they are deceased, in a way of love, longing, or desiring it can be a blow to your ego.  While feeling "2nd best" has never been a big battle for me, there are times when I feel it - usually when it comes to things that Jeremy (Vee's late husband) was really good at that I am not and I know I cant give her, or when we get together with friends that Vee and Jeremy had together  and they share moments that everyone remembers fondly and realize that these stories don't have me in the picture, but probably most of all when Vee's grief comes at a point when I have tried really hard to make her happy. 

Before I go any further, I have to say that Vee is really great making me feel loved and has NEVER compared me to Jeremy.  Without those things in place I think it would be a much bigger battle for me.  As far as coping with those feelings, I can't tell you personally what to do, but I can tell you some of the things I remind myself:

First, I remind myself that I love Vee for who she is, not who I want her to be.  We fell in love after Jeremy died - and I realized that her grief would be a life-long journey.  There are parts of the journey that are tougher and some parts that are easier, but its always there somewhere.  I knew from day one that if I couldn't love Vee for all of her (including her grief and love for Jeremy) then I had no business being with her.  

Second, I remind myself that Jeremy died - it wasn't his fault or anyone else's.  If Jeremy was a jerk, or cheated on Vee, or abandon her and the kids, that would be one thing, but he was a great man who loved his family and died too early in life.  In anything we lose that is wonderful, its natural that we would want it back. Therefore, I try to put myself in her shoes and understand that her longing for him is only normal because of the love they shared.

Third, I try as hard as I can not to compare myself - but as a warning, this is really tough! There have been times where I wondered if Jeremy was funnier, a better match, more romantic, a better lover,  etc.  These thoughts can drive you mad and leave you feeling super insecure. When I have started down this road of thinking I try to remind myself that Vee is with me because she loves me - sure she loves Jeremy, but she also loves me. She chose me and wanted to spend the rest of her life with me - and she is a pretty incredible woman, so that makes me a pretty blessed guy!

Some food for thought:  I have looked for resources for guys dating or marrying widows (especially young widows) but haven't found much.  Because there is not much help or advice out there, my best advice is to be as open and honest as you can with the girl you are dating.  If there are things that make you feel inferior then be honest and try to work through those things together. 

I hope that helps!     

What would you like to know?

Yesterday, I opened up my personal blog to questions from readers about my grief journey, my new relationship with Steve, and anything in between that maybe I hadn't addressed yet or before. I was overwhelmed with the response and questions that came from it, and am excited to get the opportunity to share our story and open our hearts in a world of grief that so few people at our age really understand.

I had never intended to do the same here, but I realize that this group of readers is different. We approach life with a different lens. I could tell the questions on my personal blog that came from other widows or those who had experienced grief before and were curious about how to handle different situations or aspects of grief. So, we wanted to extend the same opportunity here: for people to ask questions to Steve and me (we will both answer from our different perspectives) in maybe areas that aren't always touched on.

Obviously, I don't have the answers. Or any right ones. We all know that grief looks different for everyone, and I can't even say that I've got one single thing figured out. What I do know is that being a pregnant widow at 28, and getting remarried 18 months later is rare and raises a lot of questions for people - I get it. I would have some too. Steve and I both feel passionately about our calling to walk this journey of grief and help others along the way - him as a grief counselor, me as a young widow - to hopefully shed some light with our unique perspectives in areas that need it. And to bring hope. We're willing to be honest and transparent with our story and our grief if it means helping someone else on their own journey. That's what this blog is all about right? Helping each other? I'm thankful for the opportunity to do that in any way.

So, if you have any questions for Steve and I, ask away. We'll address them next Thursday here and try to answer. The only questions we won't answer are ones that are disrespectful, demeaning, or judgmental. But as I've already learned, those kinds of things only come from people who don't "get it" - and here, we're in good company.

What would you like to know?

Would you?

source

Between the business of getting our house in order and having 5 children, it hasn't left a whole lot of in-between time for Steve and me. We steal moments throughout the day but our one-on-one time is really just before bed or in the car. Luckily, we drive a lot, so we get the chance to connect. Some of my favorite memories of Jeremy are from our long car rides: dreaming together, laughing, learning about each other....those moments are so special to me. I try to soak them up with Steve too. Sometimes we read together, sometimes we dream together about what our future will look like, what our hopes are for our children, where we want to be, etc.

We love to play 'what if' or 'would you rather' or make up random questions like 'what would you do if you won the lottery?' just to pass the time and for fun. So, it was no surprise at first when Steve randomly and innocently asked me "If you could know how and when you were going to die, would you?"

Without hesitation, I answered with a hearty YES.

But maybe I answered too quickly.

This is a loaded question for me. As a widow, my perspective of life and death has drastically changed. I no longer fear death, and I still long for Jeremy and ache for the day when I'll get to see him again. Not only that, but I long for a place void of hurt and pain, loss and death.

The months after Jeremy died, I remember wishing I could know when I would die, so I could know how long I had to bear through life and to give me something to look forward to. But, as every widow will come to hate and embrace at the same time, life goes on. You're still standing and breathing, and you're not mad about it anymore. Still, I wouldn't mind knowing when I will die: to prepare myself and the people I love, and to give a goodbye that I was robbed of with Jeremy.

I told Steve that the only thing that would make me regret finding out was if I learned my death would be slow and painful. But then again, how many people get to do this when they find out they have a terminal disease that they know will take them slowly? Would it change my every day life? Would I live differently? I'd like to think I try to live every day to the fullest, but even I would have to admit that it might change things. And maybe the point is to live life in a way that you wouldn't have to give a goodbye if you didn't have the chance to; that the people you love already know what you would say.

All week, this question has been stuck with me. Would I find out? I am one of those people that does not like to be left out of things...I don't like not knowing, no matter how hard the truth is. There was NO WAY I was going to wait to find out the sex of my children when they were born if I could find out and prepare sooner. That's just how I am. And even though sometimes I regret this piece of my personality, I don't have the ability to not want to know.

What I determined is that I'm glad that I can't know, and that it's not my decision to find out or not. Even though I answered quickly with seemingly convicted assurance, the more I think about this question, the less sure I am about my answer.

What about you? I anxious to know, especially in this arena of widows/widowers - if you could know how and when you were going to die, would you?