Camp Widow + 1 Year

Almost exactly to the day, one year ago I sat outside a room filled with strangers who shared a common experience with me – we had all lost our spouse.  I didn’t want anything to do with “those people.”  I didn’t want to be one of them.  I didn’t want to walk through that door and admit that my life had been changed forever, that my wife had died, and that I was a widower.  But I did.  And because I did, I’m a changed person.

In that room I met people who understood what it felt like to lose my Maggie. They understood that I still felt married to my wife.  They understood how our closest friends abandoned me.  They understood that sometimes on some days the only possible thing I could bring myself to do was breath.  Or that remembering to eat was a win.  Or that wishing that a meteor or train or random, armed psychopath would strike me down.  Or that I would give anything (including my own life) just to talk to Maggie one more time.  In that room, there were people who truly understood.  In that room, there were people just like me.

Thinking back on that day a year ago, it’s difficult to get that old me into focus.  I have grown so much and changed in ways that it’s hard to believe.  My feet are steadier.  My emotions are less in control of me than I am in control of them.  And I am no longer and never again will be ashamed of being a widower.  I am proud of what I’ve survived and the choices I’ve made.  I own this (not the other way around.)

What made all the difference to me was meeting others who understood my past because of their own similar past.  Talking with other widows and widowers made me realize that I wasn’t crazy.  And meeting widows and widowers who were further along this path than me gave me just a glimmer of hope that I could do it too.  I could survive this long, cold winter.  And, one year later I can tell you I have survived.  I’m still here, despite my daily wishes otherwise.  Take note: if I can survive this, you can too.  Write that down!  Put it on your mirror in your bathroom.  You can do it!  But what will really help you is to find others that you can talk to that understand, TRULY understand what it means to lose a spouse.

I’ve changed so much in the last year.  I’m literally a different person. I’m not “healed,” what ever that means.  I’m not “over it,” again, what ever that means.  And I’ve definitely not “moved on.”   None of those labels will ever apply; grief just doesn’t work that way.  I’m a different person because I chose to walk through that door one year ago and let new people into my life.  I am who I am today because of the people I met one year ago at Camp Widow.

Today I get to meet the new strangers who didn’t want to be here.  I’ll sit just outside the door and watch for those who, like me, don’t want to “join.”  Hopefully, they’ll come inside, meet new friends and realize that they aren’t alone.  Despite how it feels, none of us are alone.

See you soon.

a better widow than me

Photo from here...

Last night, I finally threw Jeff's toothbrush in the trash. 3 years, 7 months and 22 days, since he used it to scrub his teeth clean.

This action was precipitated a few days ago when I had spoken to a dear friend who is known for being outspoken and blunt. She doesn't mean harm at all but is very Northern European in the delivery of her very strong beliefs and feelings.

During our visit, she told me that I had to "get over" Jeff. She said it was time to stop grieving and that I needed to get rid of the active reminders of, not only his death, but his life as well. Photos, personal effects, etc. All these should be removed.

She told me that I was teaching the kids to grow up grieving. That they would never "get over it" if I didn't move on. My lovely friend told me that she had lost grandparents who she had been close to and favourite friends and that she had had to move on.

Although I told her that I didn't agree that I was stuck in my grieving process and defended my beliefs and action; the confidence that I have grown in the last three years in my abilities, my intuition and strength took a bit of a bruising.

For the last few days, I have intensely analyzed all my post-Jeff actions. I have wondered if they are "normal" and "appropriate". I have scrutinized my grief and that of my children.

I find it interesting that to someone outside our home, it looks as if I am still struggling horribly in my grief. But inside our home, Jeff's life is celebrated and because of this, ours is so much richer. We have lost so much but manage to laugh and share a closeness that many other families do not. Death is not a taboo subject in our home. Neither is joy, anger, frustration or love. All types of emotions are wrapped into the learning experience we have all had due to Jeff's death...and we don't hide them. Just as we have these thoughts/feelings due to Jeff's death, we have a truly rich life that has nothing to do with our loss. Three lives that are celebrated everyday for the mere fact that we still live and will do so, richly and happily, until each of our time comes.

Ultimately, I have come to the conclusion that grief, specifically the loss of a spouse, is something that you have to live through to truly "get". I feel that just as everyone is the best parent they will ever be and know exactly how to parent BEFORE they ever even have their own children, everyone is the best widow/er before they have lost a spouse to death. I, too, have lost my beloved grandfather, very close friends, even an ex-boyfriend, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, could have prepared me for this.

So this morning, I fished that old toothbrush out of the garbage bin.....and put it in my sock drawer. No one has to see it any more, but it is still there, marking his place. Marking his existence until I am ready to remove it from our home.

commemoration

First written one year after Jeff died....

Since Jeff died, I have carried this wound of loss inside me. To anyone passing me on the street this scar is hidden. But it is there nonetheless.

I have tried to think of a way to commemorate the loss of Jeff that makes this scar, not only a sign of an injury, but a symbol of survival and strength. Something that calls my love to my mind and helps me to feel closer to the strength and his abilities of self-assurance that he was so capable of. Jeff was my anchor and the loss of him has forced me to grow so very much since his death.

So, in memory of Jeff, I went on the anniversary of his death to remember him with a symbol. An anchor to symbolize Jeff and his love of the ocean and mehndi style flowers and feathers to symbolize growth and flight.

Although I am sure that its' placement (on the inside of my right forearm) will cause a few raised eyebrows (my grandmother wasn't hugely impressed), I am okay with this. This is me. This is my life. These are the marks placed upon it by the happenings in my life. These marks are to remind me that Jeff loved me flaws and all, that I am strong, forced to be even stronger since losing him, and that he will always be with me in someway. When I wrap my arms around my children, this symbol will be held close to them. When I clutch at my chest with fear or sadness, he will be close to my heart...

old shoes and wooden spatulas

Photo from here....

I've been sorting through our cupboards and closets and purging the least needed/most outgrown items lately in anticipation of living mostly indoors again after a summer in the backyard and beach.

I have found mismatched gumboots, lost flashlights, a dried up snail and the odd coin. Most surprisingly, I have unearthed copious amounts of Jeff's clothing despite thinking that the vast majority of it had been distributed among family, friends and the Salvation Army.

As I have worked on this task, the kids have been playing together...or re-enacting small-scale wars in the back hall. Today, their fighting somehow led to the playroom door (for which there is no key) to be locked.

Since I imagine myself to be somewhat of a handi-woman, I attempted to pick the lock. Failing this, I attempted to break into the room from an exterior window. Then, I removed the door knob not really realizing that the bolt would still be intact...without a knob. After this, I tried to shoulder the door open with brute force. Sometime later, I gave up and called a friend.

As he kneeled on the floor peering through the impenetrable knob hole, I stared at his large sock-clad feet which brought to mind a pair of new, brown leather shoes I had unearthed at the back of the laundry room closet.

"Hey, Dave," I said, "Do you need any shoes?" He turned and looked at me quizzically.

"I found a pair of brand-new shoes of Jeff's at the back of a closet and thought that maybe you could use them."

"Um. Well. Not...I don't know, Jackie," he stammered, "That's...um, very nice of you. But, um, weird." He went on to explain, "I have never had anyone offer their dead husband's possessions to me. It feels really odd...and wrong."

I sat and pondered for a moment. I thought about how uncomfortable I would have felt in the same situation three years ago. How I may worry about accepting some one's beloved's possessions would ultimately upset them or that I may be terribly close to catching "dead".

But then I started to laugh, "Dave, I am sure when we are in our 90s and most of us have lost many of our loved ones and close friends, offering a pair of unused shoes or a wooden spatula that once belonged to a dead person will be nothing short of common place. This is just the beginning, my friend! And really, Dave, I do not think that you have to worry about Jeff needing them back."

But this evening as I washed dishes, I wondered again if it was wrong of me to ask a friend if he had use for something that had once belonged to Jeff? WAS it odd? Did I cross some taboo barrier? Was this a "widow's faux pas"? Am I still too young for my peers to "get" how ridiculous this attachment to a dead person's unused possessions is? Or is my way of thinking off-track?

I truly just wanted someone who could use them to have them....I suppose it will have to be a stranger who will use them. And that is okay too....they won't have to know that the shoes have "dead germs" on them. :)

touch me

I can handle being alone. Being "single" is just fine and I am often think that this is how I would prefer to live. Loading the dishwasher in the way I deem to be correct is truly satisfying. Dancing spastically in the kitchen while the kids sleep and not concerning myself with looking coordinated or even sexy is fabulous.

But not being having any physical contact with another adult human sucks. Badly.

In the months after Jeff died, people would hug me or rub my back as I stared blankly out a window. My daughter, five years old at the time, was perpetually snuggled next to me as she feared losing me in an instant as she had her beloved daddy. My one year old son was still breastfeeding and slept in my bed. Although I missed Jeff and every small thing about him, I was still often in close physical proximity to others.

After six months, the comforting embraces had dwindled and only my little ones continued to absentmindedly touch my skin and gently stroke my face as they surrendered to slumber.

I remember going to the hairdresser and blinking back tears as she softly brushed my hair. It was not erotic or sexual in any sense....It was just that at that moment, I was worthy of being touched by another human being.

Occasionally, my sweet friend would offer her husband up for a hug as he was large and burly like Jeff had been. I know it terrified him, but I would desperately sob into his chest as I imagined being held by Jeff's safe and strong arms. It was horribly humbling to be embraced by someone who was doing so, not because they desired this, but out of obligation to their wife....and embarrassing. But I still accepted those hugs.

Now, three years later, I am quite happy being on my own. I enjoy making my own decisions and choosing which path our little family should follow. I am comfortable with my own company and am truly never bored.

But, at times, I ache to be touched. To have someone push back the hair from my cheek or nonchalantly brush my arm with theirs. Just to have another person value my physical presence and find me attractive enough to want to touch me. I want to smell someone's neck as they embrace me within their strong arms....not out of duty to their wife, but because they want to.

strength

I have read a variety of quotes with a similar message. I think anyone who has dealt with trauma, loss or tragedy has come face-to-face with this choice. I also think that, at times, we have all chosen each one of the three options. I just hope that as we all get further from the moment that provoked this epiphany, we manage to choose to let this event strengthen us. To grow instead of be wilted. To swim, not sink. There is no need for one life to be wasted for the sole reason that one life was lost.

if you were here

There are times that I torture/comfort myself thinking of all the things I would say or do if Jeff "came back"....or was at very least able to hear me. It's a little game that hurts and heals simultaneously:

If you were here,

I'd slap you for not going to the doctor sooner.

If you were here,

I would curl up safe and warm in your arms.

If you were here,

the kids would know their daddy in reality...not just through the stories I tell about you.

If you were here,

I'd make YOU mow the lawn.

If you were here,

I would never, ever let you go.

The imagining of our conversations and interactions somehow makes him "real" and closer again....But it also stings when I allow the loss to sink back in. I wish I could just exist in the state of imagining him walk through the doorway, laughing at the dog's slobbery kisses and the way I jump up and down with glee at his arrival.

I don't know if this practice is beneficial in the long run...but for now, it's a way to hold him still. And imagine what life would be like if the worst had never happened.

kinship

Photo from here....

Nine months after Jeff died, my beloved grandfather joined him in the great fishing grounds in the sky. My grandmother was, understandably bereft. She asked me, "Does it ever begin to feel any better?" In that moment, I was struck by one thing. We were now not only linked by blood and family, but by the kinship of grieving our spouse.

Marriage always ends. Either by divorce or death. I am unaware of a "sister/brotherhood of divorcees" as, fortunately, I have not had to endure this. But I have definitely become part of the fraternity know as "widowed".

I am so very often struck by the kinship and kindness that runs through this group. The nods of understanding and the gentle acknowledgement of each other's pain. Whether 20 or 80, we understand. The details are always different, but the pain of loss is always the same.

Us widows? We have each other's backs. We stand up for each other. We support each other. And we assist each other.

If I have to be part of either group, although I hate what has brought me here, I am glad to share it all of you. Thank you for holding my hand, laughing with me through hysterics, helping me to jump my hurdles and lending an ear.

Let's all remember to be empathetic and sensitive to each other. Because at times, we are the only ones who understand. And I want each and everyone of you to know how much you are appreciated.

give me one reason

In any tragedy, early loss or hard lesson, we look for a reason behind it. The "why". Over the last three years I have searched for the explanation, or rationale, for Jeff's death and all the aftermath of his loss. Not the reason written on his autopsy certificate or the coroner's report. Something deeper. Something less concrete but still as real...and "good". I have searched for a sort of justification for his loss. Some signal that the repercussions for his death were not all negative and in vain. I have felt the flicker of atonement when an acquaintance had heard that Jeff's reluctance to go to the doctor resulted in his death and insisted her husband go to the doctor for a persistently bothersome throat...only to find out that he had cancer and possibly had a chance to catch it in time. I felt some sort of rationale - maybe Jeff saved someone else's daddy in a round about way. While signing a co-worker's life insurance papers as a witness after telling them of our life insurance debacle and how life would be so different for the kids and me if I didn't have to worry about money, I felt an acknowledgement for our loss. Someone wouldn't have to face widowhood with children and not know how they would provide for them financially. After singlehandedly installing six fence posts correctly in our backyard with only the help of a postpounder, a level and a ladder (plus an extremely zealous four-year old boy), I wondered over whether I would have not only been able to do this before Jeff's death and if I would have had the confidence to unquestioningly tackle the project alone. I certainly feel that will never be a good enough reason for losing my beloved...But there may be some other purpose behind his loss. A string of positive happens that would not have happened if I were able to hold him just a little longer. Hopefully, each loss of each of our spouses has caused some amount of positive to ripple through humanity. Because I need some amount of rationale. Some amount of explanation. Some amount of knowledge that my love's life did not go unnoticed.

the best before date

Photo from here....

As a widow, when does our license to actively grieve expire? Is there a time limit to our sadness? An event that signals the end of our foray into melancholy remembering? An experience that renders the act of longing for our spouse void?

As I drag myself along this road of the widowed person, I know that I am not done. Almost three years and I am not finished. Not completed my grief. I don't know if I will ever be.

Is this longing sadness a luxury? Is it just there because I allow it to be? If I were someone else, or had someone else, would it be over?

I don't know. I do know that I miss him and grieve him everyday still. Even though I have physically moved, changed our lives monumentally and healed enormously....I am not done.

I don't know if this means that I am not ready for another love to enter my life. I don't know if this means that I am broken. I don't know if this means I am honest about my mourning.

I wonder if other people feel that I should be 'finished' by now. That the expiry date on my feelings of loss have long since passed.

I hope not....because I am still feeling them. Even if the expiry date has passed.

Pretty Panty Problems

Photo from here...

There's an old adage that says that you should make sure that you are always wearing nice underpants in case you end up at the hospital and some health care worker witnesses the terrible state of your undergarments.
I remember this and other silly issues causing me concern at one point.
I could worry about this still...if I worked at it. But now, it is a choice.
I can care that someone believes that I am too old for my nose ring. I may occasionally wonder if I appear to be a socially responsible human. I might stress about the length of the lawn.
Since Jeff's death, I truly realize that "Life is short". All of us reading this blog are painfully aware. Our hearts ache and we may wonder 'why' this has happened. Why we have lost our loved ones.
But if we can look through the mesh of fear and sadness that our loss has created, we can see the gift that this loss has given us.
It's the gift of knowing what is important. Truly important.
It's not the whole-y undies that matter - it's the person that's wearing them. Their deeds, their heart, their memories. Well-loved and saggy, rainbow tie-dyed underpants can be replaced. The fabulous human who sports them cannot.
Although this lesson has come with a heartbreaking price, I am a kinder, better and more fun and confident person because of it....And if you look inside, I bet you are to. And I now feel that many of our everyday issues rank down there with pondering "pretty panty problems".


P.S. Nice undies!!!!

flying solo

Photo from here

I am finding this new responsibility of being thrust into the world of solitary decision making terrifying...But I am doing it and it's okay. I would prefer to bounce all these thoughts, necessary choices and responsibilities off of Jeff, but I can't. So as I forge ahead with my life alone, I am finding these mountains that I am climbing difficult; but in someways, I am getting better at them. I am learning to trust myself and the believe that I can make these decisons alone. That I know what is right for me...or us.
Today, I sold our car. The car that Jeff bought me for Valentine's Day in 2006. The car Jeff died in. My little blue Toyota Matrix. It was small, safe and economical....But we had the truck for carrying larger loads and muddy dogs. I didn't need to bring multiple children in the car very often as I wasn't caring for anyone other than my kiddos or the occasional playdate.
But now, life is different. I am going to need to look to a future where I can bring in an income and care for my children alone. I need to be able to move objects by myself and cart various things home that would not fit in my little car.
So now, I own a minivan. I decided and made the deal myself. It was scary and I kept worrying that I was being taken advantage of....Possibly a bit paranoid. But I did it. Myself.
The kids and I quite like the van. It's a few years older than the car thus making it more affordable. It's clean and safe. It is blue just as my little car was...Jeff's favourite colour as Liv pointed out.
Liv had her trepidation about buying the van. She cried the first night and asked me to go get the car back because it reminded her of Daddy. I remembered crying when my dad talked of selling our little Vauxhal (a little white German car that our family had when I was a child - it`s floor was rusted out, we would watch the road go by as we drove along and we sang songs about `Daddy`s little Vauxhal`). It was certainly a different circumstance but I could empathize with her feelings of security and comfort in the car....especially after losing so much this year. But now, it is like a fort. She wants to show all her friends her new van. They ask to `play in the van`. I am loving the space and the ability to comfortably take our friends along.
So although one door has closed, another has opened. I do feel sad. I do have such fond memories of our little car that I had thought the kids would learn to drive. But I must be flexible and not hold onto things that do not provide the needs we now have just because they are a link to Jeff. This is a hard lesson to learn. But I am doing it.

Originally posted Nov. 29, 2008 - 8 months 4 days post-Jeff on my blog

touchdown

Photo from "Day one" by Ameena Rojee.

Originally posted Tuesday, December 30, 2008 (after nine months of widowhhood) on my blog.

It’s here again. The brief agonizingly sharp pain of awakening. Like from a coma. Or a nightmare and realizing that it is reality.
I walk around as an automaton. I feed the kids. I wash my face. I buy chicken feed. I seem to be moving. I seem to be alive. Sometimes, I believe it myself. I think, “Okay. We’ll be okay. I can do this.” People tell me that I look good. That I seem to be healing. It’s not me. It’s the robot that applied my make-up. It is the instinct that drives me. It’s the habit of years of doing before my life ended.
Now, I put the bleach in the fridge. I forget to feed the fish for weeks and one of them dies of starvation. I mean to buy Christmas gifts for people. But Christmas passes and I still haven’t done it. I don’t phone people back. I don’t even remember that they called. I leave the house a mess until I impale my foot on a thumb tack dropped days before.
People say that they too suffer from this affliction. Yes, I used to laugh at my forgetting ways and ‘mommy brain’. This is different. There is no one at the helm.
Often, I hear myself talking. But I don’t really know what I am saying. I am gone. I am asleep. The lights are on, but no one is home.
Then, I wake for short periods of time. I wake and scream. I lock the bathroom door to get the only privacy I can get. I sob and cry out. I pull my hair. I want to throw up. I swear. I rage. I want out of this hell.
I worry that what is happening will cause more grief for my children. Will cause judgement from others. But I can’t help it. I can’t stop crying. I can’t pour out the pain fast enough to get it together to hold these two little souls close and tell them the lie again, “It is going to be okay.”
I have no one to call. Jeff died. Everyone else who lives in this house is under four feet tall. People outside this house have their own problems. Everyone tells me to let them know if I need help. I won’t. They have families and lives they need to attend to. In all honesty, I often don’t want to talk. To see anyone. To maintain these fucking ridiculous social graces that no longer mean a rat’s ass to me.
I know this keeps going. I know that it is too long. I know that my lack of healing is a burden. I know that it is more comfortable for everyone if I just maintain the façade. So I do. And I close up again. And my children can see a mother who doesn't cry out and moan from the loss. I go back to my hiding place inside. I curl up in the foetal position and resume my slumber until the next time I wake to find that it is true. And he is gone.

what it is

Photo from golfest

Talking about being a widow is not something I always do....or want to do.
Sometimes I need to talk about it. Express why I am attending a social engagement alone. Assure others that I'm not a 'cast off' - that my husband left me because he was physically unable to stay....not because he found me in bed with my tennis instructor. Now and then, I have to purge the sadness by letting even grocery store clerks know that my husband died. At these times, I am quite skilled at wedging it into any conversation under any scenario.
Other times, the whole story of his loss seems a nuisance. I dance around the topic of the whole event until it is entirely necessary to mention the fact that he dropped dead for fear of having strange, unexplained holes in my stories and sounding like a lunatic.
I found myself in the latter situation tonight. I held off talking about it for as long as I could....and finally just stated, "My husband died in 2008".
I did not want to hear the "Oh! I'm SO sorry! I had no idea!" As I answered, "Yeah, well, it is what it is." And I realized just how over-used but very astute this saying is.
I felt slightly....resentful. Not for being a widow. I just didn't want to be different. I wanted to be one of the moms talking at the table about runny noses, bullies and fuel economy. I didn't want to feel marked by loss. I didn't want to be pitied. I didn't want to explain again what life is like alone. Because often, now, it just is.
I don't really know different anymore....because this is now my reality. And it is what it is.

not all bad

Photo from here...

When we think of being widowed, we most often think of the sadness, the loss and the loneliness created in the wake of our loss. We reflect on what once was. We imagine and recreate what could have been 'if only'. We long to be transported back in time to when life seemed sweeter and kinder.
Rarely do we think of the blessings we have gained. The lessons we have learned. The better people we have become.
I know that since Jeff died, I take the positives in my life less for granted. This is not to say that I don't still grumble like a petulent child when life doesn't provide what I feel it should. But I am certainly more aware of the amazing and awe-filled things that those touched by trauma are gifted with. I notice the small crystalline patterns created in the dog's water dish and marvel at their beauty. I realize that I am either going crazy or have been struck by some seemingly silly, glowing warmth that makes me....grateful that there is still breathtaking beauty in the world.
I realize now just how lucky I was to have found such love in my life and even when we argued over who's way was the 'correct' way to load the dishwasher, I was blessed.
I feel the gift of knowing that life does not revolve around 'what' but 'who'. This fact was probably known to me before losing Jeff....but not internalized. I still have the occasional longing for a pair of coveted gumboots, but I realize that in 15 years those same boots may lay lifeless and forgotten in my shoe rack....and those who I actually love may be lifeless as well....but certainly not forgotten.
I feel a peace that I did not once possess. I know that I cannot change much of what happens in the world or my life. Events happen. Losses occur. I cannot dictate these happenings. I can only control my own actions. This brings my soul a form of solace. Worrying will not change what may happen. I can only face what has happened.
Although life is less sweet without my love sharing it with me, it is sweetened somewhat with the realizations and epiphanies my loss has opened my eyes to. And I am grateful for these blessings.

time after time

Photo from Holly Northrop

I keep returning here to write something. To let you all know that things are okay and that life goes on and we are happy. They are, it does and often we are.
But I am feeling the weight lately of a realization. One I should have had two years and eight months ago.
This is FOREVER.
Not solely being without Jeff.
But taking the garbage out by myself. Half-heartedly laughing at a movie alone. Waking up with two frightened children and their nightmares. Making turkey dinner for three.
All of it. Alone. All of it on me. All of it, my responsibility.
The monotony of continuing on is exhausting. The strength needed to smile and be optimistic waning.
I am at a point where I feel like my 'get out of jail free/talk about Jeff as much as I want' card is expiring and I should allow a conversation to pass without dropping his name. But I am not ready. He is still my lover/friend/husband.
I want to write about it all. I want to talk about it. I know that so many will tell me that it is MY timetable and to do what I need to do....But I also wonder about other's patience and my sanity for remaining in the world of 'what was'.
I am so painfully lonely....and writing about it seems so terribly lame and pathetic. I have never felt this lonely. Socially, I am quite satisfied. I have great friends. A ridiculously busy life. No 'free' time.
But 'intimately', I am starving. I want to whisper in the dark to someone who will whisper back. I need to know that there is someone, who happens to have a physical body, that has genuine interest in the intricacies of my mind and my little family. To feel that when I am drowning under an ocean of mundane yet necessary tasks, that someone will help....just because. I want to be touched. I want to not be alone. I want to have the luxury of allowing fear and vulnerability in.
I want to be loved again.
....And I feel so pathetic for writing about this loneliness yet again.

brand name

photo from learning how to live

Doctor

Obsequious

Tattle-tale

Cashier

Humanitarian

Uncle

Artist

Labels are words that used to describe ourselves and others - a way to quickly and efficiently identify traits and tendencies.

When I think about the labels used to describe or identify me, the one that gives me most to think about is 'widow'.

Initially, I despised this branding. I hated the term and what it meant - that my husband was dead. I didn't see myself as the typical widow in black gracefully and wisely fading into the background. I wasn't sure if my personal portrayal of this word was proper or made me a 'good widow'. Somehow this term seemed to mean to me that I had failed.

Over time this feeling has changed. Now I wear this name tag with a little bit of pride and a lot of awe. I have made it this far. Two and a half years ago I would never have believed it. I did not think I would genuinely laugh again. I would not have imagined that I would enjoy life and all its' mysteries. It astounds me.

At the risk of sounding pompous, I am kind of proud of myself. I am stronger that I ever thought possible. I'm not a warrior, but a widow. And I have chosen to get out of bed each morning despite believing that the last morning that mattered had already happened. The loss of my husband has taught me that there are few things in life to be feared and that taking a leap of faith is far less terrifying as I once thought.

Now that I carried the 'medal' of widowhood, I wonder how long do I get to wear it? In five years, does the noun 'widow' get taken from me and get replaced with 'widowed'. Will it cease to be a label and instead become a verb? If I ever enter a relationship again, do I stop being a widow and become one of the ones on Facebook with the status of "Married"? I feel that I would be both....Would "It's complicated" be offbase?

I now wear my label as a mark of my late husband. An etching of "Jeff was here" in my perverbial bark. Although I may be ready for another label or two, I would like to keep my hard-earned 'widow badge', thank you very much.

are you there grief? it's me, jackie

Now and then, I sit down before the computer on the night before my post is due for Widow's Voice and stare blankly at the screen. Mentally, I examine my current thoughts, my day's mullings, recent happenings. I gleen for any unprobed areas of the loss of Jeff.....and find none.

It's not often that this happens. But occasionally, there is quiet. An acceptance. A compliance with what is.

Jeff has yet to return from his voyage to "Heaven". The kids and I still miss him. His clothes still inhabit his drawers.

But at times, the ache is subdued and the crying is quieted.

It is these times that I fluctuate between joy at the thought of recovery, pleasure from the lightness acceptance brings, sadness that this may mean that I am moving away from 'him' and guilt that the pain is not so pungent and painful.

But I know I'll fret for awhile, worry about what to write, go to sleep and wake up thinking of something I wish he could have heard Briar say, remembering how he loved to eat hot dogs wrapped in pilsbury croissant dough and cheese (SO greasy and revolting the thought actually still turns my stomach) and wondering if it's true that daughters are more likely to be promiscuous without their father in attendance.....And the next week, there will be no loss for words.....

those in the know

Today I begin my journey to the Soaring Spirit's Loss Foundation's Camp Widow. I feel as if I am running to the arms of dear friends.....although some of these people I have never met.

I will spend my time with a couple of hundred people who know what widowhood is. Really know. Not an abstract idea that is hard to fully wrap your mind around until the day it settles its' weight around your shoulders. But those who have felt the fear of knowing that when our lives are lost, our children become orphans. Known the loneliness of suddenly losing all the support and comfort of our partner. Become familiar with the uncertainty of not knowing who you are without your 'other half'. Discovered the joy of finding out that you are still whole - even missing half your heart. And, hopefully, the excitement that can one day happen when experiencing the rebirth after your past life has ended.

I am ecstatic to be with this communtiy once again. To know I am not the only one. To know I don't have to explain. To know, that at least here, I am not alone.

As a widow, how many times have you said, "when/since/because _____ died"? Even after two years, three months and six days, I regularly use this phrase. Does widowhood define me this much or is it that the loss of my husband has been so life-altered, self-forming, world-shifting to me that I can attribute most of the occurrences in my present life to the event?
I prefer to believe that my life, goals, priorities, etc have all been modified, improved and streamlined. I hope that I can now see more clearly what is 'important' rather than that the definition of 'widow' has become so entwined with my vision of 'self'.
Or am I just lying to myself and hiding behind the loss of my other half?