Thanks for all the fish....

The time has come for me to step down from writing here at WV.

I am honoured to have been a part of this wonderful resource and to have felt the love of so many who have connected with me through this medium. 

It is hard to let go - this platform has been one of the most important ways I have walked myself through this grief.  I have shared my ups and downs with you and you, in turn, have let me know I am not alone.

I remember how I felt when I first started writing - I had been pouring my pain into my own blog when Michele asked me to write here.  WV was to be a different way of writing as I was no longer writing Letters to my Husband, but I was writing about myself, my life, my now.

Ultimately, that change in writing style has seen me more closely examine my own feelings and name them for what they were: desolation, depression, desperation, despair.

But in recognising how I felt each week, I have been able to track those feelings over time.

There are times when I still feel the dark, mawing pit seething in front of me, trying to draw me down into its cavernous bowels ..... but now, more often than not, I am noticing other feelings that outweigh them.

Last week I wrote about the happiness that has come to be part of my life.
I have raised my eyes from my feet and have seen that my life is not over: that I have to live because I didn't die.

I have felt the love of my husband continue after his death and this love has given me the confidence to make a better life for my children and I.  ....and that's what I have been doing.

..... and ever so slowly, this new life is taking shape.

It's not the shape I wanted my life to be, but it is new and different and a tiny bit magnificent.

So it is time for me to say So Long- and thanks for all the fish (because you all should know by now what a massive geek I am and I would just have to use a HHGTTG quote somewhere in here).


....and so it falls on me to introduce my replacement here on WV. 

Please welcome Stephanie to the fold and shower her with the kindness and understanding that you have given me.....

Stephanie was widowed in February of 2013 after her husband of nearly 14 years, Mike, had a heart attack in his sleep at age 59. Only 44 at the time, she has spent the past year obsessively writing about her husband, her grief, and the difficult task of recreating her future. Stephanie is originally from the Washington, DC area but moved to Hollywood after college to work as a special FX artist. She met her husband, who was a stuntman, there in 1999. They moved to Hawaii in 2001, where for four years, they ran a martial arts/yoga school. They closed the school when Mike got the job as stunt coordinator for the TV show "Lost". Stephanie worked as the personal assistant to a physicist for several years, and then - now, ever so gratefully - spent a couple of years in quiet retirement with Mike before he died. She feels it is the exact right time for her to start connecting with other widows, and sharing stories of grief and personal transformation. Her first post will be on May 1, which was the day she and Mike first got engaged in 1999.

Saying Goodbye.. Again

The last picture taken of me and my best friend.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my dog being diagnosed with cancer (I wrote about it here)

Tuesday, the day after my birthday I had to kill put my best friend to sleep.

I am in shock. I am devastated. Three weeks after his diagnoses he went from being fine to not eating and his eyes rolling back in his head.

Nine years and one day after my husband gave me Clifford for my birthday..  I had to let go.

I had to say goodbye.. again.

I wasn't ready to let go.. again.

Yet no matter how much I fought it or how much it hurt, I had no say in it.. again.

Piece by piece, day by day, moment by moment, I lose another piece of my husband. I lose another piece of my before life.

Step by step I walk through a more than ever empty home.

Just when it feels like I have nothing else to lose, I lose my best friend.

The friend that never cared what I look like. Never cared if I can’t manage to get out of bed or not. Never cared if I was deep in grief. He always loved me. Loved me more than he loved himself.

Three years later I am saying goodbye all over again.

Three years later I feel like I am starting all over.. again.

My husband dying piece by piece never gets easier.

Saying goodbye and moving forward never gets easier.

Almost time to say goodbye

Maggie died in May 2009.  I’ve been writing on Widow’s Voice since April 2011.  I don’t write as often as the other bloggers because I guess I’m the quiet one.  Yet I hope that my infrequency has been inversely reflected in the intensity of my posts; I’ve been open and honest and shared all that I’ve been working through.  My path – the same path you are on – sadly leaves only one set of footprints in the sand.  Yet, for some reason and maybe you feel the same, I’ve felt that my job is to keep drawing another set of footprints.

I’m now ready to stop drawing footprints in the sand.  It’s time for me to walk alone.  I’ve cleared the closet.  I’ve gotten rid of the shoes.  I’ve sold the house.  I changed jobs.  Our dog is no longer with me.  I’ve moved.  If there’s anything “us” that’s left, I don’t know what that might be. I guess my only last difficult part is saying goodbye to you.  That's hard, too.  For us, saying goodbye has a very, very, very different meaning than the rest of the world.  We have all been very seriously affected by goodbyes.  I, like you, take goodbyes very seriously.

Thus, it’s unlikely this will be my last post.  Hell, Michele (the founder and editor of Widow’s Voice) is likely spitting her coffee all over the keyboard as she reads this post because I didn’t warn her (Sorry!)  But it’s also unlikely that she didn’t know this was coming.  She's been watching me working hard at climbing out of the dark pit of despair for years.  You have all bared witness since April 2011 - more than three years.  For three years I’ve been struggling and while I’ve not “won” anything, I’ve survived and believed.  I’ve survived long enough to get my feet underneath me and my head back on straight.  Finally, I feel like I'm just at the beginning of start of my new life.

There are three things you must know:
#1.  No matter how hard it hurts, now matter how alone you feel, no matter how difficult it is to breathe, you can do this.  You can survive.  You can do this.

#2.  You are not alone.  You are not alone.  You are not alone.  (Yes, I typed that three times because damn it, no matter what anyone tells you or what you think when the lights are out late at night or when you are sitting on the train looking around or when you are at your best friend’s wedding, you are not alone.  We are everywhere and we are with you.)

#3.  You will never be “over it” but you will live and love again.  You will be happy again.

Saying My Goodbyes

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When I stood next to my husband’s casket, and said my goodbyes, I thought that would be the first and last goodbye I would ever say to him.

I didn't realize I would be saying goodbye to him on a daily basis, 31 months later.

The goodbyes start every morning. As I slowly wake from my dream state, and his face slowly drifts away with my dreams, I say goodbye.

As I’m rushing around, trying to get my day started, I say hello.

"I love you, but I have got to go. I have work and life to attend to. It’s time for you to leave my mind, so let's say goodbye."

As the day slowly comes to an end, I tell him goodbye, once again.

Enter the dream state and its hello all over again.

Enter the never ending circle of hello's and goodbyes.

The hello's come with signs he is around. Monarch butterflies and the hearts I notice in the weirdest objects and places.

Its “hello, and I love you too. Thanks for the heart, but I got to go. Goodbye my love.”

Looking back, I wish someone would have told me how horribly hard this journey is. I wish instead of telling me “it will get better”, someone would have told me how bad it sucks and how long it would suck for.

I wish someone would have told me of the never ending counting my brain would do. How many days since I last saw my husband. How many months it has been. I wish someone would have told me that the counting, is normal. It took me feeling like I was losing my mind, before someone said “This is normal”.

I wish someone would have told me, as I stood next to his casket saying goodbye, that it wouldn't be the last goodbye I would say to my husband.

Today, I am wishing I only had to say the one goodbye. Today I am wishing I didn't know it is 957 days since I saw my husband alive. Today I wish the “suck it up and move on” actually worked.

This morning as I woke up from yet another dream of Seth, I said my goodbyes all over again. With tears in my eyes and my pillow soaked from dream tears, I realized that saying goodbye never gets easier.

While saying my goodbye's hasn't gotten easier saying my hello's as gotten far easier.

I welcome the hello's and welcome him into my dreams a lot easier now.

In the early stage of grief, I cursed him for showing up in my dreams. I would scream at him for sending me signs that he was around.

It is now a wonderful hello session, that I look forward to every time I close my eyes.

I look forward to the day that goodbye doesn't take me all the way back to the day he died.