730 Days

Written on April 15, 2011

729 days and 22 hours ago…

we were dancing in his room.

We were drinking beer, watching American Idol

and eating.

I can’t remember what.

We were laughing together,

his sister, his best childhood friend, my friend and I.

And then one of us would look at him,

and cry.

I tried to forget all of that today.

I told myself that I will “ignore” tomorrow.

I had decided that I would ignore this anniversary.

The 730^th day.

730 days since my life

shifted,

became Jell-O under my feet,

since it ended up on a different life plane.

And those memories of the last hours of his life

can’t be stopped.

I tried eating my way into ignorance.

I tried drinking my way past them.

And yet, there they are,

those pointy edges,

those fragments of memory,

pricking me,

making me bleed tiny little droplets

and

as I bleed out,

in comes the physical response to the grief.

My spine aches,

my eyes feel prickly.

I feel fuzzy, unclear and surreal.

Just like I did 729 days ago.

I am filled with the same joy too. It was us, the four of us there, in our cocoon. The world stopped at the hospital door. Those three were there with me, we were there to help him leave this life. It was beautiful those last hours.

His leaving so black, so unknowing. Sarah McGloughlin reminding me to:

“Hold on.

Hold on to yourself.

This is gonna hurt like hell.”

I remember the nurse telling me that I wasn’t cooping well.

And I yelling at her, “I know I’m not cooping. My husband is dying! Now get him more morphine!”

I remember all of it

It pours into me.

There is no stopping it, no deciding to ignore it.

So I sit still

Let the tears come in their sporadic, unpredictable rhythm,

dropping down my cheek and onto my shirt.

I use my hands to swipe at them, smearing the wetness onto the back of my hands then onto my cheeks and then my pants or the bed duvet cover. Tissues …I can’t. Placing something clean and white under my eye to safely contain the grief feels absurd.

Grief is messy and wet and unpredictable.

I want these tears to represent all of it.

And then I want to cry not just to honor what has been lost,

but what

has

been

gained.

I can’t be one without the other.

730 days.

730 days.

730 days.

730 days.

To be followed by 731.

Sex, Sensuality and Sadness

I accidentally posted this on Saturday, the wrong day!! Sorry Taryn!

Sex. I’ve been thinking about it lately.
And I really miss it. I miss the animal-ness of having another sweaty body pressed down against mine, the sounds, the smell.

I miss being openly desired, I miss teasing, I miss all the foreplay that comes before. I miss being sexy. I miss being a sensual woman.

And I find myself unsure if I even know how to be sensual outside of him.

I know I don’t have to be. After all I’m a widow. Good widows don’t crave sex. Good widows don’t take about that need. Good widows move forward but do so looking back and sighing. Good widows leave their best years behind them, and walk bravely into the future. Good widows don’t talk about their “toys” either.

Sometime when people ask me how I’m doing I want to say, in a pleasant soft voice with a sweet smile, “I’m horny as hell and really want to get laid.”

I’m a shitty “good” widow.

But it’s not just about the sex. It’s about the desire to be desirable. It’s about having a man openly want me, it’s about my wanting him back.

It’s about being sensual and here is where I struggle. For all of our sex, for all the times we made love, I can’t say that I was ever sensual, I mean really, really comfortable enough to be sensual with Art.

And I’m scared.
Art’s death has splayed me open…. I am raw to the touch, to any emotional breeze. And in a weird way I feel the fool. Foolish for laying there letting anyone see me.

And yet in the fear strangely comes courage and the desire to use my second chance to embrace what I have always wanted to be but been too afraid to try.

It’s the bravery I turn into Sensuality here in Cancun. I love the word, it captures it’s meaning in its pronunciation.

I have dared myself to practice being sensual this whole trip. And in doing so I try to see my body the way Art did: beautiful, soft, curvy and expressive. It’s difficult to ignore the familiar, mean, internal messages. “Your thighs are too big. You have too much cellulite. And good Lord, whatever you do don’t lean over! Your three child stomach skin will hang down like elephant ears.”

My sensuality fights to stay present, in front of me.

On the beach, I study other woman from other places like Brazil and Atlanta. I watch them move in tiny bathing suits with bellies and thighs and bosoms that are the complete opposite of the waif thin I think I should be. And I watch the sensuality float around them, magnifying their sexiness.

I want that. I want to dip myself in it. I want to be amplified. I want to see what Art saw in my body. He didn’t see the stretch marks, cellulite, the wrinkled belly, or the saggy small breasts.

All he saw in that single minded male way was a woman, who he loved with breast that were just right, with a belly that was curvy in all the right places, soft, expressive and holy delicious to look at, to kiss, to stroke.

With those thoughts, Sadness creeps in. There is a man on this trip that I’m interested in. It will be a one night stand. And suddenly standing next to this man, I am lost, not sure how to do this or even if I want to. I am scared I will do something “wrong.” I am still splayed open. I feel unattractive and needy and fuck….vulnerable.

It is here that I see for now, I am trapped between my dead husband and a world that is out there. A world I see and occasionally venture into but for most of the time it waits for me to figure out how I want to engage in it.

And with that, the sensuality is gone. I am a widow. A scared, lost, confused widow. Not sure what to do or how to do it.

I've been here before. I'll figure it out.

Sex, Sensuality and Sadness

Sex. I’ve been thinking about it lately.
And I really miss it. I miss the animal-ness of having another sweaty body pressed down against mine, the sounds, the smell.

I miss being openly desired, I miss teasing, I miss all the foreplay that comes before. I miss being sexy. I miss being a sensual woman.

And I find myself unsure if I even know how to be sensual outside of him.

I know I don’t have to be. After all I’m a widow. Good widows don’t crave sex. Good widows don’t take about that need. Good widows move forward but do so looking back and sighing. Good widows leave their best years behind them, and walk bravely into the future. Good widows don’t talk about their “toys” either.

Sometime when people ask me how I’m doing I want to say, in a pleasant soft voice with a sweet smile, “I’m horny as hell and really want to get laid.”

I’m a shitty “good” widow.

But it’s not just about the sex. It’s about the desire to be desirable. It’s about having a man openly want me, it’s about my wanting him back.

It’s about being sensual and here is where I struggle. For all of our sex, for all the times we made love, I can’t say that I was ever sensual, I mean really, really comfortable enough to be sensual with Art.

And I’m scared.
Art’s death has splayed me open…. I am raw to the touch, to any emotional breeze. And in a weird way I feel the fool. Foolish for laying there letting anyone see me.

And yet in the fear strangely comes courage and the desire to use my second chance to embrace what I have always wanted to be but been too afraid to try.

It’s the bravery I turn into Sensuality here in Cancun. I love the word, it captures it’s meaning in its pronunciation.

I have dared myself to practice being sensual this whole trip. And in doing so I try to see my body the way Art did: beautiful, soft, curvy and expressive. It’s difficult to ignore the familiar, mean, internal messages. “Your thighs are too big. You have too much cellulite. And good Lord, whatever you do don’t lean over! Your three child stomach skin will hang down like elephant ears.”

My sensuality fights to stay present, in front of me.

On the beach, I study other woman from other places like Brazil and Atlanta. I watch them move in tiny bathing suits with bellies and thighs and bosoms that are the complete opposite of the waif thin I think I should be. And I watch the sensuality float around them, magnifying their sexiness.

I want that. I want to dip myself in it. I want to be amplified. I want to see what Art saw in my body. He didn’t see the stretch marks, cellulite, the wrinkled belly, or the saggy small breasts.

All he saw in that single minded male way was a woman, who he loved with breast that were just right, with a belly that was curvy in all the right places, soft, expressive and holy delicious to look at, to kiss, to stroke.

With those thoughts, Sadness creeps in. There is a man on this trip that I’m interested in. It will be a one night stand. And suddenly standing next to this man, I am lost, not sure how to do this or even if I want to. I am scared I will do something “wrong.” I am still splayed open. I feel unattractive and needy and fuck….vulnerable.

It is here that I see for now, I am trapped between my dead husband and a world that is out there. A world I see and occasionally venture into but for most of the time it waits for me to figure out how I want to engage in it.

And with that, the sensuality is gone. I am a widow. A scared, lost, confused widow. Not sure what to do or how to do it.

I've been here before. I'll figure it out.

they are okay

There are days or moments that I watch my little ones and think, "Bloody Hell. They are going to be so messed up after all they've been through." Then there are times that I see them blossom and bloom with smiles, laughter and play where I think, "If you didn't know what had happened, you would think these two had a 'normal' life."

All I know for sure, is that no matter how our lives unfold, they are stronger because they have eachother.

They still know how to laugh and be silly without guilt or remorse.

And that these two little ones are the most amazing teachers of living after your life has stopped.

I am practising seeing the world through their eyes....It isn't as dark as it is through mine.

Originally posted 7 1/2 months after losing their daddy on our personal blog.

safety freak

Photo from here

My minivan has a back-up beeper installed and I never fail to safety goggles when required.
I realize that teenagers at the bus stop snicker as I stride by sporting my safety vest covered in all its' reflective glory and a red light flashing out a constant reminder of the whereabouts of my hindend.
And in the past, I would have worried that this safety gear would identify me as a complete dork. A safety freak. Now I see it as protecting my kids.
By wearing this protective paraphernalia, I am hopefully preventing the possibility of creating two little orphans.
I am terrified of leaving them alone in the world. Without Daddy....and then without Mommy.
I have stopped short of wearing bubble wrap beneath my clothing. But I do get my flu shot and wear a helmet when riding my bike. For my kids. I'll do it because they do still need me.

two hands where four are needed

I recently found a "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff Workbook". It is full of quizzes and exercises to force you to look inward at yourself. This introspection makes me realize that I am pretty 'normal' if not, less 'sweaty' than the average person. I've been really enjoying 'getting to know myself' in the 5 minutes I take now and then to complete a section. And it's interesting to compare 'me' now to 'me' before.
I am much more chill than I once was. Less worried about many of the problems that plagued me before Jeff died. That's not to say that they don't annoy/pester/frustrate/even terrify me - just less so now. Most of these issues will not kill me. They MAY force us to live in a cardboard box but, hey, at least we'd have a roof over our heads!
BUT when I read the tip the other night that directs you to do ONE THING AT A TIME, it made me jealous. That green eyed monster made me want to live the life of the people who have the luxury of completing one. task. before starting something new.
I know I felt that I was busy and always needed before, when I was a non-widow. But I was just a pussy.
I now cannot fathom walking down the hall without a pocket full of lego to deposit in my son's room, an armpit full of drawing tools to return to my daughter, a hand shoving the vacuum before me, a signed permission slip hanging from my teeth while dragging the laundry hamper along behind me on my way to the back door to stack firewood, fix the shed door and dig an irrigation ditch next to the driveway.
I am not sweating the small stuff. I am just trying to stay on top of two people's work with just two hands and one head. And sometimes, it really blows.

the wishlist

My children are aware that Christmas is in 23 days. Already they are making their preparations for the big day. Snow flakes already adore most of the windows in our house, our advent calendar is hanging above the fireplace and letters to Santa are ready to post. After ruminating long and hard over what she would write, my eight year old daughter, Liv, stood up from the kitchen table with a letter for Santa clutched in her skinny, little hands. Hope and excitement lit her face.
"Do you think Santa can bring whatever you ask for if you only ask for one thing?", she whispered.
"It depends what it is, I suppose", I answered nervously imagining pink polka-dotted unicorns and hot-air balloon rides to the moon being requested. I was surprised when she handed over her note.
Her words make me vacillate between laughter and tears....
I don't know what I'd do without these little people who make life so much harder and some much more bearable in one motion.

P.S. Briar asked for a remote control monster truck taller than his head. Not as emotionally charged, but certainly enough to strike fear in a mother's heart. How the HECK is Santa going to pull off Christmas????

wishing it were

Photo by Tom Grey

My daughter, Liv, has always loved stories. Stories of mythical creatures and the lessons these myths hold seem to entice her imagination into applying these learning experiences upon her life.

Awhile back, for movie night, the kids and I watched ""The Secret of Roane Inish". After learning of the legend of the Selkies, Liv was truly enraptured and enthralled.

"The seas around Orkney and Shetland harbour the shy Selkies or Seal-Faeries (known as the Roane in Ireland). A female Selkie is able to discard her seal skin and come ashore as a beautiful maiden. If a human can capture His skin, the selkie can be forced to become a fine, if wistful, wife. However, should she ever find her skin she immediately returns to the sea, leaving the husband to pine and die. The males raise storms and upturn boats to avenge the indicriminate slaughter of the seals." -- Brian Froud and Alan Lee, "Faeries"

Liv has decided that her father was a Selkie. That the pull for the sea was too much for him and he had to return to his home....Leaving us behind - me, his wife and his 'Darkies', the offspring of the Selkie and a human. But she feels that he is happy in the sea and that one day we will see him there amid the waves.


While the thought that the pull of the ocean was stronger than his love for us fills me with sadness, this explanation of his 'departure' from us fits so very well that it carries some ....comfort, even for me. That he is back in the ocean that he so dearly loved. That there is a 'reason' for him to leave us. A need stronger than we were able to fight against.


As I watch my kids learn to accept the loss of their daddy, I find healing in their ideas and theories. To them, I am the giver of comfort. The one who offers a stable shoulder and an empathetic word. And I wonder if they will ever understand that not only does their presence make life more than bearable, but it brings me peace and understanding of our loss.


I know that he died. He is not literally in the sea. I know that he didn't leave us because he was a seal. But the sparkle and wonder in this theory adds a magic that is not present in the 'real' story of his loss.


And I love to imagine him in the place he loved best ~ the sea.

to try again or not to try again

I'm lonely. Bitter and lonely.

I don't want to date....but when no one asks me to go on a date, I feel stung and.....lame.

What is wrong with me? Are my thighs too large? Do I not have a good enough job? Do I have too much baggage? Do I look to androgynous?

Then I look around at what is out here. I'm young-ish but old enough that if someone my age is single, there is often a very good reason. The dregs at the bottom of the glass. Is that how I am seen? The leftovers.

I mentally ask Jeff to send someone interesting my way....And then think I am an idiot. I don't want anyone in my life! The kids and I are fine. I get to choose all the pictures on the walls. I am the master of my domain! I was truly loved by a wonderful man who I adored and could never 'replace' that.

But then I find myself curled up around my cold hands wishing I had someone's armpits to stuff them in to warm them up. Someone who'd listen as I told them the long-winded anti-climactic story of my drive home behind a woman with a beehive hairdo and five chihuahuas. Someone who'd share the huge pot of chicken stew I made that won't fit in the freezer, dooming my single self to three days of a strict stew diet after the kids have long grown tired of the thick and healthy vegetable laden broth.

Back and forth I go. Yes, I want to date. No, I most certainly don't want some cast-off in my life. But I want someone to give a damn about what goes on here. But I don't want to worry about the hairdo my legs are sporting. But it would feel great to care about someone and know that they think I'm the bomb. But I'm glad I don't have to put the toilet seat down before I sit.....

For now, maybe I should just ask Jeff to help me decide what the hell I want in my life. Because how I'm feeling right now is just pathetic and quite possibly, desperate. Not traits that are at all attractive or conducive to inviting a possible relationship into my life, really.

Photo from Fort Dodge

This week my little girl, Liv, started school....not kindergarten or grade one. Until now, she had been homeschooled.
When Jeff was alive, we had discussed our desires for our children's education and what we thought would be the best pathway for our family to take. Although we both agreed that homeschooling was the choice for us at the time, Jeff felt that the advent of Grade Three would signal an appropriate time for our daughter to enter the public school system. I had balked at the idea....and really I thought that I had years to prepare my argument to sway his thinking.
When he died, I didn't think about it much, but I suppose part of me figured I could have my own way now.
It turns out he was right. Grade Three is the year that Liv begins her public school journey. It's bumpy but she's enjoying it.
And I feel that Jeff left me with instructions for his wishes....and it makes me feel less alone when I drop her off each morning. This is what he wanted for our little girl....and maybe he's watching over her as she trudges up the pathway into the school doors and grinning. He won.

Grief-in-Action

I'm here at Camp Widow in San Diego.
I videotaped the room full of us widows clapping.
And now that I am trying to post it, I'm not sure it's working.
Frustration is on my shoulders, my wrinkled brow and scrunched up eyes.
After an hour of searching and trying solutions, I don't know if any of them will work and I feel
defeated and completely

unable to cope.

Unable to cope. Words that came out of my mouth daily in the beginning. I couldn't cope with getting dressed or making a decision, like what time should Lori come get Ezra? Deciding what time I needed to start dinner to have it on the table by 6:30 not only alluded me, but I didn't even understand how other people went about making such decisions so quickly and easily. I felt crazy. I was crazy. Crazy with grief.

Then as the hysteria lowers (like month 9 or 10 after his death) and as a new normal creeps in (1 year and 1 month) I feel like coping is in the bag, checked off the list, mastered!

Normal feels normal.

And Oh MY! What was that? I feel like the new Kim has not only risen but has no intention to burst into flames again any time soon

until

things outside of the new normal happen. New things like posting a video to a blog.

As I search for solutions to the video issue, I can't sort out what the websites are telling me.
I reread the same sentences over and over and over again thinking that on the next read, I will get it, knowing that I should be able to understand it.

Confusion rises. (What are they telling me to do) then frustration (Why aren't these directions clearer?) then anger, first at the directions but really now it's at myself. My unable to think is grief-in-action.

Six months after Art died, I decided to bake a cake. I read the directions, line by line, gathering the ingredients on the counter. I would read "2 eggs," get to refrigerator, open it and then forgot what I was supposed to be getting. So I would go back to the recipe, read "2 eggs," reach for the refrigerator and forget again. My brow furrowed, my lips scrunched up and my shoulders tightened, I had to admit this was grief at it's worse. This was the grief that no one sees. This was grief-in-action!

And it is in that memory, right now, that has my confounded and a bit put off. Grief? It's been a year and 3 months, for goodness sake and

now I am laughing!

1 year is nothing in the grief land. One year is enough time to come down from the hysteria, maybe establish some kind of normal. It's NOT enough time to establish a new coping ability to handle the rest of the stuff like missed flights and uploading videos to a blog.

And I'm here, 21 floors above 150+ widows who totally 100% get that. So I'm leaving the video. I hope it works. If not, I'll work on it:

when I'm not under a time pressure,
when I have the space to think
when I have soaked up all
the goodness
and okayness
and support
and REAL widow normalcy
that comes from hanging out with a bunch of people who
unequivocal
get this mess
called
grief.

That is when I will figure the darn video out (if I need to!)

I am grateful I have them!

Contentment

On vacation with the kids in Ixtapa, Mexico. My financial struggle having just ended. Not sure what to write about it. After all the months, (years really) After ALL these months of anger, sadness, resentment, hopelessness, joy, surprise, discovery, light, regret and hope, I find myself at odds with ……dare I call it, contentment.

I’m not sure. I don’t feel overjoyed to be here. I don’t feel sadness either. I’m not worried (other than Langston is not feeling to hot and we’d need a translator if we were to see a doctor). I don’t need anything. I don’t need alcohol or drugs or a distraction. I don’t feel like I need a man. (Club Med does a most excellent job, though, at hiring these 21-30 year old pieces scrumptious eye candy!)

I feel nothing. I don’t feel dead inside. I just feel at peace and it’s startling. And I wonder is this what normal feels like?

Before his illness and before his death I spent much of my time in my head, scared, worried, putting a negative spin on the future. I spent much of the time trying to prove myself, trying to live up to the person I thought all these people expected me to be. My expectation being way beyond what anyone wanted. My expectation for perfection was impossible. It was murderous and it almost killed me several times.

Here in this place, sitting in an outdoor patio in Ixtapa, listening to the waves, the wind whipping my hair around and bringing in the nightly rain storm, I find myself calm. It’s unfamiliar and it’s uncomfortable. Like a new hair cut and every time I walk by a mirror I am surprised because I expect to see the old me.

I have spent the week doing nothing, a 100% complete impossibility before Art died. I tried to work. I tried to get the kids to eat vegetables. Andthen I didn’t know why I was making myself or them do it. I had no words of judgment wagging in my head so I let them eat ice cream, a lot of it and put my computer away.

Instead, I entered an archery competition and end up DFL (dead fucking last) and still talked trash to the others in the competition. I told the kids I lost and saw their puzzlement at my not caring. I butchered the Spanish language multiple times a day! I kayaked, I rock climbed, I did yogalates and swam in the ocean. I napped, I read and I napped again. I ruined and brand new bathing suit with the fine gritty sand of Ixtapa and some sunscreen. I discovered the joy in having a glass of wine, late at night in the reception area where I can listen to the soothing music and the ocean waves and just think about … nothing.

And it’s the thinking of nothing that has me so puzzled. After these years, the pain, the willing, the missing, the pushing, the discomfort, the disliking of myself, the ‘nothing’ is just weird and wonderful. I feel settled. Not complete, not whole, not done, just settled, like a huge ass oak tree.

I will not always feel this kind of contentment. It may be that I am seeing my circle of concern and circle of influence are closer together. I no longer seek to control all that I cannot.

I am a widow, I am a mom, I am a business person, I am an athlete (re-inspired by the trapeze and the archery to begin working on that again). And I am dying. We all are. And all this makes sense to me and brings me hope and courage and the knowledge that no matter what I feel, it will pass. It will pass. There is contentment in that.

Art’s life passed. And damn it all, just damn, damn, damn, damn it all. This powerful gift of my growing into myself, of the discovery and comfort of who I am and who I am not, of understanding the power of loss, is because of his death. It’s all because his last great gift to me was his death.
The gift that truly keeps on affecting me, like a pebble in a pond.

are you lonesome tonight....

Photo from Desicolours

I'm not dating. I have gone on a few....dates. But it never felt right. But neither does this loneliness.

I don't want to go through the hassle of meeting, dating, getting to know the other person's "issues", introducing this person to family and friends, getting giddy when they come around, having our first argument, finding out that they have an oddly close relationship with their mother...who hates me, and having to dump their mama's boy ass after going through all that.

I want to jump straight to the comfy fart-in-bed stage. The leave-the-door-open-when-you-pee level. I want to not worry that they find my poultry obsession a little alarming or that my kid's habit of climbing into bed with me every night is not overly annoying. I want to be with someone who finds my kids cute even when snot is running down their chin.

But, alas, the only one who can fit this bill is a husband. My husband.

I worry that no one will ever love my kids as much as their daddy did. And that even if some man was willing, I may not let them through 'the gate' as I seem to fear that anyone with any interest in us must either have pedophilic tendencies or a death wish.

I'm scared that no one could ever love me again despite my habit of repeating deliciously interesting words under my breath until they cease have meaning. "colposcopy. colposcopy. colpscopy...." Or that the horrifyingly large amount of matter on my thighs that resembles marbles under blue-white coloured cloth would repulse some poor man. Or that they wouldn't know that laughing when I'm raging and screaming at some perceived injustice, although seemingly counterproductive, is just what I need to see life's bullshit as it is - bullshit.

I want to jump to husband and wife. I want to miss all the ups and downs of possibilities.

I want comfort. I want warmth. I want Jeff.

the perfect father

Lately, Liv and I have been struggling. We have been fighting arguing about everything from whether she should brush her extremely knot-filled hair before departing for the day to whether older sisters are 'allowed' to speak to their younger brothers in a hatred filled voice to whether it is her job to clean up her mess. She claims that my requests for daily self-care (teeth brushing, semi-clean clothes wearing, etc.) are demands upon her body which I have no right whatsoever to impose....and that this is exactly why nature has so much trouble supplying humans with their 'needs' because society has created an unreal ideal of human hygiene (If you are confused, don't worry - I don't totally get the rationale either).
I am holding my breath wondering what Liv is going to find issue with far too often for my liking. I am emotionally exhausted and communication/NVC/positive parenting deficient.

Recently, Liv has started to not just fly off the handle with anger over the injustice of expectations upon her body, the needs of others in the household or my desire to have a calm and communicative homelife....but at the idealized image she holds of her father and my perceived shortcomings.
She regales me with reasons that I am less of a favourable parent to her father. I don't play with her enough. I yell more than he did. I don't love her as much as her daddy did.
The ironic and most painful part of this is that although Jeff was a kind, funny and loving father, he was not always hands-on. He would wrestle with Liv. Or snuggle on the couch watching a movie. He'd occasionally make something with her in the garage. He loved to listen to her read or hear her tales of daily life on the phone weekly while he was fishing.
But I was the one who cuddled her to sleep and got up with her in the middle of the night. I wasn't holed up in the garage drinking beer and watching WWF. I was mixing the homemade playdough and kissing away 'owies'. I knew what size of shoes she wore and how far up she liked her coat zipped.
He was a fabulous daddy. But the image she has of him is just not accurate. And I am being compared to a 'saint'.
One evening of overly expressed dislike of my inadequencies as a parent I (remarkably) calmly told Liv of her father. I explained that he was a fabulous guy and my very best friend whom I loved with all my heart and wished with every part of my being that he would be back with us. BUT that he was a real person. He made mistakes and lost his temper and sometimes stunk like B.O. He didn't like how I loaded the dishwasher and ate pickles straight out of the jar. It doesn't mean he was 'bad' or 'mean' or 'unkind'....just that he was like the rest of us. 'Real'.
With horror on her little angry face, she told me that I was never to talk 'mean' about her daddy ever again. That he was 'perfect'.
And really, he was. He was perfectly him....But I hope that one day, and not TOO far away, she can see that I am perfectly me....and I am trying the best I can to do the job that he and I used to do together.

I do not want to take Liv's love or admiration for her daddy. I don't want her to ever stop thinking that he was wonderful and hilarious. But why does it have to come at the cost of her love and devotion to me?

Missed But Not Forgotten

June 16, 2010 was a really busy day. In fact, the night before I was laughing about the fact that every minute of the next day was so scheduled that I felt like the day had flown by before it even began. These last few weeks have been packed with events, meetings, Camp Widow arrangements, packing to take the kids on a trip, the last day of school, baby showers, birthdays, friend traumas, and a seemingly never ending list of things to do. So maybe that is why I didn't remember the significance of June 16th.

I was chatting with a friend on June 17th when lightening struck and I realized that I totally forgot the anniversary of the day I married Phil. Gone. Not one moment of sadness, regret, or even just grateful reminiscence. I felt horrible. Was this a function of moving forward? Would I start missing anniversaries regularly? What does this mean? How do you forget the anniversary of marrying the man you loved so much and who is now DEAD?!

But after calling my Widow Match to say "You won't believe what I just realized!" things got worse. The anniversary I failed to acknowledge would have been our tenth wedding anniversary. Which means two things. One we would have been married a nice long time, and the less wishful thinking reality that I have been widowed as long as I was married. Five years for each title, wife and widow.

I still don't know how I feel about the fact that I forgot this day. Michelle and I discussed the many reasons that I might have not realized the date on the calendar, and I recognize that my life is crazier by far than it ever was when Phil was alive. But really...ten years...totally forgotten?! My grief guilt button has been pushed and I found myself all day wishing I could turn back the clock. Funny thing is I wasn't wishing to turn it back to five years ago, but to the day before so that I wouldn't miss our anniversary!! No one ever said that grief, even five year old grief, makes any sense.

I am confessing to all of you because I know you will understand and I am going to ask you to bear with me as I leave a belated anniversary message here for Phil.

Hi honey,

Happy Anniversary. Even though I forgot (you would have loved that actually) for the moment, I will spend my lifetime remembering. It was an honor to be your wife. I loved the way you took care of me, like when you brought me home four pairs of shoes because they were on sale and you weren't sure what color I would want. I appreciated the lightness you brought to our family, no one could keep a straight face when you were talking to them with your eyes closed! I can still see you standing at the end of our long dirt aisle shaking as I walked down the grass turf to clasp your hand. Your "I do" meant more than I can ever express. I wish that we really did have ten years together, but am so grateful for the five we did have. I love you today, tomorrow, and forever.

The day may have slipped by, but the man is a part of my soul.

Dreaming of Art

I dreamt about him. I was coming out of Pallas and Ezra's room and he was standing in the hall. "Hi!" I said, thrilled, as if he had come home early from work.

And we stood there for a moment, smiling at each other.

"Can I touch you?" I asked, for the last time I dreamed about him I had tried to hug him, only to touch cold air before he could tell me it was too late.

This time he nodded.

And when I reached out my hand, his hand was warm and firm, just like it used to be. Our hands together, his large white one, with my small brown one reminded me of those photos of the white worker holding the African child's hand.

I woke before I could place my cheek on his chest. I lay still, breathing slowly attempting to remember that feeling, to push it into my physical memory so next time, when I want to, I can remember it with ease.

My grief was shallow, suffocating fits of hysteria. Now it's thick, mournful moans and longing. The longing is like, is like a cord that is coming from me and reaching, stretching, tugging at me, different force of pull at different times. Sometimes it pulls me over. Along this line is my desire to hear him, to touch him, to see those deep blue eyes looking back at me. The longing is bearable, resonates with a low, almost imperceptible hum. It causes me to feel like something is missing only I can't figure out what exactly it is.

As it tugs, it detaches my skin from my muscles leaving this hollow space. This empty place. Nothing to fill it. It's not his immediate presence that I miss so much anymore, it's his lack of presence throughout the future years that make me wish him back. How is it possible he won't see Langston play volleyball or football, Pallas win an art award or Ezra get kicked out of class for telling the unwanted truth to a teacher's face. I don't understand how he can miss all that is coming.

And in this new emptiness, in this longing, I can see how I can go on.

And that just makes me sad.

the impending father's day

It's actually 3:28 a.m. as I write this. Unpacking from our move and working at the clinic have kept me so busy that I haven't spent any amount of time ruminating about what thought of loss has most taken up my mind this week.
But as I've driven to work, opened boxes of photo albums and placed Jeff's dresser in the corner of the room, the thought of the impending "Father's Day" has popped into my head briefly and painfully.
I have come to fear this day for my kids. I worry that they'll begin to notice other 'normal' families out for Father's Day breakfast. That the flyers in the mail advertising copious amounts of tools for the other kid's dad will highlight their lack of an alive one. That the ties or other seemingly useless items that kids make to mark the day that they celebrate their dad will cast little shadows on my little one's hearts.
On Sunday, you'll find me at work. My kids will be babysat until I return to them. There will be no special brunch, fancy formal wear accessories or tool belts to give to Jeff to mark what a kind, funny or loving daddy he was.
So in the afternoon, the kids and I will practise our own father's day tradition. We'll head to the beach with helium balloons clutched in hand, tiny folded notes tied into the strings and send Jeff the father's day messages we wish we could hand over with a huge and mushy hug.
I hope he'll get them. I hope he will know that we remember what a fabulous daddy he was and will never forget his part in making our lives as special as they were...and are.
Thank you, my Jeffrey, for our little ones. Thank you for your giant love. We love you right back. Happy Father's Day, my love.

Photo from BitchNewYork

I have realized through my recent, brief and unsuccessful foray into the world of widowed dating that I am most definately not looking for Jeff. It is not that I am measuring how certain men stand up to the man that Jeff was. It's that I am looking at them through not only my eyes, but Jeff's as well.
Yesterday, as I stood in line at the bank, I furtively checked out a spiky haired, bad-ass in a leather jacket. "Yummy...", my inner voice whispered. "Yeah and check out his studded ass!!!", my 'inner Jeffrey' bellowed with mirth in reference to the bejeweled rivets decorating curliqued crucifixes on the man's back pockets.
Hmmmm....Now that Jeff pointed out these...uber-embellished buttocks, I couldn't help but also notice the overdone and excessive use of flaming skulls on his motorcycle helmet clutched in his hand.
I realize that Jeff's 'voice' is also my own, but it is with the remembered view of Jeff's world that causes me to see these guys as he would and choose my action accordingly.
I'd not looking for Jeff (he was one of a kind); I'm just hoping to find someone that Jeff wouldn't refer to in derogatory terms....such as 'Mr. Fancy Pants'.
And, yes, I know I shouldn't judge a man by the copious amount of rhinestones on his pockets....but, occasionally, Jeff and I do.

turning tables

Photo by Mike_Rowe1

I'm sure that every widow/er has done it....Wondered if their spouse would have 'managed' had the tables been turned. Pondered over the differences that their loss would have created rather than their spouse's.
Jeff was known for his laughter...Would it have returned?
Would he still be sleeping with our little ones tucked up in our bed each night, two years after my death?
Would he have fulfilled his physical needs in the arms of another by now?
Would he worry about his abilities as a grieving parent or still feel his trademark confidence?
Would he need to learn to rebuild his definition of himself without the constant reflection I provided him? Or would he just still know?
Would he have gone back to work on the sea, leaving our kiddos in the care of someone else? Or would he devote every second of every day to them?
Would he still feel a palpable hole in his heart where I once resided, years after my passing?
Would he talk about me or shy from voicing the memories?
Would he be coping better than I am?
Would he succeed where I have failed....or fail where I have succeeded?

I will never know how he would have reacted....Just as I could have never know before losing him, how I would fare after his death. But at times, I do wonder.

Ugly

BP stands for Bruce Paul, the almost 19 year old boy I reference in this post

A friend of his designed this t-shirt for him on Valentie's Day

His school sold it. In just one month, he t-shirts appeared all over the world.

“He’s in our thoughts and prayers.”

“We are sending a blanket of love.”

Those are words I read today about a boy, who like Art is

battling his second round of cancer.

He’s doing a better job than Art did

and I’m NOT doing a better job at begin gracious.

Instead, when I read those words of love

And support

Ms. Cynic thinks

“Save your breath!”

“Those good thoughts and prayers

Don’t work.

If they did,

I wouldn’t be writing this column.”

Silly, stupid, people.

-------

That boy died earlier morning on Friday, March 26.

The grief sucked me down its whirlpool, shame followed

And anger was fast on its heels.

Only this time, I bobbed to the surface

Before I got too much water up my nose.

The whirlpool didn’t take me down as far and I am not as disoriented.

I cry because I know where his mom will go

I know the journey of loss

and the idea of someone I know walking it

Makes me scream myself raw

and punch trees

and crumble to the floor and say

“Why her? Why her?”

Brooks….I’m sorry.

I wanted those silly, stupid people prayers to work.

I really wish they had worked.