Sudden Grief

Got this photo from here

I’m with her and we are walking to find the bathroom in Macy’s. Pallas (my daughter) and I have just been bra shopping...for her.
A momentous occasion full of “Moooommmm!” and “Why are you looking at me that way?!”
She has requested this shopping excursion and I go along, resisting the urge to take photos and whip out the recorder to “document” the occasion. (Langston forbid me from documenting his first shaving lesson with our wonderful neighbor.)

We walk towards where the sales woman said we would find a restroom.
Completely unaware of the time, the casino-like lighting making me feel out of touch, in a dream like state.
We pass the mens clothing on the left.
I think “Huh, Art would look good in that.” Then chuckle, remembering his frustration. The day Banana Republic started selling tall clothing online was the day I tossed those ugly, but long enough jeans! His 6’6” frame too long for regular clothes.

I stop to touch a shirt as Pallas and I pass the rest of the lingerie department. I see the restroom sign off to the right.
I stutter step in my mind
“Fuck, is he?
Really….no way!
It just simply can’t be.
He’s never coming back? How can someone never come back?
I don't understand.”

The thought encases me in what feels like a full body plastic bag.
I run toward the restroom.
Hands to mouth to catch.
Open stall or not, I don’t care, I need to get it out of me.

It. Out. Of Me!

Pallas is running behind me, “Hey," she says disappointedly, "you can’t just decided to race without telling me!” Using her longer-than-mine legs to catch up. She notices my hunched run, reaches for me and says “Mom are you ok?”

There’s an empty stall
Lunch, bile and tears mix together
Into the toilet
which automatically flushes.

Loss swirling down.

He’s Not Here

Last weekend we moved. 
Our new place is smaller, more intimate.
I like it.

It’s simpler to manage. (There are only so many places Ezra’s left shoe can be!)  It makes sorting through the boxes and boxes of stuff I should have sold, much simpler.  (If it stays, exactly where is it going to go, Kim?) 

And I feel lighter here, less weighed down by stuff and keeping track of the stuff so I can find the stuff. 

But today, I walked out of the bathroom, I looked at my bed and I realized…

Art’s not here.

He’s nowhere in this new place.  Not in the decision of which draw to put the utensils in, nor in which painting to hang where.  He’s not in the money spent at Ikea nor will he be in the car when I return a few things. He’s not in the assembly of the shelves, or the finding of the toothpaste.

He’s not in the walk in closet.

He’s not in third call to Xbox Live in two hours about the hook up issue. He’s not there when the electrician, plumber, handy man and old renter all arrive within 20 minutes of each other. 

He’s not in the dinner I cook, the good night kisses I give, or in the bed where I collapse.

He’s not here. 

It was not till I left the house that I see that I have left him too.   I didn’t think I left him. I thought he was coming with us. But here in this new place, I see that he was in every damn thing in the old place: in the walls, in where the toilet paper was stacked and where the breakfast trays were kept. He was in the lights he put up around the large kitchen window that looked out onto the back yard. He was in where the canned soup goes, the best place for the dresser and the fiction book order:  black writer fiction, black female writer fiction, dead male writer fiction and damn good fiction to reread over and over again. (Yes we really had the books divided like that!)   He was in the up high shelf with the extension cords and the bicycle tools tool box.

There was this weird potential, like maybe, just maybe, he'll show up again.

I could hear him sometimes, in the catch of the kid’s voices as if, for just a moment, they might forget and call to him, instead of me.

In this new place, their voices are clear and call, with piercing clarity, only my name.

The potential is gone.  

This feels like this is where it begins.  Where our new family starts, this family of four.

Our dinner table no longer has the extensions out.  It is square: one side for each of us.  Tonight, I looked at each of my kids, one across from me, two on either side of me and sigh. We are a family of four now.  Four sides of a square for four people.

The most weird, unnerving, pleasant and peaceful thing about this observation is that

I’m OK with it.

In 2009 we became a family of four. It was not what I wanted, not what was planned.

In 2011, it is what I have accepted and come to embrace.  It is what we are, it is who we are. It is neither bad nor good. It just is.

My new place just taught me that. 

Sick, Clothes and Backwards

The last two days I've been sick.
Fever.
I found myself lying in my bed, the wrong way.
Backwards (head where my feet usually are, feet where my head usually is)

The fever is making me feel backwards.

I'm preparing to move from the house the kids, Art and I have been in this home for 6 years. (Huh. The kids and I have been here for six, Art only 4.) It means going into his closet and getting rid of the rest of his clothes. The ones that no longer smell like him. It means going into the attic and going through the ones I put away for the kids and this time asking them what they want to keep.

I am at peace with this idea.
Settled.
OK
Ready.
That feels backwards.
"They" said I'd know when the time was right to get rid of the clothes, to take down one of the photos. I couldn't imagine there would ever be a "right" time in his wrong death.
But without looking for it, it has arrived.

The time is right.
There is peace and gratitude in letting more of him go...
or
is it the fever?

------
Post from
August 27, 2009.
4 months after Art died.

Yesterday, I took Art's remaining clothes out of the closet. I divided them into the one's I want to keep and the ones to give away. Today I drove them to the Mission in downtown LA. Some tall homeless person with size 14 feet will finally have clothes and shoes that fit him.

Yesterday, I took down the get-well cards friends, co-workers, familiy members and students had sent him. This wall reflects me.

I am that wall. I am empty, vacant, not complete. I am not surprised at the depth of the grief, just disappointed in it. I am surprised at how quickly I begin to hyper ventilate, and how powerless I feel. I can't talk, even though I wanted to call a friend.

I think we are fine and then it hits, the wave and I swear that I will drown. And I cry so deeply and so completely that my whole body gets involved. I shake and feel nauseous. I force my breath. My nose quickly fills. My head aches, my arms tingle. My feet move rhythmically back and forth across the sheet. I hold myself, I let go. I punch his pillow. I hold myself again.

I know I need to call someone. Anyone. But what will I say? What is there to say? I don't want to be cheered up, I don't want to be soothed. I want to be held, to be allowed to grieve, with the noisy blows from my bulbous red nose and with the lines of tears from my swollen eyes.

I don't want anyone to tell me it'll be ok because right now, it's not. I want someone to wrap their arms around me, to sit with my pain, to stroke my hair and my back. To NOT say "shhhh." To cry with me even. No judgment, no better world. Just this grief here and now.

Tomorrow is my 45 birthday.

----
August 28, 2011

Today is my 47th birthday.

I am in awe at how different I feel, strong, relaxed and ok with my widowhood. It is a feeling I can't describe, the opposite of the black hole of grief (which is equally indescribable). I'm content, at ease, peaceful words that three years ago I couldn't even understand let alone feel.

Today I cried, not from sadness but from relief and gratitude. I'm OK, but for the grace of God and time, I'm OK!!!!

Happy

photo by Ezra

I’m gonna come out and say it.
I’m happy.

I’m a widow and
I’m happy.

It’s not because of another man either,
and I didn’t win the lottery.
I didn’t discover extra life insurance money or an extra $20,000 in my savings account.

I still haven’t found a new place to live. (If you live in LA, I’m looking for a 3 bdrm, 2 bath on the Westside. Hey, ya never know!)

And no, I have not been drinking or smoking the funny stuff.

I haven’t been eating ice cream or chips or cake for that quick high.

I’m happy because today Ezra and I had a good day and this day would not have been possible if
Art were here.

If Art were here,
my two oldest would not have flown on separate flights by themselves back east. They would not be forging their own, significant relationships with my sister and my in-laws.

If Art were here,
I wouldn’t have taken Ezra to the Venice Beach boardwalk. We wouldn’t have marveled at the roller skating guy, the skate boarders, or the guy in the turban with the electric guitar. I would not have been told, “Wow, they don’t’ make them like you anymore!” by the dummy and his ventriloquist.

If Art were here,
I wouldn’t have insisted (a bit meanly) that Ezra buck up and get on his new skate board. I wouldn’t have dared him to fall 5 times. (He fell 7 times and said he won!)

If Art were here,
I would not have been at the neighbor’s pool. I would not have heard “Mom watch this!” only 9 times (a record low) and been amused that I actually DID watch 8 times.

If Art were here,
I would have said, “I’m too tired, you take him.” Who am I kidding, if Art were here, we’d be somewhere else.

If Art were here,
I’d be in Maine, suffering my in-laws.

But
Art’s not here
and still
I’m happy.

I can’t believe I wrote that.
I’m too happy to even bother justifying that statement.

I am happy.

I’m happy.
Down to my hair follicles happy.

I’m happy because without Art here
I found this new strength, this courage, this audacity to just fuck it all and
be happy.

Without him here,
I have found
something
that was lacking when he was here.
A deeper,
more loving knowledge of
who I am,
faults included.

Without him here,
I like what I’m left with.

Two Years Ago....

Two years ago, less than three months after he died, I went looking for him.
I remembered this today, as I made a to-do list. Things that need to happen before two of my three kids fly back east, without me.

Even now, the notion of looking for him makes sense.

So, I went back to the post I wrote on August 4, 2009.

-----

The chair where he always sat by the water in Maine.

This place is saturated with him.

I awake from a bad dream and prefer to go back to it rather than acknowledge that the other half of the bed is empty.

It feels like it did in the beginning, raw and suffocating. I am steeped in disbelief. I am not here without him, I think. He’s in the kitchen.

And when he’s not there, I think he’s stretching in the living room.

And when I check and see the floor empty I think, he’s down by the water.

I walk down expecting to find his long legs stretched out, his head back, eyes closed, hands intertwined and resting on his flat belly, dressed in his red fleece to protect from the dewy morning.

And when I don’t see him there,
I sink into his chair
and sob.

This is that wave that my friend spoke about. The grief wave. It comes, up over my head and with magnificent force shoves me down to the bottom, smashing me. It lifts and tosses me until I don’t know which way is up. I am afraid to breath.

So I don't breath, I cry until I magically float to the top, where this time, there is not another wave waiting for me.

---
12:10, three hours after
I
went
looking for him.

Looking for him?
Searching for him. Like he might just be in this one other place, this one place I forgot to look. Against logic. I saw his dead body. Against common sense, why would he be here?

But I just had to check, to see, to make sure that he really wasn't there or here or maybe at the store. The chair by the water was the last place I knew he would be if he were still alive.

Now I sit on the porch of Blue Hill Books, unwrap my new journal and begin writing. My lungs fill with air that is filled with him.

I'm still breathing.
--

I remember that day. I remember the sadness and the surprise of my action. What I find so amazing now is that, just like my friend said it would, the pain is not sharp or forceful or even scary. There is a sense of loss, dull, like someone gently putting pressure on my back. Noticeable, but not distracting or overwhelming. I am surprised to find myself here.

In this place of acceptance and dare I say...okness?

I am relieved to find myself here.
Finally, a place where it doesn't hurt as much.
Finally....

Mattering

my daughter Pallas (2nd from the left) and her friends

She says to me “Kim, you’re important. Other widows want to meet you. They ask if you will be there.”

I was talking to Michele, the founder of this blog, Camp Widow, Widow’s Village and Soaring Spirits Foundation.

She was trying to convince me to come to widow camp.

I wasn’t going. Even though I live just two hours away.
I wasn’t going.

I’m important, I whispered to myself. I’m important.
I matter to other people.
I had not felt that way since…
Art died.

The moment Art died I felt like I mattered less.
Like the space I took up in this world was not nearly as important as the space others take up.

I was not a wife anymore.
As a wife I knew I mattered to one other adult. I mattered a lot to him.

As a widow there is no one to call to say “I’m on my way home.”
There is no one to worry about me, or worry with about the kids.
My day doesn’t matter to other people.
They guy who cut me off matters less.
The great deal I got on a dress doesn’t really matter either.
My life and all it’s little insignificant happenings does not matter to anyone else.
It would take days for anyone to realize that the kids and I were gone…or dead.
Without a husband I questioned my matterness.

And it was not until Michele spoke the opposite of what I believed that I saw how I carried around that little belief. I carried it around as sure as I carry around my kids were born from me, that Obama is our president and that I will wake up tomorrow and it will be Sunday.

I don’t matter as much now that I don’t have some to matter to.

That belief just sits there,
quietly,
solidly.
I matter less with no one else to share my life with.

And the thing is I didn’t realize that was my belief until I spoke with Michele.

“I matter,” I whisper again, this time just a little bit louder.
The funny thing is:
if I take a really close look at my life.
if I am honest about who I have become since Art gave me the gift of his death
if I really look at it, I matter more
now
than I did when he was alive.

And if this is true for me, then it is true for many of us widow’s too.

We matter.
We matter to each other.
Every blog that is discovered at 3:23 am, when a widow is terrified of what has happened to her or him,
matters.

The comments that widows leave, the open, honest, "me too" comments that are left and read by THOUSANDS
matter.

The visitors, lurkers, outsiders
matter.

We all matter! It just doesn’t look the same way it did before our partners died.
Heck it doesn’t look the way we were taught it was supposed to look, dead partner or not.

I matter
You matter.

So when you see me at Camp Widow, or out and about in LA, come up and give me a hug.

I need it. I need to be reminded that I matter.
And my guess is you need to be reminded that
you
matter
too.

I think we all do.

Grief from A Child

This is what Ezra has to say about grief. He wants you to pay attention. He's nine. He was 7 by three weeks when Art died. M=Mom, aka Kim

E: It's scary whenever I go to sleep because I’m afraid I will be dreaming about daddy.

M: Why do you not like that?

E: Cause then every morning I wake up and I realize that he’s never coming back and it’s really hard for me.

M: What do you miss about your dad?

E: I miss that everyone would say, “Oh your dad is so tall. I wish I had a dad like him!” and stuff like that.

M: What do you think about our new lives without him?

E: Everyone says that everything that happens on earth has a reason. And it’s really hard to believe that this has a reason.

M: What do you like about our lives now that you don’t have Daddy?

E: Come to think of it, I’m having a lot of new experience that I wouldn’t have if my dad was alive.

M: Like what?

E: One of the biggest experiences is not having dad.

M: What are your good days like?

E: I don’t know. I think about him. I have my mind on other stuff.

M: Do you have any advice for people who are grieving, adult or child?

E: If people say that they are in worse grief than you are, just say, "You know I don’t think you are." because there are different kinds of grief. So it may be they are in bigger grief than me but in a different way.

When people say that to me, I just think you don’t know how I feel, so how can you compare something when you don’t know what it is?

M: What is it like to watch me cry when I miss Daddy?

E: I have different feelings. Sometimes I feel like I let you down somehow. Sometimes I feel like I should just leave you alone because I’m not in too good a shape myself.

M: When you comfort me, how does that make you feel?

E: When I comfort you, it kind of comforts me. And also that’s why I like to play the piano sometimes. It’s another way to express myself without getting mad. It comforts me.

E: slyly. That’s why you should let me get on the piano more often.

M: Do you have any tips for widowed mothers?

E: When the kids say, “Leave me alone” the mother should. Cause a lot of times when we say, "Leave me alone." it’s just better to be left alone because it feels good to let your feelings out when you’re not with other people.

M: Ezra can I post this for other widow’s to read?

E: Well that’s why you’re writing it all down, isn’t it?

I love you Ezra. Thank you for teaching me what it's like to be you.

How Did He Die?

I’m at the bank, not my usual branch.
Comments are made about how tall my youngest is.
“He’s only 9?”
I nod.
What I want to do is roll my eyes, and hand her a card that says:

“Thank you for noticing that my child is tall. Hopefully he will be a tall man some day. I have trained him to smile and say “Thank you,” even though he has nothing to do with how tall he is or how tall he will be. Now kindly stop ogling and either lets finish our business or be on your way.”

That’s what the card would say.

But I haven’t printed it up yet so instead I say:

“Yes, he is tall. My husband was 6’6.”

I use past tense easily now, forgetting how ominous it sounds. When their eyes go wide, I assume, for an instant that it’s in response to my husband’s height. Silly me.

The conversational tone changes from light to tragic. Their realization that in front of them is a woman whose life truly is tragic. “Did you say your husband ‘was’?”

Here we go.

“Yes. I did. My husband died.” And depending on the situation I sometimes add ‘recently.’

And then it comes, the stupidest question ever…

“How did he die?”
Or if they have a modicum of politeness, it’s:
“Do you mind me asking how he died?”

Now here is my quandary.

I do mind. Now I do.

When he first died, I would recount the story in detail. Somehow telling it over and over again and getting the same reactions over and over again put more and more earth beneath my feet, a place where I could say “this is where I stand now, without a husband.”

Then right around the second year, I noticed that telling my story began to feel old. I felt like my piece of earth was fairly solid. I had tamped it down and built it up. It was called “my new life: the expected bad, ugly and the surprisingly good.”

As I stepped into my third year, (OMG my third year….. I remember in the beginning not being able to imagine what it would be like to live that long without him!) Wow.

As I stepped into my third year, I find the question intrusive. And voyeuristic and well, like I’m adding to their gossip mill.

Isn’t it enough that my husband died? If I tell them he died of cancer, unless they have experienced loosing someone to cancer, they will have a way-not-accurate-image of his last moments on this earth that will probably include him looking deeply into my eyes and him saying a few final words before his last breath is taken. Or something that is so, so far from the truth!

I have to admit. It’s the kind of question I would have asked before I was on this side of death. It’s the kind of thing I would have listened intently too, shaken my head. Then later, maybe months later, I would have shared with an authoritative tone in my voice “I met this woman who lost her husband to cancer and she said…….”

That would have been me. Missing the whole point. Because it’s not how he died that matters. It’s the fact that he’s dead that matters.

And this is what I want to tell someone when they ask.

“Its not about what killed him. What makes it so difficult is that he’s dead.”

So I resolve to use that line. I resolve to not tell anyone how he died.
From here on out, when someone asks me “how” I will reply:

“It’s not what killed him that matters, it’s the fact that he is dead that is so difficult.”

And in that resolution, I leave the house the next day.
And I find myself in a random conversation with a random person in line at the grocery store.

Out slips “He was … “

“Oh!” she says “Is your husband dead? “

“Yes.” I reply

“Was he shot?”

I give up.

Widow vs. Widow

She said “Well, at least you got to say good-bye.”

Anger rises in me because I see her comment as one of those my-situation-is-worse-than-yours comments.

Anger because she wants to beat me to the bottom, to claim more grief, more anger, more despondency than me.

Anger because really? Do we have to have this conversation? I’ve had it before but about skin color with a white friend who was saying that my “blackness” was different from the “poor people’s blackness.” And I had to explain that the store clerk doesn’t thing so. I still get “watched,” and treated with suspicion even with a platinum American Express in my purse.

This widow assumes that Art’s cancer gave me time to prepare. I am disappointed at the magical death image she holds. You know the one from t.v.? The one where the person looks like themselves, opens their eyes, says a few last dying but meaningful words with the last exhale.

She thinks that expecting that your husband will die is some how easier. As if I could “prepare” for the impending grief by filling up sandbags to line my life. The more sandbags the less pain.

As I go to open my mouth, to tell her my last memories of my husband are of a withered 6’6 man who went from 235 to 154, his sunken, hollow face, mouth open emanating that foul sweet smell of his dying innards. A smell that even in thought, makes me wretch.

Before I can tell her about the relief that came over me when he died that was quickly followed with shame of being relieved. Before I can tell her any of that…

I float
into her head
and see her own
devastation.

I see her need to tell her story over and over and over again, to compare it to others because in her world, right now, there is no firm footing. Nothing makes sense. She doesn’t know how to get to point B because not only is she standing on completely new territory, she doesn’t even know which direction to head in to find that second point. Comparing her story to mine at least provides her with walls, something familiar, something firm, a shelter of sorts.

And it is not till I recognize all this, I back down. She can have the bottom. She can have the grief and the despondency. I no longer need it to stand on.

I am surprised for my love for her, for the way I want to hold her in my arms and let her know it will truly, truly be Ok. I want to tell her that she will find her place in this world. That she will slowly learn to lean into and live, decently, without him.

The love comes out of my right arm, through my fingertips as I take her hand. I say to her after a moments silence, “Wow, I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to loose him so suddenly. I hear you.”

Because I know she simply wants
to be
heard.

Exactly what I wanted and
still want.

A Child's Grief.

I'm writing this on Sunday, Father's Day. I just returned from visiting my folks, about 2 hours away. It seems that whenever the kids and I visit our extended family, especially on holidays, we end up having a debriefing of our thoughts and emotions on the ride home.

Before I start, let me share with you my own reactions to days such as this. I love my family, and enjoy being around them. We always have a really good time, but at the same time, it is always a reminder of what I no longer have. All of them are married, and without thinking, they often begin describing what each spouse did, or bought, for them for whatever holiday we are celebrating. I sit there hoping none of them ask what I received for the holiday, as it is usually nothing. This isn't meant to be a sob story, just the dynamic of how things go down when you are widowed, or a single parent. And, like usual, nobody did ask me. So I sit there, forced to witness my perception of their idealistic life.

Tonight as I was driving, my 13 year old began talking about how he feels very jealous of all of his friends' families. He was explaining how they all seem so happy, and that they all get along so well. I reminded him that what he is witnessing is how those families act when a guest is present, which isn't necessarily how things are during private family time. At the same time, I tried to honor the reality of his perception.

I let him know that yes, our family has probably had more challenges than most. First, each of my children were born from a mother who had a severe substance abuse problem. So even prior to their birth, there were some givens as to the challenges up ahead for them. Next, within a two year period they learned of their birth mother's death, their step father was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he later died. I also pointed out that up until 21 months ago, we had a full house. He had two loving parents, a big sister and an older brother, all under one roof. Now he finds himself living in a new home, with only his grieving father. His sister and older brother no longer live at home. What was a very noisy and busy home, is now a very quiet home for the most part.

My son then went on to share about how sad he feels at times. An example he shared was that recently his friend's pet rat had died. When he learned of this he began to cry. He said he felt like something was wrong with him, because it wasn't his pet, and it was just a rat. I reminded him of all the loss he has experienced, and how because of that he is always going to have a deeper response to any loss. I explained how a small, insignificant occurrence, can trigger these underlying emotions. He seemed to understand what I was explaining.

Later, after discussing many other things on his mind, I reminded him that given all that we have been through, that we are doing fairly well. I told him that I would try harder to bring joy into our home. I also acknowledged that I, as his father, have changed considerably since losing Michael. Right away he nodded his head, "yes, dad, you have changed." I reminded my son that I, and we as a family, are getting better, but that it will take more time.

How I wish things were different. I too catch myself looking at others around me, and wonder why they got the ideal life, and I got this one. More and more, I remind myself that no one's life is perfect, and everyone has their challenges. Yet even as I say this, I can't help but notice that there is not a single sound in the house, and since my son went to bed, not a soul to speak to.

Not so easy, is it?


***In an ironic twist, I found myself, and my son, reflected on a movie screen tonight. Here is a link to my personal blog, where you can continue to read about a child's grief.

Super 8.

The New Road

some where on the I-5 in CA heading south

862 miles

14 hours in the car

in two days
.
Less actually, because we left at 
1:00 pm on Friday
 and got back tonight (Saturday) at 7:00 pm.



It started with a casual comment.
"Hey, you guys wanna go to Sacramento to the State Championship Basketball games for the boys and the girls varsity teams?" I asked my kids on Tuesday.



"Sure." came their reply, unaware of the weight their casualness carried. 



The plan?
Drive to San Francisco, (387 miles) stay over night with Art's cousin.
Get up early the next morning and drive to Sacramento (91 miles).
Watch two basketball games, then drive home (384 miles).

The motivation is simple and clear.
It would be fun and
I think I can do it.


862 miles in 30 hours.

Crazy talk.


Overwhelming talk.


Why-didn't-someone-talk-me-out-of-it? talk.



Only this time, I notice, I'm on a new road.



It's unfamiliar.


It makes me grin.



The road is called SPONTANEITY!

 And I’m diggin' its slickness, its sense of adventure, its well-what-the-heckness, its I-can-handle-an-unplanned-event confidence.


Two years ago, I could not have done this.
Last year I could not have done this.
4 months ago, I could not have done this.
Today, I smirk.
I did it.


Spontaneity powers my grin.

Forgiveness powers my spontaneity. 


Death powers the forgiveness.

Because after his death,


after the grief lifts for longer and longer periods of time,
I see that …

grief
didn’t
kill me
(although I was sure it would).

I notice that...
I didn’t
cry
myself
to death
(although I tried).

I realize that...
the next day
kept
showing up
(although I doubted it would come again).

I grasp that ...
life went on,
but
yes,
yes
it
got
better.

I have faced loss,
painful,
excruciating loss
and
I’m still hear.

Did you hear me???????

I'M STILL HERE!!!!!

Nothing will be as hard as those moments.

N-O-T-H-I-N-G!!!!

In the realization comes freedom.

Spontaneity is my new road and I’m driving it, baby, on cruise control because
I
have
been
to hell
and
I’m
back.



On Thursday, a friend texted me and asked
“Do you want to go see Lady Gaga on Monday? VIP seats!”

As if I need VIP seats as an incentive.

Ghost of Art

I read one of his journals today.
I read it because
I sold
our bed,
in three hours.

I had to empty out his bedside table (they went too) before the guy came to pick it up.

Later, as I try to decide where
a mattress
on a floor would look best,
in MY room,
I get side tracked
and sift through
the box of stuff from the bedside tables. I sit down, pick up a journal and read.

It starts in June 1995, 6 months after we had been married.

I recognize his early fear of not being strong enough for us. I recognize my young self, but from his eyes. It is a refreshing and slightly embarrassing view. I am soften. I want to reach in and back and hug him and tell him it will all be ok.

The journal gives me a memory of things I had forgotten. He records our bike trips, the time he got fired from his job as a basketball coach. He records his fear and excitement about my pregnancy…and his amazement at how I just want to eat all the time. He records our trip to Paris and every single place we visit. He records his disappointment at work and his deep disappointment for his parent’s reactions. He records his love for me.

He records the good advice I gave him, calling it “another good thing Kim said..”

When I open his journal
I did not expect to see him,
Rising, like a ghost.
But he is no longer clear.
He is like mist.
I can see him if I stand still or far enough away from this life.
But up close, he looses his definition.

Reading that journal brought him back to me but not in a full form.

My life is past him, and here in this life 702 days away from loss,
I can only see traces of him.

It’s strange because I see
the idea of him, of Art,
doesn’t fit in this new place,
in this bedroom with no bed.

I could not be who I have become if he were here.

It’s almost like another death. A quieter
More gentle death
As I move forward, I leave him behind
In the mist
As a ghost.

Tonight
I will lie on the mattress,
on the floor and cry,
for him, for me
for how I am leaving him,
and for all the good things I have
become since he has gone.

That is what needs to happen
So I can find a new bed.

Tired

I’m tired of being a widow.
I’m tired of bringing the car to the mechanic when the red maintenance light visually screams at me.
I’m tired of running out of food and being responsible for getting more.
I’m tired of waking up by myself.
I’m tired of being solely responsible for:

• Bringing in all the income

• Paying all the bills

• Making sure the kitchen is clean

• Preparing the kids for their car pool.

I’m tired of not hearing “Daddy?”
I’m tired of hearing “Mom?” from three different voices in 13 seconds.
I’m tired of being interrupted while I am trying to hear what the first "mom" yeller (or was it the second) call was about.

I’m tired of telling people I’m a widow.
I’m tired of using it to help me get what I need
Or don’t need (like that traffic ticket).
I’m tired of the look that people give me when they find out I’m a widow.
I’m tired of that fucking gentle touch on the arm which really means “I’m so sorry for you and I’m so glad it’s not me.”
I'm tired of my widow story.

I’m tired of explaining that widowhood is not all doom and gloom
I’m tired of talking about the growth, the joy, the fun it is too.

I’m tired of going to teacher conferences alone.
I’m tired of teachers asking me to do that one more thing for one child or another, not realizing that it will break me.
I’m tired of taking the kids to doctor’s appointments, dropping off the prescriptions and picking them up and administering them by myself.

I’m tired of listening for that horrible cough in the middle of the night by myself.

I’m tired of holding our children as they cry because they want you to come back.
I’m tired of my powerlessness to fix it.
I’m tired of telling myself that they will be better people for your death.

I’m tired of my over reaction to the Legos on the floor.

I’m tired of not knowing what will trigger sobbing.

I'm tired of the guilt I feel because Langston, as a teenager, doesn't have a father.

I’m tired of being awed by all that they are doing and then, in the next breath regretting that they won’t ever know the joy of looking up and seeing you smile at them after they did it.

I’m tired of the irritated sound of my friend's voices when I need to talk.

I’m tired of the shallow “OMG! You look so great!” as if there is a direct correlation between looking good and feeling good.

I’m tired of admiring my body…by myself.

I’m tired of deciding to: break the cell phone contract, buy a new couch, and enter that cycling race with you not here to discuss it.

I’m tired of being lonely.

I’m tired of writing about widowhood
I’m tired of crying.
I’m tired of missing you.
I’m tired of loving the person I have become since you have been gone.

I’m tired of forgetting, in very brief moments, that you are dead.

I’m tired of planning each day, a closely choreographed dance, with dancers who want to go their own way on a tiny stage.
I tired of remembering drinks for the team, that Langston is sleeping over at ___'s house, that Ezra needs cleats and what color Pallas wants to paint her room.
I’m tired of asking:

What is your homework plan?
Did you write that thank you note?
Will his parents be home?

I’m tired of forgiving myself for the missed phone calls, forgotten plans and skipped lunches.

I’m tired of fearing dates:
6 months,
1 year and now
two years dead.
Your birthday or
Langston’s or
Ezra’s or Pallas’s.
Or mine.

I’m tired of discovering that the reason I have been feeling so crappy for so many days is because I have been in a death march (Susan, such a great and accurate phrase!) because one of those dates is coming.

I’m tired of crying in Trader Joes (I am sure they are too).

I’m tired for trying to remember if something occurred before you died or after.

I’m tired of looking forward to the weekend, only to realize the weekends offer no break from the kids, from the grocery shopping, from being an only parent.

I’m tired of the men I date not even trying to understand what it is to be an only parent, not just a single one!

I’m tired of not having someone to tag team with.

I’m tired of not having anyone to look horrible in front of but still be loved.

I’m tired of your parents who can’t take ONE damn step out of their comfort zone to see your children.

I'm tired of hearing them say how important family is but backing it up with NO action whatsoever.

I’m tired of not having someone to talk about the car or the stupid pedestrian I almost hit on my bike ride today.

I’m tired of having no one to discuss my day with.
I’m tired of thinking about the energy and time it takes to get into a new relationship.

I’m tired of craving sex.
I’m tired of wanting to be held, of needing to be touched.
I'm tired of wondering if my sagging breasts are a turn off.
I'm tired of wondering if I'm good in bed.
I'm tired of waiting to have sex.
I'm tired of wondering if I can give a good blow job.
I'm tired of worrying about diseases!

I’m tired of wanting someone to take care of me, so I can have the energy to take care of everything and everyone else.

I’m tired of clean sheets and a clean body and no one to enjoy them with.

I’m tired of wishing I could see you just one more time, just one more fucking time, healthy.

I’m tired of watching the anguish in our kid’s eyes as they miss you.

I’m tired of writing about you.
I’m tired of talking about you.
I’m tired of telling stories about you to our kids so they can know you.

I’m tired.
I am so, so, so fucking tired.

So honey?
When are you coming back? Cause I’m tired of this shit.

Get the BLEEP Away from Me!!

Take your hands off of me!

I said get away from me!

Only you don't understand it cause the words that are coming from my mouth are...

"Damn it, L! How many times do I need to tell you to pick up, wipe off, clean up your _____ (insert typical mother rant hear.)

I CAN NOT DO THIS ALONE!" I yell.

Really wanting to throttle him,

to give my hands something to do

with rage,

disappointment,

anger,

hopelessness,

and trapped-ness.

Art Nagle! Damn you, Art Nagle!

You were supposed to be here!

I picked you!

I am not supposed to be doing this alone.

Damn you! Damn you! Damn you for dying!

And damn me for only having two arms, two legs, two ears and one over-wrought tired and lonely brain!

I scream, "Death sucks!" and I slam the door.

I cry.

And then later, I pick up and keep moving forward.

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????

Exhaustion

Exhaustion runs through me

so thoroughly

that I am sure my body now uses it

in place of 30% of my blood.

I can't think.

Eating feels too strenuous

unless I can rip open a bag.

And then if I do,

what I eat is so tasteless

that I end up spitting it out

into the garbage.

Why bother making the effort to chew that crap.

I look haggard,

drawn,

tight.

My skin does not reflect exuberance

but looks more like a pond that has not been drained

properly, murky, unclear and blachy.

I know that I am killing myself.

Not by over dosing on pills,

or alcohol

but by just running at this pace,

the pace of a young,hustling widow

with kids.

I know it needs to stop,

or my body will stop me.

And then I will be made to rest

in a hospital

and it will be a fitful, uneasy rest

because even there

I will be making the ever changing priority list

of things that NEED to get done.

So as I crawl into bed, faced with

the prospect of getting

8 hours of sleep, instead of the 5 I can't exist on

I promise myself that I will

let

the

list

lie.

I promise that I will stretch in the morning.

I promise that I will use the damn massage

gift certificate that was

sent to me

(anonymously)

over a year ago.

(This person took the time to send me several of them! So I better damn use them. THANK YOU whoever you are.)

I promise to refill the well with water by

sleeping

and eating

and doing nothing

nothing

nothing

for at least 30 minutes a day.

He would be proud of me for all of my promises.

He used to say

"What? Do you think you'll finally

get everything done on your list?

You will die with a to-do list so

stop worrying about it so much."

He died with his to-do list

and the biggest thing that is going

undone

is me.

the anger

Photo from Hardcore Stress Management

**My apologies for the raw and rude wording of this post. It's been written in the heat of the moment but I feel it would lessen it's 'feel' if I softened the wording. I hope no one is offended**

There are times I hate him for dying. Two and a half years later and I could spit fury at his lack of care for his health, for his concern for our welfare, for his love for us.
I feel so lost still at times. So alone. So bereft.
I watch others who have found love again. I see those who have never lost theirs. The jealousy and envy I feel are almost tangible.
The agony of being half of a whole is so filled with melancholy....and at times, humiliation.
Who wants the damaged goods that a widowed mother of two has to offer?
The only people who offer their services as companion or 'lover' are either already 'reserved' or are the kind of human who would whack off on a webcam to an unsuspecting stranger in an attempt to get their thrill.
I am tired of the lack of touch. I could almost molest my hairdresser for gently brushing my hair - and she's a pregnant female. I feel pathetic. And desperate. And furious at Jeff for causing this. Fucking asshole.

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.

Acts Of Faith

Friday, August 27th
I put Langston and Pallas on a bus today to attend Camp Erin, a weekend camp for grieving kids.
I drive away before the bus does.
And on the 10 heading west, in traffic (thankfully) I cry.
Putting them on a bus is..

an Act of Faith.

Faith that they will come back to me. Faith that I will not have to go and identify their crushed bodies at some retched morgue. Faith that they will come back to me as whole as they left me and hopefully full of an experience that will leave them more emotionally capable.

Every time I put them in a car with the sitter, a friend or drop them at camp, it’s...

an Act of Faith.

I know death. I watched it come and take Art. I know death needs no reason, it just comes when it wants.

My husband’s no longer life if proof of that or I can just turn on the news.
---
Saturday, August 28th
I wake up and death is in the house.
I feel it and it creates a vacuum. I’m afraid to either exhale or inhale for fear of the realization of what? That the day is not what it seems to be in my morning haze. Like the days upon days after Art died.

I fear my lack of control. I fear that two of my kids are not here, under my pretend “protection.” The protection I believe is mine to offer and dole out as need.

I suck in air hoping I will look back on today, even tomorrow and smile at my silly fears. At my need for faith in order to let them go.

And my friends brush it off, “Of course you have to let them go!” they say. Having no experience with the closeness of death, they don’t see it, sitting there, resting and watching.

Yes I know I have to let them go, but every time I do it, the urge to place my hands on their arms and bribe them to stay with a video game, their favorite dinner or ice cream rises. Sometimes strongly, most of the time represented only by a tiny yelp.

Ezra stirs next to me and I know if it were not for him, I could not bare being in this house that is as quiet and shaky as the days after Art died. The house feels airless, the sunny day false. I feel as if I am inside this bubble, unable to hear or touch and see things as they really are, just like after Art died.

I sneak out of bed, trot off to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror

“Happy Birthday,” I smile at myself. I’m 46 today. It’s an...

Act of Faith

that I believe I will get to my 47 birthday.

I crawl back into bed and lift the covers to see Ezra’s chest rise and fall, reassuring me that it will continue to do so. His breathing grounds me, pushes the hysteria away.

---
Wednesday, August 25
As the driver is transporting the kids and I to the airport, an 18 wheeler gets cut off by a little black Mazda, the truck weaves into our lane, our driver weaves onto the shoulder next to the concrete divider. We are all moving, us wedged and I see the truck begin to jack knife and then

it corrects itself.

Other than a few “Oh God’s” I am steady and calm. After the moment passes, I remember it’s...

an Act of Faith

to expect we will all get home to LA in one piece. An act of trust and an act of ignorance.
--
Art and I once had a discussion how parents practice acts of faith every time they drop their kids off at school. His job was to make sure, to the best of his ability, that the faith is renewed every afternoon when those parents come back to get their children. He reminds me how ballistic parents get when that faith is shattered.

Since he has died, I know what death really is: random, disjointed, the essence of unpredictable. I feel how unprotected I am from those random, disjointed, unpredictable accidents. The kind that leaves those who hear about them shaking their heads.

And some days I rub it off of me like a few specks of white fluff on my black sweater and other days I wear it like a lead jacket.

I keep committing Acts of Faith. It’s easier to do when I am engaged, and busy. But on those days where I allow myself to be idle, where I allow a moment to see through all the doing, the

Acts of Faith

scare the bejeezus out of me.