Brave Love

I'm writing you tonight from my hotel room in Seattle – en route to a four-night stay in Alaska. I hadn't really given any thought to what I was going to write today for this post, as I've spent the better part of the day running around like crazy. It could have been about the usual stuff of Valentine's Day... like how bitchy I've been all week leading up to today. Or how I went into Walgreens yesterday for some picture hanging wire and was assaulted by the pink and red décor that vomited all over the store interior. Or about how sad I was when I woke up this morning or how hard I've tried to stay off of Facebook all day.

I am lucky that I've spent most of today at the airport, lugging around an ungodly amount of camera gear and luggage. After all, this trip is with my mother-in-law and her mother... which is very sacred to me. Two generations of his family and me. Our “Valentine's Dinner” was not exactly fancy. Some cheese and fruit in a tiny cardboard container with a plastic cup of white wine – some 30,000 ft in the air halfway between Texas and Washington. But that suited me just fine, nothing traditional. 

But what I really wanted to share is what my evening was about. And just why I am up at 3am Texas time still writing this. Once we finally got into our hotel room and settled in, I called one of my closest friends. It wasn't to share the usual laughter or the depression of the day's events. It wasn't for me to cry about how much I miss my late-fiance. But instead, she opened up to me about some very deep emotional stuff that she has been burying from most everyone in her life for a long time now. So much so that it has led to some very dark thoughts.

As she shared, I remained solid and unwavering. I listened to everything she had to say, and I assured her that all her feelings – even the suicidal thoughts – were okay. I mean hell, if anyone understands what it's like to not want to live anymore, it's widowed people – am I right?

I did not judge her. I did not try to fix her. I just loved her. And reminded her very strongly that no darkness inside her could be enough to chase me away. I will be here always to sit next to her in there as long as we need to until we can find that first pinprick of light together. And so we sat, together, for over an hour... until I began to hear the tone in her voice shift ever so slightly. Until I began to hear the weight in her voice just a hair lighter than before. Even manged to make her laugh a few times in there too.

After we got off the phone, I hopped in the shower and kept thinking of it all. I was so surprised at how calm I was. How unshakable my dedication was to this friend. And how well I was able to listen and make them feel safe and heard. The person I was before I met My late-fiance could have never done this. The girl I was then would have been so scared by the vulnerability of the situation that she wouldn't have been able to hear that friend. The person I was before Drew died did not have enough of her own darkness to be able to strut into someone else's so fearlessly either.

I started to realize... Drew was the first person in my life to model for me that kind of love. Real and deep and unconditional love. Always he was solid, and reliable, and steadfast as a friend. And over time, without my knowing it, I began to infuse those same qualities in myself. This happened even more so after his death - when others sat with me in my darkness, I learned again how to better do it. 

And suddenly tonight, I realized that perhaps I have more of his qualities in me now than I ever knew. And I saw what a truly vital gift he gave me in his death. I chose the possibility of pain for the privilege to love. It did not matter that I could be hurt if this dear friend one day chooses to end her life. Because loving her matters more. Because she matters that much. And because of his life, and his death, I was able to be there for her in a way no one else has been able to.

So this Valentine's Day for me was not about the chocolates or the flowers I didn't get. Or the person who wasn't here to hold or kiss. Yes, those things were there – and they were sad. But more so, it was about being able to give someone real love – deep, unconditional, open-hearted love – and meet them in their most vulnerable and fearful place. This year, Valentine's Day was not about what I do not have, but about what I have to give still. It was about Brave Love.

Milestones & Grief Creep

"Sanctuary" © Sarah Treanor

This past week one of the most amazing things happened to me that has happened in my "after" life. I was selected as a finalist for a magazine cover of an art magazine - for one of my photographs that tells part of my grief journey - and ended up winning the final vote. It is the first time my art will be published on a magazine cover. This is huge for my fledgling career as an artist. And more-so it is huge because more people going through loss will see my grief series and hopefully find something of their own story there.

I couldn't believe how many people voted and shared. Thousands of fans and friends and family all rallied behind me to make this happen. My gym shared it on their business page. My mother-in-law's employees all voted and shared it. People I don't even know. Old college classmates. Old coworkers. So many left comments about the grief journey they are on, and how one particular image or another of mine spoke directly to them. People bought prints - one, a counselor, who will be putting up the photo in her grief counseling room. It has been unreal.

Suddenly I have found myself looking back in a different way than I have before. Looking back and realizing that I've gotten somewhere I do want to be. Before my fiancé died, none of this was here. I was working in a cubicle, feeling trapped and unhappy and scared because I had no clue how to ever really go for my dream of being an artist. Leaving a full time job was the MOST terrifying thing I could possibly imagine. Before he died, this idea of being an artist was all just wishful thinking… a far away notion that he and I would often talk about over afternoon lunches and morning coffee.

Little did I know that his death was going to take me on a journey I could have never imagined for myself. Not an EASY journey… but somehow, a far more meaningful one. His death was the catalyst in my leaving that career behind. It was the thing that shook me awake and made me see that if he could die for his dreams, then I'd better get started living for mine.

It's been a horrible and agonizing and fear-filled journey that I wouldn't wish on anyone (you all know this!), and it STILL is every step of the way. Somehow though, during these two and a half years I have found some sort of really meaningful beginning. One that is far more meaningful to me than the life I was living before he died.

It isn't the one I wanted - not like THIS. I never wanted to make art about the death of the most important person in my world. Or death in general. But when you lose your mother at age 9, your father at age 26 and then your fiancé at age 29… it begins to feel like someone is trying to tell you something. I finally decided to listen and allow death into my art… nothing has felt more healing.

I'm learning that by having his death and him as the center of what I'm putting myself into, it is giving it a solid foundation. On the days when I feel scared shitless and still have NO CLUE how I will ever make any REAL money doing this (living off my savings, betting it all on this crazy dream right now). On days when I feel lost and like I'm floating… knowing that he is at the center of this work is what helps me to be able to keep faith going. It helps me to know with all my heart that this work is valuable and meaningful, because all of my love for him rests within these images. And I know without a doubt that will mean something to other people. Clearly, it is.

The days after the big win have been of course an emotional roller coaster - just like any major event in our lives without our person. I call it grief creep… we all know it well. The aftermath of anything exciting - the quiet moments when the pain slips back in to steal the spotlight. As the week has progressed, I think I've just gotten sadder. Sad that he is not here to celebrate with me. Heartbroken that no one actually thought to take me out for a celebratory dinner or drink for this monumental moment in my life. No one. Which leaves me with the painful reminder that the person who was sharing a life WITH me is not here… and that I no longer have someone to be excited for me in the way that only your partner can be. And I miss that so much. And I miss him.

And suddenly, the whole milestone event of the magazine cover begins to pale in comparison to the feelings of sadness and grief. Don't you hate that? When the grief just seems to swallow up the good stuff - no matter how hard you try to not let it? I know I do. I've been fighting it all week - trying so hard to hold on to the good, and trying not to let in the sadness. I know… I have to let the sadness in. It needs to be felt as much as the joy. I will let it in, but dammit, I don't want to.

PS. A big thank you to anyone here who may have happened to vote for my image. You made a huge difference in my world this week.

To view my grief series "Still, Life" you can visit my blog here.

The Strength Among Women.

Source

The above picture is a specific shot of the Sex and the City girls that my girlfriends and I send to each other when we miss each other or just need a smile. It is - like the show is for us - a reminder that thru thick and thin, life and love and illness and death, it is your girls who were there for you. I'm sharing it because I was reminded of that tonight.

On this pre-Easter evening, I would like to say,  I really hate being vulnerable. I mean, doesn't everyone? It's definitely not the best feeling out there. Tonight, I felt so completely vulnerable. It's the evening before Easter - my in-laws are having a big party at the ranch. We are grilling and cooking up a ton of good food. I spend the whole day in the kitchen with my mother-in-law… partly because I really enjoy helping her out on these kinds of days and partly because just keeping busy with helping keeps my mind off the obvious person missing. So really, for the most part, I made it through the day alright. I made this amazing lemon-lime bundt cake that was "to die for" (I always feel odd saying that now). But the sadness was underlying. And eventually after dinner and several beers… the flood gates opened. Everyone was out back playing ping pong - I could hear them loudly cheering and laughing over the game and the country music. Laughter. That kind… you know, the kind we used to all enjoy? Yeah.

I snuck out to sit on the front porch. Alone. Crying in my beer. And looking at pictures of my fiancé and I on my phone. And crying some more. And wishing that someone would notice right away when I wasn't there, and would come to check on me. The way he used to when I needed it most. Wishing I was the center of anyone's universe like that again. Or that someone would just happen to come outside and notice me there and sit down beside me to be my friend. But no one came… except one person who walked right past, ignoring me. Which as you know, feels even worse than no one coming at all. And so I sat there more and more alone - just me, the glow of the porch light, and the june bugs occasionally thwacking into my back. I cursed aloud to… what? Someone. Something. My life. My stupid emotions. Him being gone. My pathetic desire to have someone rescue me. All of the above.

Eventually… I texted a few of my girlfriends. My best friend. And one of my also-widowed girlfriends. And my old high school girlfriend. It turned out we were all having pretty emotional nights for entirely different reasons. My best friend has just found out that this guy she really likes who she's been on several dates with is still hung up on an ex. My high school friend is pretty sad because her best friend just moved really far away, she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had to move back in with her parents to boot. I really wish none of us had been going through any of that crap tonight… but you know, it helped to know I wasn't alone. Even though their situations were very different, that didn't matter. Tonight… each one of us was in need of someone to be there for us and console us and love us. Each of us wanted that someone to be a man, and each of us didn't have that. So we turned to each other. And we found exactly what we needed in each other. Love. And support. And understanding. And a warm welcome that will always be there. And a powerful "I've got your back, you are amazing and don't forget it" sort of feeling that we all needed.

I didn't used to be very close to any of my girlfriends. Many years ago, I had a really hard time connecting with women and I kept my distance from them for the most part. Losing my fiancé has changed that world so entirely for me. I have come to rely on the women in my life in such a deep and powerful way. No matter what our situations or differences… when we are in pain, and we share that with each other, there is a sacred bond of holding each other up that occurs. Its like this unspoken code that all women seem to abide by. And it only occurs when we take the risk to be fully vulnerable with each other.

For the past month or so, I've been resisting taking that risk. It's so easy to do… to try and avoid being truly vulnerable - even with my closest girlfriends - because I just don't want to face it sometimes. But this week as I've had a few instances of both myself and my girlfriends hitting low points and really needing each other… I am reminded again how important, how powerful, and how healing it is to just let it all out to each other. Sure it felt better to let that out with Drew. More comfortable. More secure. But there is something equally powerful about baring your soul to other women. Something that I have never experienced until losing him.

I'm not even sure where I'm going with all this. Honestly, it's late, I've been on my feet all day cooking, and super stressed about a million other things, and I'm on my 5th or 6th beer (the fact that I can't remember which tells you something!). All I can say is that tonight, I am so incredibly grateful for the women in my life. The ones who are widows. The ones who are not widows who still seem to get it. The ones who are older and wiser and help guide me, and the ones who are right in the thick of it with me. I truly do not know what state I would be in today without each and every woman who has crossed my path since losing Drew. They, you, are the safety net that keeps me afloat. The wind beneath my wings. And the fuel that keeps me trying to make something big and bold and powerful out of all of this pain. We may not have the lives we want, but dammit, at least we have each other. And really, that's a hell of a lot.

Take Care of Each Other

source

I had coffee with a widowed woman I met at the workout studio I go to.

It's been four months for her and her pain was tangible. It was all I could do not to follow her home just so I would know that she didn't have to go back to her home alone. Those first few months were brutal and returning to my house all alone after being with people was still a blow every time. His absence was even more glaring when I would return.

She said she'd be working on more paperwork/legal/financial stuff as she was still dealing with all of it. At the reminder of that I cringed. At four months out the paperwork and phone calls would drive me to an almost catatonic haze of exhaustion for the rest of the day. It physically hurt to call and say "I need to close/update/change the account because my husband died". It felt like being punched in the chest to send copies of the death certificate far and wide.

I wanted to take it all away from her and make everything better but I couldn't. I wanted to give her hope that things would get better while being honest about how 2 + years really felt. As I walked home, I could access feelings of contentment while I watched the summer scenery go by and wished desperately that she could fast forward to a time in the future when she could feel any part of that again.

 It's hard to think of those strange, shock-muffled months of the early days of this. There's a part of me that is so relieved to be past it and a part of me that feels bad for leaving it behind only to know that others are experiencing it now.

I don't want to feel that way again, and yet I don't want anyone to be there alone.


To those of you still early in the first year of this, each day will feel like an eternity but somehow the weeks will soar past in a blur.

The shock will buffer you and you'll forget a lot (a blessing). You'll slowly slowly climb out of the depths. It will be hard as hell. It won't be over at a year. Not yet. It won't ever be over, but that horrible, acute, my-life-is-over feeling will eventually recede. Promise. Then you'll be able to rebuild and see a reason to hope again.

Until then let me remind you and hold you up. Let me take just one thing away from your list of worries and hurts.

I wish I could make a few calls for you or take that dreaded death certificate to whatever stupid wait-in-line office it has to go to. I wish I could cook you dinner and do your dishes. I've needed those things along the way (still do from time to time) and I wish there was a convenient way to return the favor right now.

For the millionth time I fantasized today about a communal sort of living arrangement for those of us who've been widowed, where we share the heavy load. Those of us a little farther out can handle the tasks those of us more new to it can't bear.

We share the child care, we share the chores, we share the sadness. We make sure no one is alone unless he/she prefers it.

We take care of each other. It makes sense.

Maybe before our society became so fragmented, we came closer to this arrangement, but we are so isolated these days. When we're suffering we really need each other, especially those of us who've been through it, and yet we pull away and go off to our quiet homes and close the doors. We're afraid to ask for help and afraid to give it.

And yet I can say for sure that small (and huge) kindnesses by others were what made this survivable for me. It's the way through it, to hang on to each other.

I have to remember that and not shy away from helping when I'm strong enough to do so. I also have to keep asking for help when I need it. No one can help me if I can't tell them I need it. On the other hand, my friend today reminded me that, especially early on, even coming up with something TO ask for is challenging. It's probably best just to offer help than to ask "What can I do?".

Just show up and do something. Even if it's just listen. That's what I need to remember. Just show up.

We have to take care of each other.

Addiction or Grief

A friend posted this on Facebook.

Warning. This is a rant and a poor me post.

This week has been full of downs.

Most of my downs this week are from feeling unsupported in my grief.

I think everyone in my life is either getting over my husband’s death, or sick of hearing about it. I’m not sure which.

And everyone is going through it at the same time. Besides me.

I've heard “It’s been 3 years already, when are you going to get over this?” I've heard “Forget the anniversary, it’s just a date, and eventually you will forget anyway.” Eventually I will forget the day my husband died? Seriously? 

A friend gave me a not so friendly lecture this week.

It started with sharing my excitement of going to camp widow. I was blabbing on and on about what I want to do while there.

My friend says “Why are you going to camp widow?”

Me: “Err.. because I’m a widow? And camp widow has amazing support that I really need.”

Friend:  “When are you going to give this up?”

Me: “Give what up?”

Friend: “Being a widow.”

Me: “Ahh.. give up being a widow? My husband died. How do I give up being a widow?”

Friend: “It’s like a drug addict or alcoholic. At some point they have to decide they don’t want to live that lifestyle anymore, give it up and move on. Same with you. You need to give up on this life style or you will never move on.”

I was so shocked that I just sat there. And honestly, I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

How dare I let being widowed turn me into a widow. How dare I let that fact that my life is shattered effect me.

Now, I remind myself, that the people that always have their 2 cents to put into my grief, have no god damn clue what it’s actually like to live with it.

In the last couple of weeks, it seems like its one person after another, not being supportive.

I try to remind myself that these people care, and want to see me better.

What they don’t realize is I will never be the same person again. Never. I am forever changed from this.

It makes me feel so alone, I can hardly stand it. I feel like I can’t talk about my husband, cause god forbid, someone has their own opinion about my life, my grief, the amount of time it's been since he died, blah, blah.

I've thought a lot about what my friend said. Basically referring to my grief as an addiction.

I think there is maybe some truth in that. Maybe I have gotten so used to be widowed and dealing with my grief, that it has become a habit. A habit that is impossible to break.

What if it was an addiction, and a support group or medication was the cure; could I give up my addiction?

After fumbling for words, I finally told my friend “Well, I guess I’m not ready to give up being a widow.”

Maybe it’s a decision, that one day I will wake up and say “Ok, I give up on being a widow. I give up on my love for my husband. I’m moving on.”

Honestly, I hope it’s that easy. But I know it’s not.

My support system is shrinking daily, and I don’t even know how to give up being a widow.

I can’t wait to get to camp widow, so I can be surrounded by people that get what I am going through.

The Past vs. Support

A friend posted this on facebook. The sad part is, I see it to be true.

I often forget that a lot of people in my life now, have never met my husband.

I will randomly bring up a memory, to someone that has never met Seth, and will get the look along with “Aw, I never met him, remember?” Which gives me a major case of whiplash.

Trying to blend the before life and after life, is a hellish experience and major chore.

I wish everyone could have met Seth. So they could have seen how funny, compassionate and dorky he was. I wish everyone could have met this amazing man, that I grieve over daily.

I wish I could bring him back, just long enough to have a “come meet my dead husband party” so everyone could meet him.

There has been so many times, even on a date with a guy, that I have said “I wish you could have met my husband”. Sure, if he wouldn't have died, I wouldn't be on a date, but I still wish everyone could have met him.

It pains me that my nephew has no memory of Uncle Seth. It pains me that my husband will not make memories with my nephew, and hell, he will never learn about the new me.

Because of his death, I am the new me, but I wish he was here to see it.

Through his death, I have met amazing people. Some of my best friends are widows. If Seth wouldn't have died, they would not be in my life… as we started out as widow support for each other, and became best friends. Without his death, I wouldn't have those friends.

Through my journey, there are things that I am glad he hasn't been here to witness though.

Things like his family blaming me for his death, accusing me of homicide in court, and trying to take his estate from me. As horrible as that was, I’m glad he did not have to witness his family treating me that way. I can only imagine what his reaction would have been.

I am also glad he doesn't have to witness people telling me I’m grieving wrong, that I should be over this by now, it’s time to move on, and yada yada.

I admit, I have grieved wrong. For the first year after his death, I was drowning myself in alcohol. That for me, was grieving wrong. But that doesn't mean it’s wrong for everyone. It just wasn't working for me.

I’m glad he doesn't see the pain that people cause me by telling me I should be over that by now. I’m glad he doesn't witness me fighting the internal battle over my grief.

You see, when someone tells me I should be at x, y and z in my grief, it leaves me second guessing myself. It leaves me hurt, feeling unsupported and that I’m not trying hard enough (Yes, someone told me I wasn't trying hard enough, ironically on the one year anniversary).

When someone criticizes my grief, I feel like they put unfair expectations on me. Expectations that I most likely can’t live up to. When I know I can’t live up to someone else expectations it makes me angry and makes me second guess why they are even in my life to begin with.

What bothers me the most, is that people think I can get over this. That I can forget my husband.

While some days it would be easier if I did forget my husband, it’s something that will never happen. I will never forget my husband, and I will never get over this.

Grief is my lifelong disease. I will always have to take care of it, just like a diabetic has to take insulin. But instead of checking my blood sugar levels, I have to check my grief levels. With high grief levels, I have to admit myself back to my personal intensive care unit.

This will be a lifelong process that I will always have to check on and take care of.

If you are reading this, and are not widowed, please be supportive of those that are. There are not many ways to grieve wrong, and by telling someone they are grieving wrong, you are damaging the person emotionally and damaging the relationship you have with this person.

If you don’t know how to support a widowed friend, then don’t say anything. Just listen.

All we really want is someone to listen. Doesn't matter if you can relate or think grieving should go in a certain order, we just want you to listen and care.

I always remember what my mom taught me growing up. “If you have nothing nice to say, then say nothing at all.” 

Do I belong?

(Source)

Through out my widow journey, I have had a lot of widows approach me.

Asking me "Do I belong in a suicide group?"

"My husband died from a drug overdose, am I a suicide widow?"

My answer to them is - 

"Do you feel the overdose, car accident, etc, was a accident? Or do you feel it was self inflicted?"

If the answer is yes, then you belong.

See, it doesn't matter what the medical examiner says the cause of death is. 

It doesn't what your family or friends say.

It doesn't matter what the death certificate says.

At the end of the day, if you feel the death was intentional, even if there wasn't a suicide note, then that's all that matters.

It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks or says. If you feel it was suicide, then it was suicide.

You have to live with the circumstances surrounding the death..

You have to deal with the stigma.

If you feel it was self inflected and feel that you are a suicide widow, then that's your answer.

A while ago, I started a (private) facebook group for widow(ers) of suicide. 

This question has come up multiple times.

I always tell them the same, if you feel it was suicide, then it was suicide. 

I have a lot of widows in my group that fall in this category. 

But they are welcomed and loved in our suicide group, just like all the other suicides.

I have learned that being a suicide widow is a lot "different" then other widows.

My husband chose to leave.

He chose to die.

When a lot of other husband's were fighting to live.

I have learned that a lot of suicide widows, suffer in silence, because of what society expects of us.

For all the suicide widows out there, or all the widows that wonder if you belong in a suicide group, I welcome you.

Please know you are not alone in this struggle.

You are not alone in these questions.

Feel free to reach out to me on facebook.

Remember, you are right were you are supposed to be.

You belong! 

Who Am I Now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wife no longer. Teacher no longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life Ring

from here

My dear friend introduced me to a friend of hers today. At dinner, I learned that his brother was widowed in March. As in this March. As in less than 3 months ago. He's 43, without kids, and now without his wife.

I listened to the horrible story of how she died suddenly and how he found out. I tried to picture that man in those first few moments and days and the images were so closely bound up with my own sensory memories that for a few minutes I couldn't separate myself from the situation.

The intense pain of those first few months flooded through me and I juggled urges to detach just enough to avoid falling apart at the seams and to connect enough to empathize.

And then, something kicked in. Something so gratifying that it filled me up and shot out of me like light. I realized that I was the one who might actually be able to bring resources to this man who has just lost his best friend.

I took a piece of paper and a pen out of my purse and began to make a list for this man. I wrote SSLF, Camp Widow, Widow's Voice, my own blog, my own email, and my widowed friends' blog addresses. I tried to express what made it harder for me in the beginning and what made it easier.

It's difficult now to explain how this felt. I suppose, like Chris Weaver says, it's like throwing a rope to someone who's drowning. There's such relief in knowing that as long as he takes a hold of the life ring at the end of that rope, he can make it. There was a visceral sense of satisfaction that felt like energy filling my chest and heart.

There was an urgency, too. I wanted to gather the troops and find this man a few states away and get started. I wanted to physically put him on a plane to Camp Widow in San Diego in August and just say "TRUST ME" as the plane takes off. I wanted to surround him with my widowed friends and say "Look. This is the face of widowhood. We survive. We thrive. We come out of this stronger. It's possible. Don't give up."

I will not tell anyone to do anything they're not ready to do and I know from hard-won experience how difficult it is to hear "you shoulds" from anyone else during this process. Everyone is so different and grieving is just as varied. I have no right to tell this man what to do, but oh how I want to tell him to reach out. I want him to want to reach out. But most of all, I want to make him see that he's not as alone as he probably thinks he is.

I also felt some relief knowing that this man now had a concrete way to help his brother with this information I'd given him. It is so hard to know how to help someone who has suffered such a loss. I saw the strain of that in my loved one's faces after Dave died. I know that they all wanted to do what they could to help me and that they were unprepared.

None of us had ever gone through anything remotely like it before and yet they taught me how to do the most incredible job at helping a newly widowed person. And now, in a small way, I could pay that forward by sharing how they helped me most -- making arrangements, taking calls, bringing meals, sitting with me while I cried, taking my lead, the list goes on for days.

As my one year mark grows near, I think more and more about how my loved ones and I have formed this incredible web of love to survive this event. It holds me up and sustains me.

I don't believe in the stereotypical image of a winged angel from heaven. I believe in something better - angels right here on earth. Human, fallible, beautiful, mortal, loving human angels. Any of us can be an angel at any time. It just takes reaching out in case someone might be drowning. It takes gently but firmly tugging on them until they can swim out of the currents on their own.

I hope I can help someone even a fraction as much as my friends have helped (and continue to help) me.