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.” 

A Week and Counting

Time marches on, and quickly!! It was only May when I got engaged, and the big day is coming up next week! I can hardly believe it. I make that statement with double meaning. I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed since May, but it's more than that. I can hardly believe it.

I remember a time when I was convinced I'd never remarry. I loved Daniel more than anyone in the world (excluding Grayson :) and there was no way I would ever find someone like that again, much less allow them in. I wasn't even going to look. Dating? Maybe. I mean, I'm human so it wouldn't hurt to at least go out every once in a while, but long term? Forget it. Men are generally stupid and I'd already had the cream of the crop. Marriage? Forget about it. It would be a cold day in hell before that happened....well, it looks like the temps in Hades are dropping rapidly!

I think Carl slipped in when I had a rare moment of "guard down". I had decided I was interested in finding someone - I had arrived at the conclusion that I wanted someone in my life for real, not just a fun date. But, I had become the two date master. I could eliminate a guy in two dates (a couple of posers made it past my radar, but those are another story), and I had serious doubts that I'd find anyone 3rd date worthy.

Along came Carl. He charmed me with his easy humor, his fabulous smile, and his ability to talk to me about our bumpy past lives. He disarmed me completely and when I looked up...it was date 3, and we were booking a trip to New Orleans...and he hadn't even kissed me yet! Seriously? When did he slip me the love potion!?? Fast forward a year, and Carl, on one knee, blew me away. I still don't think I've recovered from that romantic moment :)

Almost two years later, we have bought a house, and the big day is coming up fast. I can hardly believe it! Who knew this was possible? I think several of my friends wondered if I'd go this route and had serious doubts - much as I did. I didn't, and still don't think that "moving forward" after Daniel means finding a man. "Moving forward" means finding yourself again and building a new life for yourself. I moved forward - and buckets of tears and a few years later, I found myself. A stronger, harder, more cynical version of me, and also a softer, more sensitive, and more loving me... but still me.

Who would have thought that new me would end up counting the days until her wedding? Certainly not ME! ;-) A week away and counting....I can hardly believe it!!

Sticky Toffee

Guest blogger Wendy Diez is filling in for Jackie today...thanks Wendy!

Picture from here

I’m on my way to pick up the kids at preschool and decide to stop at Panera to grab a decaf with extra, extra cream and no sugar.  I wait in line thinking about all that I have accomplished in my kid-free two and a half hours when I hear the woman in front of me order a Sticky Toffee cookie.   I’m transported back in time.

I’m in England five years ago with my dad, stepmom, stepsister and Chris.  We’ve just spent a week in Ireland and are finishing up our vacation with a three day stay in London.  We are eating a traditional English meal at a pub and after our dinner, our waiter asks if we would like dessert.  He lists the options and ends with, “And then there is the Sticky Toffee,” with a typically British accent that makes the dessert sound much grander than it actually is.  The delivery is so convincing though that, don’t you know, five minutes later we are all enjoying several servings of this delicious concoction and cracking ourselves up by repeating to each other over and over again, in our pretend accents, the words: Sticky Toffee.  

“Would you like some Sticky Toffee?”  Cue uproarious laughter.

“Why, yes, sir, I will have some Sticky Toffee!” One of us coughs out a chuckle

“Would you be so kind as to bring me some more Sticky Toffee?”  Giggling erupts through Sticky Toffee-stained teeth.

“Have you heard about our world famous Sticky Toffee?”  Someone actually snorts.

The pints of beer we consumed earlier in the evening only intensified how hilarious we thought we were.

This was our running joke for the rest of the trip.  A few weeks after we returned, my dad, stepmom and stepsister came over to look at the pictures from the trip and Chris surprised everyone with homemade Sticky Toffee.  He was a fantastic cook and his version rivaled the original one.  And again, we amused ourselves by sitting around repeating the words “Sticky Toffee” to each other.

After a few weeks, as can happen with inside jokes, the Sticky Toffee references came less often and eventually, we dropped it altogether.  Only on rare occasions would it randomly come up when our Ireland/England trip was referenced.  And then, I completely forgot about it.  Until the woman in front of me at Panera orders a Sticky Toffee cookie.  

Now all I can think about is that trip and how my husband was a saint to agree to take one crabby, old man, one sweet but slow old lady and one thankfully normal stepsister on a vacation with his wife of just one year.  As an extremely experienced traveler, Chris took on the responsibility of planning the entire trip from the towns we would visit to the places we would stay to the sites we would see.  He was the only one brave enough to drive a car through the unpredictable terrain of Ireland all on the wrong side of the road.  He tolerated complaining, cancelled plans, unexpected delays and way too much family together time.  I won’t say he did it all with a smile on his face because anyone who knew him, knew that he liked things to be a certain way.  He liked to be in control of his time and didn’t normally have patience for people that slowed him down. 

And yet, he did it.  He embarked on this adventure because he knew I wanted to do the trip this way.  He did it because he knew it would make me happy.  He did it because he wanted to see Ireland and England with me even if it included some tag along travelers.  He did it because he loved me that much.

I could hug that woman in front me at Panera who ordered the Sticky Toffee cookie.  She just reminded me how lucky I was to have experienced that kind of love. 

I am not alone (why I am glad I blog)

I'm sitting here, calmly typing this and it's been 622 days since my husband died.
I know exactly how many days because of my regular blog.
But to think that I can type this without tears would have been unthinkable a year ago.

I began writing about my pain just over a month after the accident.

I blogged everything because I knew I'd always be able to find it ... the internet being forever and all.

Now I read those posts back and tears stream down my face.
Was that me?
How did I ever survive such pain?
How did I keep my kids functioning and how on earth did they get from those first jagged, razor-sharp days to these days of a duller, aching pain?
(Pain which still flares up both rapidly and unexpectedly but the jagged edges are not quite so sharp).

and the short answer is that I don't really know how we got here.

... but I do know that time has helped.
I do know that friends and family have helped.
I do know that routine has helped.
and I do know that blogging has helped.

My blog helped (and continues to help) me pour out the hurt, anger, fear, rage, devastation, worry and horror of this journey.
...and *this* blog helped me see that I am not alone in these feelings.

Widow's Voice was one of the first blogs I read in The After.

I've cried and nodded along to more posts than I can count.
I've marvelled at how brave other widows and widowers are.
I've recognised similarities and differences between my journey and the varying journeys we are all on (for our spouses were unique ... as we are ... so no two of us are on the exact same path).
I've laughed at the dark humour.
I've rejoiced at the finding of new love, but seen that it's not a magic bullet that takes away this pain.

But most of all, I've realised that

I
Am
Not
Alone.

...and nor are you.

Two Year Anniversary

We are joined today be guest blogger April Torres. Thanks for sharing your story with us April!

 

 

About April: In January 2009, I found out I was 5 weeks pregnant. A week later my soul mate and the love of my life passed away unexpectedly at 32 years old. I was 29, pregnant and grieving. The darkest, saddest, most miserable days followed. I thought I'd never smile again. But, 2.5 years later, I have a beautiful, healthy son who makes smiling easy. I don't think I will ever be 100% and will never stop missing my love, but I have slowly realized that I can be happy and that life does shift forward, no matter how much you may want it to pause and stand still. 

 

The quickness of time bewilders me. Two years has passed since you were taken away from me. Two years, and yet my heart still wears the imprints from your last touch. Two years, and yet I can still close my eyes and smell you. I can still taste you on my lips. It astonishes me – how well my senses know you. How they remember you so vividly. I still hear your laughter; still see that smile.

Someone asked me a random question the other day without knowing the situation. They asked me how long I had been single. It was a simple question but one I could not answer. I didn’t know how to explain that this question had no simple answer. Should I have provided the technical answer to this simple question and responded with: two years? Or the truth; no matter how complex that answer would be. 

Should I have simply said that I am not? That I am still very much in a relationship. Still very much with someone. That even though it has been two years since I last had physical contact with you or a face to face conversation, that you have been with me, every day. That we have shared conversations, even though they were one-sided. That you have answered random doubts I have had, in some form or another. That you have still been my “date” at many a gathering.

How do I explain that I still wake up to your face smiling down at me? That you are still the first and last thought of each day. So much time has passed and yet, you have never left my side. Or rather, I have never left yours. You are still my sun. How do I explain to someone that even though we’ve been apart physically for two years – we’ve grown closer than the two years + that we were together? 

How do I explain to someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to lose your love, that even though yes, the answer to the question might appear to be: two years, the truth is: I’m still very much in love. That my heart still very much belongs to you. I don’t. I won’t. I can’t.

Home

Six parts of your Widow's Voice home at Camp Widow 2010

Home is where you hang your heart, not only your hat. When Phil died, the four walls of my home became both a refuge and a prison. I hated going out; I hated staying in.

The outside world was too bright. I felt blinded by other people's lightness, innocent happiness, and especially by their apparent disregard for the fact that the world had stopped. I kept forgetting that their world didn't necessarily halt because mine did. I remember very clearly (and it has been 1,981 days) that when I was in public I felt see through, as if there was no substance to me.

But when I was home the familiarity was excruciating. Everywhere I looked there was some misleading evidence that Phil would be right back. Shoe in the corner, lunchbox on top of the fridge, toothbrush in the holder...all signs that the owner of these items had just stepped out. Loneliness seeped from my pores and left a miserable residue on every surface. Home wasn't home. There is a line from a Mercy Me song (Homesick) that best described this feeling for me: "If home's where my heart is, then I'm out of place." Oh how I ached to be home.

Then I found you. This community became a safe, homey place. My widowed friends held bits of my heart for me while I picked up the pieces that were scattered by the winds of grief. Each time I found another sliver, I could just hand it to the people who would eventually help me work out how those fractured shards could once again take the shape of something beautiful. 

On the blog this week this comment was addressed anonymously to a new reader who is hoping that finding this community will help him deal with his loss:

"Come back here. To this blog. I can tell you - it saved my life. I almost didn't make it this winter, it was too painful. It was a very dark time. When it was at its worst, I came here. To the place where others understood. Where someone knew what it felt like to not want to carry on. The widows voice community has offered such wisdom and support and hope. That I can say now 7 months from my spouses death. I am doing better than I was. I still have dark days and hard nights but when I do - I know I am not alone. I come here and read the stories and hear the way others have coped and I know I can carry on. I hope you do return."

Thank you anonymous.

This is what I mean by home. You are home to me, and we are home to each other, and as you heal, grow, and make your way through this whole new crazy widowed world...I hope you will always remember that one home is only a click away.

kinship

Photo from here....

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vive la Vida

There was a time when the idea of "living my life" was an oxymoron. How could I take the advice to live my life when a huge section had been torn out and I was staring in disbelief at the gaping hole left behind? Why make life plans when they can be swept away permanently by a suburban going 50 MPH one summer evening at 5 o'clock? If life is supposed to be lived out loud, what happens when you've lost your voice? As my world tilted on a new axis that was both foreign and surreal, my enthusiasm for waking up each morning lasted only until the inevitable moment when I realized that Phil was still dead.

My personal tragedy was the only lens through which I could see the world. No matter which way I turned my soul's camera, the picture was the same. The daily emptiness I felt filled every frame and became my entire focus. I needed help adjusting my lens, but didn't have any idea where to start.

Then other widowed people entered my life, and I began to see things from a different perspective. Realizing that I was not the only one struggling to accept an unwanted life had an immediate affect on my outlook. Somehow I felt a little less out of control. The fact that other people who had been sentenced to outlive their spouses were managing to find joy in unexpected places proved that glimpses of happiness did exist in the darkness. Candle points of light began appearing on the horizon in the form of other widowed people, and slowly I began rediscovering the gifts that had been sitting quietly beside me in the inky blackness.

There is often an assumption that when widowed people get together we host cry fests and curse the heavens in unison. While I will admit to some cleansing crying/cursing, the thing I value most about my widowed friends is the fact that they encourage me to live my life. In fact, they often dare me to. These are the people who remind me that life is short, in case I'd forgotten. These are the people who both acknowledge my life altering loss, but also refuse to allow me to use that void as an excuse to hide under my bed. My widowed community confirms that life is not fair, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't still participate. People who have loved and lost know the value of a friend, no matter what time of day that friend is needed. In some ways death trumps all, and in other ways life trumps all. I learned that from my widowed friends.

No, I don't need a widowed community so that I can talk about death. I need my widowed community to inspire me to really live my life.

Grief, Parenting, and Coping

Parenting is both overwhelmingly rewarding, and unrelentingly challenging. Some days we glow with pride at the accomplishments of our little angels; other days we may wonder how our best laid plans went awry. Sharing parental duties with a wonderful partner definitely helps manage the roller coaster ride we call parenthood…there is someone to discuss options with, another person who loves the kids as much you do to listen to your rant about their current behavior, an additional carpool driver, and someone else to go over the math homework.

But for widowed parents the time we have to raise our children with the person we love is cut tragically short. For widowed people with children the common concerns of parenthood are eclipsed by the shadow of grief. Questions of which diaper to use are replaced by fears of whether our kids will remember mommy or daddy. Some children’s first written words are, “Why did my daddy or mommy have to die?” Nine year olds may apply the extra emotion of loss to the smallest disappointment leading to angry tantrums fueled by missing their other parent. Teenage angst, scary territory under the best of circumstances, is greatly complicated by the tumult of death and loss. Perhaps the heaviest weight for widowed parents to carry is the fact that we often provide the road map for our children that shows them how to grieve. Do we cry? Do we say our loved one's name? Do we remember aloud? Do we continue our regular routines? Do we shut down, speed up, or spin in place?

I am continually amazed at the fact that widowed parents must survive the searing pain of losing a partner, and also assume the role of only parent. Each family’s route to healing is unique, but some common themes may help pave the way. Seek a compassionate family counselor. Join a group that addresses death and grief in age appropriate forums. Find ways to help your children store their memories. Honestly access your financial situation. Accept help when it is offered. Know that you have limits and you have needs. Allow your friends and family to drive carpool, help with homework, and buy groceries; they want to help. Try to arrange time away from the kids to sob and rage without witnesses. Cry in the shower. Know that children grieve in a new way at every developmental stage. Live in the moment and try to let tomorrow take care of itself. And finally, laugh, play, paint, watch a funny movie, blow bubbles~ let the inherent joy of your children be a balm for your family soul.

In My Dreams

Jackie is moving into her new home this week, and so I am filling in for her today. One of our readers commented on this previous post, and after reading it myself I thought I'd share these thoughts once again. I find that every time I read something from the past...I learn a new lesson for the future. The question I am answering today is whether I felt Phil's presence in any specific way after his death....

I have to admit that in the early months after Phil's death I ran from place to place (literally and figuratively) hoping to find a definitive sign that he was still with me. Is he in our room? Maybe in his garage amongst the tools? Could he be in the car? Near his bikes? Somewhere in the backyard? Insert in your mind here a vision of me looking under the bed, picking up each and every tool on the shop bench, sitting in his seat in his truck, straddling his bike though my legs were too short, and wandering aimlessly in our backyard...all in search of proof that Phil wasn't really gone. Over the last few years I have heard many stories of people who have felt their loved ones in their presence. They have no doubt that this experience is real, and derive great comfort from being with their lost spouse for just the briefest of moments, but Phil and I haven't been in the same room, for certain, since he died.

I have often wondered if the reason I don't feel him around me has something to do with my belief in the possibility that this could actually happen. Over the past three years I have looked for him in every imaginable spot, and even ordered him to appear when all else failed. I have spent a good amount of time fervently wishing, hoping, praying, or begging that I could find Phil in a particular spot, any place would do. Eventually I realized that if this were possible for me, I would never do anything but sit in that sacred location, and be with him. He knows me well, and I think he knows the truth: I couldn't handle being able to 'visit' him. Each visit would need to be a bit longer, every opportunity to run to him at any sign of trouble would be taken, and over time life would pass me by as I hid my face in his silent presence.

Some spouses are blessed with the certainty of their loved ones presence, some are left to wonder where they have gone; but I believe that love is the place all of us will most certainly find our heart's desire. Our loved ones live best in the hearts of those of us who loved them and lost them...each person who knew Phil holds a little piece of him in their hearts, and it is in our shared memories that I find him--without fail.

Tethered

Seven years ago Phil and I decided to climb Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States. We recruited some other crazy hikers; we worked out a year long training schedule (he chose the trails and I planned the distances and elevation order); we went on several exploratory hikes in search of good training climbs; we ate, drank, breathed, and lived hiking for the majority of one year. On the day of the climb we woke at 3:00AM, packed 50 pounds in each of our back packs, gathered our group at the base of the trail...and headed up the ginormous mountain for a one day out and back adventure.

Phil and I trained religiously for this climb. We were both in great shape, had become pretty fast hikers, and were confident with the other's ability. But when we hit around 12,000 feet in elevation my head began to swim. The higher we climbed the less I talked. As we approached the fabled switchbacks on the trail I leaned into the rock walls to keep my balance. Every step felt as if I were wading through water while wearing one hundred pounds on my back. I began asking myself who the current President of the United States was over and over in order to convince myself that altitude sickness was not setting in on this of all days. Phil walked along in front of me looking over his shoulder like he had a twitch, taking weight out of my back pack to lighten my load, and handing me his water bottle every ten minutes like clockwork.

What we both knew was that if I couldn't complete the climb he would have to turn back too. Leaving another hiker who is struggling alone on the trail is dangerous both for the ill person, and for the husband who knew that his wife's mother would surely strangle him if he didn't bring her back alive and well! I pushed myself so he wouldn't have to turn back, and he held back unsure if I would be able to go on.

Finally we approached a place on the trail called "the windows," two stunning rock sculptures that arch majestically across a very narrow dirt bridge that drops off thousands of feet on either side. If you fall off the ledge on this part of the hike the chance of survival is slim to none. We stood together side by side facing the reality that I was not in the best condition to continue. Phil took me by the shoulders, turned me to face him, looked me in the eye and said, "I am not letting you cross that alone. If you insist on going forward I am going to tether you to me and we'll walk together one step at a time." Then he took a deep breath and without even chocking on the words continued with, "And if you don't think you can make it we can turn around here." With the peak so close we could feel it, I knew what saying these words cost my compulsively competitive man.

Every ounce of my fiercely independent self resisted the idea of being tugged up a mountain that I was completely capable of climbing on my own. But my husband was hearing none of my protesting. So this stubborn woman was tethered to her husband's belt and led to the summit of Mt. Whitney. Yes, I know ignoring how I felt and continuing up the mountain was not the smartest choice. What I didn't know at the time was that this experience would be one of my most powerful memories of my partnership with Phil.

There have been days when I wished that he could still tether me to his belt and drag me through the myriad tasks, challenges, and tumultuous emotions that living without him have brought into my life. And there have been other times when I feel the pull of his love like a tether reminding me that I can do anything if I believe in myself, and accept a little help from my friends.

Rebuilding

My family began battling cancer in 2003 when my mother-in-law was diagnosed with colon cancer. Five years later my wife, who was pregnant with our third child, was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. Despite a valiant fight, cancer claimed the life of mother-in-law on April 18th and of my wife on July 23rd. I am now raising three girls all under the age of ten. It's a constant battle between my feelings of misery about the devastating losses in my life, and the gratitude I feel for the gift of three amazing daughters who need me now more than ever. This is my challenge, and these are my thoughts.

I was simply moving stuff out of the basement. It’s time to move. The house is too big for us without Lisa. It’s just me and the kids. The cost is too high, it’s too much to clean, and I don’t have that many hours left in the day to take care of everything that needs to be done here. I need a smaller, less expensive, easier to clean house.

I bring up an old air conditioner from the basement (how long has that been down there). I walk back downstairs to get more junk (is this project going to take me all day?), and grab a broken lamp to bring back up (this lamp use to be in our bedroom. Is she really gone?). Put the lamp next to the front door, pause and take a look around the house (what is going on here, why the emotion, am I really going to miss this place, there is so much sadness associated here I want to leave, don’t I?). Back downstairs again and grab the box of Holiday decorations (ah crap, this is getting difficult, I didn’t expect this. Keep moving Matt, too much work to do today). Place the box next to the lamp and now the emotion is on me like a wet blanket (It’s official. I am starting to rebuild my life. I’m scared). I sit down on the box and breakdown.

I did what I could for 2 years. I tried to keep things as routine as possible for as long as possible. I did it for the girls. I could tell that it wasn’t so much that they lost their Mother. It was “How will my life change?” “What chaos is in store for us Dad?” So for 2 years, I kept the chaos away. I kept living in a house that was too big for us; taking care of a house that is too much for me to clean; paying bills on a house that is more than a now single income family can afford. For 2 years I blocked the inevitable.

But the time has come. This is the first major step. I am starting to rebuild my life. And it’s a horrible feeling.

What I Can Do

From the minute I was told that Phil was dead I have been tortured by things I could not do. Initially, the fact that no amount of hoping, denying, praying, or screaming was going to bring him back to life haunted my days. I was obsessed with the idea that the world would be whole again only when someone with a magic wand brought me back my husband.

As the months dragged on my focus on what I couldn't do morphed into a terrible jealousy of any seemingly happy person passing by: families out for a walk, Dads playing ball in the front yard, couples out to dinner on a Saturday night, anyone who dared to hold hands in front of me, and especially little old couples helping each other in and out of cars. My imagination would run wild, and I created dozens of blissfully happy scenarios for these people I viewed through my "I can't have what you have" lens.

These kind of feelings don't plague me as much anymore. I am able to allow other people to be happy in my presence without wanting to kill them (I am quite proud of this),and I don't find myself counting the ways my life is horrible very often.

But every once in awhile when life gets overwhelming I fall back into listing the things robbed from me by my widowhood. Saturday was one of those days. I set out to run 12 miles for my marathon training. I was tired, hadn't eaten as much as I should have, was leaving behind a long list of things to do, and was generally not in the mood to spend almost two hours running. The park I chose for my run was filled with families. I found myself silently telling the men I noticed being chased by their children or kicking a soccer ball on the field to be sure they watched their cholesterol so they could limit the chances of dying young and torturing their families with their untimely death. As I ran past a party merrily hitting a pinata, I mentally warned the group to be sure to avoid death by head trauma delivered by a wayward bat. After a few minutes of this kind of grim thinking, I laughed out loud. Bitter widow.

There is plenty of time for self-reflection on a long run, and as I looped around a lovely portion of the trail I realized that I was missing Phil. Damn it, he was supposed to be doing this training with me. This was his crazy idea. Why am I left to run for hours on end with no partner? Where is he when I need him? How am I going to get through all of this alone? It seems entirely unfair that he can just float along by my side, and I am the one doing all the hard work. This realization brought a few tears with it, and then the trail opened up. The sun was shining, illuminating the blanket of grass inspired by the recent rains. There was a soft breeze blowing gently into my face. My legs work, I am capable of running. I reminded myself that I have been managing the training along with all the other daily things I do. The kids haven't starved, the house hasn't fallen down, and since I have become a widow my world has grown in ways I would have never dreamed. Okay, I have a lot to be grateful for even though my husband is dead.

At the end of my run it occurred to me that marriage and widowhood are both for better or for worse. Sometimes I have to choose to focus on the better part.

(This photo proves the point that life has brought me some fantastic opportunities...how many people get to pose with their vegetarian daughter in front of the Wienermobile??)

In it for the Long Haul

For the longest time the question that haunted me was: "why him, why not me?" - for a while, the question was more often "why not take me too?". Michele and I used to talk about the big black ship that would come pick us up and carry us away to wherever Phil and Daniel were. I told myself I'd jump on that boat and race away without a second glance.

I knew, even then, that it wasn't true. I wouldn't jump on the boat and ride away to see my man. As much as I wanted to see him (and still do, every day), I had one big reason to stay here and see it through - Grayson. In the early months, Grayson was the only thing that kept me from throwing myself on the funeral pyre (or off the nearest bridge). I knew Daniel would never forgive me if I didn't take care of our little man. Daniel was counting on me to be strong for Grayson and carry on. I needed that guilty knowledge to keep me focused on survival.

It's funny, but for a while after Daniel died, I was fearless. I dared God to take me. I was defiant and bullet proof. I mean, really...what were the chances that I'd die too? And, did I really care? Most days, not so much. Four years later, my greatest fear is dying. But, not for the reasons you might think. I don't fear death. I'm ready for it when it is my time. What I do fear is leaving Grayson without a parent. I pray almost daily that I get to live until I'm really, unnaturally old so that he doesn't have to lose both of his parents when he's still young. I want to watch him grow up and live a long and happy life.

I know I can't protect him from all pain, and I wouldn't want to - life is the whole package, the good and the bad. I'd prefer it though, if the most painful thing he ever has to experience has already happened and it's all downhill from there. A girl can dream, right? In the meantime, I'm grateful to be here, watching the little guy grow up too quickly.

Happy Tuesday - Michelle D.

Sweet?

I remember a time not too long ago when I couldn't taste anything, couldn't notice the sunshine, couldn't appreciate the beauty in anything. Getting out of bed and making it through the day was all I could handle.

As time passed, I noticed a beautiful day - the first gorgeous day I noticed was ruined by a crying fit (how could it be this beautiful if he isn't here with me)...whatever, I noticed. I was just starting to wake up from the bad dream. Eventually, I became aware of my surroundings again, began to notice the life going on around me. It became clear to me that time was marching on, even as I drifted in my fog. At first, it just pissed me off. How dare things go on? How dare the sun rise and set as if nothing had happened? What was wrong with everyone? How could they smile, laugh, live?

I was bitter. I was envious. I was jealous of the "perfect" lives other people had. I resented old couples. I resented young couples. I attended weddings and wanted to scoff during the vows: "yeah, til death do you part - hold on sweetie it might be a lot freakin sooner than you think..." I'm not naturally a bitter person, so this particular stage didn't last too long (but longer than you might think!!). The darkness lifted, and I began to smile again at old couples (thank goodness, you should go to hell for wishing the evilness on old people that I was wishing!) - young couples with babies didn't make me want to cry, and I became....what? I don't know what I became. Resigned? I don't think so. Although I think the bitterness was still there, and sometimes resurfaces, I believe what happened is that I became less repelled by the sweet. I became more accepting that Daniel's death didn't remove all of the sweetness from the world.

For a couple of years I had forgotten most of the things that I liked - or at least I had forgotten to actively like them. My awakening came in stages. For a while, I chose to like only those things that Daniel had liked. At least, I thought, I can do that much for him. I'll always do the things that he liked and it will be like he is still here. That lasted for a while, but I don't love yard work ;) , I've never enjoyed watching poker on TV, I don't enjoy reading "finding wealth" books, I'm a terrible carpenter, and I can only drink one Jack and Coke before I want to switch to something else. Soooo, gradually I started to get back in touch with me. What did I like? At first I couldn't remember. What did I like? Just me. Not Daniel. Not Grayson. Just me? What did I like? It was tough to figure out at first. Eventually though, and with practice it came back to me.

These are a few of my favorite things (in no particular order):

• plain old white daisies - nothing is more simple or pretty
• hot coffee on the porch
• little boy laughter
• smart comedies (and some not so smart ones too)
• the smell of fresh rosemary
• a good run that leaves you sweaty and tired
• cooking with friends
• a pint of Guinness sitting at the bar
• sunrise or sunset on the beach or on a boat
• long phone conversations with people I miss
• feeling like I've helped someone
• fire in the fireplace
• outdoor music festivals with very cold beer
• chips, queso, a frozen margarita with salt
• being alone in my house - music as loud as I want
• movies in bed
• bubble bath, candles, red wine
• little boy hugs
• insanely high heels
• old houses with original wood trim
• Saturday mornings

I didn't realize I'd forgotten these things. I'd forgotten to even care. These days, I don't forget. These are the things that keep my inner-fire stoked. Really they aren't anything special. There is no revelation here. These things are just me. Oddly enough, as much as I feel like I have changed, these things haven't changed from the "before" me. They are exactly the same.

Happy Tuesday! - Michelle D.

In Awe

I have experienced using the word death, or the word grief, or the word widow and having people physically step away from me. I have been told that since I am young the death of my husband isn't as large a tragedy as it might be if I were older, since I am sure to remarry. I have been asked whether or not I am "over" my husband. People have looked at me from behind walls, sunglasses, the back of their cars, and then purposely walked the other direction. I have been told that finding another man to love would mean that Phil was not my soul mate, because how could you replace a soul mate? I have been asked to explain why I still talk about my dead husband when I have a new one waiting in the wings. I have been asked how I can possibly listen to the stories of other widowed people day in and day out without wanting to jump off the nearest bridge.

Yes, I have definitely experienced being misunderstood, but I have also been introduced to the power of a compassionate community.

This weekend Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation held our first Board of Directors retreat. I am humbled and honored by the love and dedication these ladies show our cause. We talked about where we are going as an organization, and how we will get there. We discussed why this mission is important to us personally, and how to explain to people outside of our group WHY this work matters. Because frankly, finding support for the programs we run has been the most difficult professional challenge I have ever faced. There is an expectation that we will all just, "get over it." Somehow a perception that grief is a short lived time period that can be managed by pulling up the boot straps has pervaded our society. There is no general sense that people who grieve need on-going support.

But everyone who reads this blog knows better, in large part because of the courageous way our bloggers share their personal walk with grief. We all have learned that the only thing that lightens the load of grief is understanding. The one thing that most impacts understanding is community, and the most powerful type of communal support is created by connecting those who have a shared experience. That means we need each other.

So the board of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation set an impressive goal...we endeavor to become the leading worldwide resource for providing peer based grief support programs. The very idea makes my eyes well up with tears of gratitude, and honestly a bit of disbelief. We intend to change the world.

Death has taught me that we are on this planet for a finite amount of time. Grief has taught me that I need a community that understands the complexities of losing the man I love. Widows have taught me that community heals.

We can't accomplish this goal without you. You are the reason we exist.

(Oh, I forgot to explain the photo...we are testing recipes for the Widows Rock! and Death Sucks cocktails for Camp Widow. Yes, thanks to Ms. Dippel, we have a very tasty drink for you to test out when you arrive!)

Ezra Update

Ezra came back to me again, expressing his lack of desire to live.

I called Our House where the kids and I receive grief support.

I spoke with Lauren who is in charge of children's support. She said I need to get Ezra help.... immediately.

She said it's great that he trusts me enough to express his feeling. She said it's good that I have provided him with a safe place to talk openly.

She said to call ________ (a therapist experienced with children's grief) and tell her Ezra needed a suicidal evaluation.

She said to keep her posted.

I said I need another massage gift certificate.

And then I said "Fuck."

---

Two days later, I ask him

"Ezra, how would you commit suicide?"

He says, fully exasperated, in a tone that is too large for his 7 year old experience

"That's the problem!! I don't know how!"

He continues thoughtfully, "I mean I could jump off a cliff but the nearsest clif is in the Grand Canyon and I can't get there!"

I pull him onto my lap laughing, squeezing him too hard, my nose crushed in his neck.

God I love this child.......

-----

He has his first therapist appointment this week.

Later

I am in bed thinking about him. Thinking about me.

I can handle this. I am 100% sure I can handle this.

It is the first time since Art's death that I have felt open enough, expansive enough, sure enough and strong enough to deal with their emotions -- train wrecked as they may be.

And I sigh.

Cause Art knew I would be Ok. I think that is why he felt it was OK to leave.

I hate that.

photos

sunday night.

2:00am.

for the first time,

just saw some photos of

liz

posted to flickr by anya

and i lost my shit.

photos of

liz

(almost all taken by me)

have brought me

lots of comfort

over the past few weeks,

but these were different.

these photos were taken

by someone else

during happy times

that i wasn’t a part of…

her bachelorette party

and

various girls-only weekends.

all of a sudden

now i think i know what

it’s like

to look at this from

a strangers perspective

and it’s awful.

i found myself

thinking the

same things everyone

else has said,

“what a beautful woman”

“so full of life”

“can’t believe she’s gone”

holy shit i miss

liz

so much right now.

Serenity Now....

Remember the Seinfeld episode where George's dad keeps yelling: "Serenity Now"? He's supposed to be chanting it in a low melodic voice but instead yells it during times of stress.... I think I'm going to try it! ;)

The last month or so has been very stressful for me, and I've lost focus on the things that should matter to me right now. I've been running in circles trying to do it all, and in the course of it have managed to do all and nothing at the same time. Work has been intense, homework and school activities are constant, home responsibilities and chores, (lions and tiger and bears, oh my...). I've made some time (thanks to several of you who know who you are!) to do a few fun things, but I'm so worn out that I almost don't enjoy them. So far I haven't been too grumpy with Grayson, so that is a good thing. But, the challenge is finding the soft spot, something has got to give, and all of these demands seem like non-negotiable responsibilities owned by me alone.

The whole situation is making me less tolerant and grouchy. Case in point: I met a new neighbor this past week, a nice enough lady from across the street. I've been here three months and have never seen her. Her comment when we finally met was "I heard you work, so I guess that is why I haven't seen you....." She repeated this phrase: "you work..." three times throughout the course of our two minute conversation, and each time the judgement was implied: what kind of woman works instead of raising her children full-time? Who knew a working mother was such a novelty in the 21sth century...Good God I wanted to punch her. Of course I smiled, and said "yes, I do work" while inside I wanted to scream Frank Costanza style "Serenity NOWWWWW!" I guess I'm a little on edge. ;-)

I find myself trying to list the things that are going well and the balls that I'm not dropping in an effort to calm the screaming inner voice. I'm looking forward to the long holiday weekend and the time with my family for Thanksgiving. I need a bit of grounding, and hanging with my parents and brother will make me feel a bit more "home" than I have been feeling lately. It will be a great way to carve out some quiet time and give thanks for the many blessings I have in my life.

I'm looking forward to coffee at sunrise looking out over the Gulf of Mexico and concluding in my mind "serenity now".

Happy Thanksgiving ya'll - Michelle D.

the dvr

there are

odd things around

the house that

trigger memories of liz.

on the refrigerator,

behind some mismatched magnets

is

a recipe with its

accompanying ingredient/grocery list

and

a list of things

to do around the house

before a dinner party

thrown long-ago,

(all in her hand writing).

one of the

worst triggers is

the goddamned dvr.

a source of constant

disagreement for two people

with widely different

tastes in tv/movies.

reruns of the gilmore girls,

episodes of the real world,

the hills

and more

all on “series record” mode,

all chosen by

liz.

i’m never going

to watch any of

this garbage

(didn’t when she was here, won’t now that she’s gone).

but,

how do i delete the episodes

she recorded

but didn’t get to see?

she’d be pissed

at me if i deleted

her shows.

so the dvr

continues to fill up

and i feel too

guilty to stop the

shows from

being recorded.

another thing

that really hits me

is that i’m

still getting her e-mails

on her blackberry.

i’ve already mentioned

the e-mails from

babycenter.com

but barack obama

and his supporters

e-mail liz way more

often than,

babycenter.com,

macy’s,

bloomingdales,

neiman marcus

and pottery barn

combined.

just today

michelle obama wrote

liz

asking her to help

“register and mobilize voters”

i know

liz

would have been

happy to work

arm-in-arm

with the future

first lady,

(obama was going to get her vote in nov.).

but

i’m not sure

liz

would be an

effective mobilizer

right now.

maybe i should

send michelle an e-mail

letting her know

what’s goin’ on.