A Beautiful Day

 

This week brought with it a major milestone - my first wedding anniversary. A special day that I should have been celebrating with my darling but, instead, had to spend alone, as his widow. I've had a pretty busy few weeks so even though I knew it was looming, the reality of the day really snuck up on me.

One year ago I married the man of my dreams. A man I never dared to imagine existed. A man I still adore and have a ridiculous crush on. A man who, even in death, makes me want to be a better person, to make him proud. Who makes me feel lucky and blessed, beautiful and loved.

In the days leading up to our wedding anniversary I started thinking, ‘what does this day mean now that he’s not here to celebrate it with me?’

Because, on one hand, I felt in my heart that it should be a happy day.  I’m grateful that I married Dan, he was the most beautiful thing to happen to me and this should be celebrated.  It is such a cliché – but our wedding day really was the happiest I had ever been in my life.  I have had many reasons to be happy before this, I’ve had some amazing experiences, created wonderful memories and lived a very full life, even at the tender age of 32.  But nothing had compared to standing up before everyone dear to me and exchanging vows with the man I had waited for my whole life.  His love had validated me and completed me in a way that I hadn’t thought possible.

But on the other hand, of course, it was a tragic, sad and painful day.  My husband was dead, our marriage had technically lasted 45 days - 'til death do us part. Even though, as many of you would agree, I still feel very much married and consider myself to be his wife, more so than his widow.  How do I bask in the glow of on his love and memory of this blessed day when I am grieving his death so deeply? 

I’m learning that while it’s normal to ponder these philosophical-type questions, I need to stop putting so much pressure on my self to find the answers.  I have always been a proactive problem solver but grief is teaching me to sit in the moment, be patient and let the world turn without trying to preempt and resolve everything.  I’m relying on my instincts so much more than I ever have before.  So, rather than decide what this day meant to me and how I should mark it, I decided to just let myself feel my way through. 

I started off with a major meltdown the night before, while reading the beautiful card he wrote me and watching the video footage of our wedding. It wasn’t intentional, but a good few hours of crying and I think I got most of my tears out – meaning the actual anniversary ended up being a much calmer affair.

I spent the day with my sister, who was my maid of honour and has been by my side every step of this difficult journey. We went to the cemetery in the morning before getting massages at a day spa and then met up with my best friend (who was my other bridesmaid) for lunch. The afternoon was spent curled up in bed, where we watched trashy tv, ate chocolate and drank cup of tea, after cup of tea.

There was lots of reminiscing about that beautiful day – so many happy memories that deserved to be aired.  Both my sister and my friend miss Dan too and, having played an important role in our wedding and our lives, they are also going through their own, different grieving process.  

So, overall, it was a very difficult day but I got through it, with a heavy heart.  It was cruel, agonising, complicated and exhausting, just like grief.  I'm glad I managed to go out and do something nice, I know Dan would have been pleased about that too. Like many milestones, the lead up was more painful than the event itself, but that doesn’t take away from the overwhelming task of reaching and passing them.  

I miss my husband with every fiber of my being. I ache for the life we should be living and will never be ‘ok’ with the fact that he was taken from me so soon, in such tragic circumstances. 

But, I will be forever grateful for our wedding day. Despite suffering with his depression on and off over the months leading up, he was truly happy on that day.  I look at the photos of his wide, cheeky grin and listen to his wedding speech about how he realized he had found his ‘home’ when he met me, and that is so, so precious to me. I'm thankful that we had that special day with everyone we loved.  It was a beautiful day - the best day - my favourite day.  

How I got ... here

My crazy, active son

(link is to the pro photographer who took it - this was an 'outtake' shot)

To catch up, it's about four weeks after Ian's had heart surgery, and I've rushed him to hospital where he collapsed on arrival.

Once Ian was settled and awake again, we opted for me to head home and be with our son.  We were used to Ian being in hospital, so it was no biggie to either of us at the time for me to head off.  I had been advised he’d probably be moved to a high care ward as they weren’t sure what was going on.

At 3am I got a phone call to say that he was in ICU.  So I drop our son off at my parents (who were very conveniently located between our home and the hospital), and head into the hospital.  I was there for a couple of hours and he was scared, but still quite chatty. 

I went home for breakfast, then headed back to the hospital.  While Ian was relaying John’s antics to the nurse, he crashed.  At this point I thought I’d be a widow by the end of the day.   His cardiologist was interstate for the weekend, but flew home to manage his case.

Later that day, I wound up in a meeting with 5 heads of department from the hospital.  The first thing I was told is Ian had suffered a massive stroke, but they didn’t know the impact.  Then I got told, as they had suspected, Ian had the rarest of complications from his ablation – an atrial-oesophageal fistula.  A hole had formed between his heart and oesophagus.  This would kill him unless it was repaired, but the scar tissue from his past surgeries made everyone really nervous to try the usual repair options available.

Except the one specialisation that apparently gets everything that everyone else doesn’t want to touch – the radiographic surgeon.  They planned to insert a stent to block the hole under x-ray, and without inflating the area with gas to reduce the risk of a further stroke – a strategy they couldn’t find other records of.  And there was no guarantee he’d survive the surgery.

Our Minister and my step-mother kept me company while Ian was in surgery.  I was really relieved when I got the message he was back in ICU. 

Then started a three week battle to beat the various infections he had developed. 

Once he woke, we learned the extent of his stroke – language was gone, as was his left side mobility.  And he’d developed an interest in Australian Rules Football, which he’d detested prior (he was a soccer man and a Birmingham fan). Thanks to the efforts of staff, a stubborn personality and I’m sure his son, we managed to get to a good point medically, and he was released to the stroke ward.  

He did pretty well for the next 4 weeks or so, and then we found his oesophagus was growing through the stent and bleeding.  Back into ICU and yet more procedures.  The upshot- the stent could not be removed, and he’d likely die on the table during any attempt to do so.  So it had to stay put.

A few days later, Ian had his first seizure. 

Then we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. 

A few days later I was finally told there was no hope and given two options – either let his oesophagus rupture, which would be a traumatic end, or let infection win and give him a peaceful end. 

I chose the latter.

Ian passed away about a week later, on 14 June 2012. Ten days after our first wedding anniversary. 

We’d crammed more in 3 years and 3 days of knowing each other than many do in a lifetime.

Now 18 months later, I’m raising our crazy, active son the best I can, and facing my 40^th in 2014 with a life experience I never thought I’d have at this early in my life.

Less than a decade, more than a lifetime.

July 19, 2003

It's always been a hard reality for me to swallow that I never got a full decade with Jeremy. Something about that round number made me feel even more like I got robbed.

I started dating Jeremy shortly after I turned 20. He died when I was 28 - I never got to celebrate turning 20 or 30 with him. Just inside a decade.

A few weeks ago, Jeremy and I would have been married 10 years. It kills me that I'll never celebrate that milestone with him. The funny thing is, I've never seen our wedding video. I've had the tape sitting in my purse for more than 2 years, waiting to remember to take it in to convert it to DVD. I finally remembered to drop it off awhile back.

On July 19th, our 10th anniversary, I received a call that my wedding video was finished.

I finally have the DVD to watch....the day of our wedding. And yet, I can't seem to bring myself to watch it yet. I've been waiting to watch this thing for 10 years, and used to complain to Jer all the time that we'd never seen it, and now that I have it - I can't do it. Something too final about it all now. Part of it may be that just hearing his voice generally makes me tear up instantly. Part of it is that I'm not ready to close yet another door. Part of it is fear that it won't be nearly as magical as I remember it....and I'd like to hold on to that magic.

I don't know when I'll get around to finally watching the video. Too much of me has to know that I won't be able to keep it at bay for too long. Too much of me aches to see his face in motion...and that look in his eye when he looks at me that can drop me to my knees - undeniable love. Too much of me wants to fill in the holes of my memory to renew that day in my heart once again to hold on to the preciousness of it. Too much of me wants the reminder that even though I never got a decade with Jeremy, I got more than a lifetime.

Sick and Tired

 

 I have a cold.

Normally, I can soldier on through them, but today I feel like the proverbial baby-grand has landed on my back, my nose seems to be continually leaking, my eyes are itchy, my throat is red-raw, my temperature shoots upwards as soon as the advil wears off,  and my energy is low.  

So low, that I had to have a little sit-down on the floor of the supermarket just now because I got a little bit light-headed in the frozen foods aisle (a few lollies and a drink of water later and I was OK). 

I probably shouldn't have left the house, but my need for advil and and a few groceries was great and I was functioning thanks to Mr Codral's cold and flu medication when I decided to go on my food foraging expedition. ...and at least tonight the children can make themselves toast for dinner and leave me in peace in my tissue-filled bed.

....and it is days like this when I seem to miss him more than ever.

I want Greg here to make the dinner and supervise the children.   To bring me a hot lemon tea and to rub my back.  To run to the store to get milk and bread and the all-important advil that is currently keeping my temperature down to a balmy 37°C. I want him here so that I can be a bit of a sooky-lala and have someone take care of ME for a change (the kids do try, but its not quite the same).

But he's not here, and I am having a little sad.  A bit of a pity-party for one.  A bit of a 'woe-is me', and 'why is my life so hard' day.  (It may also be a delayed reaction to our 15th wedding anniversary being last week when I deliberately didn't let myself crack the sads  - just goes to show that grief will out itself if you try to ignore it.) I don't throw these little soirees for myself very often these days, but when I do, I throw a good one.

But even while I cry and mope and generally feel sorry for myself,  I know that I will be OK.

Maybe not today, but tomorrow is another day.

Tomorrow I will be awesome again.

 

 

Hero

source

My 9th wedding anniversary was July 9. Just as in my life before, when Dave was alive, I forgot to think about it coming up. Dave and I would occasionally forget about it and celebrate it any old time we felt like it whether we recognized it on the actual day or on another day. We didn't care. We lived with the motto that every day was our anniversary. No reason to wait to celebrate for that particular day.

So, the 9th approached and I didn't realize it. Consciously. As I look back now, I can see how my subconscious was probably aware all along.

Prior to, I'd say, the 5th of July I was feeling really good. The 5th through the 8th? Not so good. I went from crying briefly a few times a day in a bittersweet way (normal status) to crying for hours and hours at a time. A good, pounding crying headache became a constant. It became a chore to take care of myself and get out of the apartment. Sleeping? What's that?

The missing him got bigger and bigger until it blotted out all other small joys and excitements. The world grew gray and threatening.

When I tried to think of the cause, I came up with some theories. It was the let-down after the fun and magic of the fourth. It was the summer love in the air all around me that was making me feel extra lonely and envious.

None of the theories really rang true, though. On the evening of the 8th, someone reminded me of the significance of the following day and I realized that maybe all along, though I didn't acknowledge it consciously, the rest of me knew it was coming.

This has happened a few times since Dave died and I wonder if it's a protective strategy. A touch of denial: What anniversary? Don't know what you're talking about. What birthday? Nah, couldn't be. A special holiday? Nope.

As my conscious mind goes offline, my subconscious mind never stops churning away and the symptoms are a return of the grief monster, insomnia, and general misery.

So, things are getting a bit better now, but general, everyday stresses are getting the best of me and good sleep still eludes me most nights. When I don't sleep I become a miserable person. I think terrible thoughts, make regrettable decisions and grump around in a funk.

So, sadly, the one way I could deal better with the grief monster is to sleep and that's the one thing I can't quite manage. Yeah, I have sleeping pills, but they don't seem to help me. I generally notice that I get tired enough to finally crash and then I sleep so much that I hit the reset button and feel a lot better. But in the meantime, I have to be really gentle with myself, which is a challenge for me.

I just keep thinking that the only sleep aid that really ever worked for me was that wonderful man who loved me so much. I slept easily and deeply every night he was physically in my life. When he was by side, everything was right in the world.

I have hope that it won't always feel quite like this, but the fact is, he made me feel so safe, the safest I've ever felt in my life, and the loss of that is shattering.

If I have to go this road alone, though, it looks as though somehow (not sure how, yet) I'll have to be that for myself. That way, no one else has to provide it for me. I'll have to become the hero of my own story and make myself feel safe.

Somehow.

I'll let you know how that goes.

Screw February

February is my landmine month and the only way I think I can make it through is chin down, teeth bared and feet moving. So far, it’s been a blur.

February 14^th is my 42^nd birthday. I cringe at the idea of celebrating without my sweet wife but time doesn’t stop, whether I want to recognize it or not. My 40^th was my first birthday after Maggie’s Angel Day and I couldn’t in my wildest dreams imagine a reason to celebrate that day without her so I didn’t. Since then, I’ve felt no love for my birthday. How could I? How can I celebrate another year in my life when she’s not with me? We were supposed to travel together to our old ages and celebrate our rocking-chair days. Yet now it’s just me. Celebrate? No. I’d much rather just forget.

February 28^th is our 8^th wedding anniversary. Damn. I’ve commiserated before about what to call that day. “Our anniversary”? No. She’s not with me any more. “My anniversary”? It’s hard to have a “My” wedding anniversary. Damn semantics.

February 29^th is MY wedding anniversary. This date is easier but the humor of it all feeds my sadness. See, we were married twice: once on the 28^th which was OUR wedding and then once again on the 29^th which was MY wedding. (MY wedding was in Las Vegas. She dressed up as Marylyn Monroe and I dressed up as James Dean. Elvis married us in the Little White Chapel with about 20 of our closest friends attending while dressed as their favorite movie stars.) Our simple plan was that HER wedding anniversary was more important and was to be celebrated every year. MY wedding anniversary, however, came just once every four years and was to be a par-tay! Unfortunately, we didn’t plan for this particular outcome.

Making this month more difficult is that a very good friend of mine’s brother is dying as I type this. His brother has been ill for some time. My friend is keeping a bedside vigil. I know all too well what that looks like and how that feels. My friend has told me many times during this time that he better understands how my life has been. His experiences have brought back many painful memories.

Making this month even worse (and some of you will laugh when I say this but stay with me), a friend of mine’s cat died last night. Yes, we widow/ers have all had that pale comparison made. But my very intuitive friend nailed it this time. For months he had been nursing his poor, ill-health kitty with various caretaking, around-the-clock tasks. Then, suddenly, he was relieved of his position of caretaker. Many of us know all too well that sudden cessation of duties. He was in shock. And all he could do was think of how it was for me back in early May of 2009. More memories for me.

But here’s the real kicker. Yesterday, an old friend of mine sent me a whole bunch of digital memories all wrapped up in a zip file. There were thirty or more pictures and about twelve videos of Maggie and me together. When were these little time capsules from? February 28, 2004 – our wedding day.

Maggie and I both agreed not to videotape the wedding. Jokingly, we said we didn’t want any chance for either of us to play out those sad scenes you see in movies where there’s a dark room and a wedding video playing where it becomes clear that a spouse had died. We only had pictures from that day, pictures I haven’t looked at in years. Now there’s video. As for as I know, these are the only videos in existence of her. It’s like the only proof she was even alive. I feel like I’m sitting in a dark room with a lit match and a stick of emotional dynamite that I haven’t lit yet.

I really try to leave each post I write with a positive message. I’m truly reaching this time for anything more than a message of determination. By taking many steps, a journey will take place. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. You will be surprised at where you’ll end up. (Right foot… left foot… right foot… stumble… right foot again… left foot….)

Part of my journey is writing these words to you. I’ll never know how they affect you. I hope they help in some way, if in no other way, knowing you aren’t alone; I truly want to help. But part of why I write is to know I’m not alone. Surely, I can’t be the only one who lived a dream… and lost.

“Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.” ~ Dr Suess.