The Things I've Done ......

…… without him.

In a little over three months I will have been without Jim for 5 years.

Unbelievable.

In those 5 years I’ve had to do many things without him.

Things I was supposed to do with him.

Or things I wasn’t supposed to do …… at all.

The first thing that he should have been here for was the news that Daughter #1 made it into Harvard for grad school.  I was so excited for her, yet so sad that her dad didn't hear the results of those applications.  Nor stand with me to put her on a plane to go.

It was very bittersweet.

Four months after Jim died, I stood next to his mother, our mother, and held her hand as she died.  He should've been the one holding her hand.  But actually, if he had been there, I don't think she wouldn't have been in that hospital ..... dying.  She would have had the "fight" in her that she needed.

The next month he missed Son #1’s high school graduation.  As the president of the school board he would’ve stood on the platform and handed a diploma to our son, and to the children of our friends (as he did when Daughters #2 and #3 graduated).

Instead, I stood in his place and did his job. 

Though not nearly as well, since it was an emotional evening.

But the hardest thing I did during that first year, by far, was taking Son #2 to military school. 

Against his will.

Jim should’ve been there so we could’ve been there together, one unit of authority, making it much easier on each of us.

I have done many, many things without him.

But not all of them have been emotionally draining.

In this month alone I managed to put together my first Power Point presentation.
Without the help of my very computer-literate husband.

Then there was the day last week that I jumped my car …… by myself.

I’m pretty dang proud of that one.

And then, just a couple of days later, I cut down and uprooted a tree/bush. 

Me, myself and I.

It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t tiny, either.

I cut/sawed off all of the branches, and then the top part of the bush/tree.  And then I used all of my strength, which is more than most people think, to uproot the trunk.

And I think I only received 2 mosquito bites (West Nile inhabits my community, so each bite is noticed) and I didn’t break a nail.

Or anything else.

I have traveled, bought two cars, sold a boat, bought a boat, hired an accountant, fired said accountant, watched my children graduate, stood my ground, alone, when I didn’t think I had the strength (sometimes I surprise myself, too), stupidly bought a time share, hired a real estate company to sell said time share (still not sold….sigh), attended court (more than once) for a child, given my children financial advice (!) and killed/gotten rid of every single bug, lizard or spider that’s dared come into my personal space.

I know that I can add hundreds of things I’ve done by myself.

As can each of you …… or at least you will be able to before long.

Even though we all have hated hearing the words, “You are so strong”, we really are.

I know I’m not the only one who has surprised her/himself.

It’s funny (not as in “ha ha-funny”, but in “isn’t-it-ironic-funny” …. just to be clear), but when I was in that room (many of you know which room I'm referring to), with the surgeon sitting knee to knee with me, holding my hands, all that I could think, over and over and over again was, “God, what are You thinking?!  What the hell are You thinking?!!  I cannot do life with him!  I can’t parent these kids without him!  WHAT ARE YOU THINKING??!!”

But I was wrong.

I didn’t want to do life without him and I’d still rather not do it without him, but here I am.

And here are you.

We’ve made it one more year, one more month, and/or …… one more day.

Heck, there were days when I wasn’t sure I’d make it one more minute.

There will be many things we’ll do alone …… and we’ll wish they were here.

But there will be many more things …… that we’ll do alone …… and we’ll be proud of ourselves.

And proud of each other.

You dads are not only combing your child’s hair, but you’re even managing to put it into a ponytail!

And you women are probably killing/getting rid of any critter that dares invade your personal space!

You are stronger than you think you are.

And though I’d rather be weak with him here, I, too, am stronger than I think ……

without him.

It's gonna be alright

It is school holidays here and to get ourselves out of the house, we've been frequenting the local mangrove wetlands to sit and watch the birds.  There's a safe - yet - quiet walking path to an elevated shelter shed where you can sit and look over a large lagoon full of migratory birds.  Some with chicks, some loud and cranky, some funny.
It is a very peaceful spot and the bird life, along with a couple of pairs of cheap binoculars has kept us entertained on quite a few afternoons.

After walking around the lagoon and onto the nearby boardwalk one afternoon, the kids and I sat in the late afternoon sunlight and gazed down to the lagoon, teeming with birds and not another human being in sight.

Peacefully.

 Quietly.

 ...and just as I was thinking that Greg would have loved this place had we known it existed, and wishing he was there to share the experience, almost feeling his hand on my shoulder as we stared off towards the sparkling water when my darling daughter put her head on my shoulder and whispered ...

"It's going to be alright Mum.  I promise.  It's going to be alright"

...and I held her while silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

...and I knew Greg was there with us.

....and I just know I'll return to this magical place, week after week.  
Just to sit and stare at the water and feel like he is really with us.
Just for a while.

Spider Cracks

It’s almost midnight and she lies in a hospital bed at the all-too-familiar emergency room.  Tears emerge as the nurse pushes the needle into her arm - in order to find a “good” vain for the IV.  This is the nurse’s second attempt, the first one only producing a puncture that will be sore for days.

I stand hopeless next to the bed, lightheaded with dueling emotions of anger and concern.  I hate being in the hospital, hate seeing her in pain, sick, scared.  The nurse finds the vain she is looking for and finishes up.  She starts to walk out the room as she says, “We just need to do a couple of tests Mr. Croke; this IV should stop the vomiting.” She walks past me; her scent is sweet and uplifting, it doesn’t fit the atmosphere of the room.  “She’s a brave little girl.” the nurse adds as she disappears through the curtain.  I sit on the bed next to my six-year-old daughter.  She looks so much like Lisa right now - something about being in pain that matures ones face by 10 years. 

As I look at my daughter, my mind keeps replacing her with Lisa.  I touch Kelly to comfort her, but rubbing her cheek transports me back to four years ago and I'm in the same ER, looking at all the tubes and machines around my wife.  The smell of disinfectant is still the same, it starts with a pungent odor you can taste in the back of your mouth and soon evolves to a smell that is disturbingly comforting.    

 I shake my head to bring myself back to the present - if anyone were to see me right now, they’d think I had bees in my ears.  I see Kelly trying to rest, but she won’t take her gaze off the needle that stays inserted in her arm. With a quick breath, she sucks in air through her teeth to express discomfort.  My imagination once again replaces Kelly with Lisa and she says, “You would think if they can invent a motorized body board, someone could invent an IV without needles.  You know, create some patch that could administer the fluid.”   I shake my head once again to break my imaginary conversation. I summon all my focus to stay in this world with Kelly.  I was hoping these images of Lisa in the hospital would fade as time went on, but seeing how my mind keeps replacing Kelly with Lisa, I come to a stark realization that my journey will never end, only evolve.

We are a thin plane of glass and the death of a loved one is a rock hitting us square in the middle.  Sure you can patch where the rock made the mark, but that won’t address the hundreds of spider cracks that have formed around the hole, finding its way to every corner of the plane, each crack a different issue.  While Kelly’s ER visit turned out to be nothing more than a spastic stomach flu that anti-nausea medicine fixed, the whole experience had lasting effects that kept me up for more than a few nights.  It looks like I haven’t fully addressed the last few weeks of Lisa in hospice.

So, if you see me walking down the street and I look like I am down.  Chances are something happened that either reminded me of Lisa, or made me go back to a darker time. I hope my above story will explain that if you approach me, and say, “Why don’t you go to a movie, try to take your mind off things.”  I may respond, “Okay, maybe I will,” but my face will show, “Thanks for trying, but there are still a few more spider cracks I need to repair that a movie won’t help fix.”

A Son's Perspective

I was sitting in the living room, warmed by the fire, with my boyfriend Abel to my left, and my son Remy to my right. I was trying to think of what to write about, then saw a perfect opportunity to find out what my son thought about his dad, a widower, newly dating again.

My husband, for those who do not know, died a little over two years ago. He and I had only been a couple for 18 months when he was diagnosed with brain cancer. My kids learned to love and accept him, then soon learned that they would also have to say goodbye to him. It was nothing I ever expected to go through with a new relationship, and nothing I ever expected my kids to experience while they were still young. But here we are, two years later, many bereavement groups later. Many changes, and many nights of grieving through tears, laughter, and stories.

A couple of months ago I met someone. We began to date, well, we began to have a relationship from the beginning. It didn't feel so much like dating, as we were relating to each other daily, talking, sharing, and growing close, quickly. I introduced him to my kids, well, teenagers, and we went from there.

Here is a brief discussion that occured while I sat here. It began with a simple question to my 13 year old son.

What's it been like having your dad dating someone new?

Remy: Well, at first I felt like Abel was taking away my dad's love for Mike. And I thought, well, like you guys have already done stuff together, and I feel very different now. At first it felt like it was going too fast, it was coming on too strong, because I thought you didn't give up Mike yet, and I thought that he was taking away that love of Mike. But then later on I realized that he was a person you really love, but I thought you still loved Mike, and Abel was really new, and I didn't know Abel like a father. It felt like with Abel you were ready to move on, and I wasn't ready for it. Now I understand that you are ready, and that you want love again.

Abel: I would never try to replace what Mike had with you guys.

Remy: I told my dad that this is confusing for me, and now I feel like maybe you aren't the same father as Mike, but I know that you care about my dad, and you care about all of us. I hope that my dad does care about you.

Abel: I do love your dad, and you and Arianne. You all have a special place in my heart Remy.

Remy: (turns to me to say) I feel like you guys are going to be together for a long time. I feel like if you are dating Abel, and if it's been going on for a long time, it's already like he's a dad to me. I know Abel would do anything for us as a family. I know Mike would be happy for you dad. I know that he would be happy for Abel to have a great guy like you. I think Mike would be very happy, and he'd be happy mostly that you moved on, and found love again.

I then asked Remy if there is anything else that he worries about.


Remy: I might worry that me calling Abel dad, that Mike might not like that, but that's just how I think. I'm still worried about what if Abel is not going to stay, then I think about negative stuff, like what stuff could happen.

Remy said he worries about possibly losing Abel, then was unable to continue to talk. I spoke to Remy about how all parents who begin dating again worry about their kids getting attached to someone when dating, then having to let go if the relationship doesn't work out. I told Remy that with a widowed parent that becomes an even deeper concern. I reminded him of how he and the other kids learned to love Mike, and how they came to accept him as their second dad, only then to lose him.

Remy just told me it was okay to say that at this point he cried.

Do I worry about this? Yes. Does Abel worry about this? Yes. I suppose these are the conversations we should be having. These are the things that go through the mind of our children. Do they want us to be happy again? Yes, but it is so much more complicated, isn't it? There are so many feelings that our new relationships bring up for them. There are so many insecurities that get tapped into. I have always known this, but I think I need to remind myself of this more often.

Happiness is not an easy matter. But it is something worth striving for.

Bedroom Conversations

I have never reposted anything here, as I prefer to speak in the present, yet I wanted to share something I wrote on my own blog a few days ago. It's something that is still very much on my mind, and something that is likely on the mind of those around me.


Funny how lying on a bed can bring about soul searching, or heart wrenching, conversations. My bed is no different. It has been host to many discussions in the past, and continues to host myself, and various people I love, as we explore our intimate thoughts and feelings.

Earlier, after coming home from work, and getting out of my work duds, I was lying alone on my bed, looking at Michael's urn, and feeling a variety of feelings. I wanted to smile, and I felt like crying. I'm in a good place right now, and yet my grieving continues. As I began to bury my face into the pillow, and allow myself to give up control, there was a knock at my door. It was my 13 year old son, who asked if he could lay on my bed with me. We lay there, in silence, with my arm across his body.

"Dad, can we talk?"

Yes, Remy, whatever you want to talk about.

He wanted to talk about my developing relationship with this new man in my life. He expressed, as well as a 13 year old boy can, how conflicted he feels about how quickly things appear to be moving for this person and me. He said that it is clear that I am happy, and he is happy for me, but what must Michael be feeling right now? Before I could answer, he said that he knows that Michael would be very happy for me, because Remy knows that Michael wanted me to be happy, and to love again. Yet, Remy wanted to know, "Don't you think Michael might be just a little bit mad?"

It's been two years, two very long years. And yet, it also feels like it just happened yesterday. In the two years that Michael lived with his death sentence he would speak of my next boyfriend, and what my life might be like. I would ask him not to talk like that, but he never would stop. He was very clear with me. He wouldn't be happy, if he knew that I wasn't happy. He wanted to die knowing that I would find love and happiness once more. He believed that I deserved that.

One day, long ago, my older son Dante was having a conversation with Michael. He told Michael that he worried that I wouldn't survive after Michael died. Michael told him, in his usual humorous way, that he certainly hoped that I would be heart-broken, and that I would miss him, but that he had no doubt that I would survive. After all, Michael was there with me when I went through many a trial in raising my kids.

Today, while lying there with Remy, I reminded him that we are all so capable of loving. I love him with all my heart. I love his brother and sister with all my heart. I love Michael with all my heart. And, I can love someone new with all my heart.

One love does not negate another.

Tonight, lying in my bed, I spoke with this new person in my life, his name is Abel, and we too spoke of Michael, of Remy, of Dante, and of Arianne. We spoke of my journey as a widower. We spoke of my heart-break and healing. We spoke of the time needed to grow into love, and we spoke of how we can carefully navigate all this while being mindful of younger minds and hearts.

This has become a part of my nightly ritual. The nine o'clock hour arrives, I pick up the phone, I call him, we talk, we listen, we laugh, and we smile.

I have the ashes of my husband to my right, and I have the voice of a new love interest to my left. Is this balance? Is this chaos? Is this right? Is this wrong? Will it last? Will it not? Will I be happy? Will I be sad?

There are no easy answers, but then, I'm not looking for easy answers. I'm looking, and planning on, more work ahead. I'm expecting struggle, and I'm expecting ease. My life is a journey that I often have little control of. At this point in my life, I no longer seek to control it. I choose to experience it, and to embrace as much of it as possible as it unveils itself to me.

I consider myself gifted by this new person in my life. I am experiencing hope once again. I'm feeling like I have much to offer, and I feel like someone is extending a gentle hand my way.

After an hour of intimate conversation, it was time to say goodnight. There was a longing there, which we both verbalized. It gave me a feeling of anticipation when I will have this person before me once again. I rolled over on my bed, and looked up into the brightly lit night. I thanked Michael for his love. I thanked Abel for his open heart. And, I smiled.

the "d" word

Photo from here...

In preparation for my son's first day of Kindergarten today, I attended an interview with his teacher yesterday. It mostly entailed questions of, "Can he tie his shoes?", "Does he feel shy in new situations?" and "Can he wipe his own bottom?"

At the end of our little meeting, his teacher asked about his special interests. I listed off his favourite play things (Lego, cars, his bike), the things he likes to do with his friends (swim, play hide-n-seek, jump on a trampoline) and his favoured topics of conversation (monster trucks, chickens and death).

His teacher stared at me for a moment after the latter item. "Oh...," she replied, "What does he say when he talks about death?"

"He often ponders over what it feels like or what you see when you die. Sometimes he wonders when he or I will die," I told her in a tone that suggested this was common-place and not really worth a huge amount of detail.

She listened with a faint look of concern on her face. This look turned soft as she asked, "Do you think he would benefit from speaking to our school counsellor?"

I suppose with the fact that this, death, is such a common topic in our house it hadn't occurred to me that this type of conversation might be cause for concern at his school. I thought for a moment about her suggestion. An avalanche of thoughts tumbled around in my brain, "Is it bad that he talks about death? But I want him to feel comfortable talking about his concerns! Are other parents going to be upset when their child quotes my son's occasional morbid thinking? I can't guarantee that he will even say anything to other children. Are his questions abnormal? This IS normal to him!"

All night I thought about this conversation. It struck me as odd how as parents we are instructed to talk to our children about their bodies and how they work. We are expected to teach them how to be healthy and strong. We even teach "sex ed" to ensure that our children are aware of all that our bodies are capable of in a reproductive sense.

But we do not talk to them about the end of our body's life. We do not talk about the imminent eventuality of our body either wearing out or "breaking" prematurely. Although it will happen to each and every one of us, we treat death as a possibility. Not an unavoidable inevitability.

I don't think dodging the subject or treating death as a four letter word is the appropriate way to help our children, or ourselves, develop a healthy view of death. It's unfortunate for them that sex is more accepted as a topic when it is not even a guaranteed act for every human on this planet. But death, well, it will happen to each and everyone of us. I don't want to shy away. I hope to let them know that it's okay to talk about it. It's fine to wonder, to question and even to worry about what and how it happens.

So I've decided that unless my son develops a habit of hiding books about death under his mattress or giggling about it with his friends in whispered tones, I am perfectly happy discussing it with him and I do not think that he requires a counsellor to tell him what to believe or when is an appropriate time to talk about the "d" word. He is sorting that out himself....and he is talking to me about it as he goes.

My name is Amanda and this is my story...

I met my soul-mate on February 6, 1993: it was love at first sight. Greg was the fun-loving, farm-boy to my shy, inquisitive city-girl. He was an engineer who loved all things mechanical and I was in the midst of my PhD in eco-botany. We just clicked straight away and seemed always to know what the other was thinking.

We married in 1997 and after living and working in the tropical paradise that is Australia’s north for a few years, we eventually settled down to married life, buying a house and having our precious daughter in 2002 and wonderful son in 2004.

I was so happy and lucky and loved and I took it all for granted.

Now I am someone different: I am a widow. The man I love beyond breath was killed in a car accident whilst carrying out his normal duties at work on March 1, 2010 – the same day I began my new career as a teacher. He was 47 years and 5 days old; I turned 40 a month later. If it wasn’t for my sheer determination to keep going in the weeks and months that followed, the mawing pit of grief would have swallowed me whole. But I have stubbornly refused to give in to despair, instead pouring my grief into my personal blog.

Today, most of me remains... I am still a Mum to two beautiful children. I am still a teacher. I still am a botanist. I still love Australian native plants and gardens. I still have fantastic friends. My brain still functions on a reasonably good level (short-term memory is a bit wonky though). I still love Holden cars and meat pies and good people everywhere. I still love the beach and the bush and I still love a good laugh.

But I find myself turning into someone new ... I find myself showing more kindness as I have been shown kindness. I find myself seeking out the hearts of others and hearing their story. …and I know one important truth: true love never dies.

~~~~~~~~~~
Widow’s Voice was one of the first blogs I found in the months after being widowed in 2010 and I am honoured to be taking part in this wonderful project. I know I have such big shoes to fill as the wonderful Matt moves on to bigger and better things, and I join with some truly amazing men and women who are also walking this horrible road of widowhood. I hope that I have something useful to say, something worthwhile, something that resonates with other people here and helps us all to feel that little bit less alone. Thank you Michele for inviting me and thank you all for welcoming me here.

if wishes came true

Written one month after Jeff died in 2008...

I overheard Olivia wishing on a fallen eyelash yesterday, "I wish my Daddy would come back."

I tried to get her to 'tell' me the wish so I could talk about it with her...the fact that he is never coming back. But she insisted that if she told me, then her wish wouldn't come true.

I so wish he would come home too. I sometimes fantasize about it. I imagine that I can hear the roar of his truck and the thump of his boots on the front steps. I hear him slam the door and laughingly bellow, "Honey, I'm HOOOOoooome...." I launch myself at him and he embraces me while I bury my face in his chest. I laugh and cry and tell him that I love him so very much (We used to say, "I love you the whole pie!") and that I am sorry for not saying so when we were arguing and that I'm sorry for not picking him up from the boat a few days earlier and that I have missed him so immensely that I sometimes think I'll never recover from this terrible nightmare.

I've started seeing a therapist...actually, it's a therapist that Liv will start seeing next week but I went to talk to her. She does play therapy, art therapy and has a therapy dog. I think this is the ideal situation for Liv as she is not one, most of the time, to just sit and talk about how she's feeling...Hell, she's five. What five year old can articulate how they're feeling the majority of the time?

Anyhow, I was trying to put into words how I feel much of the time so the therapist could get an understanding of my state of mind. The analogy that I came up with it that I feel like a toothpaste tube. I am so full of all this sadness, angry, frustration and fear but I only have this small neck and opening to squish it all out of. When I cry, it hurts so physically and painfully but gives me virtually no relief. It's plugged or stuck and I can feel this giant amorphous blob of pain just fermenting inside and I CANNOT get it out....Maybe a ping pong ball stuck in a water pipe would have been a better analogy. Some water can seep around the ball but the majority of it is pushing the ball further and further into the pipe.....I hope this all makes sense....Who knows anymore?

Bromance

Well, I'm dating.

Okay, maybe I'm not really dating. I'm just not quite sure what to call it. It's been awhile since I dated anyone, and, it's been awhile since I have felt the need to qualify exactly what I am doing with another person.

It's kind of odd, going out with someone, talking, and texting several times throughout the week, wondering what he is doing when we are not together. Wondering who he is talking to, texting to, having dinner with, when I don't see him during the week.

Am I being vague enough? I don't exactly know what to call it, this thing we are doing, because, he isn't gay.

What?

You know, I put a profile on Match.com awhile back, and have corresponded with a few guys, but none of them led to any type of date. Then one day I get an email from this guy, who says he read my profile, and liked what I had to say. He was interested in talking about the book I am reading, and thought maybe we would hit if off. He was right, we did. The complicated part, or maybe the uncomplicated part, is that for the most part, he identifies as straight. So what was he doing roaming the pages of gay guys in the area? I'm not completely clear, but I have really enjoyed having a guy to hang out with, to talk to, go walking/hiking with, and potentially to start cycling or running with.

So, what do you call this? Funny, it feels like dating. Well, of course, without the heavy petting that is often expected after a nice evening out. This weekend my son finally met my new friend, and as soon as he had the opportunity to ask, he did. "So Dad, are you guys just friends, or what?" It's a fair question. I'm sure that he remembers that last time that I brought a man home that I had been spending time with. Actually, I ended up marrying that man, didn't I?

Earlier I had a very nice telephone conversation with my brother in law. After we spoke about everyone else in our families, he wanted to know truly how I was doing. He mentioned that he had been keeping up with my Facebook page, and was pleased to hear that I would be starting my new job. He said that it seems that I am doing well, but wanted to know if the appearance matches my reality. You know, I have not been asked that in a very long time. I let him know that life has been considerably better for me these days, and that many good things are happening for me. Yet, and there is always that "yet," I told him that I miss his brother more than ever, and that my life feels far less than happy. I acknowledged that I still cry more than people would expect, and that I am still unpleasantly surprised by my reality every now and then. He told me that it is still that way for him, and that if he is missing Michael that much, he can only imagine how I am feeling each day.

During the writing of this last paragraph I took a very short break, as my new gentleman caller Instant Messaged me. We chatted about how the rest of our weekend went. He gave me props for all the hard work I did on my yard, and he joked about my being a big strong guy. I responded that I was more like a not-so-big very sore guy. I was able to laugh, and to feel good that someone was thinking about me, and taking the time to keep involved in my day to day life.

Two men, reaching out to me, making me feel like I matter. You know, they may not be the types of relationships that will ultimately fulfill me like the one I had with my husband, but they are men that are here, playing a part in keeping me tethered to this life, and this world. And for that, I am feeling quite blessed.

two hands where four are needed

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

the wishlist

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

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

Losing the Memories

There are many challenges associated with grief and loss that I expected, but I didn’t expect this one. On Lisa's birthday, I found myself thinking about her and thinking about us. As I reflected, I realized that I hadn't been thinking about her as often. I wouldn’t say it’s been a long while, but in terms of the time between reflections I have of her, this was by far the longest.


And I found myself struggling for the memories. How could this be? How could I be losing the memories? I already lost Lisa, isn’t the deal that I lose Lisa but get to keep the memories? Didn’t I sign that somewhere in some death contract I made with life?

I started to panic. Over the next few days I was obsessing of any memory of her. Pulled out the old video tapes, drove by the ole hangouts, pulled out the love letters. I felt like I did something wrong. That by not thinking of Lisa enough, I was being punished with the loss of my memories.

How many times do I have to go through the same damn cycle to learn that I am not done yet. The answer of course is as many times as the cycle happens. So here I am going through another grief cycle, this time grieving the loss of memories, a devastating double loss considering the fact that Lisa is already gone.

I am now at the “acceptance” stage of the cycle (once again), I am slowly getting to the “not feeling guilty that I’ve done something wrong” stage, but not there just yet. I hate it that Lisa died so young, I hate it that I will probably be alive longer than I knew Lisa. It makes me sad to thing that in 20 years, the memories will seem like 5 lifetimes ago.
But just like the early stages of grieving Lisa's death, time will move forward, life will keep on moving, and I now know that the memories will become more faded. And like before, I will continue to cherish what I have and the memories I do remember, instead of obsessing over what I have lost. After two years, the lessons just keep coming. Swell.

wishing it were

Photo by Tom Grey

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

Photo from Fort Dodge

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

stuffing

Photo by Bug'sBitePlayfood

Written on Dec. '08...Nine months after Jeff died

I've been stuffing. I don't mean putting bread and spices into a turkey's nether regions. I mean my emotions.
It's been too painful to deal with this loss. I avoid Jeff's photos. I redirect my thoughts. I do things that seem to take the pain away for a moment. When I talk of the loss of Jeff, I refuse to feel the sadness. I push it down. I turn away. I try to forget. Like a door closed to a fire, the smoke eventually seeps under through the cracks.
I almost felt smug with this coping mechanism. I thought that I had found a way to survive with out crumbling at least once a day. We all hear that you 'should' allow yourself to feel emotions so they don't come back later to get you. But I guess I thought I was the exception. "I can do it", I told myself, "I'm strong." But it turns out that I'm not strong. I'm a coward. I've been hiding under a blanket and hoping that it will be gone when I emerge. Like a child hiding from a monster. But I am hiding from sadness, loneliness and fear.
But now, I can't hide. The last two days have been really hard. I am on the verge of tears constantly. I feel lost and beyond sad.
It's like a wound that superficially closed over but still brews infection. It looked okay but beneath the surface the infection has been pushing at the scab and pulsing. The pressure has been building and causing a lump to form. Suddenly, the wound has broken open again, spilling its' pus and reminding me of the initial injury. I scurry to find a band aid but what it really needs is fresh air and an occasional cleansing.
I have still have dreams that he's alive and I am happy. Suddenly, he can't breathe. Instead of trying to save him as I did in real life, I run away. I hide. He dies alone.
What I'm learning is that there is no convenient time for grieving. I can't hide. I have to feel this. I don't want to. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I am tired and I don't want to do this.

First written Wednesday, September 30th, 2009:

Tonight, I took Liv to a meeting. It just so happened to be at a place that I haven't been to in 19 months and 12 days. The place Liv was baptised. The place we were married. The place Jeff's funeral was held.
I didn't think it would affect me much. I thought I had grown stronger and more resilent. I knew it would sting a bit, but I hadn't anticipated this.
I had to fill out forms. Forms that had Jeff's name on them. I had to cross out his name. Cross it out. Like I was crossing him out. It felt wrong. I didn't want to swipe him away as if he didn't exist. He did. He was and always will be her father. I wrote 'deceased' beside his name and the traitorous strike in his name. I had to cross out his cell phone number. I had to write a new emergency contact.
It all feels....horribly, sickeningly wrong.
When outside, I stood in the spot where photos had been taken of us in our wedding garb. Now so seemingly frivolous and silly. It is also the same spot that I watched his coffin be driven away. The spot where Liv had waved and yelled, "Bye Daddy!" as the gravel crunched under the tires of the hearse.
I remember standing there. In a sedated state that made time go slower, the thoughts in my head unable to be voiced for others so I may feel some iota of comfort, and worrying, as I did for months after, that I was going to teeter and fall off this shaky precipice I was standing on. That I may just slip and fall.....fall apart. Lose myself. Lose.........more than the everything I already had.
Most nights, I tuck myself into bed and attempt to turn off my head. Tell myself that I am doing okay. That I can do it. I can do it for the kids. Comfort myself with the thought that one day, it will all make sense....where he went. If he is still with me.
But tonight, I go to bed that same scared woman. Alone. Terrified. Lost. Solitary in my own head. Missing my anchor, my love, my best friend with all my heart.
Standing on a ledge. Am I going to slip? Am I going to fall off? Can I convince myself to just stare straight ahead?
Don't look down. Don't look side to side. Just stare at the horizon and keep standing....Please, just keep standing.

Grief-in-Action

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

unable to cope.

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

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

Normal feels normal.

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

until

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

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

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

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

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

now I am laughing!

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

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

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

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

I am grateful I have them!