Setting a Standard

Shelby needs to have an example of what a caring, devoted man, father, and husband should be.  She is a mere 8 years old, but I believe most readers here will understand when I state that, well, I might not be here by the time she's 18.  It's a cold, hard truth that should never be swept under the rug or glossed over, and I can unfortunately speak from experience.

She needs standards, before she even sniffs at being interested in boys.  I can only hope that I've been, and will continue to be an example to her.

She needed to see that a man can allow and encourage her to be independent, but to always support her in a time of need.

She needed to see that a man will sacrifice his own happiness, not in love, obviously, but in general for his wife's well-being.

She needed to see that a man will hold his wife's hair for 1.5 hours, every morning for a decade, as she has her routine coughing fits, and that it is never seen as normal to him.

She needed to see that a man will be calm and collected and able to make informed, quick decisions when faced with his wife coughing up pints of blood.

She needed to see that a man will carry his wife to bed when she can't walk up the stairs, and that it is always effortless.

She needed to see that a man will bathe his 33 year old wife as she cries, because she can no longer do it herself.

She needed to see that no amount of sickness, frustration, or trauma will ever make a man walk away from a woman he truly loves.

She needed to see that 12 years is not nearly enough time for a man to give all of his love to his wife.

She needed to see that a man can be strong most of the time, but it's OK for them to cry when their goddamn wife dies.

She needs to see that a man will fulfill his vows, in sickness and in health, until death does him part from his wife.

She needed to see what true love is, and she needs to see it again.

She needs to see that though a new woman may be now part of his life, a man can and will still love his wife, and the mother of his beautiful daughter just as much.

She needs to see that a man in this situation will make smart decisions about bringing a new woman into his daughter's life.  Decisions not based on loneliness.

She needs to see that a child is always the priority for a man, but he is able to balance that with someone new that he truly loves.

She needs to see what it's like for two smart, experienced adults to meet and fall for each other in a healthy way.

She needs to see that a man can only expand his heart with love for another person, rather than replace space that someone else previously held.

She needs to see that a man should have his own drive and determination, but that the women in his life will always factor into that.

She needs to see that a man can lose his wife, but still have the confidence to move forward and keep living life without fear.

She needs to see that a man will always honor, cherish, and respect a woman's past, and know that it is what makes her who she is.

She needs to see that a man will always tell his worst truth, rather than his best lie.

She needs to see that lightning can indeed strike twice.

Shelby needed to see me love and take care of Megan for those years. As much as it pains me to say this, Megan becoming sicker and dying was another learning experience for her.  She learned that although her dad bent over backwards, he didn't break, and would walk to the end of the earth for the woman he loves.  He didn't shut down or stop taking care of his one remaining piece of his wife.  She deserves to be honored, respected, loved, and taken care of by a man just as much as I honored, respected, and loved Megan.

As I'm writing this, I'm realizing that Megan also set a standard for Shelby, upon which she can judge all women.  She has briefly met this new woman, just through a video call, and she has fully approved.  She has even made the statement that she is "magnificent", and she can't wait to do things with her.  To have Shelby not only approve, but to encourage me to love the new woman means the world to me, because Shelby is the closest I will ever come to having Megan's approval.

Shelby knows I deserve a woman that loves me just as much as her mother did.  She knows that whatever woman comes into my life will need to be strong, driven, smart, and ultimately, will need to accept that Megan is and always will be a part of our lives.  She knows that no woman could ever replace Megan, and that a new one should only compliment her.

She knows that this new woman fills out all of those check-boxes.

No matter what anyone else's opinion is on new love, there is only one person's that matters to me, and that is Shelby's.

I need to ensure that as I move forward with this new woman that the example I set with Megan continues on.  Megan is no longer here to advise Shelby on these matters, so all I can do is lead by example.

I am setting the standard by which Shelby will judge all men.

Even If The Shoe Doesn't Fit, Try Wearing It.

Talk about having some big shoes to fill. Or in my case, some tall stilettos. I am very gracious, and honored, that Michele has given me this opportunity to share with you on a weekly basis. I know that many of you looked forward to reading her words, or taking inspiration, from her journey. Yet, I do understand her decision to modify her course just a bit, as we must always take time to reflect on where we have arrived, and where we want to go next.

This journey of mine has been an interesting one. Never in my past did I think that I would soon become a widower, or that I would grieve so publicly. I was single most of my adult life, and had chosen to have children as a single parent. It wasn't an easy life, as my children all have some special needs, but it was a full life. In those years, I knew that I wanted a loving partner in my life, but had come to accept that it may not be part of my journey. When I met Michael, it was like kismet, as our lives both had some circumstances that seemed like a perfect fit. I felt that God had brought us together, and that by our union, each of our lives, and those close to us, would truly be enhanced. The night we met was filled with fun, laughter and passion. We ended the night with him driving me to my car, and me having to explain why I drove a mini-van. As I shared about my three children, he explained about his significant role in the life of his nephew and two nieces. All of our children were born into a family with parental substance abuse and chaos. Each of us were committed to make our children's lives better.

Four years later, I sat bewildered in our bedroom, holding his ashes in my hands.

Around the time of Michael's death, I was surrounded by our loved ones. Some stayed around for a few weeks more. Then the time of seclusion began. I became cloistered in my grief. I looked around me, but I couldn't find my reflection in any one's face. I took to the Internet, casting out a net that was much too small. My Google search for 'gay widower' came back with only one book, whose editor had died just a couple of years prior. I realized that if I wanted support, I was going to have to make it happen. I was going to have to put myself out there for the world to see. I was going to have to cast a larger net.

When you take to the Internet in this way, you don't go finding people, they find you. By identifying so publicly as a widower, others began to appear. There were a couple of guys, and many, many women. I began to realize that men, in general, don't often seek out this type of connection as part of their grief journey. If I think back in stories, or images, there is a strong archetype for the widow, but not for the widower. Still to this day, it is rare for me to meet another man who identifies as a widower, yet I have met many women along the way that do.

At times there has been some hesitation on my part to join in on some conversations, or gatherings, as I felt like I was intruding. I know how important it is to have some safe space, where you can talk among those you most closely identify with. I know that not all women will feel as comfortable expressing themselves so vulnerably if a man is present, as I have at times felt that way in groups of all women as well. In time I have learned to make my presence known, but allow for those around me to invite me in. At the same time I have created a safe space for lesbian and gay widow(er)s with my own blog, and with my online support group. All this to say, that I have found, and also created, safe spaces for me to grieve, and to share in other peoples journey.

I truly appreciate the opportunity to have this space on Widow's Voice, to write on a weekly basis. I recognize that 95% of those who leave comments are women, yet two days of the week are filled by men, Matt and I. This speaks volumes to Michele's generosity, and her understanding that in spite of our numbers being low, there is a need for our presence. We are here to speak of our experience in the event that a new widower throws out his own narrow net. We are here to speak of our experience because our female peers value our voice, and we speak here because in the end, we are all in this together.

If you are a new widower, gay or straight, looking at this blog for the first time, know that yes, it may feel a bit awkward standing out in a crowd comprised mostly of women. It may feel like an awkward fit, trying to balance yourself in shoes you never expected to wear. Yet, I promise you this, the more you open up, the more you will find others gravitating toward you. The circle of strong arms there to hold you up may come from somewhere you never expected, but they will be there.

If you are a new widow, reading here for the first time, know that you have an enormous, and loving community here for you. You should have no trouble seeing your reflection in the face, and experience, of the multitudes of women here, waiting to extend a hand. At the same time, know that you have the opportunity to expand your search, to hear the stories, and points of view, of some that may not otherwise have crossed your path.

Life is often a balancing act, and my healing process has definitely been about creating balance. Not so easy to do when you are made to wear shoes, or stilettos, that you never tried on before. Yet with time, as with any new pair of shoes, you will find that they bend and shape closely around you. Eventually, you stop thinking about the awkward fit, and you just keep moving forward.

How to be Thankful.

I just returned home from dinner out with the kids. It's a nice rainy night, and we were all so warm and cozy inside the restaurant. It was the usual mix of merriment, and frustration, with us trying to have a good time, yet my daughter and I having to sit through the boys' ongoing bickering. I shouldn't be too surprised, as I don't think I liked my older brother much until we both became adults. Yet my lackluster mood must have been quite transparent, as my daughter asked if I was feeling okay. I asked why she was asking, to which she responded that I looked either very tired, or perhaps life was just getting to me. Without giving much thought to what I was going to say, I unfortunately responded that I was tired of life. Not one of my best moments.

I'm really struggling to maintain a sense of gratitude for life these days. Of course it is only highlighted by the fact that Thanksgiving arrives this week. I'm so tired of all the commercials with all the happy families preparing for their gatherings. I know that there is plenty for me to be thankful for, that's not the issue. I'm just tired of having to be optimistic about a life that has really disappointed me.

I think people would be very surprised to hear this from me, as I'm usually a good spirited person. I'm the one who others feel good about, knowing that I am "doing so well" in spite of my loss. Family members keep telling me that things are beginning to go my way, and that there must be good things ahead for me and my kids. I wouldn't necessarily argue their point, I am fortunate, and some positive things have been coming my way, yet again, why must I be thankful?

Is it because being bitter is so unbecoming? Is bitter so last year? Well, I suppose it is. I know that I need to be thankful, yet I struggle to know how. For the sake of those gathered around the table I will put on my thankful attire. I will speak in platitudes if I must. Yet here, and now, I want to express how difficult it is to do so. I want to say that I am thankful for many things, yet I am not yet at a place where I can genuinely say that I am a thankful person. I am not yet ready to celebrate this feast of thanksgiving. I am still hurting, and I know that I am not alone. At the same time I know, and trust, that I will be in a better frame of mind in the future, and for that, I suppose I am thankful.

brand name

photo from learning how to live

Doctor

Obsequious

Tattle-tale

Cashier

Humanitarian

Uncle

Artist

Labels are words that used to describe ourselves and others - a way to quickly and efficiently identify traits and tendencies.

When I think about the labels used to describe or identify me, the one that gives me most to think about is 'widow'.

Initially, I despised this branding. I hated the term and what it meant - that my husband was dead. I didn't see myself as the typical widow in black gracefully and wisely fading into the background. I wasn't sure if my personal portrayal of this word was proper or made me a 'good widow'. Somehow this term seemed to mean to me that I had failed.

Over time this feeling has changed. Now I wear this name tag with a little bit of pride and a lot of awe. I have made it this far. Two and a half years ago I would never have believed it. I did not think I would genuinely laugh again. I would not have imagined that I would enjoy life and all its' mysteries. It astounds me.

At the risk of sounding pompous, I am kind of proud of myself. I am stronger that I ever thought possible. I'm not a warrior, but a widow. And I have chosen to get out of bed each morning despite believing that the last morning that mattered had already happened. The loss of my husband has taught me that there are few things in life to be feared and that taking a leap of faith is far less terrifying as I once thought.

Now that I carried the 'medal' of widowhood, I wonder how long do I get to wear it? In five years, does the noun 'widow' get taken from me and get replaced with 'widowed'. Will it cease to be a label and instead become a verb? If I ever enter a relationship again, do I stop being a widow and become one of the ones on Facebook with the status of "Married"? I feel that I would be both....Would "It's complicated" be offbase?

I now wear my label as a mark of my late husband. An etching of "Jeff was here" in my perverbial bark. Although I may be ready for another label or two, I would like to keep my hard-earned 'widow badge', thank you very much.

Ashes

Ezra and Pallas with Art, in the box with the ribbon

We're at the ranch.
It's my cousin's place.
90 acres
horses, sheep, ponds, creeks
and
ATVs.

It's our second home. It's the place where we escape our noisy city lives. It's the place Art wanted to be sprinkled. I left part of him her in May 09, 1 month after his death. I left him in a box. That was placed above my cousin's book shelf.

Today was time to take some of him home to LA. And then spread him out here, down by the creek his favorite place at the ranch.

Ezra and Pallas wanted to see his ashes. So they took the box and sat outside with it.
We opened the box. And then Ezra touched his father.

"I want to keep some of the ashes with me." he said.

"That way I can keep daddy forever."

not what I imagined

it's been three

years since i was

here, in the place

that appears to be

the end of the earth.

my life is

much different now than

i imagined it would be,

(whose isn't, right?)

but being here makes

it seem like

nothing has changed.

that blue building

where we stayed is

still there.

i just walked

past it.

the boats in the harbor

continue to ferry tourists

to the fishing spots,

and the deckhands

still give the

same stories to avoid

cleaning the cod.

i'm here now.

feeling like i did back

then, but today when

i get off the boat

with my brother,

liz

won't be waiting

for us at the

bar with the money

on the walls.

but i'll go

and sit there anyway,

with my him and his

friends, trying to figure

out how to say

something funny enough

to make them laugh

when all i want

to do is

disappear for awhile.

found

a few days

ago she found them.

they’d been sitting

in plain view

since before her

mom died.

well, not exactly

in plain view…

they were covered by

a couple of books,

but i could see

them from where i

sat every day,

working on our taj.

it helped

that i knew they

were there,

otherwise i probably

would have looked

past them as well.

but at two years

three months and

six days,

she found them.

i didn’t hesitate

when she said,

“oh! daddy!” in

that voice she

only uses when

she’s excited about something

(and she uses it a lot).

i lifted the books,

and pulled

out the box.

with a little help,

they were soon

liberated from the

plastic and held

tightly in her hands.

no longer did

they look like

choking hazards.

now,

they were gifts her

mom had intended

for her future daughter.

the daughter she

dreamed of

is here,

but she is not.

One Size Fits All?

The relationships that I have formed with other widowed people are by far the quickest bonding experiences of my life. Somehow the kinship of loss has regularly transcended the other differences that are often obvious between me and a new widowed friend. Before Phil died there were a variety of things that might influence how long I spent getting to know someone...do we share a passion for the same music, are our children the same ages, is there a recreational activity that we have in common? But once I was widowed, I really just wanted to meet other people who were also living with the daily reality that their spouse wasn't coming home.

I never imagined that people would look to me to provide a road map for surviving the death of a spouse, in fact, I don't believe one exists...and if you know differently please don't be greedy!! My experience so far convinces me that every single person has to navigate their own personal grief journey. No one can tell you how, no one knows EXACTLY how you feel (though so many times other widowed authors seemed to have pulled words right out of my head!), no one but you can read the signals your gut sends when decisions need to be made, tasks need to be accomplished, and moving forward needs to somehow be done. This is why widowhood is so lonely. The buck stops with me. Every single time.

But meeting other widowed people, even though they didn't have all the answers to the hundreds of questions I asked, changed my life. These fellow widowed people seemed to hear me in a way others could not. I so often felt that they listened with their hearts instead of their ears. Just being heard was enough to get me through the next tough day. Feeling free to rage or cry or laugh or to say out loud that I was giving up was a purging that I valued in the early stages of my widowhood, and that I still value today. Issues change, triggers change, but my need for a widowed heart to heart still comes up now and again.

Having been heard, I now seek to hear others. But not just to listen to the words they say, but also to notice the ones that stick in their throat. Though I am sure that I can't tell you or anyone else HOW to survive, I can tell you that people do. Though I can't give you a prescription for grief recovery, I can assure you that recovery is possible. Though I can't walk in your shoes, I can definitely walk beside you for as long as our paths head in the same direction. And when we part, if nothing else, we will both know that we are not alone.

To all of the widowed people who visit this blog; who participate in the programs of SSLF; who I was able to wrap my arms around in person last weekend; those I never had to chance to greet; those who feel misunderstood or judged, those who feel lifted by the spirits of their fellow widowed peers...I don't claim to have the perfect grieving recipe, but I do believe that we are stronger together.

camp widow 2010

it started off

much the same way

it did the year before

(in a bar),

but i have to say

that the 2010 version

was even better

than 2009.

why?

several reasons.

first, i got to

catch up with

the folks i met

last year.


so much had changed

for all of us, and

i got the sense

that even the reason

we were there

had changed.

it's not that we

didn't need the

support as much as we

did the first year,

but we were

better off than

the year before because

of our attendance

in 2009.

we had created

a close knit

support group for ourselves

and this was not only

an opportunity

to see each other

again, but it was

also a chance

for us to give

back and help get

others to the place

we find ourselves in.

and it's not that we've

"gotten over" the

death of our partners

(because that will never happen),

it just that we

made a connection

with folks

like us.

and that's invaluable

when the world

is at it's darkest.

so to that end,

i was thrilled to

see my friends

reaching out

beyond the social group

we created

last year,

and embracing new members

of this awful club.

and when my new

friend emily told me

that the event

was "a life changer"

well, it confirmed that

camp widow is succeeding.

and the credit

goes to everyone in

attendance, but especially

to michele for

actually putting some

actions behind her words.

another reason this

year was so much better?

holy shit!

there were 10 times

the number of men

as last year.

don't be too surprised...

there was 1 man

last year (me).

which (of course) means there

were 10 this year.

and to see another 10x

increase next year,

would be amazing,

but i'll temper my

expectations for now.

let's just call the

2010 event

a small step forward

for widowed men...

meeting folks like

david and tom and mitch and chris

and others

made me positive that

someday camp widow

will be a huge

means of support

for more men

in the future.

but we may have

to change the name

to be more inclusive.

i know what

you're thinking...

"camp widowed people"

just doesn't have

the same ring as

"camp widow."

well, i'm sure

michele can come up

with something better.

hindu temple

today you went to

your first muslim mosque

(just realized i didn’t take any photos of that)

as well as your

first hindu temple.

you met a ton

of very friendly

people and learned a

little bit about

cultures other

than your own.

don’t worry…

i don’t expect you

to remember everything

you learned today.

we’ll come back

here a lot

as you get older,

and over the years

you’ll learn it all.

i’m pretty sure

you’re gonna be smarter

by age 10 than

i am at 31

(almost 32).

and for that,

i will be most

proud of you.

the same, but not

we

walked here,

in the same place

you now stand,

through a uttar pradeshian summer,

the two of

us,

hand-in-hand until

we could no longer.

still we walked

near one another,

separated by it,

yet kept close

because of it.

we learned about this

place, hearing how it

and a lack of water

drove them

from here.

we both understood

then, why otherwise

rational human beings

would leave behind

years of hard work and

forgo such beauty;

it was the same

reason we let go

of one another.

the wind

blowing in from

the desert,

bringing with it

that heat…

heat that feels

like a

hair dryer blowing in

your face while

you stand in

a sauna.

but today,

we, you and me,

we stand here.

summer is

over, and that heat,

that heat

is gone.

but i can still

feel it,

and it is

something i’ll revel

in until i can

no longer feel.

and you.

you feel her.

i’m sure of it,

because i can

see her in

you.

the smile on

your face,

the way you

hold my hand,

and the way you

let it go…

so walk where

we walked,

stand where

she stood

and together,

we will feel

something.

written words

today, someone asked

me what i do.

when i told her

she asked,

“how do you come up with them?”

“i don’t know,” i said.

“i can’t make them stop.”

and it reminded me that

i used to wonder,

are there enough of them?

they seemed so hard to

come by before that

moment, but now,

they’re as plentiful as

the rays of light

blanketing los angeles

in july.

these things,

they’re that rope

i found hanging from

the sky that day,

the one i held,

floating away

as the rest of

the world disappeared.

and as tightly as

i’ve clung to them,

they’re the reason i

can let go

of some things.

circles

not long after

the darkness fell

upon us,

i came up with

an arbitrary goal…

wear them one day

longer than

her.

but this wasn’t the

first time i let

some unspoken goal

determine my behavior.

no,

giving myself

a personal challenge that

eventually becomes

a near obsessive compulsive disorder,

this is a problem

i’ve always had.

like that time

as a kid when

i decided that everything

had to be done

an even number of times.

or that time

i wondered how

long i could go without

drinking soda,

(six years, five months and twenty five days).

but there’s nothing magical

about any of this.

about 947 days,

so 743 it was.

she would have been

surprised that i’d made

it this long

with them.

working and happy

it is late

and i’m still awake,

a fit of creativity

has settled upon

my brain, and has

translated into

eight fingers and two

thumbs, working to pound

out the

words i’ve struggled

to find.

tonight i spoke to

one of my best

friends in the world,

and she

cried for us.

happy tears,

knowing,

evident in the smile

in my photos,

the words that i

write and the sound

of my voice,

that i am

the happiest i’ve

been in a very long time.

and she knows

you’re to blame,

and for that she cried.

so sleep…

because i will

be awake, writing

about the past,

ready for the future.

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.

and then there's this

happiness has pervaded

my life,

before, during and after

my time with

liz.


and since she died,

it’s been my friends

and family and stranger friends

and music and books and

travel and writing and

memories and photography

and baseball and cheeseburgers

and beer and this blog

and countless other things

that have all been

huge sources

of happiness for me.

and then there’s madeline.

what can i say about

her now that

i don’t think every second,

that i don’t write down

whenever i can,

that i don’t capture

on virtual film

every day?

well, she’s been

my biggest source of

happiness since

liz

died, my reason for

getting out of bed

in the morning,

the reason

i can pull myself

together after

finding a long lost

photo of

liz

in a box in our garage,

the reason i haven’t

fled the country

with just my ipod and wallet.

madeline is my everything.

without her, i would be nowhere,

but with her

i am here.

and now,

there’s another source of

happiness in my life.

her name is brooke.

and we’re dating.

it’s weird how

things like this

can sneak up

on you,

but i’m happy it did.

we met briefly

last september,

a five minute conversation

that found me teasing her

(that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me).

we hung

out a couple of

times at the end of november.

and in december,

when maddy and i

were in mn for

the holidays,

we spent even more time together.

and now,

she’s been out to

los angeles to visit

us twice since

we returned here at the

end of january.

she makes me smile,

and maddy

really loves her.

how do i know?

because madeline hates

most women, yet

she lets brooke do

her hair without

putting up a fight.

but this…

this relationship,

it’s something i’ve

been reluctant to talk about.

why?

because it’s hard

enough to discuss this

with my friends

and family, face-to-face,

let alone

with strangers

on my blog.

plus, i’m pretty

sure this is gonna

change the way

that some people view me.

and widows and widowers,

the people that

i’ve committed to helping,

both through my words

and through the foundation

i started in

liz’s

name, may think

i no longer “get” them.

i assure you,

i do.

finding another source

of happiness does

not mean that i

have moved

past the pain,

’cause i still feel

that pain on a daily basis.

and this doesn’t mean

that i have replaced

liz.

the way i look at

things is that when

liz

died, i died.

but i was reincarnated

a moment later,

and i’m

lucky enough

to have the memories

of my previous

life still with me.

these memories,

both good

and bad,

come to play in my

everyday life,

and it’s these memories

that will keep

liz

alive for madeline.

she will know

her mother through

my memories of her,

through the photographs

i’ve taken,

through the family and

friends that i

hold dear,

and it’s these people who will

remain in her life,

and my life forever.

and i see this

whole thing

as an evolutionary process,

a process that has

me moving through,

not moving on,

because moving on

is impossible.

but happiness…

it’s been here the

whole time,

even in my darkest,

most fucked-up

moments, yes, there

has been happiness.

and with brooke

now in our lives,

there’s even more happiness.

and i don’t see

how that

could be anything

but positive.

here

i’ve been here,

in this place.

but when?

was it twenty five years ago?

maybe eight?

yesterday?

no.

it was

thirteen years ago.

and it was

almost four years ago.

i was here.

she was here

we.

we were here.

but it was different.

thirteen years ago

it was an

awkward meal with

people who didn’t

know me.

but she made

it comfortable,

even fun.

…

some of them

were here.

i was here.

she was here.

we.

we were here.

and that day four

years ago,

we stood up

there.

it was that day,

that day i

put the one

now on my

left hand

on hers.

and the one

now on my right

was on my left.

it was to

be like that forever.

that was the plan.

i can smell

the flowers.

i can feel the excitement

of that moment.

i can see the dress.

and the woman

inside of it.

but four years

later, i am here

some of them

are here,

but she,

she

is not here.

…

the myth of the broken heart

Photo by Sandyx3

I don't follow a lot of celebrity news. In fact, the older I get the more I have no idea who these people are who grace the pages of the tabloids at the grocery check-out counter. Our society's idolatry of these 'super-humans' baffles me and highlights the blatant differences between 'us' and 'them'.
Recently however, the death of an actress whom I could name was marked on the cover of these magazines. Although I admit I had no idea who he was before this event, I recall feeling real empathy for Brittany Murphy's husband, Simon Mojack, when I glanced at these glossy covers on the way to pay for our goods. I wondered how it would feel to not only suffer the loss of a spouse but to read about it in all the line-ups you were forced to stand in for weeks after. I had concluded that it may be cathartic to know that others had noticed the absense of the one you held so dear as well. That life hadn't just 'continued as normal'. That the spot that my loved one had held didn't just close over unrecognized when they stopped living.
I felt a kin-ship with this man. He had lost the love of his life as well. Simon knew the emptiness that followed. It made him normal and mortal - not the stuff of celebrity but the stuff of the average human.
Then he went and did something that our society loves to talk of as much as we recite stats on these legendary creatures - He died of a 'broken heart'. I felt like simultaneously screaming and barfing at the checkout counter when I read these words. I felt betrayed by someone who knew what this road was like. And the stupid thing was, I knew it was bullshit that he died of a broken heart. He just conveniently died months after his spouse did and made a fabulous and heartrending story for the media to skew.
If dying of a broken heart was possible, each and every widow/er would have been wiped off the face of the planet the moment their spouse died. This man's death is not some measure of how much he loved her and evidence that my love for Jeff must have been lacking. It is an unfortunate event that happened too soon after he lost his wife. In all honesty, I am jealous. I begged whatever possible higher power there may be to kill me in the weeks and months following March 25th, 2008. I WANTED to die after Jeff did....and sometimes still do. But I have never gotten my wish. So like all other widows/ers out there, I know you can't die OF a broken heart....you just die WITH one...whenever that may be.

a voice

on my stomach,

the pillow over my head,

right ear pressed to

the mattress.

i can hear her voice

resonating through the

springs below,

the vibration reducing the

words to nothing more

than a mumble.

the voice,

unmistakable,

but she’s not in

the room.

Seperate Worlds

We have a guest blogger today. Thanks to Matt C. for sharing a bit of his journey through widowhood with us.


A friend of mine told me that his 99 year old Grandfather had just died, and that his wife who is also 99 years old is still living. She wondered how long the wife was going to live now that the husband is gone.

“I’m sure it’s not the same for you, but you hear all the time with the elderly how quickly other one dies after the death of their spouse.”

And it reminded me of one of the more startling emotions I dealt with right after the death of Lisa. I did want to die. And it shocked me that I was feeling that way.

Not suicidal. Not like that. It wasn’t that I was searching for ways to end my life or hoping I could end my life. It was a longing for the afterlife. I was missing Lisa and while I was grieving I was still talking to her, still having a relationship with her when I went to bed and my thoughts would be on our life together. And I had this connection with her that was still very strong. It was half in my world and half in her world. And at the time I was missing so much I wanted to be fully in her world to be with her.

I remember at the time being shocked at my feelings as I assumed this was only for the elderly like my friend was talking about. Only when you reach past 75 do you feel this way. I was 39 and I was looking ahead to the next phase.

As time wore on and the everyday chores of the kids and the people I love still around me, I slowly was drawn away from Lisa’s side. The connection became less and I knew I still had work to do here. While I did miss that state of mind of being half in this world and half in another, I knew I couldn’t be with her now.

I felt like I was in a bad mermaid movie where I am standing on the cliff while the mermaid is in the water, “Come join me, let’s be happy forever.” And I cry out in my over-acting voice, “I can’t, it’s not my world. It wouldn’t work. But I will always love you.”

I love you Lisa. I do want to be with you. But you are no longer in my world and I need to stay here and do some things still. I hope it’s a very long time before I see you again.