Survivors' Guilt

Source - I took this picture of the Tra Vigne winery, CA.

A couple of weeks ago I traveled to California to spend time with my best friend.

On one of the days I was there we went to tour a winery.

The winery was so beautiful. Of course the wine was amazing. The day was filled with love and laughter.

On the drive back to our hotel I was looking out the window.. taking in the beauty around me.

And it hit me..

It hits me every time..

The tears started falling.

Once again, my husband missed out on an amazing experience.

When I think about all the fun I had and all the fun my husband missed out on.. it leaves me in tears.

Every time.

It feels like every time I have an amazing day it is followed by pain.

Followed by a slap in the face that he is still dead.

Pain that my husband can’t experience these things.

Pain that I am having such an amazing time without my husband.

I've thought a lot about it. How come when an amazing day is winding down, night is setting in, my brain goes there?

It seems like I have some version of survivor’s guilt.

Guilt that I can actually live and love life.

Guilt that my husband couldn't see a reason to live another day.

Guilt that I am enjoying my life while my husband is dead.

It hurts. It bothers me that I have to have a melt down after an amazing day.

Three years out, when does the quilt subside?

When can I enjoy life without feeling guilty about it?

When can I stop feeling sorry for my husband?

After all, my husband decided to leave this life.. I did not make that decision for him. So why do I feel guilty for having fun?

Times like this I wish I could tell him "Do you see all the amazing things you are missing out on?? What the hell were you thinking??"

Survivor’s guilt. Three years out I am still learning about all the bumps in this road called widowhood.

Crap..

I’m sick of death.

I’m sick of the 27^th of every month.

On July 27^th, I passed the three year anniversary of my husband’s death. That same day a friend I have known since Jr. High passed away.

August 27^th (The 37^th month of my husband’s death) my childhood best friend became widowed.. without warning.. at the age of 30.

This friend I have known since I was about five years old. She was three years old.

I was very young when she was in a horrible car accident and was in a body cast from the chest down.

I pulled her around the neighborhood, in her body cast, in my red wagon.

Because she was cooped up and bed ridden, I pulled her around.. to get her out.. for some fresh air and fun times.

Now I have vowed to pull her again. Drag her through the “neighborhood” of widow land. I might need a wagon. I might need to drag her kicking and screaming. But I refuse to let her step into this strange and foreign land alone.

While I wasn’t alone when I started this journey, I didn’t have anyone that truly understood how devastating losing a spouse is. I felt like I had nowhere to turn.. nowhere to go for support. I refuse to let her face this alone. Sorry Michelle, I’ll be up your ass for quite a while.. so get used it.

When she contacted me this week and told me the news of her husband I swear my heart fell out and shattered on the ground.. shattered all over again. How could this happen??

When I got news of both my friend passing away and my friend becoming widowed.. I instantly was pissed off at Seth. Where was he? Why was he not protecting my friend and her husband? What is he doing?? Off playing in the amazing after life while we are left to fend for ourselves?

Why in the hell am I watching my friends die and become widowed at 32 years old??

What happened to living the long, amazing life? What happened to growing old and gray together? Sitting on the porch in rocking chairs watching our grandchildren play?

What the crap happened??

Watching all this unfold is crap.

It’s crap that at 32 years old I know the pain of being widowed, and I am now watching it happen to my friends.

Pure crap.

When One Door Closes ......

                                                         source

...... it sometimes slams right in your face.
Some doors are like that.  They suddenly slam shut with so much force that you're knocked backwards.
The door on my "before" life shut like that.
Suddenly.
Surprisingly.
Furiously.
Permanently.

Other doors close very slowly.  You can tell that they're closing, but it's such a slow process that you can't actually see the movement.
But you know it's coming.

My youngest child is heading off to college tomorrow.  We're both making the day long drive and then moving him in on Friday.
And as I drive away, leaving him behind, another door will close.

I've seen it coming.  I've been aware.
But that doesn't make it any easier.
This is the child who's been with the "after" me the most.
This is the child who was with Jim the least.
It's been a tough road.
To say the least.

I'm sure that all of my children have felt cheated by their father's death.
More than once.
As have I.
Many, many times more than once.
But this child ...... this child was cheated the most.

He didn't learn some of the lessons about being a good man ...... that come only by living with one.
He didn't get the chance to have any teenage "heart to heart" talks with his dad.
He didn't experience the calmness that Jim gave during turbulent times.
He's the child who missed the most.

But in spite of all that ...... and maybe because of it ...... we've come to this door.
We've made it.
He's made it.
There were many times when I thought he wouldn't.
And there were many times when I thought I wouldn't.

He still has lessons to learn.
He still has growing to do.
He will still become a good man.
Because of who his father was ...... not how much time he didn't get.
Maybe one day he'll be a better father ...... because of what he missed.
And perhaps he'll be more generous with his time ...... because he felt cheated the most.

It's time for him to walk through the door ...... and on to his "after".
We parented him ...... and his siblings ...... the best that we could ...... while we could.
And while I have no doubt that my heart will ache as I drive away, I will also feel excited for him.
And for all he's about to experience.

This isn't a door that will slam shut permanently.
The parenting door seems to open periodically through the years.
And I'm ok with that ...... because I really don't need another one slammed in my face.

No One Ever Said ......

                                                            source


...... that life was fair.
But damn, sometimes the scales seem to just get stuck over there on the unfair side.

My youngest child went to a funeral last night.
The funeral of a friend.
A friend who was also a senior in high school.
A friend who was not the only high schooler in our community to die this year.
And that beyond sucks.

My son has seen too much grief in his 18 years.
He, along with the rest of my children, grew up in ways that children should not have to grow up.

Life is not fair.
And death does not discriminate.

A family that planned to watch their son graduate this Saturday ...... has had its dreams cut short.
The future will not be as they had planned.
Or hoped.

And though I have not experienced the pain of losing a child, my heart hurts for them.
And it hurts for my child.
My heart hurts for all of our children.
Because most of them learned, at an earlier age than we did ...... that life is not fair.
Their care-free days of childhood ended too soon.
Cut short by a fact of life.
And death.

Sometimes that fact gets re-enforced ...... over and over again.
And grief comes raging in like a tsunami.
Relentless.
Pounding.
Deafening.
Leaving so much damage in its wake.

No one ever said that life was fair.

But I wish someone would've told me ......  how hard I'd have to swim.

Even Now ......

                                                                    Source

...... depression sets in.

Still.

I rarely see it coming.

I just seem to wake up mired in it.

Still.

It's usually accompanied with the sense of feeling completely overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed by all that I'm "in charge of",  all the upkeep that comes with owning a home that is slowly becoming way too large, way too lonely and getting larger ...... and lonelier.

I feel overwhelmed with being the only one.

The only parent.

The only home owner.

The only care taker.

The only decision maker.

The only bill payer.

The only appointment maker.

The only receiver of phone calls/emails from well-meaning schools and teachers.

The only responsible party.

The only mistake maker.

The only safe person upon which to vent. 

The only one who has to decide when to sell this house.

The only one who has to decide what the hell to do with all of the "stuff" inside this house.

The only one to talk to many days of the week.

The only one to talk to almost every single night of the week/weekend.

The only one having to come up with health insurance for 5 people.

The only one to eat dinner with.

The only one in my bed every night.

The only one who can't sleep most nights.

The only one.

In a life that was meant for two.

And more.

But though it still comes ...... even now ...... it doesn't come very often anymore. 

In fact, I can't really remember the last time depression paid me a visit.

And though it still comes ...... even now ...... I know that it will leave again ...... sooner, rather than later.

I now know that depression is not moving in with me, with no end of its occupancy in sight.

I know that I may feel sad, blue, tired, depressed ...... for a day or three, but then depression will move on.

I didn't know anything about depression in my "before" life.

But in my "after" it became something I learned a lot about.

More than I  ever wanted to know.

Which has turned out to be a good thing.

Because though it still comes to pay me a vist ...... even now ......

I know that it won't take me down.

Because I've grown stronger over the past 5 years.

And I'll continue to grow stronger ...... in spite of, and because of,  being the only one.

Even now.

Lessons

What widowhood has taught me so far…

Waterproof mascara not only withstands a little crying, but it thickens, holds curl and doesn’t flake/smear like regular mascara does. Okay, now for the real ones...

It is okay to ask for and accept help. You are not a burden because something terrible happened to you and you need help to get through it. If anything, the people who really matter are just hoping you’ll give them something to do to help. It’s just your turn to be helped.

There’s no right time. Timelines don’t exist. Don’t listen to someone else tell you that you should or shouldn’t. Don’t make any big decisions in the first year is bullshit. Most of us will HAVE to make big decisions. Some of us will want to. Do what you feel in your gut is going to help you in the long run. Then kindly (maybe silently, maybe not) tell anyone who disagrees to fuck off.

Exercise is medicine. Grieving is incredibly hard on your body. Exercise will help you sleep, eat and relax. It will also boost your immune system. You don’t need to have poor health on top of all the other problems. Also, I found that a strenuous workout was one of the few times when my brain would settle down. Physically challenging myself makes my emotional brain shut off temporarily and it’s almost the only thing that does.

Whatever it is you love to do, be it knitting, hanging out with animals, hiking, singing, walking in the woods, painting…do it. Do what used to make your heart sing. It might not feel the same at first, but you will eventually feel it again.

Don’t agree to do stuff you truly don’t want to do. Life is too short to do stuff you don’t want to do.

It’s okay if it feels like there’s nothing you want anymore. I think that will come back eventually. It’ll be scary when it does come back because it’ll feel like you have something to lose again and that’s terrifying. But that fear means you are alive and feeling. That’s good. And scary.

Humor is medicine. Don’t try to read or watch sad, dramatic or traumatizing stuff unless you really want to. Read David Sedaris or Tina Fey or Mindy Kaling, or watch SNL, 30 Rock or Arrested Development. Even if you’re too sad to laugh, at least your brain will get a break from the darkness for a few moments.

Seek out others who “get” you and support you. They will sustain you and vice versa. You need each other.

Disclaimer: Most of these are in my “easier said than done” category and I struggle with them daily, but I still believe them.

What Do I Like ......

                                                                source

...... about the "after" me?
A friend and I were driving across town the other day and she asked me this question.

I stopped and pondered for a few seconds, but found it really quite easy to answer.
At this point in my life.
At this point in my "after".

"Almost everything.", I replied.
Of course ...... she wanted specifics.

So I started to list the things about the "after Janine" that I like:
- I'm more laid back than I was "before".
- I'm not afraid.  Of anything.  Anymore.
- I know that life is short and so I take nothing, nor anyone, for granted.
- I don't sweat the small stuff.
-I know what, and who, is important.  And what, and who, is not.
- I don't deal with B.S. any more.  Or the people who are full of it.
- I tell the people I love ...... that I love them.  Often.
- I'm kinder.
- I'm more patient.
- I don't waste as much time as I did "before".
- I'm more open minded than I was "before".
- I don't judge.
- I'm more accepting, except for judgmental people who are full of B.S.
- I make room in my life for new friends.
- I have too many "after" friends to count.  And yes, most (but not all) of them are widowed.  And yet are here for me.  No matter what.  As I am for them.
- I have no room in my life for so-called-friends.
- I'm stronger than I was "before".
- I'm willing to try new things ...... new experiences.
- I'm not afraid of death.
- I'm not afraid of life.
- I'm not afraid of being alone.
- I rarely doubt myself ...... or my abilities.
- I like myself.
- I have survived.  Against the odds.

She then asked me what I don't like about the "after Janine".
This list was short ...... but there were still some items.
- I'm less naive now.
- I'm generally more subdued.
- My happiness/joyfulness is still here, but it's never been as high as it was "before".  Nor do I expect it to ever be that high again.  Though I may be wrong.
- I'm less care-free.
- I'm more of a realist than I was "before".
- I don't want to be in a relationship again.  Ever.
- I have been too "trusting" in my "after" ...... and so have trusted the wrong people.

I'm sure there are a few other things that I'm not crazy about, but it's been a long day, I'm tired, and I really do like the person I've become in my "after", though I would never have believed that ...... in my "before", or even in the first 2-3 years of my "after".

Yes, I'd give every good characteristic up in a heartbeat ...... if that would bring Jim back.
But we all know that it won't.  And so I have learned to move forward, and to accept who I am and where I am.
No, I don't always like it, but I have accepted it.
So that I can move forward.

I am a different person than I was "before".
And though I'd never thought this in the beginning of my "after" ......
I like me.

And that's what counts.
:)

For The Times That You Want To Stop ......

...... going on.

I received an email last night from a woman who found my blog.
Her husband died 5 1/2 months ago.
She had a question for me.
And I knew what it was before she asked it.

"Hi Janine... still reading your blog.. and am so happy you are doing so much better.  However.. I am no where near that point. I have a question for you.  Did you ever want to stop... to not go on... even though you had children and parents who needed and depended on you?"

My heart immediately hurt for her.

So much.

And my mind immediately went back to that cold, lonely, inky black place where she is now.

I remember every detail of that place.

Even though I'd like to forget ...... as I've forgotten so many other things.

And I know that she is not the only one out there who feels this way.

Who hurts this way and wonders if she/he is alone in that wondering.

Has anyone else ever wanted to just ...... stop?

Yes.

Very much so.

I did more than just want it to stop.

I attempted to stop.

But I couldn't go all the way.

Someone intervened ...... and here I am today.

I'm not sure if I would've gone all the way ...... had they not intervened.

Sometimes I think no.

Most times I think no.

But sometimes ...... I wonder.

For all of you who've been there ......

For all of you who are there right now ......

And for those of you yet to go there ......

You are not alone.

Many of us have been there.

And are still here.

No, not everyone goes there.

It's not a requirement or anything ...... for grieving.

Thank God.

But it's not all that unique, either.

Or abnormal.

Or wrong.

You feel what you feel.

And sometimes ...... you think that you cannot feel like that for one more moment ...... let alone for the next 40 years or so.

You want the pain to stop.

And it doesn't matter who might be left behind.

Or how it might affect them.

Because you think that they'll be better off to be done with you.

With you and your grief.

I get that.

I understand that like I never, ever did ...... or could ...... "before".

So I will tell you what you don't ...... can't ...... believe.

You matter.

Your existence matters.

No matter how negative you think it may be.

No matter how much you are grieving each and every day.

You.

Matter.

And the emptiness you will leave behind will shatter someone ...... several someones ...... into a million tiny pieces that cannot be put together again.

They have already lost one of the most important people in their life.

They cannot lose another.

You can't believe that.

But try to believe me.

I have been there.

I was there for a long time.

But I've made it to here.

And I worked damn hard to get here.

So try to believe me.

And if you can't ...... let me believe it for you.

You matter.

And ...... this is the most important thing I can tell you ......

You.

Will.

NOT.

Always.

Feel.

This.

Way.

I promise.

That's all I have.

My word.

I hope that you can trust me.

Or ...... let me believe it while you can't.

Your days will not always be this dark.

His death will not always be the first thought you have when you open your eyes in the morning.

Her absence will not always be the last thought you have before you fall asleep at night.

The pain will not always be this intense, this suffocating, this soul-killing.

It will not always be this heart-shattering.

My existence here is proof of that.

And your presence here is my reason for that.

I've made it to this point so that I can help others make it.

And I will do whatever I can ...... whatever it takes ...... to help you keep believing.

To help you ...... keep breathing.

And to keep coming back here.

One breath at a time.

That's all.

Just one breath.

You are not alone.

Fighting the Old Fight ......

...... of feeling like a failure.

I have struggled with this battle off and on during the past 5 years.
In the beginning it was a constant feeling.
I was in such shock, depression and deep, deep grief ...... that I could barely function during that first year.
The second year started off with a diagnosis of cancer in January and major surgery in February.  The depression only worsened during that second year, as I spent most of it recovering from that surgery and the pain it left behind.

Add that to the horrendous grief ...... and everything else I kept getting thrown my way ...... and I still didn't function very well.
I felt like I had failed everyone, but most of all, my children.
I still had 3 teenage sons living with me and they were grieving the loss of their father.

Now even on a good day, with no grief to deal with, teenage boys are not known for their eloquent communication skills.
Throw in the death of their father and you can imagine how much less they communicate ...... even with constant encouragement.

There were many days when it felt like I was the only person in my home who was grieving Jim.  And I hated that.
I also hated crying so much and so often during that first year.  I felt badly for the boys, having to see me like that most of the time.
I knew early on, as did they, that they lost both parents that horrible night in December.
But there was nothing I could do to change things.

I tried taking two of them to counselors, but boys will not communicate if they don't want to communicate (nor will anyone).  The good thing that came out of that was that I continued to see the first counselor after she decided it was useless to continue to see him.
So she helped me learn how to deal with him, and how to deal with living through my grief.

There was a time when I felt horrible for how hard I had grieved, and how much I had not done for my children.  I apologized to each of them, more than once, for that.  I also told them that if I had it all to do over again ...... I would most likely do it exactly the same.
I lost my best friend, my husband, my lover, my protector, my confidante, my partner, the father of my children, the first and only man I'd ever loved and the love of my life.  We loved each other "hard".  And very, very much. And we liked each other a lot.  Not every couple can say that.  Heck, I don't think even 50% of couples can say that.
Unfortunately.  That alone depresses me and makes me sad for them.

We were just approaching the time in life when we could do more things with each other ...... and plan trips we wanted to take after the kids were "out".  The future looked wonderful.
And then there was no future.
At all.

But sometime last year I stopped feeling guilty.  I stopped feeling like a failure.  I refused to let myself go there because I knew that I had not failed and that I was not guilty of anything ...... except loving Jim with all of my heart.  And showing our 6 children what it takes to have a great marriage.  Not a perfect one, by far, but still ...... a great one.

So I stopped apologizing and told them, again, I had done the best I could with what I had.  And just the fact that I'm not dead right now is proof of that.
The seven of us have survived ...... in spite of how each of us grieved.  Or maybe because of it.
I'm not a failure.  Even if a so called "friend" told me that I was.
Fortunately by the time I heard those words I knew better.  And didn't own them, but completely rejected them.  And her.

But this past week I felt Guilt trying to rear its ugly head again.
I was involved in a study that talked about how hugely important "the family meal" is.  And how fast the practice of families gathering at the same table for meals is being lost.
And how that correlates with the rise in problems our young people are having.  Fewer and fewer families spend time together at the dinner table ...... or anywhere.

I thought about how firmly Jim and I believed in the family eating together.  He wasn't always able to make it home in time for dinner, due to the demands of his job, but he always made it home every Wednesday night in time.  Everyone who worked with him knew that.  They knew they couldn't schedule meetings late on Wednesdays, or he'd be absent.
He made it home for other nights, too, but Wednesday was set in stone.

And then he died.
And the family dinners have been few and far between.  Granted, it's mostly been just 2 of us here.  And one of us is in school full time, has a part time job after school and on the weekends, and also has a decent social life.
In case you're wondering ...... that would not be me.

So I went to this Son last week and sat next to him to ask him a question.
"You remember the family meals we had when Dad was alive, right?"  Of course he did.  Why did I ask?
"I just wanted to make sure you remembered.  And that you remembered how important it was ...... and that you'll remember how important it is when you have a family."
These last two sentences were said with tears running down my face.  I'm sure he thought I was losing it ...... yet again.
He assured me that he not only remembered, but did indeed plan to make sure his family ate together.
Which made me feel much, much better.

So even though guilt and failure tried to worm their way back into my head ...... I kept the door firmly shut.  And then locked it.

I did the very best I could.  It may not have been much, but it was all I had.
I had no handbook.
I had no warning.
I had no clue.

And I have no guilt.
If you do, please try to let it go.  Don't take ownership of that horrible feeling.  You don't deserve it.
You're doing the best you can ...... with what you have ...... and who you lost.
Keep breathing.

Cracked

I sometimes forget that I am not the same person that I was “before”.

I have over done it. Stretched myself to thin, and have crashed.

In my before life, I could handle a lot of stress, a lot of multi tasking, with little sleep and little frustration.

I no longer can do it.

I forget how much I have changed, and with that change, brings things I am not proud of.

For example, I have been extremely busy and stressed at work.

The old me would be able to work 10 hours a day, go home, cook, clean, go out with friends, sleep very little, and be able to manage just fine.

The new me, can only handle going to work right now.

I have nothing left to give to any other part of my life, other than work and sleep.

There are times through my grieving process that I think I am doing fine. I put too much on myself. Then bam! I crash. All my commitments and responsibilities crash at my feet, because I just can’t give any more energy away.

I don’t know what happened.

Actually, I know what happened - My husband died.

With that I changed. I am now extremely impatient. I can’t handle much stress or much responsibility. I have become selfish, in making sure I am ok before making someone else is ok.

The littlest thing can send me in a tail spin of panic and exhaustion.

The last two weeks, all I have been able to manage is work.

Work, sleep, rinse, repeat. And I am exhausted.

I am hard on myself, and tell myself “You need to try harder. There are people that are struggling far more then you are, yet they cope just fine.”

I beat myself up and curse at myself.

This week, I shattered. I knew I wasn't coping well. I knew I was pushing myself too far. But I kept at it, because after all, it was just work. I was working all day, and resting at night, making sure I wasn't putting anything else on myself. So I should have been fine, right?

Wrong.

I have fallen on my face in anxiety, frustration and exhaustion.

Grief never takes a break. Life doesn't stop because I am struggling.

I feel like all the cracks in my soul are now gaping holes. All the glue I have used to repair those cracks has come undone.

I think of myself as humpty dumpty.

Source

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again

I fell. Or possibly failed. And there is no one to put me back together again.

I am reminding myself that it’s ok for me to be weak. It’s ok for me to be exhausted. And sometimes my best isn't enough for the world around me. I have to remind myself that my best, has to be enough for myself. That I have allow myself to be exhausted, rest, and not take on anymore responsibilities.

This week, I am taking time off work.

During this time, I will buy new glue, and start repairing my cracks.

If all the king's horses and all the king's men can’t put me back together, then I will do it myself. 

People Are ......

                                                       
.....interesting.
To say the least.

I've been reading the posts over the past week and have been struck by the number of you who've been hurt or felt pressured by "friends".
"Friends" who have not been widowed.
Very, very interesting, doncha think?

I think that most of the things people say aren't meant to hurt or offend us.  Friends are mostly well-meaning and think they're being helpful.
I've probably said something I thought was helpful ..... back in my "before" ...... when I really had no idea.
None.

Friends can't be blamed for trying to be helpful.  They just want us to stop hurting, even though that's impossible.  They feel helpless and just want to make the pain stop.
I'm sure we all wish they could.

But I've heard stories of "friends" who knew exactly what they were saying when they said it.  Anyone who pressures a person to "move on" needs to be told that he/she is the person who needs to move on.
Any person who criticizes the way we're grieving needs to be told ...... well, I'm not sure what they need to be told, because I find that too shocking for words.

And that's exactly how I felt when it happened to me.  Shocked beyond words.

I was told, only last summer, that I "had grieved wrongly".  I was told that I "had been selfish in my grief".
And that I "had been a very bad mother", in my "after".

I.
Was.
Stunned.
Fortunately these words were said over the phone, and not to my face.  Fortunately, because I'm not sure how I would've reacted, face to face.

These words, these hateful, ugly, spiteful words that were intended to do as much damage as possible, were uttered by a "friend".  A very, very close "friend".  Or so I thought.
A "close friend" who is still with her very alive husband.

I'm still not sure why she said what she said, other than most likely because of jealousy.  Some people need to have the spotlight on them.  All of the time.
When you're next to a widowed person, you stand in the shadows.  Though I'm sure every single one of us would love to have that light shine elsewhere ...... so that we could stand in the shadows.

And even though it sounds, and is, very, very sick ...... I think jealousy is behind many of the comments we sometimes get from a "friend".

My response was to say that I didn't receive any guide book for grieving my husband.  Nor did I receive a guidebook for helping my children grieve while I grieved.  And I said that those words were lies.
Then I said the last words that I will ever say to this "friend": don't ever call, text, email or contact me again.  Ever.
But before I hung up I told her one more thing:  I said that I sincerely hoped that she never has to grieve her husband, but if she does, I hope no one ever, EVER judges the way she does it.
We have not spoken since.

She has made comments on my personal blog, anonymously of course, and I've calmly deleted every one.
I have "moved on" and let go of any anger, hurt or resentment.
Life is too short.
And though I have forgiven her for words that are almost unforgivable, I can no longer have that kind of person in my life.
Because ...... life is way too short.

At the time though, her words had the desired effect ...... for a very brief moment.  I felt hurt.  Very hurt.  She did a good job.
But then I remembered the truth.  The truth that buried her lies and any future pain from them forever:
I did the best I could.  The very best I could.
I loved Jim fiercely and completely.  I have grieved him fiercely and completely.
I did the best I could with what I was given.
It wasn't always pretty.  It wasn't neat and orderly.  It was never comfortable.
In fact it was downright horrific.
But I'm still here.
Five years later I'm still standing.
And thriving.
And happy.

Which means I did a good job.

My kids are all mostly happy.  They haven't always made the choices I would've chosen for them, but I'm sure they feel the same way about some of mine.
And Jim and I raised our children to grow up and make their own choices, not ours.
Some still struggle with what they really want to be doing.
Some would prefer to be in a better job.
But who hasn't struggled with that?
They are healthy, independent, and strong willed.
And they know without a doubt that they are loved ...... and that someone has their back.

I did a damn good job.
In spite of what I was given.

In spite of words from a "friend".

And while it shocked me to hear those words, I feel even more shocked when I hear that one of you has heard words that hurt.  I feel angry, stunned and irate that someone had the nerve to say something hurtful and insensitive to any of you.  My blood pressure goes up immediately upon reading those comments.
I want names and numbers!!
I want to call these people and make sure they will never utter words like that to a grieving person again.  And I want to give them the name of a good therapist.  So that they can learn how to deal with THEIR issues appropriately.

Yes, maybe I need a session or two on anger management.
Not really.
I just don't want anyone to hurt you ..... you all who are already hurting beyond belief.  And so I react.
And yes, I sometimes (ok, many times) wish I could slap the person who hurt you.
But in reality, if I could sit down with that person, I'd love to quietly explain the impact words can have.  Words said without (or worse, with) thought.  Words uttered by someone who has no idea.
And hopefully never will.

Yes, indeed.  People certainly are ...... interesting.
To say the very least.

Friends vs. Family

A friend posted this on facebook.

- She/He has been changed to they/them -

I have heard the horror stories. Of widows feeling forgotten, left out, treated like their widow status is contagious, by friends and family.

It has never happened to me.

Until now.

I have a friend, that I have been friends with since before Seth got sick. They have always been there for me.

Recently I knew their birthday was coming up. I anxiously waited for word on the party.

See, this birthday party is always so fun. I have never missed it. Even after Seth’s death.

As I waited for the invitation to arrive, I didn’t realize the party had been planned, was happening on a certain night, and I was being left out.

I was shocked when I logged on to facebook and saw pictures from the party. Our mutual friends were there. I frantically looked to see if I missed an invitation. Facebook event, email, text, snail mail.. to discover, I didn't miss a invite.

I wasn't invited.

I was hurt. I felt forgotten. I felt like maybe me being a widow was too much for my friends to be around and try to grasp. Maybe they don’t want to ignore the elephant in the room anymore. Maybe they don’t want to catch my disease – widowhood.

I have kicked this hurt around in my head for a while now. Trying to understand.

Through my birthdays, Seth’s birthdays, the death anniversary, I have never forgotten to invite them.

I mean really, how do you forget a friend?

I once forgot to invite a friend to Seth’s yearly memorial. Another friend asked why this certain friend wasn’t invited. I quickly realized I didn't forget my friend, I just didn't include her in the invite. I quickly added her to the invite, and texted her and begged for forgiveness.

She of course forgave me, and came to the memorial.. Phew.

If I forget a friend, another friend will ask me what’s going on, and I will realize I didn't include one of the most important people in my life. I would never forget a friend on purpose.. and I will try to correct my mistake.

So it made me wonder, as they were celebrating, did none of our mutual friends say “Where is Melinda?”

Through trying to understand it all, I feel forgotten.

I have heard all the horror stories of widows going through similar things with their friends and family. Being at 30 months, I thought I was passed the point of when people would excuse themselves from my life.

I guess even 30 months in, people change their mind. They decide to not be a part of my life.

But this far out from my husband’s death?

I expected this in the early days. When I first entered widowhood and my in-laws turned on me. I expected it then.

Being this far out, and it is just barely happening, makes me feel alone.

Very alone.

Makes me realize that the world around me is forever changed. 

And is forever changing with each day.

Who I thought were my friends and family, is still changing.

Makes me realize that people don’t want to be around a 32 year old widow. After all, "this" won’t happen to them.. and you sure as shit don’t want to catch my very contagious disease. You don’t want me to cough, spread my germs to you, and have your spouse drop dead the next day.

One of the very few things I remember from Seth’s funeral is my dad hugging me, my mom, and my brother. 

In a big, bawling, group hug.

Through my dad’s own sobs, he said-

“We will get through this”.

“As a family”.

“We will get through this”.

My dad was so right. As a family we are getting through this. I realize that my friends are not just friends, they are my family. We are getting through it as a family.

I realize I am still learning about the new world around me.

And how nothing ever stays the same.

Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people in your life who want you
in theirs; the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would
do anything to see you smile, and who love you no matter what. - Unknown

What Would He Say ......

...... if he were to come back for a moment or two ...... after five years?
What would he think of how I've handled his death ...... and my "after"?

It's interesting that just typing those two sentences brings tears to my eyes.  Tears that run down my cheeks as I type.
I think part of that is because I know that he will never come back, not even for a moment or two, and it breaks my heart to even ponder that.
And I think the tears also come because I know that his heart would be broken ...... at how broken my heart became.  And how dark my world became.

But what would he say?
I think the first thing he would say is, "I'm sorry."  Not that he could've stopped death from taking him out of that surgical room.  I know that.  Jim would not have chosen death over us.  Ever.  But the choice was not his.  And he'd still say he was sorry.

He'd say that he knew how much I hurt when he left, and how alone and cold and dead I felt.  And then he'd say that he never doubted for a second that I would keep breathing, that I would survive his death ...... and the grief that would move into my soul.

He'd tell me that he always knew how strong I was ...... and that even when I doubted if I'd live to see another day, he knew better.
He'd say that he's proud of me ...... and that I should be proud of me, too, even though he knows I'm not.
He'd tell me that of course I grieved hard ...... because I loved hard.  He didn't expect less.  He'd also say that he knew that I did the best I could ...... and that my best was pretty damn good.

He'd say that he's proud of our children.  They may have made choices that we wouldn't have chosen for them, but we raised them to do just that:  make their own choices.  And then to live with the consequences, and the joys.
He'd tell me that he knew that our oldest got accepted to Harvard ...... and that it made him grin from ear to ear.  He say that he's been watching all six of them ...... and that he knew they'd be ok. He's proud of the young women and men they've turned into.  And he's beaming because we'll finally have another Cowboy in the family!  
He would wish that he could be here for marriages and grandkids ...... to enjoy them with me, but that he'd still be watching them  ...... and enjoying them, too.

He'd tell me to stop blaming myself for mistakes I've made and wish I hadn't.  "Everyone makes mistakes, Janine.  The point is to learn from them.  And you did."

He'd tell me how very, very proud he is about the work I'm doing to support and encourage other widowed people.  He might even wipe away a tear or two as he tells me he's glad that I allowed God to work through me, as I used his death, and my grief, to be a positive force in the lives of others.  And ...... he'd say that I always had made a difference in the world ...... at least to his and the childrens' world.

And when it was time for him to leave, he'd hold me ...... and tell me that he's never stopped loving me ...... and that he never will.  And that means that he wants me to be happy ...... and to grab onto love if it ever comes my way again.

I can almost hear his words now ...... the last words he said to me 5 years ago ...... the last words he'd say again if he had the chance:  "I love you.  I'm proud of you.  And I'll see you soon."
And I'd have no doubt, that just as they were then,  they're still true.

Death and Taxes ......

Source

                                                   
...... are both pretty sure things.
Both pretty stressful things.
Both beyond stressful when they come on the heels of each other, as they did for me, when Jim died.

He died at the end of the year.
Within a couple of weeks the tax stuff started rolling in.

Now that might not be stressful for many people ..... even many of you.
But for me, whose husband was a CPA and had chosen to "handle" all (and I mean ALL) of the bills, the taxes, the filling out of all of them and the writing of checks for all of them, seeing those first few income tax forms come in made my eyes blur, my stomach hurt, my heart pound, and my breathing charge into full-blown hyperventilate-mode.

And even though I have an accountant now to help get things done, my reaction is pretty much the same when the first of the year rolls around and brings tax materials into my mailbox.

I have often wondered why I still feel anxious at this time of the year ...... at the sight of all things tax-related.

Why do I panic at the thought of what item I may forget to turn in, or some piece of paper that I can't find?
And cry.

It took me sitting down to write this post to figure it out.
It really has nothing to do with my taxes (other than the normal amount of "uck" they give everyone).

It has everything to do with the fact that Jim's not here.

He's not here to fill out these endless forms.

He's not here to tell me not to worry.
He's not here at the end of each day.
He's not here to hug me when I need it (and boy, do I need it!).
He's not here for our kids.
He's just ...... not here.

Not in January.
Or May.
Or at Christmas.

The time of the year isn't as important as this one fact:
He's.
Not.
Here.

So while I may slowly get used to the sight of all things tax-related ...... they will always serve to remind me, every damn January, of something I really, REALLY don't need to be reminded of:

Jim is not here.

Thank you very much, IRS.
I'm sure I would've totally forgotten if not for you.

Ho, Ho .......

                                                                               Source

...... Humbug.

This post is for all of you who are more than relieved that Christmas Day is done.  Over.  Finished.  For 364 more days.

I hope that you experienced what I usually experience:  the actual day that I dread goes a lot smoother than I expect.  The days leading up to it and all of the stress in those days seem to build and build ...... until the day actually arrives.

And then I find that it's over sooner than I expected.

I survived another "big day" ...... and it actually was easier than I anticipated.

December is hard.

There's no doubt about it.  This month is full of all kinds of land mines.  And that's for basically anyone.

Add a widowed person into the mix and you've got 31 days of potential nuclear carnage.

And then there's the extra oh-so-lucky "club" members who's "death day" just happens to fall somewhere in this month.

We'd prefer to just sleep through the holidays, thank you very much.

But here it is, December 26th ...... we made it through another difficult day.

Even though some of us are a little pissed that the Mayans were wrong and we're still here.

We cried our fair share of tears.  And then some.

Our hearts ached for who wasn't there.

But we're still here.

We survived.

And though you may not believe this, and don't like hearing it from "non-members" ...... you are stronger than you think you are.  You can't help it ...... it just happens.  You survive another day ...... you wake up stronger the next.  You may not feel that strength, but it's there. It grows quietly and slowly.  So slowly that it's imperceptible.  Until one day, further down the road.  On that day you'll glance behind you ...... and see how far you've come.  You'll be surprised by the distance.  

And you'll be surprised at the number of people behind you ...... who watch you with hope.

Until that day, just breathe and keep putting one foot in front of the other.  And know that the days leading up to the "hard days" ...... are usually worse than that day itself. 

You've just made it through a pretty difficult one.  So get some rest.  

You deserve it.

And you'll need it ...... because we have another one next week.

Two holidays in one week.

Ho, ho ...... humbug.

Damnit.  

So Year Five ......

                                                                     source

...... hit harder than I expected.

But what else is new?

Actually, as I've written before, this month has gone more smoothly than it ever has during the last five years.
And while that's been a relief, it also kind of set me up ...... to think that THE day would also go more smoothly.

So I wasn't looking for the wave that came in the night before.  I wasn't standing there, watching the horizon, bracing myself for both waves and undertow.
I tend to face things much better if I'm able to brace myself beforehand.
I should've known better.

But here's the thing ...... if I'd braced myself and waited for the wave ...... then I would've given up the hope that I had ...... the hope that this year, this day would be different, would feel differently.
In looking back ...... I'm glad that I held onto hope.  I'm glad that I didn't see that wave, no matter how much it hurt.  Because I think that the hope I held helped me to recover more quickly.  I was knocked down, to be sure.  But I stood back up, dammit.  And I did it faster than I have before.
So ...... this day was different.  In the end.

Yes, it did hurt.
And the memories of that day hurt.
The missing of him continues to hurt.
But none of it paralyzes me anymore.
None of it sucks me under and threatens to flood into my lungs and drown me.
I am now stronger that "it" is.
Most of the time.
"It', being grief.

So right now, as I'm writing this and year 5 is coming to an end in less than an hour ...... I see myself standing on the shore, looking off into the horizon with the wind whipping around me ...... my right arm stretched out and the middle finger of my hand firmly extended ...... as I yell at the top of my lungs, "Fuck you, Grief!  I'm still standing!"

And So The Month ......

                                                          Source
...... is marching on.  Swiftly.
I can't believe today is the 12th.
The 18th will be upon me in the blink of an eye.

But, interestingly enough, this year has been different.
So far.
And that's all I'm going by.
So far.

It's not that I haven't shed some tears.  I have.
It's difficult not to.
What with all of the romantic movies on, the Christmas specials, the Christmas "family" commercials, all of the things that so loudly point out that my family isn't "perfect".
Not that it ever was, but you ALL know what I mean.

It's not the same.
It won't ever be the same.
And I still hate that.

But this month, these days of the Death March, haven't been dragging me down like they usually do.  I don't even have that thought in my head every day.  And that's TOTALLY weird.
And wonderful.
And a relief.
A very huge relief.

It doesn't feel as if my body is remembering as much as it has before.  My body seems to be letting go of the annual march.
Or at least I think it is.
The 18th isn't here yet.
Neither is Christmas.
Or New Year's Eve.

But at least this New Year's Eve I have a totally different plan.
Thank God.

OSU is playing in a bowl game on January 1st.
In Dallas.
So Son #3, Son #1 (since he lives there) and I are going to the game.
Thank.
You.
God.

Maybe it's been different this year because the month started off on such a fun high.
Being in NYC with wonderful friends and finally deciding that, yes, I do want to live there.
At least part of the year (less than 186 days, half the year ...... or the city and state of NY will kick my butt in taxes).
It's given me something to focus on, to plan for.
Something that had, and has, nothing to do with Jim.
Other than the fact that I wouldn't be doing this if he were alive.

Maybe it's different because it's time for it to be different.
Maybe.
I hope that's what it is.
Time.

Being different doesn't mean that I miss him less.
Or I think of him less.
Or love him less.
It just means that these days hurt me less.
And I'm all for less hurt.

I still cry.
I still cry as I write this kind of stuff.
I still cry when I say, or think, "I miss him".
I think that thought, those words, will always make me cry.

And I still cry when I see movies or read books that remind me in any way of him ....... of losing him.
Like "Lincoln".
Boy, did I cry.
As soon as Lincoln put on his coat to go to the theatre, turned to the few men closest to him and said, "I guess it's time for me to go.  But I wish I could stay here."
Oh.
My.
Lord.
I lost it.
And still lose it when I think about that scene.

Because I can imagine Jim saying that, instead of "I'll see you later."
I can imagine, that had he known he'd never wake up from that surgery, he would've said, "I guess it's time for me to go.  But I wish I could stay here."

I wish it for him.
I wished it for Mary Lincoln, as I wept for her, too.
I wished it for all of us.

Wishes.
Sometimes ..... a waste of time.
But sometimes ...... nice.

So anyway, it was a very good movie.
Very good.
Even if it made me a mess.

But at least I'm not as much of a mess as I've been the last 4 years.
Not yet.
Hopefully not at all.

Here's to hope.
:)

There's a Fine Line ......

...... between good memories and pain.

In the beginning of my grief, there was no line.  I couldn't even think about good memories.  I couldn't think about good.  Period.

But now I can dwell on my good memories ...... and not feel any pain.
Most of the time.

Thanksgiving was not one of those times.

The above picture is from my father-in-law's farm, where we spent Thanksgiving with the rest of Jim's family.
While I love visiting there, it also brings me a lot of pain.
It's difficult to be there without him.
It feels ...... unnatural.

Jim's mother died 5 months after he did.  Also too soon.
Also not expected.
It was very hard to be there without her, too.
It was painful.

I cried more tears last week than I've cried in quite a while.
And I hid while I shed them.
I'm not sure why ...... except that after 5 years I think other people don't want to see tears.
And I didn't want to depress anyone else.

I also found it hard to say goodbye.
But then ...... that's been hard for me for the past 5 years.
Goodbyes are painful, at least for me.
Because you never know when goodbye ...... really is "goodbye".

But I don't have to tell you that, do I?

It was good to be among Jim's family ...... my family.
It was good to be back on the farm.
It was good to have so many things for which to be thankful.

But sometimes there's a very fine line between what's good ...... and what's painful.