The Choice

source

I was telling my therapist all about the process I went through to decide to sell our house, quit my job and move to Portland after Dave died.

I told her about the epic snowstorm that buried me in 2 feet of snow on Dave's birthday and left me without power for two days and without contact with another human for four days.

I told her about putting the house on the market and getting an offer and selling it in less than a month. I told her about the day I woke up and had the thought "I'm going to move to Portland!"

Then I told her about finding my current home. I told her that the realtor didn't have my condo on her radar at all. We happened to drive by and I saw a for sale sign. I bought it days later.

I am in unit 1. My next door neighbor in unit 2 was widowed in her 50s. The professor who lives in unit 3 was widowed in September after his wife's battle with cancer. Three widowed people in a row.

When I told her this part, her eyes filled with tears. She said she was suddenly struck by what I'd been through and overcome. She said it gave her hope for herself and all her patients. I've never thought of it that way. That makes it sound heroic. It hasn't felt heroic. It's felt desperate.

All this time, I've felt desperate. I've made decisions I had to make to do the best I could for myself even though my compass was gone. I've leaped into the unknown with what I can see now was nothing but hope.

It was hard to see it as hope then because I was terrorized by fear and doubt. Other than having one clear moment when I formulated my plan to move to Portland, I didn't once feel absolutely certain or at peace about any of these decisions. They were all terrifying for me. I had doubts that kept me up at night, and turned my stomach. I deliberated and tortured myself over ever single decision I've had to make since my partner in life died.

I had to finally get a little more comfortable with the idea that the world wouldn't end if I screwed up. The worst had already happened so from that point on, I could get through selling our house, moving and starting a new life. Even if it all turned out to be a mistake, it wouldn't have been as bad as hearing the doctors tell me that they'd done all they could but hadn't been able to save my soul mate.

And yet...It's probably a product of my combined losses, not just Dave's, but I still expect more to go wrong, even as I grow more comfortable with change and making decisions on my own. I still expect what I have left (my cats, my home, my friends) to be simply gone if I don't keep my eye on them. I halfway expect a fire to take it all away from me if I'm not looking, or tragedy of another sort I haven't even thought of yet to come my way.

Logically I understand that nothing could be as bad as Dave's death, but my heart feels precariously patched together right now. I could survive more loss, yes, but would I want to? Would all hope be lost at that point? Would I have anything left in me with which to soldier on?

I have had hope all along. It's what drove me to jump into a new life when I was terrified to leave the old one behind. It's what keeps me going now. My wish is that hope is strong enough to withstand anything that comes its way.

Life isn't extra gentle with me now just because my husband died. The universe doesn't give a shit. It just keeps churning away, with its joy and sorrow, good and evil. I hope (ha!) like hell I have enough in me to sustain whatever else comes my way.

I'm not naive enough to say things (even to myself) like "everything will be okay," anymore. I have to learn to live with the light of hope and the darkness of potential tragedy. Holding them both together takes work. It's like trying to process things like school shootings. How does life go on after something that horrific? I don't know, but it does.

I suppose it's what we do in the face of all the horror. We reach out because we don't give up hope DESPITE the sorrow. It's all we can do. We make things better when we can. We hold onto each other when we can't. We breathe. We take leaps of faith. We don't give up.

I can't close up shop yet and hide away from everything because it might hurt more. That would be the real tragedy. Tragedy on top of tragedy. Dave couldn't help leaving. He would have stayed if he could have. I have a choice though. I can give up or I can keep hoping and fully living with all the risks it entails.

I'd better not squander that choice.

The new girl in town

source

Hi. I'm Veronica. I'm the new girl in town here on Widow's Voice. Like most of you, I'm not the least bit thrilled to fall in any category to allow me such a role on this blog, but nonetheless, I am looking forward to walking through my grief journey will a community of people who get it. Let me tell you a little about me.

This is what my sweet little family looked like before tragedy struck unexpectedly in the form of a heart attack that took my wonderful husband and best friend Jeremy on a November 9, 2010 when he was at the very young age of 31. In addition, I was 28 and 6 months pregnant with our third child.

Needless to say, the last 16 1/2 have been quite the roller coaster for me. My life has been completely flipped upside down. Since Jeremy died, I had his baby without him, bought a house, lost my brother unexpectedly, and purchased a new vehicle. Lots of big milestones that have taken place without the one I love. Speaking of the one I love, I would like to tell you a little bit about my awesome husband, Jeremy.

Jeremy was the head of grounds at Rochester College, but also worked for our church as the Worship Leader there. He was a hunter and fisher, and full blooded Canadian through and through. He was stubborn, hilarious, sweet, handsome, loyal, and an incredible daddy and husband. He was my rock, my shoulder to cry on, my best friend, my anchor, my north, and my sanity. I can't bear to write out more of the horrible day, but you can read about it here.

Fast forward 16 1/6 months. I have come a long way, but this journey of grief for me is far from over. I continue to stumble my way through picking up all the broken pieces that were left behind in the shadows of the greatest loss I could have ever imagined. But my kids are happy, healthy, and still grieving in their own way too. And I have this sweet little face that Jeremy gifted me:

There ya have it. This is me. This is my family. This is my loss, my tragedy, my love, my story.

It's nice to meet you all.

Two Year Anniversary

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Exhaustion

Exhaustion runs through me

so thoroughly

that I am sure my body now uses it

in place of 30% of my blood.

I can't think.

Eating feels too strenuous

unless I can rip open a bag.

And then if I do,

what I eat is so tasteless

that I end up spitting it out

into the garbage.

Why bother making the effort to chew that crap.

I look haggard,

drawn,

tight.

My skin does not reflect exuberance

but looks more like a pond that has not been drained

properly, murky, unclear and blachy.

I know that I am killing myself.

Not by over dosing on pills,

or alcohol

but by just running at this pace,

the pace of a young,hustling widow

with kids.

I know it needs to stop,

or my body will stop me.

And then I will be made to rest

in a hospital

and it will be a fitful, uneasy rest

because even there

I will be making the ever changing priority list

of things that NEED to get done.

So as I crawl into bed, faced with

the prospect of getting

8 hours of sleep, instead of the 5 I can't exist on

I promise myself that I will

let

the

list

lie.

I promise that I will stretch in the morning.

I promise that I will use the damn massage

gift certificate that was

sent to me

(anonymously)

over a year ago.

(This person took the time to send me several of them! So I better damn use them. THANK YOU whoever you are.)

I promise to refill the well with water by

sleeping

and eating

and doing nothing

nothing

nothing

for at least 30 minutes a day.

He would be proud of me for all of my promises.

He used to say

"What? Do you think you'll finally

get everything done on your list?

You will die with a to-do list so

stop worrying about it so much."

He died with his to-do list

and the biggest thing that is going

undone

is me.

senseless socks

Photo from here...

One of the biggest lessons I've learned on this journey of widowhood is that grief is not logical. It makes no sense. It's arrogant and naive to believe that we think we know how we would react in any stressful or painful situation. Segments of our lives, portions of our morals and many of our ideals become frayed and scattered.

When we begin to remake our lives, things, us, are decidely different.

I've had people tell me that they would never be able to part with their husband's things should he die before they did. I've had others report to me that they have thought that I am clinging to the past by keeping some of Jeff's belongings. I don't know which camp is right....I just know that there are some things that I had never given a thought to and that now have such meaning....or maybe not 'meaning', just value to me emotionally that I am unable to part with them just yet.

There are items in this home that I will never be able to use, I can't remember a specific moment that signifies importance or that are truly undesirable to anyone besides myself. Logic does not, at all, enter my thoughts in the hoarding of these objects.

The specific thing I am talking of....Jeff's mismatched socks. Can't do it. I don't know if I will EVER get around to discarding them.

They lay tangled in a basket on the shelf above our washing machine with the kids and mine. The only distinguishing factor between the socks is that his are decidely larger....and dirtier. They no longer smell like him. I have never found their mate crammed behind the washing machine or at the bottom of the hamper. So they sit in the missing sock receptacle...and wait.

Everytime I reach into the basket to attempt to match the socks thrown in there at the end of a laundry folding session, I find his single socks. I don't know if it is the symbolism of being left behind, if it is the thought that these are the last of his personal effects that are tied in with our daily lives or if it is just that I can't bring myself to throw out something that holds proof that he walked with us. It's simply not logical.

But the lack of pragmatic thinking does not make me discard them. I still smile inwardly and occasionally shed a tear when I attempt to match his single socks. Because grief, it really makes no sense.

are you lonesome tonight....

Photo from Desicolours

I'm not dating. I have gone on a few....dates. But it never felt right. But neither does this loneliness.

I don't want to go through the hassle of meeting, dating, getting to know the other person's "issues", introducing this person to family and friends, getting giddy when they come around, having our first argument, finding out that they have an oddly close relationship with their mother...who hates me, and having to dump their mama's boy ass after going through all that.

I want to jump straight to the comfy fart-in-bed stage. The leave-the-door-open-when-you-pee level. I want to not worry that they find my poultry obsession a little alarming or that my kid's habit of climbing into bed with me every night is not overly annoying. I want to be with someone who finds my kids cute even when snot is running down their chin.

But, alas, the only one who can fit this bill is a husband. My husband.

I worry that no one will ever love my kids as much as their daddy did. And that even if some man was willing, I may not let them through 'the gate' as I seem to fear that anyone with any interest in us must either have pedophilic tendencies or a death wish.

I'm scared that no one could ever love me again despite my habit of repeating deliciously interesting words under my breath until they cease have meaning. "colposcopy. colposcopy. colpscopy...." Or that the horrifyingly large amount of matter on my thighs that resembles marbles under blue-white coloured cloth would repulse some poor man. Or that they wouldn't know that laughing when I'm raging and screaming at some perceived injustice, although seemingly counterproductive, is just what I need to see life's bullshit as it is - bullshit.

I want to jump to husband and wife. I want to miss all the ups and downs of possibilities.

I want comfort. I want warmth. I want Jeff.

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.

lucky me

"Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened." ~ Dr. Suess

After Jeff died, I had this quote printed in vinyl to stick above my bed to remind me just how 'lucky' I am.
I read it in the hard moments when the kids are in bed, the phone hasn't rung in two days and my poor-me's are flowing.
It reminds me that I'm lucky. We're lucky. Everyone of us who were touched by Jeff's existence is lucky.
He wasn't 'perfect'. He was FAR from a saint. But still, thoughts and memories of him make me smile. And his ability to laugh was second to none.
I got to share his life, his laughter, his love.....And I'm lucky for it.

It's No Longer the First Thing .....

.... that I think of in the morning.

It occurred to me the other day .... that my first thought in the morning is no longer ..... "Jim is dead".

In fact, my first thought now isn't even about Jim.

This realization gives me mixed feelings.

I feel happy that grief doesn't occupy my every thought now.

But I also feel sad ...... that it doesn't.

I know that it's good to move forward (please note that I said "move forward" and not "move on" ..... I don't believe that I will ever "move on" ..... as if I've finally gotten "over" Jim's death and am now on a path to a new and better life).

I'm happy most days that I am moving forward .... one step at a time.

But sometimes I feel sad about it, too.

I know it doesn't make sense .... to non-widowed people.

And I know that it does make sense .... to you.

Some days it feels .... that in moving forward, I am leaving him behind.

And that makes me sad.

I don't want to leave him behind.

I know .... in my mind ..... that I am not really doing that.

But the heart can play tricks on the mind, can't it?

I know that Jim will always be with me .... that he will always be in my heart.

Always.

But as the crushing weight of grief becomes easier to bear .... my heart tells my brain that I'm forgetting.

It tells my brain that this "moving forward" indicates that I'm now doing just fine and that I don't really need him.

My heart misses him just as much as it ever has .... and it seems to resent my brain for not constantly focusing on that loss.

My heart and my brain sometimes seem to be at war.

I expect that they will reach an agreement with each other .... some day.

But until then .... I'm glad that my mind knows that Jim will always be a part of me.

Even as I move forward.

Even though he's no longer the first thing ....

fear of losing more

Jeff's gone. I know that. The kids know that. But he is still such an enormous part of every day, every moment, every breath.
He is thought of constantly. Cherished. Missed.
We talk about him multiple times everyday. To feel close to him. To ensure that my children who were so young when their daddy died, exercise those memories so that they are not lost. So that they can remember who their daddy really was....to them.
But I worry about forgetting. In the days after Jeff died, I made pages of 'Jeff'. This list contained everything from his righthandedness, to his favourite beer, to what he wanted to name our babies. These items were concrete. Firm. Easy to sum up.

How do I write lists including the joy with which he would dance or sing, the way his breath on the back of my neck would comfort me or how he made me feel when he held my hand? These things are sensed. Felt.
I wish that they would know the smell of their father. I always told him that he smelled of wood. Or that they could see the ease with which he shovelled ice on the boat.
I am afraid that they will lose him again....or more, if I don't cling to these memories and relive them over and over.
I want them to know him. I want them to remember his love and devotion to them. I want them to feel his strength, joy and kindness within themselves...because he was a truly great man. And he would be so proud of them. As I was of him.

call me

I haven't called Jeff's number in almost two years. In the first few days after he died, I called him repeatedly....apologizing. Wishing I could have saved him. Begging him to come home.

His cell phone number is still programmed into the home phone and my cell phone. I will never be able to delete it. If it is on my phone, it seems that he is just a call away. Not too far.

Our home phone had a special ring programmed announcing that the caller was him. Some classical song that was exciting and uplifting. When I'd hear it, I would bolt from whatever task I was involved in and launch myself over children and furniture to catch it before voicemail took over. I haven't heard that ring in so very long.

One evening after putting the kids to bed, I felt compelled to phone him. To close the gap between us and pretend for just a moment that I could succeed with this seemingly small and mundane task of calling my husband.

I dialed the number and attempted to breathe as my heart leaped from my throat and down to my abdomen. It rang three times before the new owner of the number answered it. I waited to catch my composure and squeaked out, "Can I speak to Jeff, please?" She tersely coughed out, "Wrong number," and hung up.

I sat sobbing. He was gone. I couldn't bridge the gap. I couldn't reach him. After sometime, I managed to settle myself. I rolled over on my soaked pillow and stared at his dry one in the dark as I fell asleep.

At two am, I was jolted awake to the sound of an 'exciting and uplifting classical song' being belted from my telephone. I snatched the handset and stared at the call display. "Jeff" I thought I'd vomit as I answered....... Nothing. Silence. Dead air. He wasn't there.

But for one brief moment, I remembered how it felt to know he was out there. He was thinking of me. He was calling out for me....and he loved me.

ode to your toothbrush

If the toothbrush holder is a reflection of the household occupants, people would think that we were the perfect family of four. A girl, a boy, a mommy, a daddy.
All of our toothbrushes stand huddled together in the cup. As I sit on the toilet, I imagine that my toothbrush is staring at yours, begging yours to come back to life. Your toothbrush stares emotionless ahead. Like one of those soldiers in Britain with the big fluffy hats.
I irrationally despise the arrival of our new toothbrushes at the prescribed three months. It seems to mark a measure of time that has been lost since you died. I get tired of your toothbrush. I will it to change somehow.
I have stared so closely at the bristles pondering the bits of dried toothpaste embedded there. I've wondered if there is enough DNA to clone you upon its' head. I've mused about what pieces of food are trapped within its' plastic spikes that comprised your last meal. I've weighed the likelihood of my loss of mental health and mulled over the thought that maybe all widow/ers think these bizarre thoughts....over a toothbrush.

comradery

Before widowhood, I really, truly thought I knew a lot. I supposed I knew how I should/would/could react in a variety of situations. How others should/could/would act. The 'right' the 'wrong' in a plethora of situations. What a variety of other people's actions meant regarding their thoughts or mental state.
I was wrong. So very wrong.
I remember so clearly having a conversation with Jeff about what we would do if the other were to die. I remember what both of us believed we would do. And now, unfortunately, I know what I would do.
I can tell you that I have been grieving. Pining. Aching. But it has not been how I ever imagined widowhood to be. And I cannot tell you how it has been for me, because ultimately it will be different, if slightly, for you.
One thing I have stumbled upon, is that most widows don't judge each other. We link arms and laugh with and at each other's strategies for survival post-spouse. I wish that I could always stay wrapped in that comfortable comraderie that other widows provide. But, alas, I cannot and I must often face the outside world. The world where I feel that others think they know how they would act wearing my, or your, shoes...and judge harshly.
I find that it makes it all so much harder and alienating. So, thank you, my widow-sisters and widower-brothers for understanding and not judging. Thank you for laughing with me and not at me. Thank you for not measuring my pain and deciding if my loss is any more or less worthy than your own. I love you. I couldn't have gotten this far without you.


Do what you feel in your heart to be right - for you'll be criticized anyway. You'll be damned if you do, and damned if you don't.
Eleanor Roosevelt (1884 - 1962)

strength and surrender

Image from slycraft.com

The two words, strength and surrender seem to be at odds with each other. Opposites. Seperate.
As a young widow, one of the phrases that I hear so often is "You're so strong!". Throughout this journey, as many of you feel as well, I haven't felt strong. I have often felt weak and lost. I have felt vulnerable and afraid. I have felt that I have given up and been broken.

But when I look back over the last 21 months, I realize that I have become stronger. More resilient. More capable. Wiser.

I have learned that surrender is not akin to weakness. It's not 'giving up'. It is allowing yourself to be at peace with what has, will or might happen. To let go. To roll with it.

I have learned to stop fighting against it. I don't beg whatever higher power may be up there for my old life back any longer, even though I miss it every moment of every day. I don't scream out against injustice and wonder why this happened. I accept and I surrender. I now know that whatever life throws at me, I will deal with it.

I have become strong enough to surrender.

life without a mirror

Photo by h.koppdelaney

I had a dream that I found Jeff. I was so totally overjoyed and so excited that I attempted to jump into his arms. The shock and confusion, even hostility, that he looked at me with was horrifying. He didn't recognize me. He didn't know me anymore.
He scooped up our little ones in a tight embrace and laughed at how they've grown and who they are. They snuggled into his chest and glowed.
He ignored me. He didn't know who I was. I was a stranger. I was outside his embrace. I was no longer 'his'.

Losing Jeff has changed me. I am stronger, braver and more capable....I think. But without him to act as my mirror, I can no longer see myself through the eyes of someone so close who loves me so dearly. Part of the reason we love our spouse is who they see and believe us to be. Without that rose-tinted reflection, I often don't know who 'I' am.
I see myself as horribly blemished. Terribly scarred. A monster at times. Wiser but angrier. More able but less patient because I have SO much more to do. More capable of standing up for myself but louder because of the necessity to be heard.
I know that he would laugh at these neurotic thoughts that plague me. The thoughts that I am unsuited to be a mother, a sister, a friend. I can feel without a shadow of doubt that he would roughly snuggle me close, kiss the top of my head and tell me that I was the 'sweetest, most loving person he has known'.
But with only a memory of these statements and the knowledge of my metamorphosis into 'widow' and all that entails, I wonder if his kind description would still stand.
Would he know me? Would he love me? Would he still want me?

a place for you, my love

I've struggled this past year and a half to find the 'right' words to mark Jeff's life and his person on a commemorative bench on the West Coast of this island, in a the small fishing village where we met, fell in love and started our life together.
I needed to find something that would bring 'him' to life in a phrase for those who knew him and for those who didn't, a taste of who he really was. I poured over letters and cards he wrote me, his favourite songs, poems, common phrases, even his funeral program. In frustration, I asked our very good friend, Jimmy (aka Dad) how he would describe my love. Without hesitation, he said, "Jeff Chandler - A Truly Loving and Irritating Man"
In those brief words, he summed up Jeff for those who knew him. He hinted at his persona to those who didn't.
I was concerned that some may feel offended or feel that Jeff had been insulted. I called his family for their feelings on it. Everyone laughed. Everyone remembered Jeff as he was - 'loving and irritating'.
He was a pest. Those he loved, he loved ferociously and protectively. He laughed often. He joked always. He was full of hugs and kisses (and licks to the face) even for his buddies who hated it - and he loved that they hated it.
I am pleased that those of us who knew him will conjure these images when we read those words and sit upon his bench. I am so glad, as well, that those who didn't know this kind, loud and humourous man will read the inscription, laugh and wonder. Even in his death, he is making others chuckle....And I think that is right. I think that it so fitting.
So with a fond smirk and eternal love for the man who could love and irritate like no other, a bench has been placed upon a point of land overlooking the sea that he so adored. I hope that it offers some solace for those of us who are missing him and a giggle for all who read the inscription.

mine. all mine.

I wonder how many decisions we make a day on average. Five? Fifty? Five hundred?

The small ones have never been of much consequence. Brush my teeth or not? Wear pink high heels or brown loafers? Watch The Nature of Things or 22 Minutes?

The larger ones are the tough ones. As a teenager, they were pretty easy. Hear what my parents had to say...and do the complete opposite. In my twenties, I winged it, thinking I was invincible, capable and brutally independent. But when I became part of a pair, a marriage, I began to forget my desire to make plans on and of my own.

I grew to need the sounding board and the agreement from my husband. The comfort in knowing that I was not the only one who thought I was 'right' was immense. Even when we didn't agree, I was able to voice my feelings and listen to the pros and cons from someone I trusted.

Now, learning again to make decisions alone is daunting and uncomfortable. I want someone else's agreement, validation and support. But who do you ask for this? Your parents?! You friends? Your neighbours?

I am just beginning to feel the exhilaration of 'choosing' on my own. I am still frightened and nervous, but I am feeling again that glow of confidence in myself and the choices I make for our family. I am secure in my knowledge of Jeff's morals and views on many things. I can use these remembered traits to guide my decisions....or I can do it how I want.

For now, I take comfort in following the path that we had chosen together....But I am thrilled to be able to load the dishwasher how I want to and leave the car in the driveway begging for gas.

Since Jeff died, the largest decision I have made alone was the choice to trade in our car for a mini-van (something he was loathe to do). I am proud of myself....and I think he would be proud of me too (once he got over the shock of driving around in a 'mom-mobile').

I am working my way up to bigger and better things. One day, I am sure I will make a decision that I have no guidance from him through my memories. I will be flying solo. And those choices will be mine. All mine. Terrifyingly, excrutiatingly, possibly excitingly mine. And I know he will smile down on me as these rusty wings of mine fly again.

the hardest part

As a widow with young children, the worst thing about parenting now is NOT watching fathers whirl their delighted little girls around in the air or push their little boys on the swings. It is NOT arriving to your child's dance recital alone and wishing that someone was there to experience the joy and pride with you. It is NOT that you are now the only one to remember the day of your little one's birth or what their first word was. It is NOT the strange and uncomfortable silence when your child announces to the check-out clerk that "daddy is dead". No, the worst thing about being a widowed parent is that you can't fix that their other parent is gone....forever.
All parents want to fix their children's injuries, soften their disappointments, explain any misunderstandings and replace what is broken. But no matter how hard I've tried, I cannot bring him back. I can't make it better. I cannot take the pain away.
Nineteen months since my husband, Jeff, died and our seven year old daughter still cries for him often. I can often tell when it's coming. When missing him has overwhelmed her. She becomes angry and combative. She screams and yells at any small injustice, whether it be her three year old brother adding his own embellishments to her drawings, my requests that she keeps her fingers from my nostrils (she is a true pest - like Jeff was).
When the crash comes, she sobs. Her little shoulders shaking as she asks me for the millionth time why he died. She rages at the way things are and screams that 'it's not fair'. I feel helpless. I want to soothe her little heart. I want to offer some remedy for grief, a magical elixir.
Last week, she asked me if Jeff and I really did have Santa's phone number. I was confused by the change of direction in our tear-filled conversation. I misunderstood. I thought she was tired and just saddened by the world in general and had a desire for some toy. But no. Our little Bean wanted Santa's phone number because Santa "knows everything" and Santa would know Heaven's phone number. She wanted to talk to her daddy.
That night, I tucked her into our bed, with his shirt swaddled around her little body, the necklace containing some of Jeff's ashes clutched in her hand and a hotwater bottle nestled into her back. She fell asleep with tears on her cheeks....as I did - not just for the loss of Jeff, but for the sadness that my little ones bear.
What I have learned in these last nineteen months is that the best, and really, the only thing I can do for her is to be here. To let her lean on me. To hold her hand. To bring her tissues and hot water bottles. To hold her on my lap and listen as she cries. To assure her that we will smile again and that I will be here whenever she needs me.

8 Strangers

Peace comes tonight in the form of 8 strangers. Mexican and Jewish, white and other, one young with child on the way, one older with a young child, spiritual, long haired, out going and quiet, well dressed and unclipped toe nails.

We are strangers. We come together and shut the door, shut the unclear, confusing and sometimes mean world on the other side of the door. The latch releases in its hold and we exhale.

I miss her, he states. I am angry too! she says. I crave to be touched, says another. We all laugh, nodding our heads. We hear, nodding our heads. We cry nodding our heads. We all nod our heads, we all get it, we all understand.

And there is wonderment at the same emotions we strangers share. For now it’s our new Utopia, the closest we can come in this grief to it. This Utopia offers understanding and silence and space to raise our voices, stare out our hands, to sob, to swear, to joke and gafaw. No excuses necessary.

And when we open the door, our fellowship continues in a near-by restaurant, discussing our lives before we got here, what we are doing now that we are here. You have two dates? Smiles. This is a picture of my son, he said. And I look and my mama bear roars and I want to defend that child. I know that I love him. I know that I would defend him with my life and he’s not mine, but he is because he belongs to one of us.

And finally the world pushes in on the clock. We leave. I get in my car and I feel lighter, sweeter – less full of rage, more full of relief and calm and Okness. I drive home – knowing that they are driving home too and I feel safe. If my phone rings tonight, if I make someone else's phone ring tonight, it will be answered and there will be no should, no don’t worry, no you’ll get through this. There will be a space held for me (I for them) and I can cry or they can cry, or rage or laugh or whatever.

They know what it’s like, these strangers. They know my grief because it’s their grief and I love them for that. I love them in a place I have never been before.

They make this journey manageable when nothing or no one else can.

Ruthless Trust

Sometime after Mike's funeral, someone put a book into my hand. The book was Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning.

Although I did not get past chapter one, (I was unable to concentrate long enough to read much at all and I am pretty sure I have a different spiritual leaning than the author), the title spoke to me. It still speaks to me, almost nine years later when life happens differently than I think it should.

I carried this book with me for a good six months way back then because I needed the reminder of the title.

I needed to be reminded to trust. To trust ruthlessly.

Webster defines ruthless as 'without compassion.'

Trust without compassion. Trust without thought. Trust on autopilot. Trust, no matter what. Trust, no matter how you feel. Trust, whether you are crying or not. Trust absolutely.

What is it that I had to trust? I had to trust that I would eventually feel better. I had to trust that I would be OK financially. I had to trust that I would learn how to be a good single parent. I had to trust that I would heal, that Anneke would heal and that one day, far into the future perhaps, I would wake up again, happy to be alive.

Ruthless Trust meant that I had to trust, even though I felt worse than I had ever felt before. It was not easy to trust but the reward was hope. And I sure needed hope.

A few weeks ago, when I was flat on my back with a disc injury I was very, very scared. I was afraid that I would be there forever, on my back, and really afraid that I would be unable to be the kind of parent who shops for groceries, transports to voice lessons, cooks meals, or vacuums. Ruthless trust again became meaningful.

Trusting absolutely is helping me get back on my feet, literally. Trusting absolutely allows me to breathe deeply and experiment, slowly and gingerly with physical therapy and walking. This morning I walked a mile. I was amazed and very happy.

I swear that making a clear decision to trust ruthlessly changes my body chemistry. When I decide to trust I seem to quiet down enough so that healing can happen. I become less afraid. And that is a good thing.

In Gratitude, Mie Elmhirst Widows Breathe Coaching