Clean Cut Grief

source

November 9th came and went.

2 years lived without Jeremy passed, just like that.

Like every other milestone date, the week leading up to it was much harder than the actual day. We honored Jeremy by getting together with friends at his memorial stone at the college for dinner and then went to see Skyfall, which coincidentally (or notsomuch) opened on the 9th. Jeremy loved the James Bond series, as do I, and we had talked about anticipating this movie when the last one came out. I knew that if he were still here, we would have gone together opening night. It felt fitting to go, and was a great way to honor him.

Except, I woke up the next day and felt bad again. Aggravated is more accurate. Irritated at myself cause I expected to feel better, not worse. Then, annoyed with the world (and myself again) for assuming I should feel better now that I've gotten through an anniversary of my husband's death. One day is fine for grieving and remembering, but the next day life must go on.

I couldn't let go. Grief isn't clean cut, it doesn't follow my schedule. Jeremy had felt so close to me the past couple of weeks because my heart had been in sync with the last moments I shared with him - I couldn't just wake up the next day and forget.

I happened to get to spend the day with Jeremy's mom and sisters, which was just what my heart needed. But, I simultaneously felt myself hurting again for all the things Jeremy was missing out on with his family - things we had prayed for, and so many changes happening. He wouldn't have missed it for the world. And yet, just another reminder that he's not here and life continues to move forward. As it should, even when you don't really want it to.

I settled in to the fact that I'm ok with not being ok sometimes. I'm thankful for an incredible husband who gives me space for grief when I need it and wraps me with understanding and presence when I need it, and never makes me feel bad for grieving. I've wanted to blog so many different times this week, and I honestly just haven't had the time...but grief has been close to me. And that's ok.

So, I start a third year beginning without Jeremy here to see it. I still can't bring myself to honestly believe he's gone sometimes, but the trail he left behind is too big to ignore. So I follow, and pray that this year will continue to bring hope and healing.

A song in my heart

source

2 years.

Ugh. You'd think I would be getting used to this by now, but there is something so utterly wrong about those two words when they're in the context of death. The death of the man I loved more than anything. The death of my dreams. The death of a girl who would never be again.

This week I have felt the distance. I have felt the length of time. I have also felt the still very raw heartache that comes no matter how much time will pass. At least a hundred times a day, I'm trying to remember what I was doing exactly 2 years ago, trying to hold on to all the pieces leading up to Jeremy's death. 

Don't get me wrong, I've picked up a lot of pieces. My grief is no longer inward and isolated (most of the time), and I am able to smile when I see his face. I am thankful for the opportunity to still make Jeremy proud in this life and carry on his legacy through his stories and the lives of the three beautiful children he brought into the world. But there are some parts that just still hurt. 

One part I've noticed this in is singing. Singing was what brought Jeremy and I together (we met at an audition for an Acapella group in college) and it was something we were both passionate about. The night before he died, we had been at rehearsal for an instrumental worship service he and I were going to lead two days later. We never got to sing that night together and I can't remember the last time we were on stage singing together before that (in was likely the week or two before that, I just can't remember specifically). This kills me for some reason. 

This weekend, I was able to travel with friends to lead worship at a youth rally in Kentucky. It's been such a long time since I've been able to do that, I forgot how much I missed it. How much it ignites in me. How much I feel Jer's presence (and God's presence) when I go. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to get back up at our church to sing. It's too hard. Because Jeremy should be up there leading worship, and I should be standing next to him. It feels too different without him there.

That same night after rehearsal, we drove home for what would be the last time together. Tired and stressed from a 14 hour day for us both, way past the kids' bedtime, and ready to crawl into bed and call it a day, Jeremy reached over and grabbed my hand...

"I love to hear you sing. And I love getting to sing with you."

I will never forget that moment. It's a moment that I now look back at with foresight - a gift that Jeremy gave me to continue to pursue that passion even when it was hard, even when it hurt. I sang for him until I could sing for me again.  

Now I sing for us both, and I carry Jeremy in my heart whenever I do. Because he's a part of me, and now he's a song in my heart. There will be no singing this week, for my heart is heavy with the memory of my last moments with him 2 short years ago.

But the song is there, and it will return.

P.S. I would like to ask you all to pray for Jessica Woods, who became a widow today after her husband, Ryan, lost his battle with terminal brain cancer. They are a young family with young children, and they have lived an incredible story that will touch your heart. Please visit http://www.grassrootsconspiracy.com/blog/ and read about them and send some encouragement to Jessica and her family. 

Death colored glasses

(Interesting tidbit about this photo: Googled it, found this picture, and discovered 

that the source was actually Taryn Davis, from an old Widow's Voice post)

I found an old post I wrote on my personal blog that has given me a lot of new meaning...

12.31.2010

Everything is different now.

Everything I do now has a different meaning, a different pain attached to it. Every movie I see and song I hear has a different meaning now - and they all seem aimed at making me miserable and reminding me of what I've lost. Every smile and laugh is masking hurt and despair. Every thought I have has attached to it a dreadful afterthought. Everywhere I go I am marked with a Scarlet letter, only it's a giant W on my forehead for everyone to pity.

Looking at the world through death-colored glasses makes everything dark and gray. It takes so much more effort to see anything, to want to see anything. It makes it hard to find joy in the little things. Instead it makes me want to wallow in my own self-pity. The only problem is, the world won't stop for me to wallow. No matter how much I've begged it to.

I hate this. I deserve a moment to stop and process. A moment to figure things out. Shouldn't everyone know what an incredible man the world has lost? Shouldn't everyone stop what they're doing? Nope. The world keeps moving without me.

I've survived my first Christmas without Jeremy, somehow, without my consent. Even saying that makes his death seem so distant when it was still just weeks ago. I'm not ready to jump all these hurdles so soon. Or at all, really.  I didn't really face it until today how much I am dreading New Years. I knew it would be tough, but I was trying to face Christmas first. Now, I am getting sick to my stomach thinking about it. Facing a year Jeremy will never see, never be a part of, absolutely kills me. The first year memories will be made without him, the year his son will be born without ever meeting him...

The year I am forced to wear these damned glasses everywhere I go.

I'm dreading every second.

As I am quickly approaching the two year mark next week, I found myself reading this a few times, feeling the pain of these words. Obviously, my glasses have turned a rosier shade since then. It's not nearly as raw, however, it's interesting to me how true this post still is. Death has saturated every piece of my life. It's evident in the decisions I make, the traditions I keep, the way I carry myself. 

Only, I don't dread these glasses anymore. In fact, I wear them proudly. These death colored glasses give me a unique perspective that most people will never get to have. They show the true colors of life, they help me see my priorities, and they constantly remind me not to let what I've lost be in vain. Some things are darker, yes...but others things I see more vibrantly and clear. The misery I found in songs and pictures are now tearful smiles, thankful to have the memories at all. I still mask a lot behind a smile, but the smile becomes more genuine every day.

Once you see the world through death colored glasses, you can't go back. And that's ok because there's strength and peace and yes, even joy beyond the horizon. And you get to keep the glasses as a reminder that you loved and were loved and that life can be rosy again.

Grief and Injustice

Today would be my 9^th wedding anniversary with Jeremy.

Instead of spending that day in memory of him, I have to sort through issues concerning someone who has hurt a lot of other people in their path with their selfishness and manipulation. While I didn’t actually have a ‘to-do’ list for today, I can tell you this wasn’t on it.

But what I’ve noticed about grief and injustice is that they elevate each other, and can sometimes come together is a not-so-pretty package. This injustice I have to deal with is magnified because life doesn’t get put on hold for my grief. Not only is this unjust, but it’s injustice on a day that I should get to take a break?!? How dare life work that way. Life keeps pushing forward even though Jeremy should be here. I held my breath when Jeremy died and waited for the rest of the world to do the same. But it didn’t. I was devastated.

And because I was in grief, everything felt unjust: The way Jeremy died, the timing of his death, the situation I was left in, other families getting to enjoy each other while I had to suffer, fathers getting to hold their babies, old people holding hands – when would the injustice end? Every corner I turned, someone had something that I lost.

If Jeremy taught me anything in 7 ½ years of marriage, it was to love fiercely. The world doesn’t revolve around me or my needs and I should cherish every blessing I have the opportunity to be a part of. Even when the world is unjust and people get by with things they shouldn’t, or when people get to celebrate 9 years of marriage with their spouses when I never will with Jeremy – that doesn’t mean the world will stop. And it doesn’t mean I can’t be thankful I got to have at least that many years with an incredible man.

In the meantime, I will take the time I need to take today to think about Jeremy (not that I haven’t been every day anyway) and what my life with him meant to me. No amount of injustice can take that away. I will grieve, I will remember, I will be thankful, I will cherish those around me that I love, and I will pray for justice.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

I miss you dearly.

A very bad day

Last week marked two years since I was widowed.

It was not a good week.....worse than I could have imagined. ....
I arrived at school on February 29 to the news that one of my tiny little students had lost her father in a car accident the night before.
Horrific.
I did not cope well.

So I hope you'll forgive the repost of my own blog entry for March 1 ..... a letter to my husband....



2 years.

Two whole years that simultaneously feel like two minutes and two centuries.

The fog and numbness have gone this time – it’s just pure loneliness and loss this year: I miss you so badly.
I took the day off work …. I got some raised eyebrows when I did this, but thankfully not from my boss. (He is an odd boss – simultaneously infuriating and marvellous).
Plus I needed it after yesterday…

I took the kids to visit your grave.  Finally.  They haven’t been since you were buried.  I haven’t been because I don’t think you are there…..

I didn’t expect the reaction they had.
H cried.
K was quiet.
They sang a song in the car on the way “Our Daddy died on the first of March.  It’s the first of march today”.
sob.

They brought some stones they had decorated and carefully placed them on your (our) headstone.
…and we put in a solar light with a dragonfly on it.
Then we left.

I feel completely wrung out.
Too much sadness around me.
....and missing you more than ever.

I long to lay my head on your chest and fall asleep in your arms.
...and feel safe again.
even if only for a minute.

We miss you.
We love you.
XA

The Passing of Time

Six years ago today.

Six years ago today started with a horrific shock at about 1 in the morning. It happened so quickly I can hardly believe I was there for it, or that it was real. One moment I was laying with my head on Daniel's chest listening to his heart beat, and moments later the ER staff were in our room fighting to save his life. They were not successful.

In my day to day life now, that time seems like a terrible nightmare lived by another woman. A woman who doesn't exist anymore. In my quietest moments, if I allow myself to go there, like right now, it is as if I'm right there and it is still happening. I'm 36, my husband is 35, our son is 5, and Daniel is fighting for his life with every ounce of strength he has. For the first year, nothing was real except that moment. I relived it constantly, replaying it, trying to look for some meaning in the moments. I wanted to review it to see if Daniel knew I was there, if he knew I refused to leave his side while they worked on him - even when they asked if I wouldn't rather wait outside.

The horror of the scene and the terror I felt in those moments is still there, permanently imprinted on my brain and in my heart. If I think about it now, I still feel the urge to cry and throw up at the same time. I still want to know how it was for him. I want to be reassured that it was a hell of a lot more peaceful for him than it looked. I want to know he's okay and that whatever heaven looks like it is so wonderful that he isn't up there somewhere sad that he didn't get to finish his life here the way he planned. I want to know that my vision of him laughing and enjoying his ever-after life is true.

I won't know the answer until I go there myself - which is why I don't allow myself to contemplate it very often. What's the point? I may never know. I have learned to live with that. It's during the days leading up to this anniversary that I can't control the memories and I have to wade through them. Starting in about mid-September, I put the memory hip-waders on and prepare to gut it out.

It is an amazing process each year and this one has been no different. Six years ago today I unknowingly said my final I love you to a great man. I did not get to say goodbye or a final thank you, and I'll always regret that. How do I feel 6 years later? Still sad. I'll always feel sad that things turned out the way they did. It wasn't fair to him or those of us left behind. But six years later I also feel incredibly blessed and grateful. Thank you Daniel Dippel for the years you spent with us. It wasn't enough time, but I'll always be grateful for every moment of it. It was a lovely cruise indeed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfY4NMaQd68

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.

flying solo

Photo from here

I am finding this new responsibility of being thrust into the world of solitary decision making terrifying...But I am doing it and it's okay. I would prefer to bounce all these thoughts, necessary choices and responsibilities off of Jeff, but I can't. So as I forge ahead with my life alone, I am finding these mountains that I am climbing difficult; but in someways, I am getting better at them. I am learning to trust myself and the believe that I can make these decisons alone. That I know what is right for me...or us.
Today, I sold our car. The car that Jeff bought me for Valentine's Day in 2006. The car Jeff died in. My little blue Toyota Matrix. It was small, safe and economical....But we had the truck for carrying larger loads and muddy dogs. I didn't need to bring multiple children in the car very often as I wasn't caring for anyone other than my kiddos or the occasional playdate.
But now, life is different. I am going to need to look to a future where I can bring in an income and care for my children alone. I need to be able to move objects by myself and cart various things home that would not fit in my little car.
So now, I own a minivan. I decided and made the deal myself. It was scary and I kept worrying that I was being taken advantage of....Possibly a bit paranoid. But I did it. Myself.
The kids and I quite like the van. It's a few years older than the car thus making it more affordable. It's clean and safe. It is blue just as my little car was...Jeff's favourite colour as Liv pointed out.
Liv had her trepidation about buying the van. She cried the first night and asked me to go get the car back because it reminded her of Daddy. I remembered crying when my dad talked of selling our little Vauxhal (a little white German car that our family had when I was a child - it`s floor was rusted out, we would watch the road go by as we drove along and we sang songs about `Daddy`s little Vauxhal`). It was certainly a different circumstance but I could empathize with her feelings of security and comfort in the car....especially after losing so much this year. But now, it is like a fort. She wants to show all her friends her new van. They ask to `play in the van`. I am loving the space and the ability to comfortably take our friends along.
So although one door has closed, another has opened. I do feel sad. I do have such fond memories of our little car that I had thought the kids would learn to drive. But I must be flexible and not hold onto things that do not provide the needs we now have just because they are a link to Jeff. This is a hard lesson to learn. But I am doing it.

Originally posted Nov. 29, 2008 - 8 months 4 days post-Jeff on my blog

Wise Ass Widow

My Halloween Costume

Guess what I am.

Art was in my head all day saying, "Babe, don't say anything. Let them figure it out."

But that is not me.

So here's a hint.

I am a certain kind of spider!

I am a certain kind of widow!

The Gay Widower

In the days following the death of Michael I began to realize that in addition to losing my husband, I was losing part of my identity. I was having a conversation with someone about Michael when I began stumbling over my words. I hadn't quite thought out how I would describe him. Up until a few days prior, he was my husband, my spouse, my partner. He wasn't my ex, as we didn't end our relationship. Was I still married?

Why was there a need to redefine our relationship? Wasn't losing him enough? During the previous year we were part of a fortunate group of gay couples who were able to legally wed in California. The Courts even held that while gay couples were no longer able to wed as a result of Prop 8, we were still married. Suddenly I felt removed from this group.

I realized that I had no role model to prepare me for my new identity. Growing up there seemed to be plenty of female relatives who had survived the loss of their husbands. They were referred to as widows. But the men I knew who survived their wives were few, and the gay men I know who have survived their spouses were fewer. In the decades past we lost many gay men to AIDS, and many of them left lovers behind. Yet in recent times people of living with the disease, and fortunately we are not seeing as many gay men having to suffer losses like before.

At age 50, I find most of my friends are married or partnered. As I look around me, none are widowed. This awareness seems to emphasize my feeling of being alone. During this journey with Michael's illness I found support through an online brain tumor caregivers group. In the time that I was active with the group I was the sole male participant. How telling is this reality? To what degree is it that we men do not seek support, and to what degree is it that we are not provided with the images that support us identifying as caregivers, and later widowers?

So here I am, a widower, a gay widower. I feel as though I have undergone a significant shift in my identity. I went from being a lover and strong caregiver, to feeling like a broken widower. Broken, because my spirit is badly wounded. Broken, because I am feeling robbed of an identity that I loved.

The August Flu

Even though I have now lived through the month of August five times since Phil's death, I once again failed to notice the signs of the anniversary flu as August 31st approached this year. Maybe you recognize some of the symptoms?

physically achy
impatient
slightly glum, but with no real cause
low grade sense of impending doom
decreased level of energy
increased level of anxiety about people I love dying
upset stomach
disinterest in food
dull headache that may last for a day or so
realization that grief triggers are suddenly around every corner

During the month of August my body knows what day it is even if my brain is blissfully unaware. Phil died on the first day of school in 2005, so back to school is awash in bittersweet memories for me. Each year as the kids head off for their first day of classes, my heart aches a little. Somehow during the month of the deathiversary I recall where we were at any given moment because I find myself accidentally standing in the very place that I am remembering. Coincidence? A subconscious desire to walk a path we once walked together? I don't know, but I am certain that there is a visceral memory bank stored in my body that activates somewhere in the middle of the eighth month of the year.

Since this is the first deathiversary that Michael was here in the US, I wondered how the anniversary day would go. I wasn't sure what I needed, we are in the middle of planning a wedding, I was in New York the week before, and the amount of time I have been out of my office of late meant that I HAD to work. First thing in the morning Michael said, "Honey, I am not sure how I fit into today, but please let me know what you need...space, time out of the house, me to go somewhere...whatever." I thought about this statement for a minute and then told him that all I needed was for him to be himself. Oh, and not to die, thank you very much.

After I said this I realized that Michael being Michael and Phil being Phil was just what I needed on that day. My need to spend the whole day in memory of what was lost has changed. I am held up and loved so well by my family, friends, and widowed community that I feel this outpouring of loving remembrance is enough. We went out to Mexican food together and toasted Phil, each of the kids shared a memory that made them laugh. And then we made plans for the next day, because life does go on.

I don't know how many times I will suffer from the anniversary flu, but I do know that I wouldn't walk down this memory lane filled with markers of my final days with Phil if our lives together weren't seeped in love. So even though my body rebels a bit as the days on the calendar pass, the visions I have of our time together speak of the joy of being married to Phil and that joyful, playful, solid, committed love is a permanent part of my personal history.

Five Years

Hi honey,

As I type this letter to you I am wrestling with the fact that you have been dead for five years. Even though I have lived without you for 1,825 days...every once in awhile I still feel I could turn over my shoulder and you would be there with a big grin wondering what I will think of your latest joke.

You would be amazed by the growth in our families this year. Your brother George is a Grandpa twice over, and my brothers and sisters have given us three new babies to love. I can imagine you running away from anyone trying to get you to hold a baby for fear of "breaking the little thing." Despite your fear of all things baby, your love of family and friends was a constant in your life. Many times I still miss the generous way you would lend a hand to anyone you loved who was in need. I even sometimes miss how long it took to go grocery shopping with you since we inevitably ran into someone you knew from somewhere...and then a half hour converstion would follow figuring out how, when, and where.

The kids have become adults in so many ways. They are changed by loving and losing you. Sometimes this makes me terribly sad, and other times the changes in them make me terribly proud. Each one has developed a level of compassion uncommon in people their age. Your death was felt in so many communities; I still meet people who have stories to share about ways that you made a difference in their lives. When I walk away from these conversations I hope you are somewhere near by blushing at the praise lavished upon you.

I am getting married this year. Michael is amazing, very different than you but like you as well. The thing I admire most about him is his ability to be himself. He doesn't try to be you, nor is he threatened by my love for you. He is uniquely Michael, and grateful that I have the capacity to love someone as much as I love you. This is a gift I can't adequately describe, and I feel very blessed to have him in my life.

This five year anniversary has been hard for me. I miss you in so many ways, and carry with me the fact that you loved me, and that you chose me. As my life moves into a future that I am excited to embrace, I need to say out loud that you come with me wherever I go. My heart has expanded to include so many new people, and at the same time the place that has always been yours remains.

I love you,

Michele

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.

Missed But Not Forgotten

June 16, 2010 was a really busy day. In fact, the night before I was laughing about the fact that every minute of the next day was so scheduled that I felt like the day had flown by before it even began. These last few weeks have been packed with events, meetings, Camp Widow arrangements, packing to take the kids on a trip, the last day of school, baby showers, birthdays, friend traumas, and a seemingly never ending list of things to do. So maybe that is why I didn't remember the significance of June 16th.

I was chatting with a friend on June 17th when lightening struck and I realized that I totally forgot the anniversary of the day I married Phil. Gone. Not one moment of sadness, regret, or even just grateful reminiscence. I felt horrible. Was this a function of moving forward? Would I start missing anniversaries regularly? What does this mean? How do you forget the anniversary of marrying the man you loved so much and who is now DEAD?!

But after calling my Widow Match to say "You won't believe what I just realized!" things got worse. The anniversary I failed to acknowledge would have been our tenth wedding anniversary. Which means two things. One we would have been married a nice long time, and the less wishful thinking reality that I have been widowed as long as I was married. Five years for each title, wife and widow.

I still don't know how I feel about the fact that I forgot this day. Michelle and I discussed the many reasons that I might have not realized the date on the calendar, and I recognize that my life is crazier by far than it ever was when Phil was alive. But really...ten years...totally forgotten?! My grief guilt button has been pushed and I found myself all day wishing I could turn back the clock. Funny thing is I wasn't wishing to turn it back to five years ago, but to the day before so that I wouldn't miss our anniversary!! No one ever said that grief, even five year old grief, makes any sense.

I am confessing to all of you because I know you will understand and I am going to ask you to bear with me as I leave a belated anniversary message here for Phil.

Hi honey,

Happy Anniversary. Even though I forgot (you would have loved that actually) for the moment, I will spend my lifetime remembering. It was an honor to be your wife. I loved the way you took care of me, like when you brought me home four pairs of shoes because they were on sale and you weren't sure what color I would want. I appreciated the lightness you brought to our family, no one could keep a straight face when you were talking to them with your eyes closed! I can still see you standing at the end of our long dirt aisle shaking as I walked down the grass turf to clasp your hand. Your "I do" meant more than I can ever express. I wish that we really did have ten years together, but am so grateful for the five we did have. I love you today, tomorrow, and forever.

The day may have slipped by, but the man is a part of my soul.

deux ans

Photo by My Own Worst Nightmare

Deux ans. Two anniversaries of the day I lost my huge, hairy and hilarious husband.
I've learned so very much in these two short years. A lifetime of lessons. Lessons I didn't really want to know.
I now know that although I did not think in those first few hours, days and months, that I would survive, I did. I breathed each breath with a sob. I grudgingly ate each meal. Each movement was filled with melancholy and loss. So the first 11 months, I call 'survival'.
The first anniversary of Jeff's death was painful, exhausting and anticlimatic. I had hoped that once I had conquered this date that things would be easier. But although I had lost the hollow and vacant stare and I could remember to feed myself, I could not for the life of me figure out how I was going to live again. But I shuffled forward. The first year was about 'coping'.
Now, as I enter my second year alone, I realize that although life continues to be different and harder than it was before Jeff's body ceased to exist, it is easier than the first anniversary. The mourning is less new and raw. I am stronger, more capable and so able to laugh.
So although this new year may be only about 'hoping', it is a big step. A colossal step towards the time when I can start 'living' again.

which way did he go?

Jeff's birthday was on the 16th. The kids and I performed our birthday tradition of making him a blueberry pie. As per Liv and Briar's directions, we lit a candle and stood on the back deck waiting for him (aka the wind) to blow it out. After a few minutes, the kids 'helped' him and blew it out themselves.
It broke my heart to watch them standing there expectantly cheering him on. "Come on, Daddy! You can do it! Blow it out!"
It's moments like this that I so wish that there was a manual to which I could refer. I don't know if I should just follow their lead with their beliefs surrounding death or if I should guide them to some more socially acceptable (and adult) way of dealing with their daddy's loss.
They find comfort in their beliefs. They seem to 'know' what happened to him....moreso than I do. It is with such conviction that Liv believes he is always with us. Always here to share our joy, our pain, our experiences. With staunch stubbornness, Briar declares that Jeff found some joke hilarious or some movement amazing. He tells us amazing tales of the adventures that Jeff has now been on, where his boat has sailed and who worked as crew aboard.
I have become accustomed to their stories of the life that Jeff is now leading without his physical body. I, too, find some amount of comfort in hearing that he is still 'out there'.
But to others less versed in "Death according to Two Small Children", I wonder if they find these declarations shocking or, even, blasphemous.
Until I find the answers to my own questions or until I know which way to guide them, I don't think I'm in the position to be able to 'tell' anyone where we go after our bodies cease to function. So, the three of us will just follow where this journey leads us....and in the end, we'll know who was 'right'....

Put on a Happy Face (Part 1,439)

Yes, here we are once again...trying to put on a happy face. Tomorrow is my 40th birthday, and although I could care less about the fact of "40", the birthday itself is hard. Not the 40 part, just the birthday.


Four years ago I spent my birthday in the emergency room at MD Anderson, then in the outpatient surgery center, and as a celebration of the survival of a horrible night: Starbucks for a vanilla latte. A latte I felt guilty for drinking, as Daniel couldn't enjoy it - he was on a tube fed diet only at that point. I remember hardly noticing it was my birthday, and not really caring. We had bigger fish to fry at the time. A little more than two weeks later, the worst nightmare I could have possibly imagined came true, and the rest as they say is history.


I don't think my birthday will ever be the same. It is so burdened with memories and so much sadness in hindsight, I can hardly celebrate it. I put on a happy face, and some parts of the day it is real. Grayson always sings happy birthday to me at breakfast, and it is the most wonderful gift. It is a great start to a difficult day, and only a few people know how hard it is for me (until now I guess). My birthday falls smack in the middle of the march to the deathiversary, and it just hurts. Right now, while I am letting myself think about it, I can barely breathe. I find it hard to concentrate, I feel like I can barely function.

I keep expecting it to be easier, and in some ways I guess it is. The surprising thing each year is how intense the pain still is. How clear my vision and memories of that final time still are. How much like yesterday it seems. My god, he was just here. How can it be 4 years???? It can't be possible. And yet, here I am, 40, and Grayson, who was in kindergarten at the time is in the 4th grade. Apparently it IS possible.

The thing is, in general I feel okay - other times of the year. It's this time that I wonder at my sanity, wonder how much I have truly healed and wonder how on earth I'm supposed to make it to 80 without him. I don't want 40 more years without him. I DO want 40 more years with Grayson. I guess my future is in that balance. Somewhere squeezed between wishing my life away and wishing for a long and happy one for the little guy is where I'll find the space for me. Sometimes I feel like I've found it, other times, not so much. The month of October falls into the "not so much" category.

Overall, I am optimistic and hopeful in general. It's just this time of the year that I can't always muster it. Major parts of me want to curl up and cry at the smallest provocation. I still want my husband back. I know I always will. How do you move forward from that place? I've seen it happen, so again, it's possible. My heart is pieced together with duct tape and Elmer's glue. I don't know what a more permanent fix will look like. I can't imagine it. I can't feel it, and at this time of year, I don't even want it.

So the happy face comes out. I repeat Daniel's favorite saying and remind myself that if I'm not having a good time it's my own damned fault. I guess I can admit that I'm not having a good time. That must mean it's my own damned fault. Yes, clearly I'm a genius. At least I've got that going for me, and it isn't seasonal in nature... If I'm accountable for my own good time, then I will try to focus on that. I'm looking forward to having a great time in Vegas. Thanks to my wonderful friends and family who are willing to go with me, and hold my hand (or my hair, as the case may be).

Michelle D.

Unlikely Community

When Phil died on August 31, 2005 Matt and Liz Logelin were a happy couple with their whole lives ahead of them. As my body writhed in pain at the violent removal of my husband from my life, Matt was thinking about his next trip with Liz and the adventures that traveling the world with the love of his life would surely bring. While I searched for a new way to define myself in the role of a widowed person, Matt chose a ring for Liz to wear that would identify her as his wife. As my days passed in a haze of pain, his were filled with the clarity of purpose that comes from finding the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life. We couldn't have been more different, Matt and I. Our lives were on completely disparate paths, until fate intervened.

On March 25, 2008 Matt's path tragically converged with mine. The day before he knew only hope and promise, but the death of his wife introduced him to despair and tragedy. Losing his young wife, the day after she gave birth to their first child, changed the course of Matt's life. That day he and I began heading towards each other, drawn by the power of shared experience and compelled by a desire to not allow death to have the last word.

Matt's journey through widowhood is chronicled on his blog mattlogelin.com and his desire to create a legacy to Liz and their love is spoken clearly through his work in founding the Liz Logelin Foundation. I am honored to be a board member for this organization, and included in the work they do to support widowed parents through the devastation that follows the loss of a spouse. This photo was taken last weekend after the second 5K benefiting the LLF. The 5K was followed by a wildly successful Gala that raised money to provide grants to widows/widowers who are struggling financially after the loss of their spouse.

When I consider how different Matt and I are, I have to laugh. How would we have ever found each other while we moved in different circles, lived our unique life stories, and followed our hearts into our separate futures? And yet, we are the same. We now know the pain of loss. We now know that despair can kill you. We now know what wishing to be dead feels like. We now know that fighting the uphill battle of widowhood is best done with an army of people who understand the struggle. We now know that giving back is the best medicine. We now know that the unlikely community of widowed people that we both serve are generous, compassionate, and inspiring.

Though I wish I could have met Matt by some other whim of chance, I am proud to say that he is my friend. Congrats Matt on all you have done to honor Liz, you have certainly made her proud.

Anniversaries

We often see or hear the phrase “Happy Anniversary”, don’t we? Venture into any card store and you’ll find an assortment of cards depicting the phrase “Happy Anniversary”. Fortunately, I did experience “Happy Anniversaries” in my marriage, and I could buy those cards, and for that I am grateful.

Tomorrow would have been my 15 year wedding anniversary. However, as my husband Rory’s death was 5 years ago today, Happy Anniversary is not in the cards. I doubt if I walked into a card store I could find “just the right card” to depict what these Anniversaries evoke.

So, the questions come every year around the anniversary of his death. What to do? How to be on this Anniversary day? How “best” to remember and honor? How best do I help my son remember? (He was just 3 years old when Rory passed away) How much is too much, how much is too little? Should there be a yearly ritual? As the years go by, so much has changed. I have been racking my brain and asking myself how do I honor this “anniversary day” in a meaningful and authentic way now? If we are remembering Rory all throughout the year, how can we best remember him on this one day? How much weight do we give the “Anniversary Day”? I do remember Rory every day and do my best to share interesting and funny daddy stories along the way with my son Ryan.

Is there a “best” or “right” way to commemorate? As far as I can tell, each and every situation is unique and what I hope to be true is that my heart and head continue to guide me to make good decisions and when I make mistakes, I learn from them.

This year, I will write a card to Rory and Ryan will write a card to daddy. We’ll attach them to a helium filled balloon (Ryan loves balloons!) and let the balloon lift up in the sky as we remember. Here is the card I have written and will attach to the balloon (since it must come from me and not Hallmark for this type of Anniversary). On the outside of the card I have written, “Honoring the Past and Embracing the Future."

Dear Rory, You are missed and you are loved. It has been 5 years now. Here are a few memories I want to share. I can still see you wearing the “Survivor Buff” you wore throughout chemotherapy. You were such a trooper and you showed everyone and me that even in the midst of pain and a terminal prognosis, a person can be at their best, and you were. You were a role model for us all. I can still see you with a smile on your face even when you were in pain, getting treatments, or in the hospital (well most of the time anyway). I can still see how happy you were on our wedding day, the days and years we shared, and let’s not forget the day you finally got your cherished John Deere lawn tractor. I thought your cheeks might crack from smiling so much!

I can still hear your laugh and the jokes you used to play on our family and friends. Ryan’s laugh is just as lovely…I wonder if he will be like you as he grows up? In many ways he already is. He is a constant reminder of you, our love and our life together. I can never thank you enough for our son.

Today, Ryan and I are sending a balloon and cards in your honor. I want you to know that it has been a challenging 5 years, but everything is getting better all the time. I know you wanted me to eventually find someone to love, to share a life with, and who would also be good with and love Ryan. I couldn't fathom that thought for a very long time, but now I can tell you that I am very happy. I have fallen in love with a wonderful man (someone you personally knew and thought was “one of the good guys”!) I know you would be happy. Ryan is doing great. He’ll always love and miss his daddy. I’ll always love and miss you.

We were blessed to have you in our lives. Much Love, Colleen

So, my dear Widows Voice reader, I hope you find your own special and unique way each day, including anniversaries. One day at a time.

Warmly, Colleen Phillips, Coaching For Widows