Count on This

I have outlasted all desire,

My dreams and I have grown apart;

My grief alone is left entire,

The gleamings of an empty heart.

From Grief Alone Is Left Entire, by Alexander Pushkin

The poem from which the excerpt, above, was taken, could be considered rather bleak. The writer speaks of his grief being the only thing he can count on in this world. It is the one thing he can cling to, he says, and he waits, in desolation, for the end to come.

I can't say that my inner life echoes the sad words of this writer, these days. There are bright periods with slivers of hope. But always, underpinning them, is the experience of this loss, and the grief that surrounds it.

Last week, I attended a pension planning seminar at work. I don’t know what I thought I was doing there. The presenter spoke of setting money aside, from our monthly paycheques, so that we could receive a lump sum, tax free, at our legal retirement age, which, for me, now, is 66. Men and women in their 30s and 40s raised their hands and eagerly participated in the session, calculating their future riches, counting up their pounds and pence.

I looked at them, so certain of their years on this planet. So trusting. So naïve.

I don’t count on anything, anymore. I assume nothing. I know that I could be cut right down, like my husband was. I could be out in the world, on a sunny, summer, day, enjoying the birdsong and the flowers blooming, and my heart could say, ‘enough’. I could be surrounded by family, (like he was), in the midst of grief, and I could walk outside, into the sunlight, and I could crumble to the ground.

I put some pounds and pence aside, when I can. But I am not going to squirrel part of my paycheque away, each month, in the hope that I will be here in eight years to enjoy it. I am not going to work and work, and wile away my precious time on this earth, dreaming of some future pleasure, my arms filled with tax-free cash. I have seen too many people put their lives on hold until retirement, and never make it there.

My sister-in-law died one month after she received her first Social Security payment. One month.

I do make some plans for the future. I hope to someday hike the Appalachian Trail. I am working on some short stories. I have plans for this weekend, and next month and next year. Retreats. Hikes. Visits with family. Phone calls.

But I know that those plans are not real. They may never happen. If nothing else, my loss has taught me this: everything changes, in this world, everything. Everyday. 

Even my grief. 

My grief is no longer frozen. It is a landscape of hills and valleys, rivers and streams, still lakes and turbulent waters. On days like today, when the sun shines, and the air is warm and breezy, I awaken with a sense of calm and hope. I stand at the top of the hill, looking out. I go about my routine, and try to remain aware, and mindful, and I may even feel happy, for awhile, until something hits. A remembered image of him, on the ground. A walk past the shop where we bought our wedding cake. A lingering look through the window of our coffee shop, on the High Street. Remembering our last time there, together. Such minute moments in time can send me tumbling, face first, into the valley of my grief.

The grief is always there. It might shift and change in shape and breadth and width, but the depth of it remains. It is dark, and sits in the pit of my stomach. Some days I can move around it, or mould it, like clay. Other days it is hard, and unrelenting. Like coal. Like rock.

I can count on this grief. I know it will never leave me, entirely. My love was deep. My grief is real. 

It is the one true thing I have left.

Time. Seriously.

Time carries a different meaning now, since Chuck died.

I shuddered the other day when I realized that he's been dead for 15 months.  In our 24 years together, we've never been apart this long.

15 months.  I still don't remember what it felt like to have him next to me and it still kills me that this is so.  I look at pictures and they are only memories, times that will never be again.

And yet.

And yet, it was only a heart beat since he and I danced in Death Valley in what would turn out to be our last dance.

Time and distance and memories and heart break and grief that doesn't kill you and you wonder why but you have to build a life so you do.  You do your damndest to create a life that will shout and scream defiance to death but nothing seeps into your heart which holds so much grief but also Love because he left so much behind and that's what you're living on.  Well, that and chocolate.  And diet pepsi.

I'm still young, though I shudder to think what my insides look like after eating like shit for 15 months and not exercising.  Theoretically, I could live for another 30 years.

30 years without him....no, I don't like that idea at all.

So, I don't think of those years.  I don't think of next year or next month or even tomorrow.  I look down at my feet and see where I'm standing and I stay right here.  Anything else is too painful to contemplate.

He was in my life forever, or 24 years, whichever came first.  He's been gone for 15 months, or forever, whichever comes first.  I'll live the rest of my life without him, however you count.

In this life of without-ness, I send a wish to the Universe that I may create a life canvas of such beauty and color that all who observe it, even for an instant, will be in awe of the startling swaths of Love that swirl and dip within it, and know that it is all in memory and honor of this man, my husband, who so loved me, and who was so loved by me.  That this Love will seek its' deepest point within me and radiate outwards in such a way that the world is blinded by its' shine.  Let Love shimmer and burst  forth until I truly become my daily mantra....Nothin' But Love...

Let Love shine~

Slow Dance. Last Dance.

So, here I am, writing my first blog right before Valentine's Day.  Right before what would have been our 24th wedding anniversary. I'm getting ahead of myself, I know. I was going to introduce myself, give some back-story, and I promise I will.  But maybe, because of the timing of this first entry, I'll give you a glimpse into the world that was mine with my beloved husband, let you peek through the keyhole so you can understand the missing-ness of him in my life.  This, dear ones, is the memory I carry with me in my heart and soul.  The only memory, really, that I can easily call to mind. (Why is that?)

As I remember him, and me, and our full-time travels of the last 4 years, this Death Valley dance lingers in the nooks and crannies of my heart.  Exploring Death Valley National Park in California was a dream of ours, and for 3 days we drove up and down the Valley, exploring the muted colors of the Canyons. Chuck was already sick and in pain; we thought it was the die-off from a fungal infection.  We thought it was a pinched nerve.  So this last day was taken slowly.  He'd managed a short hike back into the rocks.  Our last hike, but we didn't know it then.  All we knew was that it was getting late, he was tired, and it was time we returned to our ranch cabin.

But, as I steered the car over the road to the ranch, looking at the changing colors of the rocks around me, my instinct told me that here was a memory that we needed to imprint on our hearts.  I'm relieved now that I listened to that instinct that made me maneuver the car to the dirt on the side of the road and say to him “Let’s dance”.  We loved to slow dance, and Chuck was a master at it.  He wasn’t quite sure of the footing on the rutted ground but I said let’s do it anyways.  And he smiled and got out of the car.

It was that most beautiful part of the evening that the Scots call “the gloaming”.  The quiet moment when the day is done but right before full dark sets in.  Silence surrounded us as I met him in front of our Ford Escape.  The strains of “You’re My Inspiration” by Chicago wafted from my IPOD.  Our song.  He put his right arm around my waist and clasped my right hand in his left, wrapping his fingers around mine.  In spite of everything, his body was strong against me.

And on the side of the road, there in Death Valley, in the setting sun, we danced what would be our last dance.  

Chuck's romantic heart met my even more romantic heart and we kept that passion alive for the 24 years we were together.  This Valentine's Day is my first without him.  Our 24th wedding anniversary is the 18th.  I don't know if any one particular day is more painful than another because right now every day is filled with immeasurable pain.  I miss him kissing me and holding me and dancing with me and loving me and that slow wink at me from across a room. 

I miss him with every beat of my heart, with every painful breath that keeps me living without him.

Infusion

But true gratitude can't be forced! (source)

Oh, it's back.

Some of my previous silliness, joy and ease is back.

Sleeping and I are friends again, but it's a tentative relationship. We're afraid to like each other too much, lest we get too attached. But it's working for now. And for that I am so grateful I want to throw a party.

I'm eating TOO well, and I'm exercising and working more without feeling overwhelmed physically and mentally. I feel more capable than I have since Dave died, because my energy and concentration are a bit better. And of course, when I'm not out in the world glowering and sending everyone vibes of doom and fear, I'm meeting more people and making more connections with the ones already in my life. Shocker.

It's another peak after a valley and it feels so good that I want to bottle it.

The valleys don't last as long and though they feel nearly as deep and hard to claw my way out of, I have better coping skills. I'm guessing that we grieving people will build the biggest coping muscles to get through this. We have to.

But anyway, I'm here now, on this peak. It feels higher than any previous peak because for the first time, I can look around me and feel true gratitude and appreciation and even joy. For the first time the veil that seemed to descend between me and the experiences that used to bring me great happiness has lifted enough to feel. To feel things I haven't felt since before Dave died.

I was driving somewhere the other day and I had a flash of a feeling I thought had maybe died with Dave.

It was this visceral feeling I'd get, say, on a Friday afternoon, when I'd realize that in a few hours, I'd be home, full of good food and ready to sleep in the next morning (I was always so tired after a full day of teaching). I'd feel the weekend stretch out before me in my mind and that would lead to a thought of the next trip we'd planned, or summer break coming up (we were both teachers) and then I'd think of how lucky we were to have each other and how lucky we were to be able to take trips together and have lazy weekends together and a warmth would spread up from my middle. It would fill me until it felt like it ran out of room and built up pressure until it exploded out of my chest. I'd feel a jolt of joy that was almost painful. A wordless gratitude that felt far too big to contain or to begin to verbalize.

I've assumed that maybe that feeling was only possible when Dave was in my life and before I'd suffered this loss that had turned everything upside down, before my mind and heart were damaged by this trauma.

But no, there it was again. Just for a flash. Just for a moment. But it was there. It wasn't quite as powerful but I recognized it. It was the realization that I had amazing friends and family (one and the same to me) to spend time with, money to support me, work that makes me happy, two goofy sweet cats at home who are blessedly still healthy at this point, a choir, my health, a future. A future, for God's sake! It hit me like a lovely, jubilant smack to the back of my head. I felt it. I didn't have to TRY to feel it. I just felt it. No effort needed. It wasn't the knowledge of these things, it was the access to the feeling. The absence of a numbness.

Side note - there is nothing quite as frustrating as trying to make a gratitude list when you're just going through the motions. You know you're grateful, you know things could be even worse, you know certain people you hang out with might say "You just need to be more grateful!" and you'd feel slightly guilty and grinch-like for thinking "I would if I could, but I can't. And I loathe you right now." You repeat your list to yourself in the car or the bathroom, and you wait for the warmth to fill you but there's nothing. Nothing. Except your brain screaming "BUT I DON'T HAVE HIM! And if a forced gratitude list worked, I'd be doing it ALL FUCKING DAY!!!".

And so, as we know well, life will throw more pain in front of me and I'll find myself back in a dark place, but this hopeful, joyful, effortless state is something I know I will come back to me, somehow, even after the very worst has happened. After I'm sure it's impossible to find my way back. It might last for one second, but it's possible.

There's so much comfort in knowing that it's possible. It will never be exactly the same because that life is over. That person who felt that way is gone. But it is possible to feel it in a new way and to experience it in a different life. It's a different version. It's tinged with deep sadness and has no more naivete, but it's a wonderful thing, regardless. It is beautiful enough to keep me going until the next infusion.

Life Does NOT Look ......

                                                                   source

...... the way I expected it to look ...... 6 years ago.

Six years ago he was still alive.
Although for only 14 more days,  unbeknownst to any of us.

Over the years, I remember looking at people I knew, who had lost their spouse, and wondering, "What were they thinking 24 hours before?"  Seriously.  I thought that.  I wondered.
I don't know why.
But I did.

And then it happened to me.
Suddenly.
Unexpectedly.
Horrifically.
Horribly.
Cruelly.

And I knew that other people were thinking, "What was she thinking about ...... the day before?"
Well, I'll tell you.
I was thinking, "Thank You, God.  All of the kids are now home."  The last one had arrived Saturday night.  She experienced a few hours with Jim on Sunday, before his aorta tore in the middle of the night on Sunday/Monday.
I was thinking, "I can't believe that Dan Fogelberg died today."  If you had read my blog back then, you would've seen that post.  The last post I wrote before Jim died.
I was thinking,"My Christmas shopping is done!  Now I can sit back and enjoy the time with my kids and the holidays."

That's the kind of thing I was thinking ..... only hours before my life went to hell.
Those are some of the thoughts I had ...... in my innocence, in my naivety, in my "before".

And now?  What are my thoughts now?
First and foremost ...... my life does NOT look at all like I expected it to look.

Oh, I had thoughts of living in NYC.  Jim and I had discussed the idea ...... a bit.  He thought it was a great idea.
And then he died.

So I had thought of us living here.
But I'd never thought of just me living here.
Me and two daughters.
With one son wanting to move here and my third daughter wanting to join us.

I pictured the two of us living in TX, where all of our friends were.
But I knew that we'd have to move in the next couple of years.  His job would have required that.  But we both figured that we would ultimately move back to TX one day.

It's funny (not ha-ha) how fast life can change.
One day you think you know how everything is, and will be, going.
You think you finally have a handle on things.
And then one day, you wake up to find that you don't.
And that you really never did.

So my life doesn't look like I thought it would.
But that doesn't mean that it's horrible.
It was.  For a very long time.
I don't like thinking about that time.

But slowly, sometimes at almost a snail's pace, things changed.  I changed.
I knew that I had a choice to make.
Finally.
Before that point I had no strength to make a choice.  Any choice.
But one day ...... one day, I did.
I had to choose to either ...... die ...... or live.
I knew what Jim would want me to choose.  And by then, I knew what I wanted to choose.
Life.
I was done with Death.  He had taken over too much of my life.  He had moved in and taken ownership over too many things.
It was time to kick him the hell out.
And so I did.

I never pictured losing the friends I lost.
Or gaining the amazing friends I've gained.

It didn't happen over night.  Nothing along this path does, with the exception of the actual death that starts us here.
It's a very long, very dark, very painful and very cold valley.  We all have to walk through it.  At our own pace.

I made it through that valley.  And now I can say that life doesn't look the way I expected it to when I went in.
I never thought I'd be happy again.
I never thought I"d enjoy life again.
I never thought my heart would stop feeling painfully broken.
I never thought I'd really want to live again.
I was wrong.
Thankfully.

I never thought I'd be a person who could offer hope to anyone else.
Seriously.
But here I am.
And that's why I write.
The only reason I write.

No, life doesn't look the way I thought it would ...... 6 years ago.
But that doesn't mean it's not good.
Finally.

An unexpected surprise

My new morning view

We are settling into our new home here in West Virginia. It's a strange experience to live your entire life in one region and then move somewhere completely different in your thirties....but, I feel called here, and our family is loving it so far. And I've got lots to keep me busy!

One day last week, I decided to take a drive around and see the area a little bit more and try to figure out where things were and get acquainted with the place. I pulled up to the mall a few miles away and walked into one of the side entrances. As soon as I walked in, I had suddenly remembered being there before, almost 3 years ago, exactly two weeks after Jeremy had died....I came to lead worship in the area cause he and I were supposed to do it together and I decided to do it in his place and still go. With my sweet friends, we took an evening to walk around the mall and hang out. I was shocked that I even remembered that in the whirlwind of my aftermath and widow brain.

I continued walking through the mall and felt Jeremy's presence very strongly. I couldn't figure out why until I turned the corner into the food court. There, I saw him, sitting at one of the tables with Faith next to him as a baby......and it hit me.

I have been here before. With Jeremy.

My heart nearly leaped as it jumpstarted a memory I didn't even realize I had. What a beautiful surprise it was to remember coming here, 7 years ago, traveling with Jeremy to Ohio Valley University just up the road, and stopping here for lunch at the food court I now stood in. I remembered us driving across the street to pick up a stroller for Faith because we didn't realize how badly we would need one on the trip. That same stroller is sitting in my garage now three miles down the road.

It all came back to me and it was like Jer audibly whispered in my head "I'm here too." One of the hardest parts for me about moving was leaving Jeremy behind. You all here know what I mean. I talked about it a few weeks ago, but still struggled with picking up and moving somewhere Jer would never be a part of. Somewhere I thought I couldn't reach him. I fought tears for a few hours just thinking about how random, ironic, and special it was to know that I had shared a memory in a place I didn't even realize I had been before. Jeremy's presence was found hundreds of miles away from home.

This forgotten memory will now be one of my most cherished moments.

Then ......

...... and now:

The first picture is of Jim, on our last vacation together ...... 5 months before he died.  We were visiting my brother and his family in Alaska, and we had climbed up one hellacious peak with the three boys.  I just happened to catch him in a quiet moment, looking at the amazing view.
It's one of my favorite pictures of him.

The second pictures is one I took today, of Son #1.  He and I are in Oregon, visiting my father and my sister and her family.  Today the Son and I climbed a peak near here.  All the way to the top.  Which is much easier written, than done.  But we made it.
I had him stand away from me, on a nearby rock, so that I could take his picture with the view in the background.
Before I could even click the button and capture that moment ...... it hit me.
It hit me hard, though I managed to swallow it down and continue with the picture taking.

This picture of Son #1 was taken today ..... pretty much 6 years, almost to the day, that I took that picture of Jim.
The similarity of the scene was not lost on me.
Nor was the similarity between the two men.

I'm trying very hard to not let the dam of tears break as I write this.
Sometimes it so wonderful that each of my children can look so much like Jim.

Other times ...... it breaks my heart.
It's such a fast and difficult trip back through time ...... like being grabbed by the back of the neck and drug through the past 6 years in less than a couple of seconds.
One moment I'm looking at my son ...... a moment later I'm looking at Jim, just as he stood in that exact moment ....... before I was aware that my wonderful life would disintegrate in less than 5 months. Before I ever came to a personal knowledge of the word "widow".
Before I knew that it doesn't matter how good people are ...... bad things will still happen to them. Sometimes very bad things.
Before ...... when I was naive and thought I had my life all figured out.
Before ...... my world, as I knew it, came crashing to a devastating and very quick end.

Funny, as we began climbing this Peak/Butte/Mountain, I didn't even think back to that day in Alaska. At least, not in a way that made me pause ...... and wonder how this might feel once we got to the top.  I did remember that climb back in 2007 and remembered how very difficult it was, and how worried I was that one of the boys would get hurt.
But that was all.

It wasn't until we finally made it to the top of the peak today, and I turned my camera towards Son #1, that I was fully slammed in the gut ...... about how alike these two situations were, and about how alike these 2 men have become.

God, I miss that man so much.
And yes, I still cry every time I type those words.
Every.
Single.
Time.

I miss him with every fiber of my being.  And I always will.
I know that this will never change.
Just as I know that there will always be times when something, or someone (most likely one of my children) will send me reeling back to my "before".
And though there is sometimes pain with that (as there was today, and while I write and re-read this), there is much more comfort now.
Comfort in the warm memories, and comfort in what we had, who he was, and who we were together.

Where there was once always unbearable pain at those thoughts, now there's usually comfort.
Much more comfort than pain.

Just as there will be for those of you on this path.  Especially those who haven't been here very long and can't believe there will ever be comfort in your life again.

I promise that there will.
I don't know when.
I don't know what that will look like for you.
But I promise that it will arrive one day.
Very quietly and unobtrusively.  You won't see it coming.
You'll just feel it one day ...... the comfort instead of the horrifying pain.
And you'll know that you're going to be ok.

The comfort won't be there all at once, suddenly covering up the pain, but it will slowly appear more and more often.  As I said, I think there will always be pain, but one day there will be more comfort than pain.

I pray that each of you has the strength to walk through this valley ..... at whatever pace you walk.
Please know that, while we who are ahead of you can't remove you from it, as much as we'd like to, we have to watch from afar, cheering you on and willing you to feel the encouragement we're sending out to you.
Please know that we are up on the edge of that valley.  We've climbed out.  But we haven't left you behind and alone.  We're still here, up on the edge, waiting for you to climb your way up here and grab on to one of our hands so that we can help pull you up and over the ledge.

You will make it.
We are here.  Waiting.  Praying.  Encouraging.

And knowing that one day you will feel more comfort and less pain.
I promise.

Courage

source

I've misunderstood courage my whole life until now. I thought courage meant lack of fear. Or at least less fear. I thought that my fears made me weak and that I'd be courageous the day I conquered fear.

I had an image in my mind of an incredibly confident superhero when I thought of courage. Something like Super Woman and Oprah all mixed up into one badass poster woman for "BRAVE" - hands on hips and clear eyes full of confidence and determination. I didn't realize that courage is being terrified and acting anyway.

In fact, courage looks like someone who's sweating, shaking, and gasping through the hardest things life throws her way.
It looks like someone who gets up every morning and makes breakfast for his kid even though he's now alone in raising her and even though he's exhausted.
It looks like someone who's heart has been shattered but opens once again anyway to let someone new inside even though it feels like leaping into the unpredictable currents of the air, hoping to be carried and not dropped.
It's staring someone in the eyes and saying "I love you" even though you might not hear it back and feeling your heart stutter in anticipated terror.

It doesn't feel brave. It feels exhausting, reckless, terrifying and unpredictable. And it's undeniably courage. There's so much everyday courage happening all around us. So many people surviving the death of their spouse, their child, their future. Rebuilding, picking up the pieces, on their knees begging for the next right step. Begging for their pain to ease, to see their loved one in their dreams.

That's courage. 
And if that's courage, then I'm courageous, even though I never feel brave at all. What's also missing from the equation is what I thought went along with courage - exhilaration. I don't feel exhilarated, I feel scared and exhausted. I want to feel the exhilaration of knowing that I've been brave enough to let someone new into my heart. I want to feel the thrill of surviving and finding happiness on the other side of the deep dark valley I was in.
But I'm not quite there yet. I'm still so scared all the time. Guarded and vigilant for more heartbreak coming my way.

I know that that mindset can kill my chances of happiness now and that future tripping* does me no good, but this is what my brain does. I can fight it and I do. But sometimes I just wish I didn't have to fight it so much. I wish I could relax into faith and imagine only great things happening. Or at the very least just stop projecting into the future at all. I wish I could stop scanning for signs that heartbreak is coming my way again.

I wish I could fully believe, as my therapist does, that more good stuff is headed my way because I've suffered enough already.

And then I realize that this is me. This is how my brain works, and rightly so. I have suffered greatly. But, I'm doing my best to not let it guide me. I can have these thoughts but not act on them. I can do what scares me. I can love again. I can have compassion for myself even though I struggle with this fear and this mind-habit of preparing for disaster. I can allow for the idea that I'm worthy and loveable even though this is how my brain works. I can entertain the idea that it's not that I'm inherently leave-able, it's just that the life I've been given has included lots of abandonment by death and that doesn't mean that everyone else I love will leave me.

I can admit that I am courageous, resilient, and worthy.
I can admit that I do deserve good stuff.
I can understand that while the universe takes away, it gives too. It can be incredibly generous.

Maybe it's my turn for some of that generosity.


*What my old therapist used to call worrying about the bad things that might happen.

Remember

 

 

“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. ‘Floods’ is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, that valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory.” 

Over 5 years ago I started writing on a blog.

Writing to release. Writing to express. Writing to hold the seams from bursting open. Writing to feel that there was at least some place to place my sanity and insanity. Writing to the person that wasn't here to read it.

I am by no definition a writer. But I am someone who has written to heal. To remember. To recognize just how far I've come in retrospect, and I'd just like to take this Saturday to thank you for allowing me to do so. For allowing me to go back to that original place before the loss...

But more importantly, for allowing me, in some capacity, to not only remember, but to create. To evolve. To let those banks and curves of my soul and eternal love, guide me to where I need to be.

Nerves

English: Fraser Valley Elementary School classroom (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I went to my new school to set up my new classroom today.  The kids come back next Tuesday, but I've been working away for the past week or so getting materials ready and now, physically moving desks and cleaning to try and make the room look welcoming.

I am excited to be working in such a friendly place ..... but I am also nervous.

I get nervous at the start of every term.  Will I be able to guide the children through the work?  Will the kids settle in?  Can I still teach?  What's my name again?

Silly really as as soon as I start work, everything seems to flow.

But it is now that I miss having Greg here to remind me that I am GOOD at this job.  That I can teach in a way that children can relate to.  That I am good at developing a rapport with children.

I miss having someone at my back giving me encouragement, or providing an intelligent sounding board for ideas.

I miss having someone tell me that everything will be OK.

So I ask you all to wish me luck .... by this time next week, I'll have met my new class. 

Remind me that everything will be OK, OK?

Fulfilling his last wish

Early on in our relationship, Seth and I talked about what we wanted if one of us ever passed away.

Seth wanted to be cremated and have his ashes spread off the top of Angels landing in Zion’s National Park.

One of our first vacations together, we went to Zion’s National Park.

We even hiked Angel’s landing.

The hike and view was amazing.

Seth and I on top of Angel's landing - 2002

But it’s one of those things that I was glad I did it, but wouldn't do it again. The hike was super hard and parts of it are super scary. One part of it you walk along a ridge, holding onto a chain. It’s cliffs on both sides, one wrong step and you would fall about 5,000 feet before hitting the ground.

Shortly before Seth died, we again talked about what we wanted if one of us died.

He reminded me that he wanted his ashes spread off Angel’s landing. I reminded him that I was keeping half of his ashes, at home with me. In all honesty, really, I shrugged it off. I figured by time he died, I would be far too old to make the hike.

When he did die, my brain constantly reminded me of his wishes.

The following Memorial day, me, my friends and family, all drove to Zion’s National park to fulfill Seth’s last wishes.

I was angry with him. I didn't want to climb that damn mountain, just to dump his ashes over the edge. I could dump them on the ground in Zion’s without having to climb the mountain.

I questioned if Seth even cared now about what happened to his body. I questioned if all that mattered was that I was happy with my decisions for his remains.

 Because I promised him I was spread his ashes off Angel’s Landing, I had to keep my promise.

Even if my promise didn't matter to him anymore.

I knew if I didn't keep my word, it would always haunt me.

I separated his ashes into small bottles. So everyone that went to Zion’s with me, could spread part of Seth. There were people that couldn't make the hike, that spread his ashes elsewhere in Zion’s. With his ashes I mixed the ashes from his 21 year old cat we had to put down years earlier, and sand I brought home from our Hawaii vacation that we took weeks before he died.

We set off really early to hike Angel’s landing. It was freezing cold and dark when we set off on our hike.

The whole hike up Angel’s landing, I was mad. Mad that Seth would ever ask me to do such a chore. Cried thinking about dumping my husband off a cliff. But the army of people that were with me, kept pushing me on. Even when I wanted to turn around and run home.

Source  The flat spot at the top of the picture is Angel's Landing

Once we finally made it to the top of Angel’s landing, I looked out over the valley. And thought “This is it. I came all this way, just to dump his ashes off the edge”.

I was the first to spread my bottle of ashes. I almost couldn't do it.

It seemed like life froze, and it took me a decade to open the bottle that held my husband's ashes.

I have never had so much anxiety and fear running through my veins. The worst had already happened, yet letting go of my husband’s ashes was terrifying.

Once I finally opened the bottle, the wind picked up. Even if I didn't like it or wasn't ready for it, his ashes were taking flight.

It took every ounce of mental power I had, to turn that bottle upside down, and let the wind carry my husband away.

I was shocked at how far his ashes flew. I could see his ashes in the air for miles.

At the end of the day, as much as I hated doing it, I was proud of myself.
Proud that I fulfilled Seth’s last wish.
Proud that I had enough courage to do it.
Proud that I could physically make the hike, especially with everything my body had gone through. 

Proud that I could now rest, knowing I gave Seth his dream.

His dream to fly off Angel’s landing.

Now when I die, some poor soul is going to have to hike my ashes to my husband’s final resting place.

Angel’s Landing. Once thought to be so high that only angel's could get to it. 

Now it all makes sense. My husband is with the Angel's.

Me on top of Angel's Landing, watching my husband fly away.

It Takes a While ......

                                                         source


...... before happiness can be a choice.

Last week I wrote a post about a powerful fortune that I found in my cookie at a Chinese restaurant.
It was about looking for my happiness in front of me, not in my past.
Those words stunned and overwhelmed me, but not as they would have stunned and overwhelmed me in my first 2-3 years on this "path".

Because now, at almost the 5 year mark, I have the ability to choose to be happy.
Most of the time.
Way more often than I did in those first few years.

I wrote that post as encouragement to those of you who are behind me on this path .... and who have yet to be able to choose happiness.  Or sadness.  Or what's for dinner.  It's difficult to make almost any choice in the beginning.  I get that.
I remember that.

But in writing that post, I think I unknowingly put pressure on some of you who aren't there yet.  Those of you who don't have the ability to choose ...... yet.
And who can't even imagine EVER being happy again .... by choice or otherwise.

And for that, I apologize.
I hope that you now are familiar with me enough that you know I would never intentionally cause any of you pain.  Or sorrow, or grief, or pressure.
My goal is to let you know that you're not crazy, that you're perfectly normal in a perfectly abnormal situation, and that your timing is the perfect timing .... for you.  No matter what your friends or family members might say.
My goal is to let you know that you're not alone and that there is no ONE right way to grieve.
My goal is to give you hope.
Not pain.

So while I wrote about choosing happiness ....... I should have made it more clear that I was writing about me, and only me, being able to choose happiness now.
It's taken almost 5 years, and The Happiness Project, to show me that.

But just because I'm at a point in my life where I can choose to be happy (most of the time) doesn't mean that I don't remember, with every fiber of my being, those first few years when happiness was not a choice I had.
In fact, there were very few choices that I had.

Grief ruled over me with an iron fist.
He was a very cruel and a very stealthy ruler.
I never knew when he was going to show up .... which was often at the most inopportune moments.  He would pour his hot, horrendous pain all over my body, but with particular preciseness .... he'd slice it straight into my heart.
And it didn't matter where I was ..... at home alone, sitting in church, driving down the freeway, or in a business meeting.  He'd show up and leave me in a mess of tears and sorrow and pain.

Sometimes I knew when to expect him.
Interestingly enough, the pain at those times wasn't as bad as I had anticipated.

But there were far more times when he would descend upon me out of nowhere.  I'd never see him coming, never hear a warning bell, never be able to prepare myself for his onslaught.  Those times required a longer recovery period.  They left me emotionally and physically drained.  I often wondered how much more I could take.
And how many tears I could possibly physically make.  I never understood why I wasn't constantly dehydrated from all of the tears I seemed to constantly shed.

Yes, I remember those days.  We all remember those days.  Which makes me all the more passionate about sharing hope with you.
I didn't know many widowed people in my early days out here.
I didn't know of any websites where I could find encouragement and support from people who understood, mostly, what I was going through.
I wish I had.
Maybe my dark, dark days wouldn't have lasted so long.
Maybe my darkness wouldn't have continued to grow so dark that the only escape I thought I had was death.
Maybe.
Maybe not.

The "maybes" don't matter so much to me anymore.
What matters is that I'm still here.
I am a survivor.
I have experienced the worst thing that I can ever face (in my opinion).
And I'm standing.  Tall.
Well, as tall as a person who's 5'3" can stand.
And that's a lot taller than you think so don't even ponder making a short joke!!

I have been through "THE Valley".
It was a very long, very hard, very painful and very exhausting trip.
I thought I'd never get out.
But I did.
One day I looked around and found that I was climbing upward, approaching the lip of THE Valley.  And someone ahead of me was there to reach down, grab my hand and help me climb over the top.

I made it out.
But I still didn't have the ability to choose happiness.
That didn't come until a year or so later.
It just kind of snuck up on me ..... like almost everything else on this path.

So what was the point of this very long, very boring description of my time on this path?
My point, or rather, half of my point, is this:  to tell you that I get it.  I remember.  I will never forget the days, weeks, months, years that all I could see in front of me was cold, dark blackness.  No future.  No joy.  No happiness.
And no choice.

And the other half?
To tell you that you won't always see only cold, dark blackness in front of you.  You won't always despair at having a future.  You won't always believe that you'll never be happy again.
And you will one day be blessed with the ability to make a choice.

I can't tell you when.
I can't give you any short cuts.  Because there aren't any.
I can't walk through this Valley for you, though there are many, many times when I wish I could.

You will get to the other side when you get there.
Don't measure your progress against anyone else's.
No two journeys are the same.
You will walk through the whole Valley.  One step at a time.
Some days you'll just sit, too exhausted to take a step.  And that's ok.
But you will get through it.
You have to.
Because that's what you'd want for your loved one ..... if he/she had been the one left behind.
And it's what we do ...... fight to survive.
And it's a fight, believe me.

So many of you, right now, can't imagine happiness.  You can't imagine a future any longer, because the future you looked to so very often, will never exist.
And again, that's ok.
You don't have to imagine it.
I will imagine it for you.
Others who are further along than you are will join me in imagining it for you.
We will keep hope alive for you.
Because we can.

Just as you, too, one day will do for the person behind you.

So for today ...... for right now ....... if you can't believe that you have happiness in front of you, let go of that.
And just believe that I do.
I have a lot of happiness before me.
I believe it so much that I know it's certain.
Believe me.
Because, though you aren't aware of it, though you can't feel it, as you believe me ...... belief in yourself will be planted within you.  It grows slowly, so you won't notice it for a while.  But it will grow.
It will grow into Hope.
And once Hope arrives, fully formed ..... Happiness comes soon after.

Believe me.
And just breathe.
One breath at a time.
I'll do the believing for you.
For now.
:)

Wide Open

Balch Creek, Forest Park

It has been 11 months today (I'm typing this on the 4th of May) since he left this earth. This morning was taken up by volunteering for the Audubon Society and I couldn't spend a lot of brain power on the significance of the date while I was looking for and identifying birds. And besides, every day is another day without him. Whether the calendar says "3" or "4" or "24", he's still dead, and my heart is still broken.

But later, as I walked in the woods, a place so sacred for us and so important in our relationship, the significance became more apparent. I experienced many so many stereotypical grief emotions in that one hour walk.

Denial: As I started out, it felt like any other hike and I could almost pretend that all I was doing was taking a walk in the woods, as normal as can be. Muddy shoes slapping on slippery trail. Rain dripping from leaves onto coat, onto dirt. Breath in, out, feet finding a rhythm. This is a normal day. Everyone carries on with their lives. I carry on. I hike in the woods. I walk upright. It couldn't possibly be that he is dead. Dead. Dead and Dave. No way those two words go together. No way in hell. No way that I'm still standing if he didn't live.

Anger: The woods were post-rains and the creek was swollen and raging through the valley below me. The new spring growth was chartreuse and actually glowed in the dim light that made it through the canopy. The green was something you could absorb through your pores. It was so vivid it almost buzzed. You should be here to see another spring like this!, I screamed silently. Can you see this? Can you see what you're missing? How could you be taken from me? How could life be that cruel? You will never get to see another spring like this with me and I hate that. I hate this.

Depression: As I hiked back from the halfway point, past some people I tried to hide my grief-ravaged face from, the rain began to pick up and I pulled my hood over my head. The drops battered the fabric, raising a roar inside the hood, filling my ears, and rice-sized hail began to ping off my head and bounce on the ground. My mind turned to a familiar groove. The "I don't want to be alone forever" groove. I thought for the millionth time that I want love again, but I'm so scared to risk feeling this way again. Maybe it's just not worth it, I thought. Maybe it's better to just be alone. Thankfully, this thought was quickly discarded. The thought of a life without my time with Dave because I'd decided love wasn't worth the risk is something I don't want to ponder. Miss out on love to save myself pain? I can't do that. I just can't. But the time I will spend without that kind of love feels eternal to me right now. To be loved so completely by someone for 15 years and then...nothing? To say that it's a shock to my system is a laughable understatement.

Acceptance: As I hiked along the banks of the creek, I imagined what he would be doing if he'd been by my side. He'd have been carefully inspecting the waters with a fisherman's eye. He'd comment on how muddy the water was and point out a pool or two where fish might find refuge from the current. But he's not here, I thought. We'll never have those talks again. We'll never be walking down the path together oohing over a chipmunk or hummingbird or marmot. He is gone and never coming back. This concept is one that I don't wear with ease. It's a new pair of shoes that I can put on and tolerate for a very short time, but all I can think of is kicking them off to end the discomfort.
My mind still bounces right off of this one, but it comes back to it more often these days, gradually getting more and more familiar over time.

As I left the trail for the pot-hole ridden parking lot, and climbed into my waiting car, I felt heavy with grief, but free of hopelessness. Sad but not bottomless-pit-sad. I realized that my heart is broken, but it's also been cracked wide open. While this makes me endlessly more vulnerable to pain, it also makes me more open to new things, too. New possibilities for ways to carve out this second life of mine. New empathy for others, new appreciation for the small things in life. New depth of spirit and softness of heart.

Maybe a broken heart can mean more room. I hope so.

I Guess You Could Call it Venting .....

                                                  picture from here
.... rather than throwing up his/her emotions all over me.
"Venting" sounds so much nicer.

But it felt just like being thrown up on.  Not at all as nice as "venting".
And it felt pretty crappy, truth be told.
But it comes with being a mom.
And it REALLY comes with being a widowed mom.

During the Christmas break .... right at the beginning .... one of my children threw up all over me.  Emotionally.
I was soaked.
And shocked.
And exhausted.
And, though this child had no idea (and I don't really think it would've mattered) ....  I was locked in a deep depression.
Great timing, kid.

So the first night this child was home, around midnight or so when the other kids had gone to bed, this child turned to me, and with fury I've rarely seen in his/her eyes .... informed me, out of the blue, that he/she lost a lot more than a father on that night back in December of 2007.  Both Jim and I died that night.
He/she lost both parents.  And I totally changed.  And after that night, I was never there for him/her.  Ever.

I sat there a bit stunned for a moment.
Not stunned that those feelings were felt, but stunned with the force of the vomit and the amount of fury accompanied by it.  But most of all, stunned that this is something I have freely admitted often over the past 4 years.  I have admitted it to all 6 of my children.  I have admitted it on my personal blog.  I have admitted it here.
But evidently, my admissions .... and my apologies have not always been heard.
This child thought this was a new concept for me.  And that I needed to know the anger and hurt and unfairness of my selfishness.

We were up until 4:00 a.m.  And we never really got anywhere.
I repeated the apologies that I've said before.
I said that I regretted that they lost me, too.
And that I wish I could've grieved differently .... but that was impossible.
I couldn't lock my grief away.
I lost too much.  I was not able to grieve in any way other than the way I did.  And that, no matter how much I regretted it, if it were to happen again, it would happen the exact same way.
I told this child that there is no way he/she can understand that.  Unless, one day, he/she is blessed enough to fall deeply in love, get married, be together and stay deeply in love for 27 years .... and then experience the death of that deeply-loved person.  But even then ..... even then, I would not be totally understood.

I cried a lot.
I apologized a lot.
As much as one can apologize and yet admit it could not have gone any differently.  I lost half (at least) of myself that night in 2007.  I lost my identity.  I lost my love, my best friend, the one person who knew me better than anyone, the one person who always had my back .... no matter what.  The one person with whom I had 6 children.
I lost our future.
I lost almost everything.
Almost.

I was not heard during those hours.
There was too much anger.  Too much grief and fury had been stored up and locked away ..... until it could not be held back any longer.

At 4 a.m. I said that I was exhausted and that we were getting no where.  So I asked if we could go to bed and start again the next day.
And was told yes.

So the next day ..... again, after midnight ..... it was brought up again.
I'm not sure this child was able to bring up all of the vomit.
I didn't realize that one person could hold that much vomit.

This child needed an answer I could not give.
I could not make everything "all better".
I could only acknowledge what I've acknowledged openly for 4 years.  I could only acknowledge that these feelings were valid.  And that it totally sucked that my children basically became orphans in less than 24 hours time ..... suddenly and unexpectedly.
And that this child was not alone in feeling this way.

But I also stated that I've come a long way in the last 2 years .... and have become a better parent.  Not the one they lost .... she will never be back.  But parts of her have come back .... significant parts.
And damn it ..... that's pretty huge.  And good.
And deserves acknowledgement.

I also said that I hope and pray that none .... not one .... of my children EVER have to experience this grief.
But if they do .... I will be the first one there.
And I will do everything I can to help them on this path ..... which truthfully, won't be much.  Because no one can do much for us, can they?  Even those who've been widowed, cannot take that pain away.  It must be felt.  The Valley of Death must be walked through.  Even though every fiber of my motherly being would want to protect them from that walk .... would want to carry them through it myself ..... would want to feel all that grief again if it meant they didn't have to ..... there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do.

Maybe one of these days this child will be able to get even an iota of what I felt ..... what I went through .... how I barely survived my grief.
Maybe.
Maybe not.

I'm ok with that.
I don't expect them to ever understand .... and again .... I pray they never have to.

And so part of my Christmas break was spent feeling totally soaked in vomit.  And almost hated.
But I think mothers were made to be vented upon.
Not really thrown up on ..... not after the first year after birth, anyway.  I mean, with 6 kids .... I've been "spit up on" lots and lots of times.  And vomited on.
But nothing like this.
It comes with the territory.

The territory of being a mother who was widowed at an early age and who grieved harder than she thought possible.  A mother who, for a while, thought her children would've been better off if she was dead, too.
There's nothing like gallons of vomit to reinforce that feeling.

A few days after our 2nd late night episode, I was able to ask this child about "seeing someone", which, of course, was refused.  But I persisted .... because that's what mothers do.
As they attempt to wipe some of the vomit off.
This child finally agreed to "think about it".  I doubt that that was a true statement, but I can always hope.
Because I think professionals are used to a lot more vomit than that.  And fury.
And I think both of those are normal reactions .... and that EVERYONE could use someone to talk to .... at one point (or several) in their life.

I wish I could've been a better "griever".  I wish I could've been a better mother.
It was ..... what it was.
I cannot go back.  I cannot change the damage that was done to my heart.
Or my children's.

I can only say I'm sorry and that I hope for a better future for all of us.

And be sure to keep lots and lots and lots of Pepto around the house ..... just in case.
Cuz it takes a hell of a long time to clean off all of that vomit.

So Today I Bought a Shirt ....

.... which really isn't newsworthy (or blog-worthy) in and of itself.
But I think that all of you will understand why I felt the need to write about it .... and to show it to you:

Looks like a simple enough t-shirt, right?  Other than the fact that there's a heart on it, which gives me mixed feelings.
Mostly because I haven't visualized my heart looking like that.
Not in a very long time.

This is how I feel my heart has looked since the end of 2007:

                                        picture from here

Yep, for the last 3 1/2 years my heart has felt like a gigantic piece of it is missing.  A gigantic piece that held Jim.  And now that he's gone, that gigantic, heart-shaped piece is gone.

But the funny thing is, he is still held by my heart.
And he always will.
So while my heart may feel broken .... shattered into a million pieces .... the reality is that it is whole.
It hurts, yes .... to be sure, but it is whole.

I haven't always felt that way these past 3 years.  In fact, it's a rather new-ish development.  Because I now know something that I once knew, but had forgotten.
Grief tends to do that to a person.
Makes them forget ..... a lot of things.
Or is that just me.  (   :)     )

When I was pregnant with our first child, I never imagined how much love I would feel for her when she was born.  Yes, I loved her while I was pregnant but please ..... that is nothing compared to the love that fills your heart the moment you look into those eyes.
The instant I looked at her, counted her fingers and toes, stared at the tininess of perfection ..... and looked into her eyes, my heart doubled in size.
I could actually feel it growing, day by day those first weeks.

And then we became pregnant with number 2.  Which, at five months, turned out to be 2 and 3, but that's a whole 'nother story!
From the moment I found out I was pregnant that second time .... I worried.
Not about the baby's/ie's health.  Not about my health.
But about my heart.
I knew there was no way I could love another child as much as I loved that first one.
It was not physically, or emotionally, possible.
So I worried.  A lot.

And then the day came when I saw those two precious babies.  The day I counted their fingers and toes and was amazed at their tiny perfection.
And then I looked into their eyes ..... and felt my heart beat a strong and extra beat.
It had happened.
Again.
My heart had grown in size.
And I was amazed.
I am still amazed at the way a heart can instantly grow and hold more love.
It is nothing short of a miracle.

And as soon as I remembered that lesson, I knew that my heart was still whole.
Yes it was bruised, cracked .... and in much need of repair, but it was, and still is, whole.
Jim's love will never, ever be gone from my heart.
I carry him, and that love, with me wherever I go.
And with whomever I'm with.
No, there's not anyone in my life at the moment (not in that way), but I know that my heart is a lot stronger and flexible than I thought it was.  So if that day ever comes, I know that my heart will grow again.
It won't rid itself of Jim's love in order to make more room.
It will just .... grow.

So I bought that shirt today.
And just in case you couldn't see it closely ...... here's another view:

It's taken me a while, but I can definitely wear that t-shirt and mean it.
Not every day.
Not every moment.
Not all of the time.

But life is ..... mostly good now.
Which is a bit ironic, because this is the t-shirt I was wearing when I bought it:

This shows how I've felt, mostly, over the past 3 years.  And I still do .... sometimes.
I have looked up towards the sky too many times to count and asked/yelled, "SERIOUSLY??!!"
And I'm sure I always will.

But most of the time, I hope that I think .... life is good.
I know that Jim would want me to think that.
He would also agree with the fine print on that new t-shirt.
The writing that I didn't notice until I took it out to take a picture of it for you.
It's on the bottom right of the first picture.
In case you can't make it out ..... here it is:

And I am.
Finally.
After a very, very long time.
After a journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death .... which I barely lived through.
Which I didn't want to live through.

But here I am .... doing something that I love doing, communicating with, and supporting other widowed people, letting them (you) know that you, too ..... will be here one day.
Seriously???
Yes.
Yes,  I do .... and yes, you will.

And I hope that one day you will be able to know that .....
Life is good.
Mostly.
:)

I Had a Nightmare ....

                                                                 picture from here

.... last night that Jim came back.

I know.  A nightmare?  It should have been a dream.
A wonderful dream.
But it wasn't.

He just walked in to our house one day.
Three and a half years after his "death" .... he just walked in.
In this dream he had been in the Service and I had evidently been notified that he had been killed.
I guess they never found his body .... you know how dreams are.

Of course I was stunned and thrilled and crying and screaming and all of things that I'd probably do if Jim were to walk into our home right now.
Only .... in real life .... I saw his dead body.
So maybe I'd just faint.
No idea.

Anyway, we had some time alone after all of the excitement and I started telling him how much I had changed in the last 3 1/2 years.  He didn't get it.
Not at all.

I felt like the above picture.
That I was trying and trying to get through to him, but there was something between us, and I couldn't reach him.
I couldn't make him understand.
I kept trying to explain what the news of his death, the life after his death had done to me.
How he had been half of my heart and had been ripped out of me.
How I didn't know if I would survive his loss for the first couple of years.
But that I had.
And he was .... well, he was disappointed.
In me.
And yes, I am crying as I'm typing this.

He was disappointed that I had not been stronger than I was.
He knew me as a strong woman.
A mother of 6 children who managed to keep a tight rein on our household and our children, yet loose t enough that they learned how to be independent.  And they, as well as he, always knew they were loved.
A woman who took care of the kids and the house and also did a lot of volunteer work.
A woman who made time to spend with friends, in spite of the size of her family.
A woman who, at least on the outside, looked like she was in complete control.

He was disappointed that I seemed to be weaker now.  That I would go through such a dark valley.
That I wouldn't keep my head up and my hopes up and keep living in the same strong way.

It.
Was.
A.
Nightmare.

No matter how hard I tried to describe my life, my experiences, my feelings since his death ... he could not, or maybe would not, hear me.
Even when a friend walked in and told him of the good that I had done and the good ways his death changed me.
He remained disappointed.

Right at the point when one of my daughters was getting ready to explain how I was a better mother, and as I was weighing whether to confess to him that I thought I was a worse mother ......
I woke up.

And here's the gut wrenchingly sad part (yes, completely bawling now) ....
I was glad.

That dream was horrific.
I couldn't explain myself to the one person in this whole world who had understood me.
I couldn't make the love of my life understand how very much the love of him had cost me (thought it has given me so much more.  I'd go through it all over again, just to have him again).
It was a nightmare in a dream.
He didn't "get it".
He didn't "get me".

After I woke up I thought about what a nightmare it would be to have no one, not a single solitary person in this world, who "gets it".
Who "gets me".

I cannot imagine what life must've been like for widowed people before the internet.
My heart cries for them.

And makes me so, so glad to have you.
You mean more than I can say (yes, crying again .... sheesh!).
There is so much relief felt when I know that I don't have to say a word .... yet am understood.
When I am with or engaging with, another widow, it's like the 150 lb. weight that resides upon my shoulders .... lifts.
And I feel lighter and happier and a whole lot saner.

So thank you ..... all of you, for being here for me .... for each other.
Thank you for taking the time to be here and "get it".
Thank you for never judging .... for knowing that there is no one right way to grieve.
That is huge.
Thank you .... for just being you.

And on that note, I will end saying that I can not wait to be in a room full of .... you.
I can not wait to be at Camp Widow .... again.
And to have fun and laugh and cry and laugh with all of you .... who get it.
All of you who get the very black widow humor, that we can only share with one another.
I can not wait for the hugs that transfer so much love, understanding and energy into me.

I wish that every one of you would come.
My reality has taught me that wishes don't always come true.
So I will hope that many of you will come.
And if you are coming, and would like to volunteer while you're there, please contact me.
Don't worry .... we don't require any great depths of knowledge for our volunteers.
Heck, we don't even require knowledge.
It's an easy hour or so.
And it feels great to help out.
To give back.

And if you're still on the fence about going ..... please, please, PLEASE hop on over that fence and come!
If you need assistance, we do what we can to help find that assistance.
We can't grant every wish ....
but then, we all know that know one can.

I hope to see you there.
To give .... and get .... a hug.
Or two.
Or two hundred.

janinee@sslf.org
www.campwidow.org

Ouch!

"You are cordially invited to attend an exclusive open house at our world-class model. Experience first hand this special event where we will celebrate history in the making - the nations first LGBT Retirement Community with a continuum of care.

Tempt your palate as you savor delectable bites and taste the neighboring Paradise Ridge's award winning wines. Enjoy a site tour of our ten acre, oak-filled campus with stunning view of Sonoma County Valley and Fountaingrove Golf Course."

Damn them. Damn the U.S. Postal Service for being the excellent trackers they are. And, damn life for it's ongoing kick in the stomach.

It has been 11 months since I move away from our San Francisco home, in need of a fresh start with as few reminders as possible. It's been two further moves once settled in San Diego. I didn't want to spend the rest of my surviving days being reminded of what we had, and what we planned to do. There were too many of them. There were so many plans that we had made, and so many that got tossed straight into the trash can when Michael received his diagnosis.

I accept that life gives us what it does. I accept that God moves in mysterious ways. What I don't accept, is why there has too be so many painful reminders of what we don't have. I get that for the majority of people my age, they are looking ahead to their golden years together as a aging couple. I get that they are carefully planning out their retirement, and that for those that are financially fortunate enough, they are looking into the perfect retirement community to live out their lives together.

Do I really need to have this single piece of mail track me down, 500 miles south of San Francisco, then travel up and down the streets of San Diego, making it's way from the initial house I rented, only to find that I quickly moved on and put down permanent roots here in my current home, and then find itself dropped into my simply stated stainless steel mailbox?

"No. Michael doesn't live here!"

"No. There is no happy couple interested in your retirement community."

"No. There are not two happy and loving faces that you can plaster on one of your lovely tri-fold brochures."

Okay. I know I'm being a bit childish. I get it. Where's that thick skin of mine, right? You know, I wear my armour every day that I leave my house. I expect that I can lay it down once I walk through my door. I also expect (foolishly obviously) that I can control that which hurts me, or cuts to my vulnerability within my own safe haven. But you know, this is what really goes on here. When no one is around, and it's just me that picks up the mail, well there is no buffer, and there is no need for it either. So, BANG! Shot to the heart.

"Is this very mature of me?"

"Can't I just get over it, and realize that these things happen?"

Grow up Dan. Be a man.

For the record, I did handle it very maturely. Nobody in, or around, my house are even aware of this small moment, or this insignificant piece of junk mail. The reality is (and all of you live this every day) is that nobody around me would even think to ask if receiving the occasional piece of mail addressed to the two of us is difficult to deal with. And, I'll bet that like me, most of you have those moments where life still knocks the wind right out of you. You probably take a deep breath, or immediately succumb to tears, or maybe still have those moments that drop you to your knees (those were always my favorite).

This is just one of those many moments that illustrate how it's just not so easy to move on.

me, to the world: "Yes, I am doing very well. I am making progress, even though most of you don't understand that there is still progress to be made. Yes, I thank you for telling me for the hundredth time how good I look. Not quite sure why one says that anyway. And no, I am not purposefully getting stuck, or wallowing unnecessarily. This is what I must do. Like it or not, this is who I am, and this is how I experience life."

Ouch! again.