touchdown

Photo from "Day one" by Ameena Rojee.

Originally posted Tuesday, December 30, 2008 (after nine months of widowhhood) on my blog.

It’s here again. The brief agonizingly sharp pain of awakening. Like from a coma. Or a nightmare and realizing that it is reality.
I walk around as an automaton. I feed the kids. I wash my face. I buy chicken feed. I seem to be moving. I seem to be alive. Sometimes, I believe it myself. I think, “Okay. We’ll be okay. I can do this.” People tell me that I look good. That I seem to be healing. It’s not me. It’s the robot that applied my make-up. It is the instinct that drives me. It’s the habit of years of doing before my life ended.
Now, I put the bleach in the fridge. I forget to feed the fish for weeks and one of them dies of starvation. I mean to buy Christmas gifts for people. But Christmas passes and I still haven’t done it. I don’t phone people back. I don’t even remember that they called. I leave the house a mess until I impale my foot on a thumb tack dropped days before.
People say that they too suffer from this affliction. Yes, I used to laugh at my forgetting ways and ‘mommy brain’. This is different. There is no one at the helm.
Often, I hear myself talking. But I don’t really know what I am saying. I am gone. I am asleep. The lights are on, but no one is home.
Then, I wake for short periods of time. I wake and scream. I lock the bathroom door to get the only privacy I can get. I sob and cry out. I pull my hair. I want to throw up. I swear. I rage. I want out of this hell.
I worry that what is happening will cause more grief for my children. Will cause judgement from others. But I can’t help it. I can’t stop crying. I can’t pour out the pain fast enough to get it together to hold these two little souls close and tell them the lie again, “It is going to be okay.”
I have no one to call. Jeff died. Everyone else who lives in this house is under four feet tall. People outside this house have their own problems. Everyone tells me to let them know if I need help. I won’t. They have families and lives they need to attend to. In all honesty, I often don’t want to talk. To see anyone. To maintain these fucking ridiculous social graces that no longer mean a rat’s ass to me.
I know this keeps going. I know that it is too long. I know that my lack of healing is a burden. I know that it is more comfortable for everyone if I just maintain the façade. So I do. And I close up again. And my children can see a mother who doesn't cry out and moan from the loss. I go back to my hiding place inside. I curl up in the foetal position and resume my slumber until the next time I wake to find that it is true. And he is gone.

way better.

after complaining

non-stop about

how much i hate

the holidays,

something interesting happened

this year...

i suppose i could

wait until the

end of the post

to tell you that

i actually

enjoyed this one,

but why keep

you in suspense?

I Didn't See it Coming ....

... yet again.
A wave hit me yesterday.
And I never saw it coming .... although I should have.

I have found that there are 3 types of waves for me:
1.  the waves that come out of nowhere, for no rhyme or reason, but crash upon me anyway.
2.  the waves that I expect to come .... a certain date, experience or something that I know will bring on a lot of emotions.  It's easier to stand up under these waves because I know that they're coming and I can brace myself for them
3.  the waves that I didn't see coming ..... but should have.  These waves hit hard and then I get frustrated with myself for not anticipating them .... for not knowing that they would come.

I haven't had a wave in a while, even though Christmas week was one big teary week for me.
But yesterday .... I should have seen it coming.

C had to have a routine medical procedure done and needed help since he would be sedated and couldn't drive home afterward.
So I went .... no problem.
He went back into the procedure area and I waited in the waiting room for an hour or so, reading.
They called me back when he was in the recovery room.
He was still asleep when I walked in.
I took his hand and watched him sleep.
I looked at his iv and the monitor recording his blood pressure and heart rate.
And then .....
..... this part is always difficult to explain by those who've never experienced these "waves".....
it's like you're standing there, in the present, as I was .... and then something grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you forcefully ..... fast and hard ..... backwards through a dark tunnel.  At the speed of light.
And then you're not there ..... in the present.  You find yourself in the past .... standing there.

I was standing at Jim's hospital beside, on what was to be the last day of his life, though we didn't know that.
I was looking at his IV and his monitor.
I was holding his hand.
And I think I stopped breathing for a few moments.

And blinked .... and was back at C's bedside.
My heart should have been monitored at that point.
I sat down .... I didn't trust my legs to hold me up for another second.
And while C slept, I thought about the last time that I was holding a man's hand, standing at his bedside.
And I was surprised.
Why in the hell did I NOT see that coming?!
I'd not been in this position since December 17th, 2007.  Why did my brain never clue in to the fact that this might bring up some emotions .... that it might be hard?
I never, ever saw it coming.

And so I wonder .... do these third type of waves come because I am now living less with my grief, and more with my "after"?
My grief is not with me 24 hours a day as it once was.  It's no longer the first thing I think of in the morning or the last thing I think of before I go to bed.
Oh, it's there ..... it will always be there ..... but I don't think I "wear" it full time, the way I once did.  I think it resides in a back pocket, or like a necklace, close to my heart.
But it no longer defines me.
I hope.

So yes, I still get hit by waves, but far less often than I used to.
Far.
And when they do hit, they do much less damage.
I'm able to lean into them and take them for what they are .... a temporary rush of emotions that I allow myself to feel (most of the time).

I got hit by a wave yesterday.
I never saw it coming.
But maybe .... just maybe .... that's a good thing.

Happy Different New Year

It happened. I actually made it through a holiday without being bitter. Now let me be clear, it doesn't mean I didn't feel sad or have the streaming video of memories run through my brain at different times, but it wasn't bitter. For the first time in 6 holiday seasons, I didn't have flashes of envy and moments of evil thoughts towards families and happy people in general.

I'm sure it had more than a little to do with my overall state of mind. I'm happy. I've been happy for a while, and dealing with life (and death) is definitely easier when you feel so good. I've thought a bit about the difference this year and wonder how much of it can be attributed to my new relationship and how much is also the simple passage of time.

Daniel has been gone for 6 Christmases. On Christmas day I sat for a moment and thought about our first Christmas without him. It had only been 6 weeks. We spent the holiday at my house. My parents came to me, and we struggled through the weekend. I remember wanting to throw up throughout the opening of presents and trying desperately to keep it together so Grayson would have a good day. I remember sitting in my room for a moment and thinking I couldn't live through the day. My mom came in for a moment and she hugged me as I sobbed and I wasn't sure I could leave the room again without it being obvious to everyone else what a mess I was. Grayson asked me if we could call Daddy on his cell phone and tell him Merry Christmas. That question was a kick in the gut I wasn't sure I'd recover from.

The Christmases since then have been a roller coaster of emotion, but each one has been smoother. We don't miss him less each year, but the missing him has become more normal. I think the realization that I don't miss him less has made it easier for me to miss him and still lead a normal life. Missing him is a normal, usual part of our lives now. Every milestone has the "Daniel should be here" label attached to it, and although it still hurts, the hurt is a normal part of life now. He should be here. He isn't. It sucks. It is what it is.

He wouldn't want us to let his death color all things gray, so we don't. We enjoy life. It is the only way we can truly honor his memory. I enjoy life, because it is the only thing that makes sense to me. He would want it that way, and Grayson and I both need it that way. We are still here, and we still (hopefully) have lots of life ahead of us.

Looking back has been my habit for years, but I am beginning to find it not too awkward to look forward. I can see a future for me. It is different. But, as I've said before, different doesn't have to be bad. Different can be unexpectedly good.

Here's to a very different New Year. I think it's a toast I can drink to.

My Struggle with Acceptance

Since Phil's death, grief has caused a long struggle between the desire to overcome and the need to accept the realities that widowhood has brought into my life. The concept of acceptance when applied to Phil's death has always felt like giving up to me. So, I stubbornly planned around any roadblock that would slow what I thought was forward progress, though I had no clear destination. I think I believed that if I kept moving I could outrun the need to accept the fact that the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with was not coming home.

One woman I met just a few months after Phil died shared this idea with me, and I have never forgotten her words. When she was surrounded by the pain of either loss or loneliness after the death of her husband, she would challenge herself to "rest in the riddle." This was a foreign concept to my stubborn, planning, determined mind. I remember wondering HOW exactly she did that. Can you force yourself to rest in the riddle? Since resting would mean being still, would acceptance sneak up on me unbidden? What I can see now, that was not so clear then, is that I was terrified of being frozen in grief. IF I stopped what would happen to me. Would the darkness swallow me up? Would accepting Phil's death mean he was forgotten? What would I have to let go of in order to meet the acceptance criteria?

I have struggled with this answer for five years, and it has taken me every bit of that time to find a path towards acceptance that didn't feel like giving up, or somehow failing Phil. Eventually I embraced the concept that my life is a tapestry. By making my every relationship, word, effort, endeavor, friendship, challenge, and tragedy a part of my life work...nothing is ever left behind. Accepting Phil into my life tapestry, and weaving a pattern with his love so beautiful that it becomes a piece of the whole that is noticeably more vibrant than many others gave acceptance a purpose. His love shines through my weaving, but only if I can allow him to become part of me instead of an idea outside of myself. That thought turned out to be a form of acceptance I can live with...and a worthy place for the kind of love Phil and I shared.

As the New Year dawns we will each be faced with choices about what to add to our own piece of life art. Your loss will color the final product, but so will your love. The lost moments we so long for are often the smallest gestures, the quietest moments, the most unimportant seeming details...you are still creating those every day, and are slowly stitching them into your own personal tapestry. Stitch with flourish.

Wishing you all peace, hope, and love in the New Year.

Canary In a Coal Mine

Ezra age 1.75 with Ricki (with a dad)

Ezra 8.75 with Ricki (without a dad)

I feel like a canary in a coal mine.

The sadness being the air that I sometimes think will kill me.

All week long the sadness has been spillozing out of me: hovering above me like my own personal little dampener, echoing at the end of my laughter, pushing through my sighs, sealing my senses shut for moments. It sneaks up on me, shouting “Boo!” or knocks gently on my bedroom door, “Can I come in?” (as if I said no, it would go away!) Or announces its presence with callers, trumpeters and confetti!

It shows up at Trader Joes as I reach for the milk, in the conversation with the Apple Care person or as I blow cool air over my hot tea. It shows itself when I find the hairbrush … in the refrigerator.

It is thick and … indescribable. My smiles come slower and never reach the normal height.

I remember when it arrived. It’s been longer than a week. It was a few days before Pallas’s birthday. I suddenly found the planning for her birthday to be not so hard as it was last year. There was surprise, pride and joy! I’m functioning! I turn to him to say “Hey, this birthday throwing thing isn’t so hard!”

Only he didn’t answer.

Later I look at Pallas. A low, heavy moan rose from my belly. “Oh honey. Damn it Honey. You’re missing this. You’re missing all of this! ….and everything else.”

That is when sadness slipped in, started to get thicker than it had been for months. The difference between now and last year is that I know there is no outrunning it. So I sit down and let it come. It finds me in places.

At Pallas and Ezra’s school holiday celebration,

When a tall man moved passed me and

for a brief moment

I thought

“Hi Honey.”

And like going directly to jail in Monopoly, I went directly to sobbing. (I didn’t know I could do that!)

It found me in an email from my mother-in-law

Acting as if everything was fine between us

Like nothing had happened at all.

It found me when I called after our mailman, running to give him his Christmas gift. “Arthur, wait!” I sang. I never called Art Arthur but the sadness didn’t care.

It found me at the ranch, where the kids and I are now

When I was walking by myself, from the main house to the house off the garage. I turned the corner and walked right into it’s soft, cushy, familiar, frightening deafness.

It found me in another email, this one from a neighbor reminiscing about seeing Art and the kids heading down the side walk towards his house for a swim.

That is where I am right now. Stuck in this sadness. It’s socked me in, layering around me. There is no escaping this. So I don't even try. I sit with it. I nod my head, I sigh, I cry. I have learned to keep walking. The direction I walk is not important. The sadness always has an end. I just need to get there.

----

Written on Christmas evening

This morning Pallas stomped off, mad that she did not get the gifts she wanted. I follow her to the bedroom. She was back in bed, under the covers, thrashing. I sat at the end, listening to her tirade of the perceived inequality of the gift giving.

“And the worst thing is…I wish daddy were here.”

Her words come at the same moment I am thinking them. We both started to cry. We laid in bed, hugging and crying.

We cried for awhile.

And then we were done. As we leave to rejoin everyone, I felt lighter as if layers of sadness had fallen away.

Then I remember, sharing the sadness has a way of doing that. Knowing that I am not alone, that someone else misses him makes it bearable.

---

PS Ricki is a parakeet

Stocking Full of Memories

****This is a re-post from last year, but still one of my favorite moments in seeing the spark reignite in my family, as if the light had been turned on and they looked past his death and forward into his life. I'll update next week on what gift they made/got for him! Merry Christmas****


Last Christmas my family started incorporating Michael back into Christmas by filling a stocking full of gift-cards, gadgets and more that Michael would have loved....but I could use. It was heart warming to see them remember and bring to life some of his favorite things and places from memories passed.

This year, my family arrived and handed over Michael's stocking. It was light. At first, I had thought maybe they had run out of ideas on what to put in his stocking. I slipped my hands in ready to grip on to something.....that something was paper. Sheets after sheet filled the green velvet stocking sporting his name.

I opened one up to see stories and memories written by those who had known Michael. Some that had only known him briefly, others that had just were affected by his kind and giving nature, and my family, who had seen first hand the makings of my soul mate.

I started reading one in front of them before I announced that I would rather read them in private at a later time. After my family departed, I ran straight to the pile of words that made up moments in time, like a child down the stairs to see what Santa brought. The tears streamed down my face as I reminisced and re-lived some of the magic and mundane moments that others had shared with Michael.

It truly was the best gift. For in reading those letters, Michael came to life in my heart this Christmas day... our love boiled in the cauldron in which is permanently located in my soul.

My chest pounds even as I type this.....with the love that never flees. It may feel dormant at times, especially those times in which I wish he was here the most, but, like any moment in time where i feel that, I am reminded that it is still coursing through my veins more then ever.

I love you baby...and am so in love with you. Merry Christmas, my love.

“A place in thy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim; To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name”

- Gerald Griffin