Recap

The past week has been a roller coaster.

Charlie was laid to rest and it was one of the hardest moments of my life. It was also during that time that I was moved by my friends kindness. I was lucky and blessed to have some of my dearest and best friends there...friends that weren't like the friends that were around when Michael died....these are friends that aren't going anywhere and laugh and cry and grieve without questions or answers. TT told me she wasn't used to being so open with her feelings, as we all shared our love and memories with Charlie...the secret is...it's because they were there that I was able to. I love you all so very much. Thank you for helping me, loving me, and allowing me to be called your friend...I'll never feel deserving of such kindness.

The flip side of this major loss is a major gain! My organization, as of today, has it's first official office! I hold the key and smile...it's more than an office...it's a brighter and more beautiful future for myself and the fellow widows of the AWP. I'm so excited and know that this means nothing but good. It's in my dream area. My dream 360 square feet. And will be a place where even more dreams come true for all we serve.

I'm spending this month to absorb all that May has consisted of. A month of growth, pain, survival, and the further assurance that Michael's love is always present.

That's it.

The end .

guilt and acceptance

First posted 7 months post-widowhood on personal blog

I have worried since Jeff's death that he didn't know how much I loved him. The stupid things I did and the things I took for granted have weighed so heavily on my mind. I have felt terribly and guilty for the things that I complained about and the issues I thoughtwere important.
Since Jeff's death I have realized that these 'things' were nothing. Not important. Not worth the words or the breath I used to express them.
I have always known Jeff loved me. I have always felt his comforting presence and his teddy bear gentleness when it came to 'us'. I have never doubted that he loved me and I was his 'Snuggles'.
A friend recently expressed her worry that when she dies, it will be after she has lost her patience, yelled or been in a generally foul mood. She worried that this would be the last thing her kids or husband remembered about her. I assured her that it wouldn't. That they'd remember all of her and those times of stress and anger would be forgiven and almost forgotten.
I told her of the last few minutes I had with Jeff before he died. He had been an ASS. He had told the doctor that he thought I was hoping he was having a heart attack so I could 'be right'. I had replied, "No, Jeff. I am concerned about you. I am worried and I want to find out what is wrong."
Jeff didn't like going to doctors. He didn't like to admit that anything was wrong. He could be combative and angry trying to dissuade me from taking him to a doctor. Years ago, he once told me that he would leave me if I took him to the hospital again after he had passed out on the floor and was turning blue. It became the source of laughter just days later. But it didn't mean he didn't love me. It meant he didn't like going to the doctor. He didn't like being 'told what to do'. As simple as that.
Since telling my friend about these incidents, I have been thinking about it. I am realizing that even though I have had my complete 'ass' moments, Jeff most likely had the same feelings about me. That I am human. I obsess about ridiculousness much to my detriment just as he did. Even though he was angry with me for dragging him to the doctor, I was there. I was trying to save his life. I loved him enough to go up against his defiance and fury to find out what was wrong. Even after he used these angry words, I tried to save him. I would have no matter what he ever said, did or was. I knew he loved me. And I loved him. He died in my arms as I tried to save him. And, now, I am sure he knew I loved him. And it is a relief. I can let go of my guilt. I can realize I am human and like everyone else, I am imperfect. He loved me despite of it all. And I loved him despite any of his faults. And he knew.

a song.

someone reminded me

of this song

last week.

i heard it once

back in 2008

(the year my life took me in this direction)

and

couldn't listen to

it again.

until last week.

now it's a comfort.

i'm not a songwriter.

but.

if i could write

a song,

i would write a

song just like

this:



(and i suspect many of you would as well).

A Day That Will Live ....

(I wrote this post on my blog Saturday night/Sunday morning.  Saturday, the 28th, would have been our 28th wedding anniversary.)



....in infamy.  Or at least in history.
Our history.
Son #2 graduated tonight.
He did it.
In spite of .... so much.
He.
Did.
It.


On this day.
This once very happy day.


This day that used to stand for love, commitment,  the future ....
has stood for what was, and what will never be again.


Until today.
Today it stood for what can be.


I am very proud of him.
And I think Jim is, too.


This day, like all of the "big event days" .... has passed.
It is now tomorrow.


Another big day lived through.
Another day that brought tears ..... and joy.


Another day in which Jim should have been here .... by my side;  telling Son #2 how proud he is of him and how much he is loved.


A day that should have been .... so much .... more.
A day that was a day.


A day that is now a memory.
A memory of a different kind .... now.


In spite of how happy I am now, how content I have learned to become, how my future is starting to look lighter than grey ...... these "big days" wear me out.
They exhaust me.
Mentally more than physically.


They make me want to go to bed for a week .... and never leave my room.
Just for a week, but yet .... still a week.


I find myself mourning what was ....
and what should have been ....
and what will never be ....
on these days.


Yet .... on this day .... he did it.

As I always knew he could.

My New View of Death

This post was originally written on August 31, 2010.

Duality of vision. At least that’s what I’m calling it. As of May 4th last year, my way of looking at physical things has changed. For example, driving into my garage every day I see Maggie’s catcher’s mask she used to wear while playing softball. It hangs just inside the garage door right where I park the car. When I see that mask, I think of the soft plastic that used to touch her forehead, the grill she used to breathe and taunt through, the strap that used to get tangled in her hair…. Such a simple object yet so filled with the richness of her experiences, the richness of her. I also see it as a creepy object a dead person used to wear. Both perspectives exist simultaneously, separately and incongruently in my mind. One of those perspectives exists only in my heart.

Because of what I've experienced, death has lost its cold hard edge for me. It doesn’t scare me anymore. I have no fear of dying. It doesn’t give me the chills or turn me cold. All that which was very scary before has now been replaced by a much different feeling. Instead, death seems to me like it was that day with my baby - the day It happened. It’s warm, soft, peaceful and relaxing. Death has now been humanized and even maybe romanticized. And it’s certainly nothing to fear anymore, not for me. How could I fear that which brings peace? How could I fear that which might bring me back to my baby? I can’t and I don’t.

Lord, I can feel my mother’s blood pressure rising as I type this. Chill, Mom. No, this is not my suicide note. I hope that most who read this know me as quite stable yet prone to over-intellectualizing, even about that which might be considered risqué. I am just trying to describe yet another interesting change and/or step in this journey, one I could never have imagined, like so many others that came before it.

I could never have imagined ever in my life my wife dying. I could never have imagined holding her as she breathed her last breath while I whispered how much I loved her into her ear. I could have never have imagined wishing I could lie just one more time next to her lifeless body, the body of my best friend and life partner. I could never have imagined being happy that she was no longer breathing. How could anyone ever imagine that death could bring such happiness to someone so deeply in love? But yet it’s undeniably true. The warm, soft, impermeable blanket of death doesn’t scare me anymore because death, to me, now means relief. And sweet relief, after what I’ve seen, can be much more meaningful than anything else living could offer.

I’d guess that few others around me share this duality of vision. Instead, the creepiness factor colors all that death touches. The softness I see and feel and experience isn’t typical. Instead, the cold, bitter harshness of death prevails. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it in the eyes of people who have come to the house. I’ve seen it in my friends’ eyes when I tell them (which I rarely do, unless they specifically ask) where Maggie’s ashes are (beside me on the desk as I type this note.) I’ve seen it too, when potential new friends look at me when I say “last year, in May” after they ask “when?” which is typically followed by an awkward pause in the last conversation we share.

I’d guess that other widowers or widows have different views of death than I do. I’m certain many of them still see death as the enemy, as evil… like it stole away their sweetie. No doubt, for their situation, they are right. Oh, I see it so amazingly differently. And if being a widower didn’t alienate me enough, my new and somewhat non-conventional views on death surely finish the job.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is a United States federal holiday observed on the last Monday of May. Formerly known as Decoration Day, which was first recorded to have been observed by Freedmen (freed enslaved southern blacks) in Charleston, South Carolina in 1865, at the Washington Race Course, to remember the fallen Union soldiers of the Civil War. The recognition of the fallen victims was then enacted under the name Memorial Day by an organization of Union veterans — the Grand Army of the Republic — to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War. Over time, it was extended after World War I to honor all Americans who have died in all wars. Now known as Memorial Day, it is a day of remembering Armed Forces. the men and women who died while serving in the United States.


That is a little bit of history, by way of Wikipedia. I turned to the net to get a clear understanding of what this holiday represents, and how it came to be. Today I was out, just like most Americans, being a part of the hustle and bustle that is the last weekend in May. It is often considered the beginning of the summer season, and signals the onset of weekend BBQ's and family gatherings. I noticed while running around town, that their were a few homes that hung American flags. I began to feel bad, because my flag is still in storage, not that I think to fly it very often.

I was remembering when 9-11 hit, and we as a nation were left stunned. What I remember most, after the communal feeling of devastation, was that we all became quite patriotic. Many of us, including myself, ran out and bought shiny new flags. How is it that we have so quickly returned to that place of disconnect. I don't mean this to be negative, or judgemental,as I include myself in this. Some how, for most of us at least, we forget to remember that for many, this is a difficult day of remembrance.

Today we honor all those men and women, from every walk of life, who selflessly chose to defend this country, and have given their lives in exchange for our continued sense of security and freedom.

Today, we also honor all those who are left behind, who continue to raise their children alone, who continue to seek meaning in their lives, who continue to attend college, or work, on a daily basis, because that is what they are expected to due. These are the survivors, and we must not forget them. Not today.

I just finished my BBQ. It consisted of burgers with two 13 year old boys. The discussion at the table was summer camps, and the daily joys of skate boarding and scootering. How young, and naive they both are. The world is still about the daily joy of doing nothing, or doing whatever they choose to do. I sat there listening to the nonsense that was coming out of their mouths, and hearing the laughter when realizws how ridiculous they both sounded to this old guy across the table.

The meal has finished, and everything has been cleared away for the evening. I returned here to my computer, to finish this post. The sun is still out, and it's a clear indication of sunny days ahead. Yet, for those of you who have lost a loved one due to war, or any type of service to our country, the night is not quite over yet, is it? You still have grieving on your agenda.

When the sun does finally decide to set, I will light a simple white candle, and hold vigil for those that have served, and for you that mourn. You are remembered today, just as they are.

Alone Together

I just got off the phone with my good friend Dominic. We don't talk to each other too often, maybe once a month, but when we do, I always feel so good. He lives up in the Bay Area, from where I moved from last year. We have been to many of the same places, and always have similar stories to share with each other. He's originally from my new home city of San Diego, so we also often talk about our favorite places here, and share recommendations about places to eat or visit.

I have so much in common with Dominic. We are both gay men, who also happen to be Latino. This kind of grounds our connection in a common culture as well. In our conversations we laugh, encourage each other, and listen to each other's worries of the day.

Did I mention that I have never met Dominic? I don't even know what he looks like. If we passed each other on the road, we would never even know. Well, he might know, as he found me the same way as several other of my newer friends have, by way of my blog. You see, Dominic is also a widower. Not only that, he lost his spouse to the same brutal brain tumor that took my husband Michael.

Isn't life strange. You can live a somewhat parallel life as another person in your own community, and never really have the chance to make their acquaintance. Then you lose your husband, find yourself feel alone, grief stricken, even suicidal, pack it all up, move to another part of the state, get settled into your new home, and BAM, your paths cross. Suddenly, although there are almost 500 miles separating you, that person becomes so central to your life.

This is not the only relationship I have like this. In the past 20 months I have come to know, and love, so many people that I would never have met if Michael had not died. These are such loving, supportive, sad, and joyful people. If you are reading this, then most likely you are one of them too. It's a strange dynamic really. You can talk to them on the phone, share emails online, or trade text messages, and yet, all the while, it dawns on you, "I only know the person, or have them in my life, because of death."

In death did us part, Michael and I, but in death did all of you arrive. Each week seems to bring more and more wonderful, and interesting people into my life, by way of my writing, or by communities formed here on the Internet. Last year I had the wonderful opportunity to meet so many of you at Camp Widow. Let me tell you, it was like magic. I saw familiar faces, or heard voices saying, "Dan?" "Are you Dan In Real Time?" and then I would see the spark of acknowledgment, and be filled with joy. It was the most wonderful experience, and I can't wait to repeat the experience once again this summer.

Camaraderie is the most wonderful of gifts. Camaraderie during times of such extreme need, feels like being bestowed direct grace from God.

You know, in tonight's conversation with my friend Dominic, he shared with me that he attended the San Francisco Brain Tumor Walk. It is an event that is so close to my heart. Michael and I walked with our family two years in a row during his battle with the disease. I then walked the third year without him, and followed up with the same event when I moved here in San Diego. Dominic shared with me that he spoke with people who knew me, either through my participation with the National Brain Tumor Society, or through my blog. It felt so good knowing that they still thought of me, and that I was still a part of their community.

In a way it sounds kind of odd to acknowledge this, but it also serves to remind me of how fragile and isolated I continue to feel. You know, I have come a long way in the past 20 months, and I have made many new friends. Yet, deep inside of me, I am still that broken, and pain stricken, person that was left standing alone in this world. Now some would say, "but Dan, don't you have three kids? How alone can you truly be?" Well, very alone. Yes, I move about in this great big world, with people all around me, yet at the end of the day, I enter my bedroom alone. I brush my teeth alone. I wash my face alone. I get into bed alone. And, I share my day's thoughts or feelings with, oh yeah, no one. And, even at 20 months out, I still struggle to fall asleep each night in that big empty bed.

Who else really understands this?

Who else is struggling with this at the same time each night?

You.

We are alone, or we are not alone. We are newly widowed or we have been at it a long time. We are very young, or we are considered older. We come from this walk of life, or we come from another. We look similar to each other, or we don't. We might have previously chosen to be friends, or we might not have. Yet here we are. We are reflections of each other. We share that knowing look in our eyes. We have the ability to touch each other's hearts, and souls, in a deep and profound way.

By reading, you have shown up for me. By writing, I have shown up for you. Whoever you are, whether we ever meet, speak, or exchange written words, thank you. I value your presence, and I acknowledge the loss which has brought you here.