are you ready for this?

Photo from here...

One of the questions I've asked myself frequently since Jeff's death is "Am I ready and do I want to date?"

Aside from the need for physical contact, I can't say that in the first year I was at all ready for "dating". Last year, my second year of widowhood, I thought I was. With trepidation and large amount of humility, I took a look at online dating.

I "chatted" with a couple of men. I was embarrassed by this and certainly didn't divulged to many of my friends that I was looking to date....especially via an online dating service. I felt that if these people were indeed single, there was probably a very good reason for it and they were most likely society's dregs.

Despite these prejudices, I agreed to one date after many emails and a couple of evenings of instant messaging one eligible bachelor. I felt I was ready to know more about this single father who lived aboard a boat with his young son. I was sure there was some flaw within him that rendered him "broken" but I thought I might as well get my feet wet without any strings attached.

After gearing myself up and looking fabulous (if I do say so myself), I sheepishly left my children with the babysitter. I felt terribly guilty. I almost turned back a few times as thoughts of "Am I really ready for this??? I can't believe I am paying a babysitter to be with my children when I am going out with some man....not their father. What must she think?" and "How can I still love Jeff if I am going to meet another man for a date?" and "What would my family say?....What would JEFF'S family say?"
I told myself I was ready for this. That it was time to reach out and feel cared for again. That Jeff would not mind one bit and that probably our families would celebrate that I was trying to keep living.

As I sat across from this man, this relative stranger, I heard myself telling him about my life thus far and vaguely listened to his tale of what brought him to this place. He was kind and funny. I grew more comfortable as the evening progressed. After dinner, dessert and coffee, he walked me to my car.

I felt almost nauseous, however, when we arrived at my car and he asked, "Can I ask you a question?" Thoughts of "Oh my God. He's going to ask me to kiss him. I don't think I can. What the hell? Maybe it won't be so bad. This is awful. Why have I done this?" sprinted through my addled brain.

Instead, with a smirk, he asked, "Do you think it's a good idea to show your date a picture of your husband the first time you meet?"

I am sure I turned purple with embarrassment as I thought of how this must seem. That I was pining for my husband.....And then I realized. I was. I had just shown a man that I was hoping to "date" a picture of the love of my life and extolled all my beloved's virtues all night. I was far from ready.

I thanked my date for his company, dinner and the lesson. Until I am ready to share a meal with another man without whipping out Jeff's portrait or talking endlessly about him, I am not ready. Like the other singles out there on the online dating services have a very good reason for being single...I'm messed up too.

But this year, my third, I think is the year. I no longer only talk about Jeff and his death. I am sure I am a much better listener and make far better company than I have in the last couple of years. And I can imagine myself sharing the company of another man without guilt.

But, maybe, just in case, I'll remove his picture from my wallet before any date just to make sure I am not tempted.....

You Can't Fix Me

Today's post comes to us from guest blogger Amanda, a lovely Aussie...who gets this widowed thing too! Thanks Amanda!

Sometimes I want to scream at people: “You Can’t Fix Me”.
...because sometimes, I get so sick of hearing that I need to “look after myself” or “do something for myself” or “make it happen” or “chin up” or “forge ahead”.

Sometimes it’s just too much when friends and colleagues minimise my grief in their misguided belief that they would know how to grieve properly if our positions were reversed.  (The same people that go to pieces if they have a sniffle and won’t make it to the gym that day.)

No, they’d grieve properly, have it together within a year and make rational decisions to take their lives onwards and upwards.

They’d “go to counselling” and “get the help they need” to get on with their lives.
Maybe a tasteful shrine with a few candles on the mantle to remember their love.
A weekly visit to the cemetery: fresh flowers on the grave.
They’d get themselves that new job that fits in with their altered lifestyle.
They wouldn’t suffer the grief fog, the loss of short-term memory, the sudden tears, and the incapacitating sadness that saps all energy yet prevents you from sleep.
They quote some random bereaved person that their aunt’s girlfriend’s hairdresser’s mother knows who has “coped admirably” with grief…. and cite it as “if they can do it, you can too”.  Never realising that the person they speak of most likely is showing them the brave face and not the face screwed up in the agony which is widowhood.

No, not for them this incorrect grief.

I am tired of explaining that life doesn’t work that way.

That I have to live this life every minute of every day and even sleep is no respite because half of my bed is empty when it shouldn’t be.
That even if I filled that side of the bed with someone new, it wouldn’t take away the grief for my lost love (and my lost life that I was supposed to have).
That my “happy place” isn’t happy anymore because the person who used to live there is gone.
That “The Secret” isn’t based on scientific fact: you can’t just wish you woes away anymore than you can make your beloved rise from the dead.
That the exhaustion of trying to function on broken sleep and a foggy brain is sometimes overwhelming.
That much of my adult identity was founded on being one half of a couple even though I am a strong, intelligent and independent woman.
That my best friend, lover, confidant, and comforter is gone and nobody else “gets me” like he did.

I wish they could know how hard this is without me having to spell it out.
I wish they didn’t overlook the incredible feat of strength and endurance I go through on a daily basis Just To Get Through The Day.
I wish they could see the progress I’ve made.
I wish they could see that I am helping myself ... that I am doing everything in my power to move forward.
…and that I am doing a bloody good job of it.

But mostly I wish they’d stop thinking that they know how to fix me.

Things That Made Me Cry .....

.... like this picture of Jim .... no longer make me cry.
Well, the majority of the time.
There are always "one of those days/weeks", but they are few and far between now.
Mostly.


This realization occurred to me this past weekend.  I was looking for a tote bag to use for my swim suit and towel and various other Fourth of July sundries.  I happened to choose the first one I saw.
It was a bag that Jim purchased on our last vacation.
The vacation we took with the boys to Alaska.
Not knowing, of course, that it would be .... our last.

So, I grabbed the tote, threw my stuff into it ... and then felt something in the inside pocket.  I wondered what could be in there and when I had last used it as I unzipped the pocket and looked inside.

And I discovered that I had not been the last one to use that tote.

I pulled out the items that Jim had left in the pocket and stared at them for a moment.
A highlighter, a couple of paper clips, a pen and some small stick-it notes that are used to note something on a page.

Just a few things .... things that would mean nothing to most people.
But I knew that Jim used to take reading materials with him almost everywhere we went.
He could usually be found sitting somewhere (even on a beach) with a stack of papers in one hand, a highlighter in the other, and a pen clenched in his teeth as he marked sections on a page.

And the picture of him doing just that entered my mind as I stared at those objects.

And I smiled.

It was shortly after that when I realized ..... the things that used to have the power to make me cry, to bring forth gut-wrenching pain and huge sobs of grief .....

.... now have the power to make me smile.

11 years ago today....

Last night I tucked in G for a second time. He was struggling to sleep after a large plate of this yummy cake. I lay down next to him on the air mattress which has been his bed for the past few nights (we're in the UK on vacation and staying with friends for the weekend). I pushed his hair back from his forehead and whispered to him the story of his birth.

It starts out with pregnant me installing sheet rock with Daniel for two days (a last minute remodeling job to "prepare for the baby..." ;-) - an exhausted me watching the Green Mile before falling asleep in my chair. I awoke at 1:30 in the morning to my water breaking....yes, it was an exciting 4th of July for us that year! Grayson likes to hear the part of the story about me waiting in the hospital for 24 hours while they stopped my labor and gave me steroid shots to help develop his little lungs which weren't quite ready for air. I watched fireworks on TV and visited with family and friends as they stopped by. He was born on the 5th of July, 5 weeks early, weighing 4lbs 5 oz. He was the tiniest, skinniest little baby I'd ever seen, and he was beautiful.

G relaxed after hearing the story and fell asleep. I lay there for a few minutes thinking of how quickly time has passed, and how he has now had more birthdays without his dad than with him. G's birthday is always fun, and always a little bitter sweet. Daniel should be here to experience the life of his wonderful son and it makes me so sad for all of us that he isn't. My little guy is so much like his Daddy, and seems more like him with each passing year (god help us!).

Happy birthday Grayson, you are the light of my life!

Visualizing Change

I just returned from a camping trip with my brother and his family. It was at one of those family RV resorts, where everyone is parked next to each other, row after row. There were activities galore all weekend long, and lots of happy couples, excited kids, proud grandparents, and me.

Well, that's how it felt most of the time. I'm sure that to everyone one else, I was just one of hundreds of fathers, looking after their kids, and having a good time. I'm sure that they all figured my wife was back at the campsite, busy with her share of the activities, while I was supervising the boys. It's funny how we can feel so different from the others in such a crowd. It can feel so isolating.

I kept looking around, and didn't see many, if at all, single, or only, parents. I also didn't see a soul that looked like a gay parent. Just your run of the mill, cookie cutter, happy heterosexual couples, with their happy vacationing kids. You know, I'm the first to admit that I tend to easily fall into the trap of visualizing myself as someone on the outside looking in. It's easy to do, as I have had plenty of opportunities over the years to feel like someone on the outside looking in.

This weekend I didn't feel overly sad, even in the midst of all the joyous families. It felt like more of a reminder that I need to remain open to being back in the land of the living, and to visualize myself being one, as in one couple, among them. I know that for many that read here, the thought of being with another potential partner, or spouse, is something that seems unlikely, or odd. For me, I always expected that the day would come that I would need to be ready to move toward that part of this journey where new love might be an option.

This is something that Michael and I had plenty of time to think about, and to talk about. He always said he wanted me to find new love. He often made reference to my future boyfriend, or spouse, in our conversations. I think it was his way to make me comfortable with the idea. Lately, I have begun to feel that it is time to be open to this. For about the past six months I have had an ad on Match.com, but it was really something to help me make new friends. And, for the most part, it didn't work. I truly believe that it didn't work because it wasn't the right time for me. Being that I am gay, there is always the possibility that any new male friend that comes into my life could later develop into a new romantic partner. So, for that reason I didn't put much effort at all into meeting new guys.

Something is beginning to change. In the last couple of weeks I have suddenly become quite popular on Match.com. I have several guys writing to me, and trying to get an idea of what I am like. We are now at that point where you start discussing the possibility of getting together for coffee. I'm always so quick to tell new men that I meet that I am looking strictly for something platonic. That way I felt safe, and that I could perhaps have less pressure, or expectations, from the other guy about the possibility of romance.

With this new surge of interest, I'm feeling like someone is telling me it's time to take this step. I can't help but think that Michael has a hand in this. I'm not one who entertains the idea that the dead can reach out, and interact with the living. But, if they have some influence in this world, or in our lives, then I can say that I am definitely feeling Michael's energy these days. I keep visualizing his smiling face, and a wink in his eye. I keep visualizing him trying to convey to me that I need to get out of the house, and on with my life. I keep visualizing him trying to communicate this to me, reminding me that I am still young, and that I could use a good tire rotation now and then.

Maybe it's just me. I'm allowing myself to visualize a change. Perhaps I'm now sending out a new vibe that I am ready, and maybe, just maybe, I am beginning to see the possibility that I could once again find myself with somebody else, somebody new.

I am visualizing change.

Widow vs. Widow

She said “Well, at least you got to say good-bye.”

Anger rises in me because I see her comment as one of those my-situation-is-worse-than-yours comments.

Anger because she wants to beat me to the bottom, to claim more grief, more anger, more despondency than me.

Anger because really? Do we have to have this conversation? I’ve had it before but about skin color with a white friend who was saying that my “blackness” was different from the “poor people’s blackness.” And I had to explain that the store clerk doesn’t thing so. I still get “watched,” and treated with suspicion even with a platinum American Express in my purse.

This widow assumes that Art’s cancer gave me time to prepare. I am disappointed at the magical death image she holds. You know the one from t.v.? The one where the person looks like themselves, opens their eyes, says a few last dying but meaningful words with the last exhale.

She thinks that expecting that your husband will die is some how easier. As if I could “prepare” for the impending grief by filling up sandbags to line my life. The more sandbags the less pain.

As I go to open my mouth, to tell her my last memories of my husband are of a withered 6’6 man who went from 235 to 154, his sunken, hollow face, mouth open emanating that foul sweet smell of his dying innards. A smell that even in thought, makes me wretch.

Before I can tell her about the relief that came over me when he died that was quickly followed with shame of being relieved. Before I can tell her any of that…

I float
into her head
and see her own
devastation.

I see her need to tell her story over and over and over again, to compare it to others because in her world, right now, there is no firm footing. Nothing makes sense. She doesn’t know how to get to point B because not only is she standing on completely new territory, she doesn’t even know which direction to head in to find that second point. Comparing her story to mine at least provides her with walls, something familiar, something firm, a shelter of sorts.

And it is not till I recognize all this, I back down. She can have the bottom. She can have the grief and the despondency. I no longer need it to stand on.

I am surprised for my love for her, for the way I want to hold her in my arms and let her know it will truly, truly be Ok. I want to tell her that she will find her place in this world. That she will slowly learn to lean into and live, decently, without him.

The love comes out of my right arm, through my fingertips as I take her hand. I say to her after a moments silence, “Wow, I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to loose him so suddenly. I hear you.”

Because I know she simply wants
to be
heard.

Exactly what I wanted and
still want.

All

Maximus and I take walks at night.

I love looking up and feeling like I'm in a planetarium. For some reason, it's also a moment I feel closest to Michael...and now Charlie.

A couple of nights ago, as we were headed down Haleys Way Drive, with the song of a neighbors chimes blowing in the wind, I felt the need to note an overwhelming realization that brushed through my hair with the passing wind, and a realization that also brushed through my heart.

I have it all.

Yes,the love of my life is not here physically, and his death tore me down like a bulldozer...but I got back up, and with that I saw and cherished everything else I still have before me.

In my lifetime and in my life now, I have the knowledge that I met my soul mate and found the truest of loves, I have found friends that will never leave my side and help me through the toughest of times, I have found my passion and am able to do it everyday, I have a roof over my head and adventure in my heart to exit it when the time strikes, I have our furbabies, who show me unconditional love, and I have my future...a privilege many have cut too short.

Simply put, I have all I could ask for, and I am not only content with it, I'm in love with it...and life proves it's perseverance...and I prove my worth...and I smile...and my heart smiles with me.

"You can have it all. You just can't have it all at once."

Oprah Winfrey