Must

I was recently watching a documentary profiling a individual who works specifically with those facing loss or the loss of a loved one.

It was poignant, gut-wrenching, and thought provoking.

I found myself reflecting on many of the ways I reacted to death before Michael's passing, and most importantly, after.

How it affected me, my family, and the ones I love so dearly.

How I reacted. How I questioned. How I let it affect every aspect of my life.

Some for the better. Some for the worse.

But out of all that he stated in the film, there was one subject that resonated with me more than anything.

He said to love anything to the fullest of our ability, we must recognize and love its end to the capacity.

As a child takes its first breath into the world, we must acknowledge and embrace and love that moment as much as we do in knowing that one day, that child will take its last breath.

To marry someone and vow our eternal love, we must know that one day that love will come to a physical end, yet we shall love and embrace it as much as the day we first said those two words that brought us together.

It's the only way to live fully in the bountiful blessing we are given on this earth.

Love and life. We must admire their beginning, their gifts, their end, to be willing and able to live in its amazing glory every second of our lives.

How sweet a kiss would taste if we knew it were our last. And yet, if we had acknowledged from the very first kiss exchanged, that one day it may come to an end, how much more it would mean.

A simple concept. One we probably have already known in the core of our being, but something I I didn't always, and must, acknowledge and must love with all of my being. But not only must, but want to embody. For all those I love.

Freedom is Nothing Left to Lose

We all have our times of year that stick out as the most difficult.  The December through February time is mine.  The list of breathtaking days is long.  Maggie’s birthday is December 9.  My birthday is mid-February.  Our anniversary is February 28 (and, every fourth year, the 29th too.)  So there’s those.  Now, with this year, I get to add a few more new losses.  As of January 1st, I get to add the loss of my grandfather.  As of last Thursday the garage has become very empty where Maggie’s Cool Car used to be. Most difficult for me to deal with is that on January 17th of this year I get to add another angel day for Maggie and my only child, our puppy Niko.  That’s a loss that has hung over my head as the unrecoverable, the one I couldn’t imagine, the one that just couldn’t happen.  Well, it happened January 17th.  It was awful.

I’m still here though.  I’m not sure how.  My meltdown was epic but reasonable.  Niko was the one single thing in my life that I just couldn’t imagine I could survive losing.  Well, as we all inherently know, nature doesn’t care about our preferences.  Nature is efficient and, in this case, strikingly violent.  In an instant, my baby – OUR baby was taken away from me.

Niko was the one living thing on this Earth that knew our entire journey from the beginning.  She was my last remaining connection to a past that I so, so adore and miss.  With her loss, my last remaining deep tie to Maggie was severed.  My heart is broken.

I feel like the last several months have served up more than my fair share of losses.  It’s like a larger force is giving me tough love – ripping the Band-Aid off without my permission, like I’m being given no choice but to be disconnected from what used to be my life – OUR life.  It hurts.  Damn it, it still hurts.

I try to be positive.  There’s nothing that could have hurt worse than losing Niko. So now, sadly and happily, there’s nothing that will hurt that bad again. Freedom is nothing left to lose.  Sure, there are more things that’d be bad.  But the freaky precision of picking off the one single thing that was the absolutely most important thing – I suppose that’s my freedom.  Now, I can breath easier because the last of the worst is done.  Now, I feel like I truly can begin to rebuild.

A birth day to remember

A very special Cars cake made for a very special birthday boy.

How can it be possible? This little man that changed everything is turned 2 on Friday.

Holy Moly.

In some ways, watching him grow is going by way too fast. Gone are the days of baby snuggles and gibberish....he is now a full-blown Cars lovin', running and jumping, never stops talking, knows what he wants, stubborn red-headed tempered, loving and laughing toddler.

In other ways, though, his birth could not seem further away to me. If my reference of time was based solely on that day, I would swear Carter was an adult. Perhaps because I have suppressed that day in my mind and my heart....sure it was a day of joy that Carter safely made it into the world in spite of tragedy going on around him, but it was also the second hardest day of my life next to losing his daddy. It's one of the few pieces of grief I haven't fully come to terms with and I have a hard time talking about. Ashamed that giving birth to this beautiful was a painful experience. Thinking about that day always leaves me in tears. 

Perhaps it also seems so long ago because so much has changed since then. So much life has been lived, so many milestones have been celebrated, created, and passed. And I have changed since then. I'm not the same person who birthed this beautiful boy two years ago. It's crazy to think that so much could change in such a short amount of time. Maybe that's why it doesn't feel like a short amount of time.

The only thing that gives me the ability to speak about the pain of Carter's birth is the knowledge that out of those ashes came the beauty that is my son. The child that forced me to keep going, robbed me of my selfishness, and brought to life another piece of Jeremy for me to hold on to. And the boy that saved my life. This little man is too full of life to keep me focused on the pain...he leads me forward and focused on living. Children have a funny way of doing that.

I would give anything to see Carter with his daddy, even just once. To see the look on Jeremy's face that I have burned into my heart....the look of falling into unconditional love with the life we created. I would do anything to give Carter an opportunity to know his daddy beyond the pictures and stories we tell him every day. I crave the sight of Jeremy on the ground playing Cars with Carter. I ache to see Carter give just one big sloppy, beautiful kiss to his daddy.

As much as it hurts to know I will never get to see these images in my life time, I also know that I do not want Carter's birthdays to be marked by tragedy. Today, I am reminding myself of how far we've come and how much love and happiness Carter has added to my life just by being in it. And I smile knowing Jeremy is watching, beaming with pride that his little man is happy and healthy, despite my shortcomings. And I look forward to seeing where the rest of his birthdays take us.

Happy Birthday, sweet baby boy. 

I love you always.

People Are ......

                                                       
.....interesting.
To say the least.

I've been reading the posts over the past week and have been struck by the number of you who've been hurt or felt pressured by "friends".
"Friends" who have not been widowed.
Very, very interesting, doncha think?

I think that most of the things people say aren't meant to hurt or offend us.  Friends are mostly well-meaning and think they're being helpful.
I've probably said something I thought was helpful ..... back in my "before" ...... when I really had no idea.
None.

Friends can't be blamed for trying to be helpful.  They just want us to stop hurting, even though that's impossible.  They feel helpless and just want to make the pain stop.
I'm sure we all wish they could.

But I've heard stories of "friends" who knew exactly what they were saying when they said it.  Anyone who pressures a person to "move on" needs to be told that he/she is the person who needs to move on.
Any person who criticizes the way we're grieving needs to be told ...... well, I'm not sure what they need to be told, because I find that too shocking for words.

And that's exactly how I felt when it happened to me.  Shocked beyond words.

I was told, only last summer, that I "had grieved wrongly".  I was told that I "had been selfish in my grief".
And that I "had been a very bad mother", in my "after".

I.
Was.
Stunned.
Fortunately these words were said over the phone, and not to my face.  Fortunately, because I'm not sure how I would've reacted, face to face.

These words, these hateful, ugly, spiteful words that were intended to do as much damage as possible, were uttered by a "friend".  A very, very close "friend".  Or so I thought.
A "close friend" who is still with her very alive husband.

I'm still not sure why she said what she said, other than most likely because of jealousy.  Some people need to have the spotlight on them.  All of the time.
When you're next to a widowed person, you stand in the shadows.  Though I'm sure every single one of us would love to have that light shine elsewhere ...... so that we could stand in the shadows.

And even though it sounds, and is, very, very sick ...... I think jealousy is behind many of the comments we sometimes get from a "friend".

My response was to say that I didn't receive any guide book for grieving my husband.  Nor did I receive a guidebook for helping my children grieve while I grieved.  And I said that those words were lies.
Then I said the last words that I will ever say to this "friend": don't ever call, text, email or contact me again.  Ever.
But before I hung up I told her one more thing:  I said that I sincerely hoped that she never has to grieve her husband, but if she does, I hope no one ever, EVER judges the way she does it.
We have not spoken since.

She has made comments on my personal blog, anonymously of course, and I've calmly deleted every one.
I have "moved on" and let go of any anger, hurt or resentment.
Life is too short.
And though I have forgiven her for words that are almost unforgivable, I can no longer have that kind of person in my life.
Because ...... life is way too short.

At the time though, her words had the desired effect ...... for a very brief moment.  I felt hurt.  Very hurt.  She did a good job.
But then I remembered the truth.  The truth that buried her lies and any future pain from them forever:
I did the best I could.  The very best I could.
I loved Jim fiercely and completely.  I have grieved him fiercely and completely.
I did the best I could with what I was given.
It wasn't always pretty.  It wasn't neat and orderly.  It was never comfortable.
In fact it was downright horrific.
But I'm still here.
Five years later I'm still standing.
And thriving.
And happy.

Which means I did a good job.

My kids are all mostly happy.  They haven't always made the choices I would've chosen for them, but I'm sure they feel the same way about some of mine.
And Jim and I raised our children to grow up and make their own choices, not ours.
Some still struggle with what they really want to be doing.
Some would prefer to be in a better job.
But who hasn't struggled with that?
They are healthy, independent, and strong willed.
And they know without a doubt that they are loved ...... and that someone has their back.

I did a damn good job.
In spite of what I was given.

In spite of words from a "friend".

And while it shocked me to hear those words, I feel even more shocked when I hear that one of you has heard words that hurt.  I feel angry, stunned and irate that someone had the nerve to say something hurtful and insensitive to any of you.  My blood pressure goes up immediately upon reading those comments.
I want names and numbers!!
I want to call these people and make sure they will never utter words like that to a grieving person again.  And I want to give them the name of a good therapist.  So that they can learn how to deal with THEIR issues appropriately.

Yes, maybe I need a session or two on anger management.
Not really.
I just don't want anyone to hurt you ..... you all who are already hurting beyond belief.  And so I react.
And yes, I sometimes (ok, many times) wish I could slap the person who hurt you.
But in reality, if I could sit down with that person, I'd love to quietly explain the impact words can have.  Words said without (or worse, with) thought.  Words uttered by someone who has no idea.
And hopefully never will.

Yes, indeed.  People certainly are ...... interesting.
To say the very least.

The death march

5 First bars of Beethovens Funeral March (Sonata 12) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

..... is here.
Its now February - less than a month until the 1st of March. 
The last few weeks of year 3 are here before we tick of the 3rd Sadiversary and enter year 4 of this madness.

My internal monologue is stuck on repeat: "He's dead.  Can you believe he is dead?  This makes no sense.  How could GREG be dead?  He is so alive.  So young and fit and healthy.  So adventurous.  So full of energy.  How can he not be here?"

February is the month Greg should have turned 50.
I've just invited a bunch of people to mark the occasion with an informal picnic at the beach.

I had to track down the e-mails of the men he had been friends with since his university days. 
Funny - Before, when life was good, I thought I would be able to count on these blokes if I needed them for any reason. 
They were Greg's oldest mates. 
They were solid.
But they turned to dust within 6 months of Greg's death and have rarely, if ever phoned.
Maybe they don't know what to say to me .... but anything would have been better than the complete silence of the last 2+ years.

But.

On the other hand, other people have been here the whole time. 
The friends who had Greg as their Best Man at their wedding - always checking on us, and coming over to help with those handyman jobs that are beyond me. 
Greg's workmates - phoning, facebooking, sending through new photos as they are found. 
My friends who have always been there, never drifting away from me and my grief.

....and my family.  My family are awesome.  They make life good.

...and as I look back over the past year's death marches, I think (hope) I can say that  - so far - this one is a little bit brighter than the last two.

Another Anniversary

Last year on February 4, on a cool gray morning, I was moving from my big, beloved house in the country into a small apartment in the middle of Portland. I had left my house and almost all it contained, packed up my cats, clothes and a few belongings and let go.

I let go of a life I thought I wouldn't survive without.
 
When I think of those days just before leaving, I remember things in flashes. Everything felt raw and harsh, yet hazy with shock and grief. That strange detached sense of being submerged in the depths. I can see these flashes of memory, but they seem like they happened to someone else.

The last few heart breaking minutes I spent in my old house. My sweet friend tearfully and gently  telling me that it was time to leave as I sobbed and fought with reality. Closing the door behind me and feeling completely numb and empty. The cats yowling for the entire 90 minute drive as I shifted between crying and feeling numb again, wondering if yowling like them would release a little of the pain that was choking me.

But I wasn't alone and that saved me.

There were many people who loved me so much that they managed to make these days less terrible and lonely. They helped me take care of details I simply couldn't bring myself to. They unpacked for me, stayed with me that first night in the new apartment, they brought me food and took good care of me. They even went through some of Dave's things for me because I had reached a point where the pain was overwhelming and all I could manage were the basics. Eat, try to sleep, and cry.

I took notes about the entire process, I tried to stay present. I made the requisite phone calls, but I was barely hanging on. Since then, though, I have felt stronger and stronger even though it didn't seem like it most days. I've made a life for myself here and found ways to settle in. I've fallen in love with this city and gradually grown to love myself and even appreciate the potential of my new path too.

But on this anniversary, I can't stop thinking about the love of those friends. They each took away some of the darkness and fear and pain in their own wonderful way. Next to the days right after Dave died, it was the hardest days of my life. The most draining and scary. But there they were, offering their love and kindness. I grabbed onto their support like a drowning person and felt the gratitude flood through me.

I sit here in the living room of my cozy new home in the new city I already miss the second I leave it and I realize how far I've come. I had to let go to know what I was capable of. I had to loosen my grip on what I thought was my life's plan and find out what the actual plan was. I had to participate in that plan by being open and following the paths that presented themselves to me. I had to go out and FIND some of those paths. I had to enlist the help of so many. I had to learn to lean on others and accept help. I had to trust myself. None of it was easy, but that's what makes it so precious to me now. It was hard-won.

All that hard work came from the fuel of those first few days I thought I wouldn't survive. Once I saw that I did survive, I could move forward. Before I was able to see the possibility of a better time ahead of me, I had those incredible people who cared about me, holding me up when I could barely stand on my own.

Dave's parents have told me a few times that some of his last words to them were "Make sure Cassie's OK". I don't think he had to worry. I made it on my own but I made it surrounded the entire time by the energy of those who love me, including him.

I am so grateful to have found this feeling of peace and joy again. There was a long period of time when I thought I'd never feel it again. I'm able to see now, how strong I really was, even when I felt completely broken. I was so low and scared in those days that I couldn't rely on my own hope. I had to borrow it from those who had faith in me.

I know that the universe doesn't deal me a better hand now just because I've been through hell, but there's just as much chance that the future holds amazing things, too. I know sad times will come again and little things will set me back. I know big bad things can and will happen. I know I have an incredibly long way to go, but now that I've crested the hill of the one year mark since that pivotal move,  I can look behind me, at the distance I've come and marvel. I guess I really am strong. There is no denying that now. And so is the love that helped me get here.

Friends vs. Family

A friend posted this on facebook.

- She/He has been changed to they/them -

I have heard the horror stories. Of widows feeling forgotten, left out, treated like their widow status is contagious, by friends and family.

It has never happened to me.

Until now.

I have a friend, that I have been friends with since before Seth got sick. They have always been there for me.

Recently I knew their birthday was coming up. I anxiously waited for word on the party.

See, this birthday party is always so fun. I have never missed it. Even after Seth’s death.

As I waited for the invitation to arrive, I didn’t realize the party had been planned, was happening on a certain night, and I was being left out.

I was shocked when I logged on to facebook and saw pictures from the party. Our mutual friends were there. I frantically looked to see if I missed an invitation. Facebook event, email, text, snail mail.. to discover, I didn't miss a invite.

I wasn't invited.

I was hurt. I felt forgotten. I felt like maybe me being a widow was too much for my friends to be around and try to grasp. Maybe they don’t want to ignore the elephant in the room anymore. Maybe they don’t want to catch my disease – widowhood.

I have kicked this hurt around in my head for a while now. Trying to understand.

Through my birthdays, Seth’s birthdays, the death anniversary, I have never forgotten to invite them.

I mean really, how do you forget a friend?

I once forgot to invite a friend to Seth’s yearly memorial. Another friend asked why this certain friend wasn’t invited. I quickly realized I didn't forget my friend, I just didn't include her in the invite. I quickly added her to the invite, and texted her and begged for forgiveness.

She of course forgave me, and came to the memorial.. Phew.

If I forget a friend, another friend will ask me what’s going on, and I will realize I didn't include one of the most important people in my life. I would never forget a friend on purpose.. and I will try to correct my mistake.

So it made me wonder, as they were celebrating, did none of our mutual friends say “Where is Melinda?”

Through trying to understand it all, I feel forgotten.

I have heard all the horror stories of widows going through similar things with their friends and family. Being at 30 months, I thought I was passed the point of when people would excuse themselves from my life.

I guess even 30 months in, people change their mind. They decide to not be a part of my life.

But this far out from my husband’s death?

I expected this in the early days. When I first entered widowhood and my in-laws turned on me. I expected it then.

Being this far out, and it is just barely happening, makes me feel alone.

Very alone.

Makes me realize that the world around me is forever changed. 

And is forever changing with each day.

Who I thought were my friends and family, is still changing.

Makes me realize that people don’t want to be around a 32 year old widow. After all, "this" won’t happen to them.. and you sure as shit don’t want to catch my very contagious disease. You don’t want me to cough, spread my germs to you, and have your spouse drop dead the next day.

One of the very few things I remember from Seth’s funeral is my dad hugging me, my mom, and my brother. 

In a big, bawling, group hug.

Through my dad’s own sobs, he said-

“We will get through this”.

“As a family”.

“We will get through this”.

My dad was so right. As a family we are getting through this. I realize that my friends are not just friends, they are my family. We are getting through it as a family.

I realize I am still learning about the new world around me.

And how nothing ever stays the same.

Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people in your life who want you
in theirs; the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would
do anything to see you smile, and who love you no matter what. - Unknown