Less than a decade, more than a lifetime.

July 19, 2003

It's always been a hard reality for me to swallow that I never got a full decade with Jeremy. Something about that round number made me feel even more like I got robbed.

I started dating Jeremy shortly after I turned 20. He died when I was 28 - I never got to celebrate turning 20 or 30 with him. Just inside a decade.

A few weeks ago, Jeremy and I would have been married 10 years. It kills me that I'll never celebrate that milestone with him. The funny thing is, I've never seen our wedding video. I've had the tape sitting in my purse for more than 2 years, waiting to remember to take it in to convert it to DVD. I finally remembered to drop it off awhile back.

On July 19th, our 10th anniversary, I received a call that my wedding video was finished.

I finally have the DVD to watch....the day of our wedding. And yet, I can't seem to bring myself to watch it yet. I've been waiting to watch this thing for 10 years, and used to complain to Jer all the time that we'd never seen it, and now that I have it - I can't do it. Something too final about it all now. Part of it may be that just hearing his voice generally makes me tear up instantly. Part of it is that I'm not ready to close yet another door. Part of it is fear that it won't be nearly as magical as I remember it....and I'd like to hold on to that magic.

I don't know when I'll get around to finally watching the video. Too much of me has to know that I won't be able to keep it at bay for too long. Too much of me aches to see his face in motion...and that look in his eye when he looks at me that can drop me to my knees - undeniable love. Too much of me wants to fill in the holes of my memory to renew that day in my heart once again to hold on to the preciousness of it. Too much of me wants the reminder that even though I never got a decade with Jeremy, I got more than a lifetime.

When One Door Closes ......

                                                         source

...... it sometimes slams right in your face.
Some doors are like that.  They suddenly slam shut with so much force that you're knocked backwards.
The door on my "before" life shut like that.
Suddenly.
Surprisingly.
Furiously.
Permanently.

Other doors close very slowly.  You can tell that they're closing, but it's such a slow process that you can't actually see the movement.
But you know it's coming.

My youngest child is heading off to college tomorrow.  We're both making the day long drive and then moving him in on Friday.
And as I drive away, leaving him behind, another door will close.

I've seen it coming.  I've been aware.
But that doesn't make it any easier.
This is the child who's been with the "after" me the most.
This is the child who was with Jim the least.
It's been a tough road.
To say the least.

I'm sure that all of my children have felt cheated by their father's death.
More than once.
As have I.
Many, many times more than once.
But this child ...... this child was cheated the most.

He didn't learn some of the lessons about being a good man ...... that come only by living with one.
He didn't get the chance to have any teenage "heart to heart" talks with his dad.
He didn't experience the calmness that Jim gave during turbulent times.
He's the child who missed the most.

But in spite of all that ...... and maybe because of it ...... we've come to this door.
We've made it.
He's made it.
There were many times when I thought he wouldn't.
And there were many times when I thought I wouldn't.

He still has lessons to learn.
He still has growing to do.
He will still become a good man.
Because of who his father was ...... not how much time he didn't get.
Maybe one day he'll be a better father ...... because of what he missed.
And perhaps he'll be more generous with his time ...... because he felt cheated the most.

It's time for him to walk through the door ...... and on to his "after".
We parented him ...... and his siblings ...... the best that we could ...... while we could.
And while I have no doubt that my heart will ache as I drive away, I will also feel excited for him.
And for all he's about to experience.

This isn't a door that will slam shut permanently.
The parenting door seems to open periodically through the years.
And I'm ok with that ...... because I really don't need another one slammed in my face.

Why this is YOUR fault.

 

My foot - Apologies if you were considering eating something any time soon...

Like many of you, last week I read a facebook post by the fabulous Michele in which she confessed to being irritate with her dead husband (not her lovely, living one....)

Went for a run this morning, and my legs were feeling heavy and slow. Phil is never far from my mind when I run (especially in August), and as I struggled with the miles I silently asked him for a little mojo. I picked up my pace a bit, and heard his voice so clearly in my mind say, "No whining." I responded (yes, all this IS going on in my head!) "Could you be a bit more positive?" He said, "Sheesh, I wasn't even pushing you that hard." I continued my run, irritated with my dead husband.

And you wonder if I am normal. 

Well, I'm here to tell you Michele (and everybody else who may be wondering)  that I think you are completely and  absolutely normal.


The following is a run-down on my week as told by me to my dead husband.....

Why this is SO YOUR FAULT!

If you hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have had to fight for insurance money to help care for our children.

If I hadn’t had to fight for insurance money, I would not have been sent the forms that had to be witnessed by a Justice of the Peace.

If I hadn’t had to have my signature witnessed by a JP I would never have been bitten (“mouthed”) by his dog.

If his gumby dog hadn’t clipped my thumb with its tooth when I bent down to pat it, I wouldn’t have got an infected hand.

If I didn’t have an infected hand, I wouldn’t have had a fever.

If I didn’t have a fever, I wouldn’t have taken a day off work.

If I hadn’t taken the day off work, I would have been rushing to get ready instead of going  outside with the rubbish that morning and in doing so, spraining my ankle (badly) by falling down a single step.

If I hadn’t sprained my ankle, I wouldn’t have gone to the doctor.

If I hadn’t gone to the doctor, she wouldn’t have asked about my infected hand.

If she didn’t ask about my infected hand, she wouldn’t have given me antibiotics.

If she hadn’t given me antibiotics, I wouldn’t be sitting here with nausea, intermittent diarrhea and expecting the third side effect to be hitting me any time soon.

So that’s why being beached on the couch with a buggered ankle, vomit bucket and intermittent mad, limping dashes to the toilet is YOUR FAULT.

At least my hand is not infected anymore.

I miss you.
I love you.
XA

See - normal.  Completely and utterly normal.

I Remember

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I have plunged back into the cold, dark, hopeless place I felt buried in the first few weeks/months after Dave died. I've been struggling to eat, sleep, clean up after myself, and find comfort in anything. Everything feels like sandpaper against raw nerve endings. I can't stand to be alone. I need help. I've reached out. I've especially sought out the hugs and love of the women in my life who are best at sitting with me in my pain. They make me feel safe to let go entirely. They've saved me. And they have their own lives, so I return again and again to my own empty home to try to ease my own pain. 

The other day I felt so desperate for help and healing that I booked a session with a Reiki healer/medium. As I talked with her on the phone to schedule an appointment, she said "Are you OK?" and I broke down and sobbed "No". She said "I can see you today at 4:00". 

She sat down with me and began to do her medium thing. She wasn't able to come up with Dave's name on her own or say anything about me losing my husband, but once I told her his name, she began to say things that did make some sense (I still don't know if I believe any of this stuff I just take any comfort any way I can get it).

She said she smelled hospital all around me. She said he was surprised by how fast it all happened and said he still wasn't sure what happened. He wanted to know what had happened. This makes sense. There were mistakes made by the medical professionals and he crashed so fast no one could have anticipated his dying that suddenly. 

She said he was calling me "babe". She said he kept apologizing for leaving me and that he knew how hard it'd been for me these last few years. He said he'd like for his ashes to be in the Snake River. I vaguely recollect Dave talking about this river, but it wasn't necessarily one of his favorites. 

He said he wanted his mom and me to stop crying so much over him (fat chance). 

He said he was shocked by how many people came to his memorial and he was so proud to see them there surrounding and supporting me. 

"Do you have anything to ask him?" the medium said. 

"Did I make you happy?" I asked (choked out between messy, wet sobs). 

"Oh silly, those were the best years of my life," she said he said. 

At this, I bent over at my waist and sobbed as hard as I can remember ever sobbing. It felt like I'd rip into a million pieces. She held me. 

Then she said that he wanted me to start thinking more about the happy times and less about the times when he was sick or sad times in general. This part is something I've been thinking a lot about lately. A coping strategy I've had is to turn away from happy memories because they hurt too much. Far too much. 

It doesn't make any sense to focus on the bad memories or the sadness, but it's not a logical decision. It's what my subconscious does to survive. In order to heal, though, I know I'll have to start to look back at all the joyful memories and let that love and happiness wash over me. I'm just not there yet. I find it hard to even go there in my mind. It tears me apart. But I'm moving in that direction. 

 I remember the time he pulled a camping folding chair down from a hook in the garage and a chipmunk who'd been living inside it jumped out, landed on Dave's neck and rebounded off of him with his little claws. I could hear Dave's girlish scream all the way across the yard and ran to find my manly husband running around in circles, hands flapping in terror, screaming at a pitch only certain dogs can hear. "IT WAS A BAT!" He screamed. "A BAT CLAWED MY NECK!". 

"Oh, this bat?" I asked, peering behind the woodpile to find a chipmunk cowering in fear.

I remember the time he ate a fiber one bar before bed and told me the next morning that he was amazed that I'd slept through the incredibly loud and bountiful farts he'd trumpeted all night. He never ate a fiber one bar again.

I remember our beautiful trip to Italy. Our incredible Hawaii adventure. I remember how when he was around, I slept like a baby. I remember how when he came into my life, his presence helped me be the best person I could be.

I remember that I was loved. Dearly and truly and deeply. I remember that I made his life better and he made my life lovely.

I remember Dave.

Not Enough

The way Seth looked at me, reminds me that I was his entire world.

Since my husband’s suicide in July 2010, I have struggled with feeling like I was not enough.

I was not enough to keep my husband alive.

I have felt that if I was a better friend, a better wife, a better support system, my husband would still be alive.

Realizing that sometimes love is NOT enough.. is devastating.

What happened to all we need is love?

Three years later I struggle with feeling like I am not enough for the world around me.

Until recently I didn't realize how shattering my husband’s suicide was to my self esteem.

It now keeps me from being able to have a new relationship.

Because I’m not enough.. they will leave me, in the ultimate way.. suicide.

Feeling like I am not enough for anyone has left me looking at my future.. looking at a future that is alone and empty.

I remind myself that Seth did truly love me. Anyone that knew Seth always said I was his world. You could see it in the way he looked at me.

I remind myself that we loved each other deeply.. that our love was not an illusion.

What’s hard to swallow is that bipolar had a stronger grasp on my husband then I did. No matter how hard I pulled and pushed, bipolar always had the upper hand.

Tomorrow would have been our eight year wedding anniversary. Instead of showering my husband with love and affection, I am left with just the memories and broken dreams.

I want to love deeply. I want to give deeply. But how do I break the broken record in my head? The one that tells me you are not enough.

How does one “forget” and move forward?

Clarity

“Peace and clarity is not to be learned by flight from the world, or by running away from things, or by turning solitary and going apart from the world. Rather, we must learn an inner solitude wherever or with whomsoever we may be.”
-Meister Eckhart

It keeps happening.

Just when I feel that I not only have seen and entered the light from the dark tunnel, that I found myself in after Michael's death, I realize it can get brighter.

It's like wearing a million pairs of sunglasses. You can see, but it's not until you raise your hand and realize there's one pair stacked onto another, from which you remove one, that you see that it brightens your surrounding.

Sight wasn't inhibited, so who would usually think to check, but once you do, and have the strength and faith to remove a pair (aka the blocks we unknowingly create), do we see the clarity that awaits us around each corner.

Clarity brought out by situations, people, experiences, a simple note or even just listening to the lyrics of a song.

And it becomes clearer and brighter...and just when you think you're on cruise control with your sunnier perspective, you reach up to brush a piece of hair out of the way to find there's another air of "shades" that can be removed.

Don't worry. I've realized that I will always want to have one "pair" on, as to not blind me from that which is trying day and night to show me the immense and eternal peace that awaits.

I guess it's kind of like my love for Michael. It unveils, it repairs, it is everlasting, and it will shield me from some things, but it's my job to realize what things I'm unknowingly blocking myself from seeing clearly.

Let the New Life Begin

So much has happened in such a small amount of time that my head is spinning even as I type.  I now live in downtown Austin with cars and people and dog walking and concrete which, for a country boy, is quite the change.  I have a new job that’s challenging, engaging and, quite frankly, fun.  Life is completely different than just a few weeks ago, let alone a month or a year ago.  So much has changed.  And I’m ok with all of it.  A new world of possibilities has appeared in front of me and I’m happy to be right where I am.  Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to say that.

Not for one second have I forgotten my past, my sweet wife, or my journey that brought me to where I am now.  Yet, despite the relevance and overwhelming daily influence of it all, oddly, I can’t recall the last time I brought up my experience in conversation.  I do use it as a little shit test when I’m faced with unpleasantries or difficult circumstances: Does what’s happening right now really mean diddly shit compared to watching my lovely wife slowly die?  Pretty much 100% of the time, the answer to that question is “No” which makes it really easy not to get over involved in things that would previously wrap me up into a tangle.  I guess that’s one of many consolation prizes – perspective.

It’s taken me a long time to get where I am right now.  I’ll never be the same as I was before and I can’t say I’m very happy about the journey.  But I’m happy that I’m here where I am right now starting over.  Let the new life begin.