The First Date.

SO. After two and a half years… it finally happened.

I had my first date this week.

I can't even tell you how this happened. I had no idea this person would be interested and I've never much been interested in him either. It sort of came out of the blue… no real warning, no time for planning how I want to feel about this step. Just… bam, there it is, you're going on a date today.

I haven't even been able to really be friends with men since my fiancé died. It has just felt so weird. But lately, I've found myself feeling more comfortable being around men again. In fact, wanting to be around them. Maybe not romantically per say, but just, be around them. Building friendships with new men actually feels okay right now. Which is a HUGE deal. I used to have plenty of guy friends before, and I miss spending time around that male energy. I really do. So when someone offered to take me to lunch, somehow it didn't feel so awful. Instead of the "HELL NO!" I expected to hear from inside me, there was instead this sort of heavy sigh, which seemed to say "I'm so tired of pushing that away. Yes, please, take me out. I just want to feel what it feels like to be taken to lunch again".

HUGE. super freaking huge. I don't know when this change happened. But somewhere in the past several months I gather it has been growing. My counselor asked a month or two ago how I felt now about the idea of dating and instead of the immediate "nope" I've had for two and a half years… my answer was a very thoughtful "I don't know". That in itself is a big shift. And an unexpected one.

So… the date. It wasn't anything fancy - just a casual friend who recently said he was interested to know me more and offered to take me out for lunch. It felt easy and nonthreatening. He is enough of a friend to already know my story and of my fiancé - so that also made it a little easier, too.

I did plenty of freaking out about it beforehand of course. Because that's what I do now, about anything new since he died. "WHY did I say yes to that?! I'm no where near dating people - what am I doing?!" But then there was the other side of me… the side that is just… just so tired. Tired of being alone. Tired of NO ONE taking me ANYWHERE for two and a half years. Tired of not letting men in at all. And so I suppose that side won. And I decided to just let it be lunch. Like it was. And let it be about getting to know a friend on a little deeper level. Which it was. I decided not to let it mean all these other things. For today, no, I am just going to let a nice guy take me out. I am not going to give a shit what it means or where it goes or doesn't go or whether I'm ready or not ready… I'm just going to enjoy lunch dammit.

And you know what? I did. It was great. We had a really fun time - and the world didn't end afterwards. I realized something while there that surprised me. My whole experience of a date is completely different now than before I met Drew. And it is because I am different now. When I met Drew, I still had a lot of things I was working through in my life. Things that he helped me to heal in our time together. And now, I discovered on that date that all those demons I used to have when I first met Drew weren't in the way anymore. It was a beautiful thing.

I also realized that, because he died, my whole way of knowing people is different. I feel deeply honored when I sit down with anyone and we share our stories - both the good and the bad - with each other now. Sitting across the table from this guy last week was no different. I felt honored to have that exchange. Because time and people are so much more precious to me now than ever before.

It didn't feel wrong. And I didn't feel guilty. And I didn't even have the total nervous breakdown I thought I would have as I drove home. Actually, the opposite.

I just felt proud. I felt proud that I went on a date. I looked that enormous fear right in the face and I just said "Yep, I'm doin it". And I know you all know how totally perplexing and horrifying the idea of the first date is. God I was terrified, but a bigger part of me wanted to face it than was scared of it. And so I guess that is how it happens… when our desire to face our fears finally grows bigger than our fear of them.

Of course the whole thing has still wreaked havoc on my mind and emotions now the rest of the week after. I don't wanna paint a picture that this experience was all roses. Hell no. It triggered all sorts of shit. There are just places in my heart I don't go anymore… and one of those is into how it felt to have a man's attention. Most of the time, I don't even remember what it's like to have someone anymore. That sounds sad probably to some people, but it works for me, for right now. And I've gotten pretty used to it and okay with it.

And now, suddenly the week's events have brought it all flooding back. I remembered all the little things; date nights, learning about a new person, the butterflies and the excitement of the new beginning. And then later, the romantic stuff… movies together, back rubs, flowers, fancy home-cooked dinners, dancing, staying up all night talking and laughing harder than ever together… and just the way it FEELS when you have the attention of someone in that way. I really didn't need to feel all of that universe. Thanks.

I immediately found myself just wishing to skip past all the "getting to know each other"-ness because what I really miss is the deep stuff… the stuff two or three years in when you first learn how to really work well together and become totally cohesive. The total and complete trust. God I miss that. And all the little romantic things too of course… but really, most of all, the trust. It takes SO LONG to build a deep level of trust for me. It took 8 months for Drew to even convince me to go on a date, and by then we were best friends. A guy's gotta pass a LOT of tests to make it into my heart. It feels like climbing five mountains just to think about doing it all over again with someone new. And of course, immediately, I would really rather just have HIM. The person I already chose and wanted forever. UGH.

So there it is. The good and the bad of that whole experience. Honestly, the date couldn't have possibly gone better. And I am very glad I did it. He was polite and respectful, funny, smart, and we enjoyed each other's company. Most of all, I felt like Drew would have been really happy with our date and this fellow treated me. I think that's what made it feel the most okay… that he would have approved.

Despite that, I don't really expect any more to come of it. I don't think I am anywhere near being able to actually date someone new again, and so I'm quite happy for us to end up with this one date, and a new friendship. I think it was the best way for a first date to happen really - with no real expectations of anything more to come of it and a desire to be friends. Dipping a toe in the water. Baby steps - that's how we do things in this after life, after all, isn't it?

Facing My Second Christmas Holiday Without Him

A friend called me yesterday to talk about plans for New Years Eve.  She had previously mentioned the idea of renting a house at the beach and getting a few people together for a fun night in.  While I had been quite keen to join them when we first spoke about it, I found myself feeling more and more reluctant as the conversation went on.

For a start, the house will have three bedrooms, all of which she had allocated to the three couples.  When I asked about my sleeping arrangements she suggested I bring along a blow up mattress and crash on the lounge-room floor.

Now, I'm not a princess.  Sleeping on the floor doesn't bother me and I've done it plenty of times before.  But this time I found myself feeling really upset at the idea.  As soon as we hung up the phone I burst in to tears and it hit me that I would be facing my second 'new year' alone and without Dan.  

I wasn't hurt by my friend or her plans, but I realised I was upset about the idea of not having a bedroom because it would mean that I wouldn't have access to a private 'safe place' if the grief roller-coaster took a steep dip during the event. 

I tried looking in to hiring my own hotel room nearby, so I could retreat if and when I needed - but everything was either booked out or had a minimum 4-night stay that would be way out of my budget.  

I thought about driving up to the beach in the afternoon and not drinking, so I could drive myself home when I wanted instead of staying for the night.  But I don't want to do that either.  

In fact, within about five minutes of hanging up the phone I felt myself going in to self-preservation mode.  I was flat out ready to hide from not only New Years Eve (I have invitations from other groups of friends that I could take up) but all holiday-related social events over the coming weeks.  

Instead, I decided, I would stay home alone and go to bed early that night, hide under the blankets with the cat and let 2015 crawl in unannounced.  And there it was again.  Dan was dead and I was on my own. 

It's so easy to miss him.  Even when the grief isn't the biggest thing in my life and I'm in some kind of place of peace about his death, the 'missing him' is there.  The happiest of moments can crystallise his absence and remind me of what he's missing.  What I'm missing. The smallest or most obvious thing can set me off at the most unexpected times.  

I can be sailing along in calm seas, feeling ok, planning my Christmas holiday... then suddenly realise that at midnight on New Years Eve I will have to stand there awkwardly while everyone else around me turns to embrace and kiss their partners. It was a classic light bulb moment.  I mean, Dan isn't going to be here for the holidays - how had I not thought of this already!?  

Then came the realisation of everything else he would miss out on this Christmas.  When I make the trip to Sydney to see his family next weekend, his absence will be incredible.  I can't wake up in his arms on Christmas morning and make him wear a silly matching Christmas-themed accessory with me. I won't be able to find the perfect present to make his eyes light up and bring on that gorgeous, excited grin that used to flip my stomach. 

He is gone and it sucks.  So today has been a teary day while I cry for the fact that my husband is dead and won't be home for Christmas.  When I'm ready and the sadness has been vented enough, I will get back up, brush myself up, and take another step forward into this widowed life without him. 

The Ache of Lonely

You know that thing, where, for days and weeks and maybe even longer, you are strolling along in life, thinking and maybe even knowing that Hey, I think I might be doing more than okay right now - and having this odd sort of confidence in knowing that you are emotionally pretty happy for the most part - and then all of a sudden you are lying in your bed in the dark at 2 a.m. one night, unable to sleep, and you randomly and almost silently start crying because you are so incredibly lonely and you didn't even know it until right that second?

Yeah. That.

On Monday, at grief therapy, I walked in the door and just started crying. Not a hard cry, but a soft one. A silent one at first, that started to then build up from my insides as I started to speak. I find that, with therapy, I often have no idea what I'm going to say when I go in there. Whatever comes out, just comes out, and that is what needs to be said. It's the same way I write. I don't plan it. I don't know how to plan it. Whatever comes out when I start typing, is what needs to be said in that space of time. So I release it.

"I feel left out. It's been 3 years and so enough time has passed that a lot of the widowed friends I met early on are starting to get into new relationships , get re-married, finding new love, and dating. I feel like I'm so far behind everyone else, and I feel like I will never be ready and I will end up being left behind, and Im afraid that I wont have anything in common anymore with my widowed friends, who are some of the only people I can truly be myself around. One of my closest widowed friends had her first date since her partner's death last week. She is one of the people I feel closest to, and we have always sort of been on the same timeline with our loss and our emotions and things, and I hate how this is making me feel right now." The words spilled out all at once, as if knocked over by someone.

"How is it making you feel?", she asked gently.

"Jealous. Lonely. Left out. I'm jealous that other people have the ability to feel things again and to consider dating again. I don't like feeling jealous of my widowed friends, but I feel jealous. I'm jealous because a huge part of me really is scared I will be alone forever, and I'm starting to get scared that I will just be okay with that, and I will become used to it and I will just tell myself it's fine this way and that I already had my great love. But it's not fine, and I'm really lonely. But I'm also not ready or willing to put effort into a new person. I just miss the person I had so damn much, and it aches sometimes."

Last night I went to bed really early, because I  had to be up really early today for my hellish commute to work this morning. My roommate, who is the same age as me and single, has been dating recently after joining a dating site, and she had her first date last night with a new guy. She asked me if it was okay if they hung out here for a bit, if things went well, and I said sure, just send me a text if you're coming back here with him so I can put some normal clothes on and maybe throw on a bra. Yeah. That's how I roll.

Around 11 p.m. I got the text that they would be coming up in a few minutes. I wasn't in the mood to meet anyone new or deal with couple-related-things, so I shut my door to my bedroom and turned off the light and lay in bed with my kitties. After a few minutes of trying to sleep, I started to hear it coming from the other room. The sounds of new love. The sounds of possibility and fresh starts. The flirtatious laughter coming from him, and then her, and then him again, in the ease and flow of an innocent date. I pulled my stuffed Bear that Don gave me all those years ago closer, and I held him tightly, as if his familiar fur would make everything better. The silent, knowing tears came - and I could actually feel my own heart breaking. I could feel the ache that had been sitting there for months, waiting to seep out.

 On the other side of that door, was a life that I once had, and that now I wasn't ready for with anyone other than my husband. Every single day, I go out into the big scary world, and I live my life without him. I have lots of friends, both old and new. I have a good job, and I'm pursuing a careeer in comedy and writing, and trying to use the pain to help myself and others heal. I have a full life and I am generally much happier than I was even just a year ago. But once the day is over and I come home and I close that bedroom door, the world is gone and it is only me. I am then reminded, in the cruelest of ways, that nobody lies in bed with me. I am faced with the cold harsh truth of the nothingness that responds to my voice. I lay there, faintly hearing the giggling coming from the other side of our apartment, and all I can think of in the night is this one thought, like a drumbeat, again and again and again  .....

I am so lonely. I am so lonely. I am so lonely. 

Snow on the Mountain

We all have certain days that we dread as they swing back around the calendar. The anniversary of the day he died. Our wedding anniversary. His birthday. Maybe another special day we shared. But the holidays are among the worst. Most of us all have memories of the good times we shared, and going through it all without them…well it just sucks big time.

This time of year in Hawaii, the Snow on the Mountain comes into bloom. It’s called that because it blooms in winter when there is usually snow on our mountains here in Hawaii. The one in the picture here we planted together several years ago - his daughter Jamie gave it to us as a tiny little stick of a thing, and it has really grown. Mike so admired it, and we always commented each year as it bloomed a little bigger and a little more vibrantly. 

The last Christmas we spent together in 2012 was among the best. It was actually a quiet year, but Mike was very full of the holiday spirit. He couldn’t wait to help me pull out all the decorations and put up the little fake three we’d bought together for our first Christmas back in 1999.  I remember we spent many evenings that December on the lanai looking in at our little tree through the window, enjoying a glass of wine and the temperate weather, looking out at the sunsets over the ocean. Little did I know it would be our last.

Now when our Snow on the Mountain starts to flower I know it’s that time of year again. I can try and avoid the shopping craziness and the holiday commercials, but these beautiful white bushes all over town are hard to miss.

To top it off, this past week I found myself reaching out to welcome yet another member of our terrible club. I don’t know her (other than when she was very little and I babysat for her) but her parents are friends with my parents. I know her Dad quite well too and I am simply devastated for them all. She is far too young to be faced with the sudden and unexpected loss of her husband and father to their three young children. As many of us are. And it’s the holidays too. My heart is just breaking for them.

Thinking of her my mind goes back and replays the past nearly 22 months. How shocking and horrific that first day was…that first week…that first month. How people went back to their own lives - as they must, and how I was faced with having to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other again. How I drowned my sorrows for nearly six months in wine and frozen dinners. How I moved through my small world like a zombie. How I broke down on the floor surrounded by all his things, unable to breathe. How I finally, with the help of his daughters, went through, divided and sorted his things away. What a bleak empty place it left me in.

And I also think of some of the more positive strides I’ve made in the past year. Slowly, his space has been transformed into my home office. I didn’t set foot in here much for a long time but now I sit here typing this at his desk, sitting in his chair, looking out at the view he enjoyed, with some of this special things around me. And though it is bittersweet and I often sit here gazing around me in bewilderment as to how I got here, I’m finding a new foothold. Slowly, yes, but surely too. It surprises me some days. 

And yet, despite all that…the holidays are still really hard. So many thousands and millions of people enjoying their families without the pain and loss we have gone through…so many people who really don’t know how good they have it. Last year I stayed here, looking out at the world through a kaleidoscope of painful memories. I patently ignored the holidays altogether as best I could, including the beautiful Snow on the Mountain. This year though I will be traveling to my parents’ place in Virginia. It feels like the right thing to do, to be with them, and my brother’s family, this time around. I’m hoping a change of scenery, and again, like on Thanksgiving this year, focusing on other people instead of on myself, will give me the breathing room I need to continue this journey into my strange new world.

A Step Up from Suffocation~

I reached a crisis point in my grief late last week.  It was as if all the agony and devastation that lingers right under my skin suddenly became the surface of my skin and I felt like a wild animal that howls its' pain to the night skies.

It didn't help that I'd been ill for almost a week, a vicious flu that tore up my body in every way possible.  Those moments of physical illness, of course, only exacerbate our alone-ness.  It came with a headache and vomiting and fever, chills, sweats...the whole shebang.  Chuck was so good at taking care of me whenever I'd get ill.  Which wasn't often, thank goodness, but I could count on him always.  And this time I was alone (in that I was without him).   Fortunately our son is nearby and he immediately came to lend assistance and support to me.

What happened in the process of this flu was that every bit of the grief that is the baseline to my life clawed its' way into my soul and I felt as if I were suffocating.  I couldn't stand any weight on me and tore my clothes off and found a pair of scissors and cut my hair to the scalp again, as I did right after Chuck died.  That provided a small bit of relief, temporarily.

And the first day that I felt halfway normal, I drove to nearby Luke AFB and their family advocacy center to inquire about counseling.  My hope was that they might point me in the direction of a grief counselor off-base but as it ended up, they took me immediately for an intake, which ordinarily lasts 20 minutes but this wonderful counselor gave me over an hour to emotionally vomit all that is in me.

Another appointment is scheduled for next week.  This grief of mine, this grief that so many of us must walk through, is too big for me alone.  Since reaching that crisis point, sadness consumes me.  Every breath I take is a reminder that Chuck is no longer with me, that I am without him.  It holds no meaning for me to hear that he wouldn't want me to feel this way.  No shit, is what I respond.  I'd rather not feel this way either, thank you very much.   Maybe discussing it with this counselor will make a difference for me.  She asked me directly if I believed myself to be clinically depressed and I answered no.  I'm just grieving normally and deeply.  And she didn't immediately reach for her pad to write a prescription.  Instead we spoke about Buddhism and Eastern spiritual practices, and Kubler-Ross and near-death studies and parallel universes and she didn't tell me I needed to exercise upon hearing of my woeful self-care.   She merely suggested that, as we go along,  I might like to take my soul out to refresh itself in the sun and in nature.

Both of us agreed that our meeting wasn't by chance but another example, perhaps, of Chuck sending necessary people into my life when I need them.  The odds on her being there that day, the odds of me just taking a chance on going over to the airbase in the first place to inquire about counseling...it all lined up.

Somewhere in me I need to start not just believing, but taking that belief into my heart, that Chuck, who loved me so much in life, is still making sure I'm alright.

Maybe...I hope...oh, I hope...that I will indeed know that again at some point.  Maybe that will bring even a little ease to my shredded heart~

Redecorating

Things around the house are starting to look quite a bit different from when Ian was here.

Use of rooms has been shuffled.   Furniture re-arranged in various rooms.  I got extra kitchen cabinets installed six months after he died - a project Ian had started trying to get quotes for, but was having no luck what so ever.

And now there a new paint colour on the corridor and living room walls. 

My parents helped - Dad with moving furniture, my step-mum with the actual painting.

My house has a large(ish) open plan area for the living/kitchen and dining areas, but we just couldn't get the dining area walls painted because of the amount of furniture I have, and the lack of floor space to pull it all into the middle to access the walls.

My Dad was keen to try however.  Until I explained that one cabinet was pretty much still as Ian left it.  Including the post-it on the front with his last 'to do' list written on it.

I've given it one cursory clean-out so I didn't have to by stationary for school as I knew it was well stocked.  I've also put in some additional items which matched other stuff being stored there (like electronics packaging).

One of the hard parts is that this cabinet's full of books.  Ian had a large book collection.  I have boxes and boxes of books stashed all over the house.  I've been slowly working through other bookshelves and donating books to various charities to sell.

However there are some that are somewhat dated... like "Excel 97"... and really should just be ditched into the recycling bin.    But I just can't bring myself to get rid of them... I was raised that books are precious and they don't get thrown out.

Funny how there are so many little, odd, random things that widowhood makes us deal with.

Though I guess I'll need to get to it soon.  Not because of any desire to sort it out, and it doesn't really NEED to be sorted out and emptied, but because the mis-matched walls are bugging the daylights out of me 4 days into the change and to move this piece to paint it has to be emptied to drop the weight.

The Thief

I have been here in England for almost a week, having left my ‘home’, in Indiana, where I grew up, on Tuesday night. Slowly, I am settling back into this space that Stan and I shared.

I love this place, this century old cottage, with its wood floors and cabinets, its quirky, misshapen rooms, perched at the top of a hill, just a few feet from the countryside paths that I walk, most days. It is small, as most homes are, in England, but it was enough for the two of us.

I remember the first time I came here, shortly after I met him. I was so impressed by the beauty of it—the stone fireplace, the artwork he had chosen to adorn his walls, the overgrown garden in the back.

I haven’t altered much, since he died, six months ago. I have cleaned and dusted, a bit. I have transformed his man-cave computer room into a guest room, should anyone from America decide to pay me a visit. I have given away most of his gadgets and clothes. But, for the most part, the house remains the same. It feels disrespectful to change it.

This was his house. The art on these walls belonged to him. I eat from his plates, cook in his pots, store my food in his fridge. This was his road. His community. We held his wake at The Beehive, his local pub down the street, with his family and friends. I attend groups and meditations with his Buddhist Sangha. Since he died, I have been welcomed and embraced by all who knew him. But I only got to share this world with him for a little while, not long enough to make it ours—to make it my own.

I awaken in the morning and sit in the window of his man-cave computer room turned guest room, where the view is magnificent, and I watch the clouds roll across the sky. I can picture him, in this room, in his chair, his gaze fixed upon the trees below, in search of the crows that nested there. I find my way down the stairs to the kitchen, and I can hear him asking me to bring him a cup of tea in his favourite mug. I drink my coffee from it, now.  His winter hat still hangs on the hook in the foyer, as does his scarf. The photos of his children and grandchildren still rest on our living room shelves.

Sometimes, I feel like an interloper, a thief, like I swooped in and overtook my husband’s place in the world, a world that was so much richer with him in it. I can’t begin to fill this space, in the way that he did. Everyone knew him, in the village, it seemed. He couldn’t walk down the high street or get through the queue at the shops without running into a host of acquaintances and friends. A half hour trip often turned into an hour or more, as people stopped and engaged him in conversation. He was well known, and well loved.  His presence here was broad and expansive.

I like to think that Stan would have wanted me to stay here, with his things, amongst the hills and the people he loved. I like to think that my remaining here preserves his memory, somehow—that, by staying here, I am paying honour to who he was, to what was important to him.

One day, I will hang my own art in the living room, take up the carpet, paint the walls. But not yet. This place still carries his spirit, and I want to hang onto it as long as I can. 

I can’t fill the empty space he left. I can only bring to it my own presence, a presence that is quieter, less exciting, perhaps, a bit more sedate. It will take me awhile to feel like I have a right to occupy this space. It will take some time before I can make this place my own. Before I can call it home.