Brave Love

I'm writing you tonight from my hotel room in Seattle – en route to a four-night stay in Alaska. I hadn't really given any thought to what I was going to write today for this post, as I've spent the better part of the day running around like crazy. It could have been about the usual stuff of Valentine's Day... like how bitchy I've been all week leading up to today. Or how I went into Walgreens yesterday for some picture hanging wire and was assaulted by the pink and red décor that vomited all over the store interior. Or about how sad I was when I woke up this morning or how hard I've tried to stay off of Facebook all day.

I am lucky that I've spent most of today at the airport, lugging around an ungodly amount of camera gear and luggage. After all, this trip is with my mother-in-law and her mother... which is very sacred to me. Two generations of his family and me. Our “Valentine's Dinner” was not exactly fancy. Some cheese and fruit in a tiny cardboard container with a plastic cup of white wine – some 30,000 ft in the air halfway between Texas and Washington. But that suited me just fine, nothing traditional. 

But what I really wanted to share is what my evening was about. And just why I am up at 3am Texas time still writing this. Once we finally got into our hotel room and settled in, I called one of my closest friends. It wasn't to share the usual laughter or the depression of the day's events. It wasn't for me to cry about how much I miss my late-fiance. But instead, she opened up to me about some very deep emotional stuff that she has been burying from most everyone in her life for a long time now. So much so that it has led to some very dark thoughts.

As she shared, I remained solid and unwavering. I listened to everything she had to say, and I assured her that all her feelings – even the suicidal thoughts – were okay. I mean hell, if anyone understands what it's like to not want to live anymore, it's widowed people – am I right?

I did not judge her. I did not try to fix her. I just loved her. And reminded her very strongly that no darkness inside her could be enough to chase me away. I will be here always to sit next to her in there as long as we need to until we can find that first pinprick of light together. And so we sat, together, for over an hour... until I began to hear the tone in her voice shift ever so slightly. Until I began to hear the weight in her voice just a hair lighter than before. Even manged to make her laugh a few times in there too.

After we got off the phone, I hopped in the shower and kept thinking of it all. I was so surprised at how calm I was. How unshakable my dedication was to this friend. And how well I was able to listen and make them feel safe and heard. The person I was before I met My late-fiance could have never done this. The girl I was then would have been so scared by the vulnerability of the situation that she wouldn't have been able to hear that friend. The person I was before Drew died did not have enough of her own darkness to be able to strut into someone else's so fearlessly either.

I started to realize... Drew was the first person in my life to model for me that kind of love. Real and deep and unconditional love. Always he was solid, and reliable, and steadfast as a friend. And over time, without my knowing it, I began to infuse those same qualities in myself. This happened even more so after his death - when others sat with me in my darkness, I learned again how to better do it. 

And suddenly tonight, I realized that perhaps I have more of his qualities in me now than I ever knew. And I saw what a truly vital gift he gave me in his death. I chose the possibility of pain for the privilege to love. It did not matter that I could be hurt if this dear friend one day chooses to end her life. Because loving her matters more. Because she matters that much. And because of his life, and his death, I was able to be there for her in a way no one else has been able to.

So this Valentine's Day for me was not about the chocolates or the flowers I didn't get. Or the person who wasn't here to hold or kiss. Yes, those things were there – and they were sad. But more so, it was about being able to give someone real love – deep, unconditional, open-hearted love – and meet them in their most vulnerable and fearful place. This year, Valentine's Day was not about what I do not have, but about what I have to give still. It was about Brave Love.

My Forever Valentine

The cover of the last Valentine's day card I gave my husband

I've been back home, in Brisbane, Australia, for a couple of days now.  As it seems to go with most vacations, it's so good to go away and then it's so good to get home.  Getting off the plane after the 13-hour flight from LA and walking in to the arms of my wonderful parents, who came to town to collect me from the airport, was a good feeling.  I had a wonderful time, both in New York exploring a new city, and at Camp Widow.  But I felt ready to get back to my bubble.

It was emotional to come home.  I was very tired and jet-lagged, I had missed my family, my friends, my house and was happy to be reunited with them.  I had missed my routine and the little world I've built for myself since Dan died.  But returning home, I missed my widowed friends and the safe little world that exists when I'm around them.  I felt lifted by the people I met at Camp Widow, the wonderful spirit of the weekend, the bravery of the men and women I met.

You'd think that a conference for widowed people would be a pretty miserable event, but it's actually so uplifting and fun. Everyone is full of camaraderie, there is constant laughter and hugs and celebration of love. To meet people who have been through the darkest of times and can still find light in their lives is indescribable. My widows are some of my favourite people in the world.

So I have felt like I'm in a strange place... floating between wanting to run back to widow-land and wanting to re-enter my real life. 

And then, smack bang in the middle of all of that, we have Valentine's day today.  Bleugh.  What a crappy day this is for us.  I have been lucky enough to have avoided most of the commercials and hype because I've been travelling, and THANK GOD it fell on a Saturday this year, so we were spared the parade of flower deliveries throughout the work place.  But still, here it is.  

When I woke this morning, on Valentines day (in Australia, we're 18 hours ahead of Los Angeles, so I write this on Saturday afternoon to be published in the USA by midnight Friday), I immediately started missing Dan.  I pulled out our old cards and read the beautiful messages we had written each other.  We were not yet married, on our last Valentine's day together, so they were all full of hope and excitement about how we couldn't wait to be husband and wife that coming June (he died six weeks after our wedding), and how we were so blessed to have each other.  

Of course the tears fell.  I couldn't lay around in bed and cry for too long though, because I had booked a hair appointment for 8am and had errands to run.  

As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Dan, and this stupid day, and what I was missing out on because he wasn't here.  And I realised something.  Yes I was missing my husband today... but do you know what?  I realised, I wasn't missing his love.  Because it was still all around me.  

It hadn't gone away.  The words he wrote in his cards still held the same meaning today, as they did two years ago.  I was still the most important thing in his life.  The gratefulness that he felt at coming home to me every night was still real.  I was his eternal love story. We are Forever Valentines.

It's hard to explain and didn't even make a lot of sense in my own head, but I actually felt like I could feel a warmth around me, almost like a full body hug that enveloped my whole being.  I was still carrying his love with me today, even though he's been gone 18 months. 

The gifts that he brought to my life are still here and will be with me forever.  The person I am today is because he loved me.  

Maybe this realisation was partly because of the inspiring messages I received at Camp Widow.  Actually, I think this had a LOT to do with it.  But I also feel like maybe I am growing.  Maybe I am moving through my grief, so that in this moment I was able to see past the pain and the agony at being separated from him and see some of the joy that is still here, because of the time we got together. 

It's an incredible feeling when you can see this growth in yourself.  It's a bit scary, and I almost still don't fully believe it is possible.  But it's nice.  It's a relief.  And I know Dan would be proud of me.  Because I'm proud of myself. 

Spent

Once again, I have no idea what to write about tonight. Im not feeling like myself right now. I have been sick with the worst cold on the planet for almost 2 weeks now. It started about 2 days before leaving for Tampa, Florida, for Camp Widow. Being at camp and sharing a room with 3 other people and giving my comedic presentation and talking, talking, talking all week long, only made things worse. Now, Im back home, and I cant get through a sentence without coughing like a maniac. Im also absolutely exhausted. Camp was incredible, like it always is. But being sick while there kind of sucks. My energy was zapped and I felt like I was faking it all week long. I wanted so badly to hang out with people and go in the pool and the hot-tub and have drinks and stay up late with everyone else, but I was so tired and just not feeling good at all, that I opted out of most of those things. It took every ounce of energy in me to give my presentation, and as a comedian, Im a perfectionist, so I wasnt exactly happy with my results. Everyone will say they didnt notice or that it was still great, but I just felt "off."

Despite all of that, being at Camp Widow is still such an incredibly healing and beautiful experience. I met so many new people, and ran into so many others who read this blog and told me so, or who follow me on Facebook or read my personal blog. It is so awesome to hug those people and get to know them in person. It is so great to see old friends that I have met at previous camps, and have my annual reunion with them in person. It is so nice to have lunch with someone I admire so much, like Tom Zuba, and connect in a new way as friends. It is so nice to be in a place in my own process , where I can maybe help others that feel lost or alone, and show them the places within the tunnel that don't look so dark. It is such an honor to make people laugh through their pain with my comedy presentation, and to witness first-hand the changes in people - people that you saw just a year ago, who looked scared or lost or hopeless - and now they smile and feel joy and have found life again.

I am really, really tired - it's going to take me awhile to get back into things properly after this one. i had to go back to work the very next day, and i havent had much of a break since getting off that plane. Tomorrow is my first day off, and I can finally just start the process of unwinding emotionally. Its going to take awhile, but it was so worth it. There was dancing, there was laughter, there was healing.

I need a nap.

Too Short

Valentine’s Day.

Another very difficult time of year for many of us widowed people.

Two years ago, Mike came in the door with a delighted grin on his face. He brought me a big box of chocolate from our wonderful local chocolatier, and a new garden hose I’d been wanting, in its own new gift bag he had purchased along with a beautiful card.  He was immensely proud of himself that he had made me happy with these small gifts.

Three days later he was dead.

I’ve kept the chocolates in the freezer all this time. Last year I ate a few. They are slightly freezer burned, even though they are tucked inside a ziplock bag, but I don’t care. I will eat a few more this year, and see if they can last another one too.

This next week will be a hard one full of dates I don’t want to think about. And it hasn’t been an easy couple of days around here either, for completely different reasons. A dear friend, the mother of the asthma victim I wrote about a few weeks ago as a matter of fact, was hospitalized as a result of a cascade of her own health problems. When her son called to say it was now she who was on life support, exactly three weeks from when he was there himself, you could have knocked me over with a feather. 

So it was another long day of waiting to hear. Another day of rumors of brain damage and “pulling the plug” which is such a heartless way of saying it in my opinion.

Finally they were able to stabilize her enough to fly her to Honolulu where there are personnel and facilities better equipped to deal with it all. We are all still waiting to hear what can be done. We really don’t know.

She and her son were among my husband’s first martial arts students here in Kona and became like family over the years. So many of the other friends and family waiting in the hospital together all knew Mike, and we spent some time reminiscing and telling stories about him too.

But it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t fun at all.

Otherwise my week has been full of work, lunches and dinners with friends, and evenings out to enjoy my new guy’s band. My plate is full, and I am glad of it. Because apparently life is short. Just too damn short.

Never Alone~

I just finished my first Camp Widow and I'm on my way back to Arizona to see our oldest son get married.  As soon as Camp finished,  I hopped in PinkMagic and headed north to the Panhandle and turned west.  All of which is to say...I haven't even begun to filter through the experience of meeting so many beautiful people, men and women who are traveling this widowed road.

There is too much to write about, too many impressions, too much emotion, too much of pretty much everything and I need to focus on driving, so I am.  

But I will tell you that if you have any opportunity to attend Camp Widow in any of its' three locations, then go.  Yes, it's a life-changer as I was told.  I don't know how yet, but it was so powerful that it has to be, maybe in ways that will only reveal themselves to me as my road continues.

No, it didn't take away my grief and that wasn't my expectation.  Perhaps the greatest thing I brought away from it was, quite simply, that I did it at all.  I drove from Arizona to Florida and it was so that I could be a part of it but do you know what was the biggest draw for me?  The flash-mob dance.  And not the overall dance but specifically the part in the dance where the dancers are required to open their arms to the side.  Yes, it was that specific for me when I watched the youtube video.  I saw that one particular movement and my heart clicked in recognition and I knew that I had to be in that flash-mob so that I too could open my arms out to my side.

Because, you see, (and I know you get it), as much as I write about my grief, as open as I am with it, and as open as my heart is to this new life I must create without my dearest heart next to me...I cringe at opening my arms wide.  Opening them like that required a willingness to be completely vulnerable. It meant raising my eyes to the heavens, leaving me exposed.  It meant not only opening my arms but swirling to the side and back again.  Yep, that is what that one little movement in that one short dance meant to me and I knew I had to do it.

And I did.  And you'll be able to see all of us who did it when the video is released and I'm waiting to see what it looks like because I already know what it felt like.  It felt exactly like I thought it would and there was so much grief at the same time as there was so much comfort in dancing it surrounded by so many others who know this new world.  I know that all of us who danced last Saturday danced not only for ourselves and our loved one, but for all of you who couldn't be there.

I cried afterwards, no surprise.  I cried and felt this surge of pride in myself that my grief and the love I had, and have, for my husband, got me in the car and helped me drive thousands of miles to join this exemplary group of men and women at Camp Widow.

That's all I have for right now.  It's a long road back to Arizona and I need to get there and have our kids around me and have some time to feel this all through.  So I'll leave you with this;  all of you who were there, all of you who take the time to read what I write here, all of you who follow my personal blog and keep me company on my Odyssey of Love....you bless me every step of the way, every mile that I drive.  You are part of my story forever more.

Thank you~

Where's my death-march gone?

Ian's reaction to me being in labour - fast asleep in the corner of the delivery room! 
 

John turns 4 tomorrow. 

The lead-up to his birthday has usually marked the beginning of my 4 month long death-march, as the surgery that triggered Ian's complications and eventual death occurred just 11 days after John's first birthday (and coincidently, John's original due date, so 22nd February is a really solid date in my memory). 

The first couple of years, the surgery date has been very significant, and was completely unexpected the first year.

But I'm not having that death-march feeling yet: the heaviness, the out-of-sorts-ness, the feeling of dread.  And it's feeling almost odd.

I can only put it down to the fact late last year I got answers to my questions around the surgery, and get further information on the wider impact from Ian's illness and death a while prior.

While he was sick, there was a lot of talk about writing up his case for medical journals.  After he died,  I gave permission for the key organs to be kept for teaching and research purposes (which I had assumed had happened, but didn't) - a decision that was so easy to make since he willingly put his hand up to participate in both medical teaching and research projects.   Plus, there were lots of things I had questions on in terms of leading up to, and the decision to proceed with, the surgery at the time it happened.  I wanted to know what had progressed or changed in the time since.

Malpractice suits are not common in Australia, and notoriously difficult to win, so I wasn't going to go down that path. There's not really even a tradition of 'go away' (to put it politely) settlement payouts.   But I did use the systems available to put the questions I had to the surgeon and health department through a third party.

The surgeon's response to many of my questions was full of 'he said/she said' that I reached the point of it's not worth further fighting over, a fight I most likely won't be successful with.  Plus, I suspect that although he won't admit it, Ian's case had a significant personal and professional practice impact on the surgeon.

It was confirmed, no matter what, Ian was going to need the surgery at some point - whether it happened at the time it did or later.  And that was based on Ian's own dedication to his own health (or lack there-of, something I had already suspected).  In all reality, it's probably a case of not being IF I could have avoided widowhood, but WHEN I faced it.

In another direction, my questions have triggered a look at changing autopsy permissions and information provided to families so that the process, and family's intent, are understood from both sides.  And any permissions by the family for donations for teaching or research happen whether or not there is an autopsy.

I know his case has been written up in a couple of journals so far, so it's accessible to practitioners and researchers globally.

And by pure chance, I've heard the technique they used to solve Ian's initial medical problem worked successfully on someone since.  Ian was the 10th reported case.  It had only worked on one other case prior to his, however the technique worked on Ian too, but there was just too much else going on for long-term survival. But it looks like they've learned enough to get others through.

Although Ian not being here is something I'd really rather not be living with, the fact that I've been able to push for changes and his case is leading to review and hopefully improvement of  practices in a number of areas has really helped me to keep living my life as it is now. 

And will hopefully lessen the duration of the death march I experience year on year, even if only a little.

The Dance of Anger

Stan and Me, in Scotland, 2011.

This weekend, my widowed sisters (and brothers) have been basking in sun and friendship in my old stomping grounds, Tampa, Florida, at a Camp Widow weekend, sponsored by Soaring Spirits Foundation, and organised by Michelle Neff Hernandez, the founder of this blog, and of Soaring Spirits. I have thought about them during this weekend, and wished to be with them, as I have witnessed their photos and posts on FaceBook.

I have been in a "Camp Widow" of my own, here in Manchester. I participated, with twenty other sangha members, in a weekend workshop at my Buddhist Centre called "Death and Dying, The Only Beauty that Lasts," facilitated by Siddhisambhava, an order member with our movement, also known as Jan Parker. She has been working with these aspects of life--death and dying, grief and loss, for many years. The workshop was deep and challenging and exhausting. But I came away with some insights that will hopefully help me along my journey in living with the death of my beloved Stan.

My grief has felt frozen solid, for the last few weeks, like the earth around me. At times, I have felt unable to find the energy to do much more than barely cope, that I am only participating in the necessities of work and food and sleep, that there has been little room or spaciousness for actually living this life. I have felt stuck, and despondent.

Meanwhile, I have also been participating in an online writing workshop called "Writing Your Grief," in which we were given prompts around some aspect of our loss, to write into, each day, for 30 days. And I was able to write prolifically, remembering Stan, exploring my sadness, the emptiness of living without him. All was well--until the prompts asked us to explore our anger.

I found myself getting irritated with the prompts. I think there were three or four of them. I read them, and read others' writings around them, but I could not or would not explore this aspect, myself. I didn't see the point.

Who or what am I supposed to be angry at? My husband, for dying? The circumstances of his death? The fact that we had such a short time together? What good would it do me, I thought, to rail against all of this?

It is what it is.  How will my grief journey be made easier by raising my fists in opposition to it?

Anger is not a stranger to me. I think I came out of the womb kicking and screaming. I survived my complex and difficult childhood by using the energy of anger to propel me into a different life. When I was very young, I developed a reputation for beating up the little boys on my school bus. I got expelled from school for challenging the teachers. I wrote petitions in the 5th grade. I wore black armbands to middle school.

 I formed my entire identity around resisting the way things were, and railing against it.

This anger I held, this anger that moved me from my early circumstances, also cost me a lot. My anger spewed out in every direction, not caring who and how it hit. My words could be biting and hateful. My temper, much like my father's, hurt people. My son. My mother. My first husband. Good friends.

I have spent years trying to understand, work with, and contain my anger.

When I met Stan, I was a calmer and more loving person than I had ever been. Still, I was prone to irritation and outbursts of frustration. Stan was not comfortable with anger. He had experienced the consequences of an angry father, and any expression of it made him anxious and afraid. It was a side of me that he didn't tolerate, well.

The picture, above, was taken shortly before he witnessed one of my outbursts of frustration. It was the first time he had seen this aspect of my personality, and it unsettled him, a bit. He made it clear that, if we were to be together, I would have to find other ways to express myself.

I used to marvel at his patience and calm--his ability to meet whatever came into his life, not with anger and resistance, or even irritation, but with a measure of wisdom and reflection. I used to watch him, in the mornings, waking up with a smile, humming a little tune, and think, "how can someone be so unutterably content?" It was perplexing, to me. But inspiring, too. I wanted to be more like him.

So to resurrect this anger felt counterproductive. It felt threatening and dangerous. Why would I want to risk unleashing it, again?

To explore my anger felt like a betrayal of him.

This weekend, however, I began to see the purpose in exploring it. Perhaps my inability to feel angry has something to do with my frozen grief. Perhaps I can use it, as I did in my childhood, to loosen and propel me forward. Perhaps I am so exhausted because I am trying too hard to be kind and wise and accepting of this loss. Perhaps I am trying to skip a step or two.

During one of our meditations, this weekend, we explored forgiveness. We were asked to think of a person we needed to forgive, and to spend some time with them. We were asked to spend time forgiving ourselves.

And, though he is gone, now, I chose to spend time with Stan. I allowed myself to admit that perhaps I was angry with him, a little bit. Why didn't he take better care of himself? Why didn't he tell us he was feeling so poorly? (I learned, after he died, that he had told a friend he was having chest pains.) Why didn't he let us know?

And, though it felt illogical, I explored my anger around him leaving me. How dare he leave me and all of us? His children? His grandchildren? We needed him!

But I could only allow it for a minute, with a forgiveness clause attached. I recognised the anger, and forgave him. Perhaps later I can explore the anger more at length.

As with everything, in this long journey, it is about steps. One foot in front of the other. That is the best I can do.