Choosing Hope

"Once you choose hope, anything is possible." ~Christopher Reeve

There was a time, not really that long ago, when I did not want to choose hope. Possibility was a

word that applied to other people, so why would I care about hope?

To take that thought a step farther, hope seemed to be a betrayal. What could I hope for? Healing, ugh. Happiness, not likely. Joy, love, purpose...without Phil? Where would I find happiness if not in his arms? How would life have meaning if not shared with the man I loved? If I could "get better," where would my memories go? Would recovery mean forgetting the life I loved so much? I did laugh, I did celebrate milestones with the kids, I did get back to work, I did fix the sink myself, I did bury the dog after he died (long story), and I did wake up and face each and every day knowing I would face it alone. But I did not hope.

I still remember the day I felt my first stirring of hope, it was the day that I spoke to another widow for the first time. I looked into the eyes of a woman who had walked the same path I was unwilingly traveling and found compassion, empathy, and yes, hope. She told me things would get better. She told me I would never forget. She told me to be gentle with myself as I found my way in this new world. Her name is Connie, and I won't share her exact age ;) but she was married to her husband for 52 years. She welcomed me into her home, and into her heart.

When I set up the meeting with Connie, four months after Phil's death, I wasn't expecting to have anything in common with her. She was married to her husband for a long time, she lost him after a lengthy illness, and she came from a different generation; yet when we sat down together in her cozy kitchen I discovered that she knew how much I was hurting, and she also understood that there was more hurt ahead. I was amazed at the number of times we finished each other's sentences, and by the instant connection I felt with this warm, wonderful woman. But most of all, I was lifted up by meeting a survivor face-to-face. This woman had suffered the loss of a man with whom she shared her whole life, and was still finding joy in her daily life. Meeting Connie proved to me that choosing hope was indeed possible.

Seven years after the loss of her husband (and after telling me she was sure she would never have another man in her life), Connie has found new love. When you choose hope, you never know where the possibilities will take you.

Bring It on Year 3!!

So the 2 year mark has come and passed. In one 24 hour period I am starting on another year in this new world I live in.

As the angelversary arrives people always seem to ask how I'm doing (Go figure), then the day arrives and it seems as if it was the build up to the day which was the worse. Then the day comes, and it seems like any other day in a way, but I have realized it proved me wrong this year. It's subtle changes show themselves at random moments or in quiet moments of reflection.

This year, as I seem to not measure it by 2009 but by days of survival, will be another chance for me to learn from my circumstances. Sometimes the hardest thing is reflecting on the days and years before in which pain was ever present, but I seem to flourish in it now. Those days are the writings of my climb up widow mountain. Had I not and continue to stumble or fall, would it be that interesting? Would it be the story you'd have pride in sharing with others?

My answer: Heck no! It's the scars I carry, the bruises on my heart, that have strengthened me and continue to strengthen me. For I have learned that so much is out of my control, so very much, but not love, and not perseverance, and not my life.

So bring it on year 3......because I'm coming at you full throttle baby!!!

My Cat Sophie

Every day I get up at 5 AM, put on my bathrobe and head to the kitchen where I make my first cup of good, strong, coffee. Cup in hand, I return to my bed, slide between the covers and sip, doing my best to make my coffee last as long as possible. I love this time of day. It feels decadent to do nothing but ponder the hours ahead. Now that it is spring, my windows are open and I hear the sounds of the season, mostly cardinals, the occasional very bossy crow, and every 15 minutes or so a foghorn warning the fishing boats of the rocks of Vineyard Sound. And these days my cat Sophie joins me.

Sophie came to us shortly after Mike died. In a moment of weakness, I said ‘yes’ to Anneke’s pleas for a kitten, forgetting that she was only seven years old and that the cat duties were certain to fall to me, a new widow who already had a list of responsibilities seemingly beyond her capabilities. (Truthfully, everything was too big to handle back then and I know you know what I mean.)

Sophie turned out to be a cat who loathed being picked up or petted on anyone’s schedule other than her own. She seemed to resist all my attempts to love her and instead sought out only Anneke for refuge. I know it was silly but I took her self-care as a personal rejection and suffered hurt feelings. Didn’t she know I needed comfort? That I was grief stricken? Eventually I acknowledged that Anneke needed her more, (after all Anneke was the one who wanted her in the first place) and when I needed pet-attention I went to our dog Deboney. I decided that maybe I didn't like Sophie all that much anyway.

Deboney died this past winter. She was a good and loving dog. I miss her.

But just as all of my relationships changed when Mike died, (friends, priest, in-laws, neighbors, sister, brothers, father, step-daughter, daughter…) my relationship with Sophie changed after Debs died. It is always this way, a complete rearrangement of relationships after loss.

Sophie has now decided, only since Debs died, that I may pet her. Or, more truthfully, she has decided that I must pet her. Her petting requirements coincide with my morning coffee. As I ascend the stairs to snuggle back into bed each morning, Sophie runs ahead of me in anticipation. She does not just lie down next to me making herself available for petting. Oh no, no. Sophie insists on my full attention, plopping herself onto my belly. Yesterday she was so pushy that she bumped my coffee spilling it on the sheets and me. I had to wash a full load of laundry before 6 AM just because of her Highness.

Mike did not like cats, and that is putting it mildly. I don’t know why he felt this way, (maybe a traumatic encounter at an early age!) but he did not hide his antipathy one little bit. Young Anneke intuitively knew better than to even suggest a feline friend.

So it is rather ironic that our cat Sophie now assumes the spot Mike had, snuggling up to me at 5 AM. Maybe she knows something that I don’t know. Maybe Sophie knows that I need to give and receive lots of love. These days I like Sophie a lot, spilled coffee and all.

In Gratitude,
Mie Elmhirst, Reluctant Cat Lover. Widows Breathe Coaching

To Survive...

It feels as though it doesn't take much to get me tired these days. I could be doing the same tasks I did before, only now, it takes everything out me. I'm exhausted to the core. Emotionally, I'm fine. Physically, I'm spent. I wonder if it'll always be like this... If it'll always take quadruple the strength to get through a day and all that it entails. When I woke up this morning, I thought "I survived." Survived yesterday.

What does it really mean, anyway, to survive? Surviving could seem more like a curse than an attribute at times. When the words "You are strong" were said to me, I'd almost gag. I was disgusted. Strong? Did I ever really choose to be strong? Merely existing was a betrayal in itself. So, to tell me that on top of existing I was "strong" and a "survivor" ...I was appalled.

But... I guess I am a survivor. Out of all things to survive from, I survive through this?! Did I know that I was capable of surviving such a reality? Hell no. But what shocks me, even now as I lay in my bed with a bleary view of my day, is that I am more... more than a survivor. I'm exhausted because I am living... breathing... prevailing. In those first few months, existing was more than I thought possible... More than what should have been asked of me. Still, there are days, sometimes weeks, when existing and "being" is all I can muster. Then there are mornings like now, when I can recognize the weeks that have past me by so quickly and why...

I'm grateful this morning. Grateful, for the chance to meet so many vigorous women who, in the face of their worst reality, do more than survive... unknowingly, they've inspired me to do the same.

Just thinking ....

Hi everyone! It's good to be back and I'm thankful to Colleen for taking over for me while I was gone. Interestingly enough, she and I share the same anniversary. It was my second without Jim and I'm not gonna lie .... it was tough.

But I'm still here.

And that's something.

Anyway ..... I was just writing to a friend and we were both talking about "thinking". She had been having a tough day and started thinking about how rotten her life is .... and then she thought of me. And so ended her pity party.

I received her e-mail just minutes after I had experienced something similar.

I thought that I had adjusted to the jet lag pretty easily, but it would appear that I have not.

I keep waking up earlier and earlier each day. Today I was wide awake at 5:00.

I hate not being able to sleep.

Very, very much.

So in those first black minutes of realizing that I was not going to win the sleep battle, my thoughts started racing. I could almost feel them pouring into my head. You know the ones: I can't believe this is my life .... still; I miss him; I don't want to do this for the rest of my life if "the rest of my life" is going to be long; why him?; why me?; 

my life sucks .....

I'm sure we all have many more we could add.

I could feel myself being carried down that current very swiftly. And then, I realized what was going on and knew that I didn't want to go down that river of emotions and pain and grief. So I chose to get out of the river. I physically stopped myself from thinking those thoughts.

When Jim died I didn't have the ability or the strength to stop the thoughts. Heck, I didn't have the ability to eat, let alone keep my thoughts in check.

They just came ..... all of the time, relentlessly. I felt as if I were drowning in them.

I could not stand to be alone in the house and so I wasn't. I couldn't stand the quiet and so the TV was on as a distraction all of the time.

I didn't want to think.

And if I was alone ..... that's all I could do.

And it was horrible.

But slowly ...... ever so slowly ...... that changed.

It was so slow that I didn't see it happening.

One day, I realized that I had been alone in the house for an hour ..... and had survived.

And then, even later, another day came when I realized that I had been alone in the house for an hour and I had stayed busy ...... and done more than survived: I hadn't even gone down the river for an hour.

That was a big moment.

And so I'm sharing this with you to let you know two things:

1. It's normal that your thoughts will take over and carry you for quite a while.

You can't stop them .... not in the beginning and there's no definition for how long your "beginning" is. Mine was very long. So don't beat yourself up if that's where you are. And more importantly, don't let anyone else beat you up for being there. It's your grief and yours only. It will be what it will be ...... for as long as it will be.

and .....

2. You will survive. You will move forward ..... one step at a time. Sometimes it's one step forward and then seven steps back. But you will move forward. I promise.

Even if, sometimes it's only one breath at a time.

An Opportunity to be...

Grayson and I watched the movie "Evan Almighty" this weekend. I've seen it once before, but a certain scene really struck me this time. Morgan Freeman, as God, is explaining to a woman how prayers work. "If you pray for patience, God does not GIVE you patience, but gives you the OPPORTUNITY to be patient." I went to bed with thoughts of my own prayers in my head.

Grayson usually picks one night a week to sleep with me. This tradition is a holdover from when he was three and sleeping in his own bed had become something too difficult to bear. We compromised. If he could sleep six nights in his bed, on the seventh he could sleep with mommy and daddy. Almost six years later, he still looks forward to his one night a week with me. Saturday night he chose to sleep with me, and we tucked ourselves in for the night. My little boy held my hand, tucked it against his heart, and placed his other hand over our entwined hands. He fell asleep that way, and I lay awake for a few moments just enjoying the sweetness.

As I began to relax and settle in, a sudden prayer erupted in my brain. Thank you for this happiness, and the ability to recognize it. Thank you for answering my many hard sobbed prayers to make it okay for my little guy. Thank you for his sweetness and his ability to recover from such a horrible loss.

Only those who know me well will recognize that this is quite an incredible prayer. I haven't been on good speaking terms with God for a few years, and if I do talk to him it is on another's behalf, not my own. I had decided that God didn't give a rat's you know what about what I wanted or really needed, so why bother carrying on a conversation with him, much less send up a prayer of thanks! And yet, here I was suddenly feeling very grateful and wanting to express it.

I had said countless prayers that my little guy be "okay", and God has given me the opportunity to make sure he is. So far, so good. I know the days of snuggling up with my little man are numbered. Soon he'll be too old to be holding hands with his mom. Until then, I'll just soak it up, and be grateful.

Happy Tuesday! - Michelle D.

Worth

On May 29Th my little girl graduated from High School. The ceremony took place in a beautiful garden with an audience full of proud family and friends and an air of hope for the future all around. My mind drifted back to a time in my own life when naivety and optimism were companions I knew well.

As with most milestones post 8/31/05 there was a bittersweet quality to our celebration. Phil is a regular topic of conversation in our home, and we welcome him to our family gatherings now by commenting on what he would do if he were here, things we remember about past celebrations, and the ways we still miss him today. We tend to do this instinctively, and often separately. Our remembrances create a space for Phil to join us on our continuing life path.

As I listened to the speakers at the commencement ceremony I thought back to my own high school graduation and the ways that my view of the impact one person makes on the world has changed since that day many years ago. I remember being encouraged to work hard, discover and follow a dream, set ever higher standards, and live a responsible life. All good advice; yet I can't help but feel that collectively we often fail to remind our graduates (and ourselves too) of a few essential components of determining a life well lived. But graduates who have lost someone they love have achieved a distinction that others their age have not, and have learned lessons that they will carry with them throughout their lives. My daughter knows some things that I did not when I entered the adult world.

Caitlin knows that life is short, and that now is the best time to live your dreams. She has discovered that the things you remember about a person you love have nothing to do with how much money they made over their lifetime. The word priceless doesn't really apply to material things for my little girl, but it does apply to memories of bike rides, rock climbing, watching a TV show as a family, and running after the ice cream man with a dollar in hand. Death has taught my graduate that grief is a part of the cycle of life, and that like it or not we have to find a way to keep going on the path laid out before us. I would bet though that she is more convinced than ever that she won't sit idle while the landscape of life passes by her unnoticed. Kate knows that value isn't measured in dollars and cents, but in compassion and integrity. She has no expectation that life will be easy, but is determined to make the ride worthwhile. She has faith in her family, counts many people as friends, and knows that her life was changed for the better by just one person.

I have to believe that the bitter, which is inexorably linked with the sweet, that has now become an expected part of our life milestones has taught our family some significant life lessons. And also that the bitterness of loss makes the sweetness of life more meaningful. I send my daughter into the world a richer person because she has loved and lost a man whose life impacted others not by measure of his paycheck, but because he cared for his fellow human beings. Thanks honey.