The Death March

I dread deathiversaries, with my whole soul, as my daughter would say. This dread is instinctual, and has nothing to do with how happy I am in my current life. The creeping feeling of impending doom sneaks up on me at the same time every year, and at odd times when I am distracted by nostalgia or lost in a happy memory. Sometimes the feeling of dread appears as a great crashing wave, hitting me full force from behind and knocking me into the swirling sea of despair, shocked and unprepared. Other times I can hear the drumbeat of the death march from afar, and I have time to steel myself for what lies ahead.

I am amazed by the way my body takes over as the days before his death day unfold. Singing along to the radio in the car can be suddenly halted by a realization that I am living in the moment when we visited my parents for the last time. How does my body know this, when my mind is completely unaware? The simple act of walking through the front door is fraught with danger when the death march has begun, each time I step over the threshold I imagine a random moment when he did the same. Pancakes become tearjerkers, cyclists cause a lump in my throat, photos now stacked haphazardly around the house are dusted and petted, and the memory of the life I used to live calls my name over and over again.

The craziest part about this death march is that I am happy. Life is good. Difficult still, but I am more aware of the goodness in the world, and in my life, than I have ever been before. So why does the death march have this hypnotic power over me? Why do my feet dance to the beat of the drums before my mind is aware that they have begun to play? Why does knowing the outcome of the story not alter in anyway the dread I experience as the day approaches? I don't know.

What I have learned is that the death march is worse than the actual anniversary. I have realized that honoring my feelings, and allowing my body to move to the rhythm that I can neither anticipate nor control, does help. Allowing the people who love me (including my boyfriend) to walk a portion of the march with me keeps me from isolating myself in the sometimes overwhelming sorrow. One other thing I know from experience--all marches come to an end. When this one moves on, I find myself still standing and holding onto the memories of a love for which I am eternally grateful.

I am in Texas right now with Michelle celebrating us, Phil, Daniel, our families, friendship, laughter, and the fact that we are alive. We are in the midst of her march and we know what is ahead, but we also know we will make it through.

Just One

Four years after Phil's death, I am still trying to work out how to do twice as many tasks with half the amount of hands. The anniversary of his death stirs up emotions for the kids each and every year. You would think I could anticipate their reactions to this day of remembering by now, but I can't. My own walk down memory lane includes my children of course, but each year I get caught up in my own pain and then am surprised once again my theirs.

Being a parent used to require me to be an adult in every difficult situation with my kids. As a mother I used to remind myself not to take things personally, to remember that their reactions to things are not always about me (no matter what they say), and to respond with calm assurance when my teens were throwing a load of angst my way. With Phil gone, I find my reserves for this kind of great advice to be very low. Not only do I have one less adult to help with the every day needs of raising a family, but his death has added an element of need that was not there before. Unfair!

Things have changed around our home. Perfection is no longer an option (funny how I really believed in that concept four years ago!). I can't always be counted on to remain calm in the face of dramatic behavior. More often then not their tears reduce me to a puddle of "Why can't I do this right?" tears of my own. Even though I know the answer to that rhetorical question...there is no instruction manual for healing a family from a loss like this. Initially, counting on my intuition seemed risky, at best.

The amazing thing is that my kids have flourished despite my tendency to be blindsided by their on-going grief. Despite the fact that I often feel as if my last nerve is about to burst. Despite the hole in the middle of our living room where contentment used to be commonplace. Despite the aching need we all feel as a reduced family of four. Despite the fact that I am not silly like Phil. Despite the tears that burst out of nowhere that always seem to have the same source. Despite my fear that just me is not enough.

Our little family unit has learned to count on each other in ways we didn't before. We have come to accept that life isn't always fair. As a mother I listen more than I used to, and cry more than I once did. Together we examine the problem solving options...because we are all that is left. Where once Phil and I would have decided on a course of action, now the kids and I decide. There is a strange camaraderie that has developed as a direct result of my inability to pretend that I have everything under control. I wish things were different. I wish they didn't know all they know about loss, sorrow, the pain of moving forward when the whole world is upside down. But, I am proud of us ,because somehow we are making it through with our love for each other not only intact, but enhanced.

I'm Fighting

Michael and I fought....or as I called it....debated, over who took the trash out or burned whose clothes ironing. The minute...the small things. But out of those small things, simple and silly things, I found the most important thing to fight for... And that is our love.

After losing Michael, I did not fathom the amount of adversity that comes along with following ones heart. It was one thing to follow your heart when your soul mate was alive, but once they have passed on everyone believes they are worthy of having a stake or claim over what you should do with your own life.

Two years into my journey I can say thatI have fought, and continue to fight, for the most worthy of causes. I have been bruised and beaten down to the pulp. I have tasted the blood on my lips from the battering of others trying to force their own journey upon my own. But thankfully, I have stayed my course....I have "fought the good fight".

It is in the biggest fight of my life that I have found the most everlasting of loves. I have seen the reality of miracles and the light of one's life upon my own.

All it takes is one glimpse of the most unfiltered of life's gifts to know that all the pain and adversity faced will bow down to that which will always reign above the rest....that of our love together and the love he continues to show me.

He is my my lighthouse, my debate, my guidon, my heart, my soul and my everlasting gift of true happiness.I will fight till the end for that which I believe is worth fighting for, and I could have never asked to put in the ring for such a worthy cause.

Woman's Intuition...

Here in the North East, most public schools began their fall sessions this week.
My sister, a first grade teacher, told me in an email that never in her life had she heard so much crying, five and six year olds being asked to leave their parents, many for the first time. According to my sister, "The sound of sobbing was everywhere."

I thought about Anneke's first day of school eleven years ago, the cafeteria where nervous parents and progeny gathered, and how the only person sobbing out of the approximately two hundred and fifty assembled, was Yours Truly.

That's right. I was bereft and with shoulders heaving, I understood that although I was clearly the oldest parent in the group, I was not the coolest, nor the most mature and I understood that any attempt at pretending otherwise, would be in vain. Sadness overwhelmed. Leaving my daughter for her first day of kindergarten, I was most definitely not at my best.

Yesterday, my partner asked me what I thought I was sad about, way back then. "Why missing Anneke, of course", was my easy answer.

But when I thought further, I realized that it was much, much more. Mike was struggling with back pain that had turned out to be a metastases and a large lump on his temple had also turned out to be cancer. Three weeks later he would have a stroke that would temporarily rob him of the ability to speak.

The potential of loss surrounded us. Did I know that I would lose him in 2 years? Maybe. Deep down, probably I did.

I am learning to trust my deep sense of intuition and knowing and I am learning that I share this ability with many, many women.

My daughter sometimes tells me that she is sad "for no reason."

We are never sad "for no reason". Ever.

The challenge is to have to courage to explore it rather than try to gloss over it by saying "I should be over it by now", or "I don't want to explore this because I don't want to make others uncomfortable".

Eleven years ago, leaving my daughters kindergarten, I felt embarrassment. If the same thing were to happen today, I hope that I would feel more understanding and compassion for myself. I believe that I would.

Mie Elmhirst

Widows Breathe Coaching

When Memories Fail Me

I remember crying silent but painful tears in the back seat of someones car... we were running an errand for the memorial service and barely above a whisper, I asked, "What if I forget..." they too began to weep with me. Finally, they cleared their throat to answer, "You'll always have your memories."

I find that statement less than accurate. Because, for me, it sort of feels like the past 20 months have been a downhill battle for my memory. I fight. I fight hard to remember... to recall things we did, things he said, how it felt... But no matter how hard I try, I feel as thought I'm losing just a little as each month passes. There's so much I can no longer recall... and even more that I don't even know that I've forgotten until the need to remember hits me like bricks.

September marks the final days I was able to spend with David before he deployed yet again. Last September I went crazy trying to remember what we did the day before I dropped him off... I went into panic mode. I looked through journals- nothing. I looked at old calenders- nothing. And I looked through bank statements. I tried so desperately to piece together our final hours. I couldn't believe I had let myself forget. I still can't completely recall how we spent that day... but I can clearly replay how we spent that night... in each other's arms.

This September... the desperation isn't there... today, my nails aren't scratching at the door of memories. I think this time around, my hope isn't in the memories itself but in the "knowing" that there are memories. I know we were together. I know he remembers :). This morning, I woke up replaying our last vacation with my family in my head... there was a gap in the memory... but instead of beating myself with a memory stick I decided that when my memory fails me I'll just bask in what I could remember.



"The existence of forgetting has never been proved: We only know that some things don't come to mind when we want them." ~Friedrich Nietzsche

I Miss Touch

I have decided to carry on Michele's theme of "What I Miss" on Sunday. Because for the past week or so one fact has been glaring me in the face ..... and all over me:
I miss being physically touched.
Note that I did not say I miss being sexually touched (not that I don't) but those are two very different things. I live in a house with two teenage boys who aren't that crazy about touching, let alone hugging, their mom. They are normal.
And I am starving.
I miss the small reassuring pat as he walked past me. I miss the hug from behind as I stood at the sink doing dishes, or at the stove, cooking.
I miss the kiss goodbye ---- Every. Single. Morning.
I miss the kiss hello ---- Every. Single. Evening.
I miss holding his hand.
I miss rubbing my hand over his too-short buzz cut.
I miss doing his laundry.
I miss him picking me up and squeezing me hard to help pop my back when I needed that.
I miss his massages.
I miss dangling my short legs over his long legs when we sat in a movie theatre (for some odd reason, that habit started on our 2nd date and never stopped).
I miss crying in his arms when I was upset/frustrated/angry about something.
I miss him holding my face because he loved looking at the smile in my eyes.
I miss him pulling me down onto his lap to just sit and cuddle.
I miss falling asleep with him, hand in hand.
I miss gently touching him to wake him up when he was snoring so that he'd roll onto his side.
I miss hearing the loud clacking sound of his biking shoes as he walked through the house after a ride.
(I miss making fun of his biking shorts before he left for a ride.)
I miss shutting the pantry doors behind him because, as a male, he couldn't manage that.
I miss hearing him thank me for dinner ...... whether it was soup and a sandwich, or a wonderful steak.
I miss the "just because" phone calls during the day to check on me.
I miss the text messages he'd send from the school board meetings.
I miss him opening doors for me ..... and making sure his sons did the same for me and for their sisters.
I miss the light in his eyes when he talked about biking.
I miss him helping me zip up a long zipper on the back of a dress.
I miss asking him which pair of shoes looks best with an outfit.
I miss making eye contact with him from across a room when we were out at a party.
I miss trying to avoid making eye contact with him at a party because I wasn't ready to go home.
I miss his arms ..... he had great arms.
I miss watching him drive the boat at the lake and how much he loved being there.
I miss watching him freak out when the weather turned suddenly and the waves ripped in while he tried to dock the boat with out uttering too many four-letter words in front of the kids.
I miss seeing live theatre regularly with him ..... which he learned to love because I loved it and he loved me.
I miss his deep voice.
I miss his whisper.
I miss him telling me that I'm beautiful.
I miss him, when I would complain about the heat in a room, telling me it was because I was "so hot".
I miss telling him he was full of crap when he'd say those things, but thanking him anyway because I knew that he truly saw me as beautiful ..... even if I didn't.

I truly don't understand how I've managed to stay alive this long with missing him so much, because this list of things I've missed is only a minute fraction of the things I miss. I can't believe that my heart has not just given out.
There are many, many days when I've wished it would, but there are starting ..... ever so slowly .... to be more days when I don't wish for that.
I watch my other widda friends who are further along on this path .... and they give me hope. I read the words of other widda friends and acquaintances who are further along, and they, too, give me hope.
I need hope.
Lots and lots of hope to help take the place of the things I miss.
I want hope.
I want laughter.
I want happiness.
I want to live so that I can encourage others and give them hope.

I want a lot.

And I think that's OK.

The Deathiversary

There are lots of fun observations to be made about the picture above...let's not go there ;) What I love about this picture is that it reminds me of a great day on a great vacation with a great friend. I think I've said before that I sometimes have to remind myself of all the good things and make a list. It's always a long list of good things, and in the past 4 years that list has always included Michele. Yesterday was the anniversary of Michele's husband Phil's death - his "deathiversary" as we choose to call it.

That day, 4 years ago in sunny southern Cali was the day she started on the path towards me. I, unknown to her, a stranger, was walking the Cancer path (kcuf recnac) in Austin, Texas. My countdown to the final days begins each year at the same time she is re-experiencing the day. It's funny, I keep expecting each year to be easier, and in some ways it is...but the day and the countdown to the day just isn't that much easier. It sucks. It's a kick in the stomach and a sudden transport back in time to a place that is so unreal and yet so real that it is almost incomprehensible.

Every day leading up to "the day" is full of intensity and memories - "at this time we were...(fill in the blank)...we only had (fill in the blank) days/hours/minutes left and we didn't even know it...." etc. The first year was the worst, and every day had something to mark - day of the 3rd diagnosis, day of the family trip to Disney regardless of the diagnosis, the day we checked into MD Anderson, my birthday in the ER, the day they told us how bad the prognosis was, the day we chose treatment anyway, Halloween (the last day he was home), three days later when he suddenly died without any real warning at all....(my list looks like lots of warnings, but it isn't real until it happens).

I walk the path of events and memories every year, and this year is no different. When Michele's deathiversary passes, my Death March begins.... What is different is that each year I get better at finding the good in the memories and I try to focus less on the tragedy and bitterness. I am getting better at it. I do have to work at it. I still have my days where I wallow in self-pity for a while, but they are few and far between. I also know something I didn't know that first year. The stepping stones of grief would bring me a wonderful friend. Last year on Phil's deathiversary, we ran a half marathon at Disney and for Daniel's we ate sushi and sang karaoke (yes, that's right - we all grieve in our own ways ;). This year we weren't together for the day, but will "celebrate" soon. So glad to have you on this path my friend. Champagne this weekend, we deserve it.

Happy Tuesday! - Michelle D.