Invest

5 years.....

In 5 years I've gone from someone that felt I had nothing.

Felt that dying was a better choice then inhaling and exhaling over and over again.

Over time, life crept in. And in a way, I slowly started investing in the day ahead...the week ahead...the month ahead...

I didn't see it as I was doing it, but in retrospect, I finally let the love between Michael and I be an action for life, instead of letting his death be a reason for doing nothing more than existing.

And like any investment....the stocks will rise and fall...there will be times you want to pull out because the future is to uncertain and your head starts telling you it won't get better....but something in me told me to hold on....let his love stay...grow...show me what was possible for my own life.

5 years ago I took a risk....I took the risk to live...to invest the love he had left me with into an uncertain life....

There are certainly going to be moments in the future where I will doubt that decision....but I know the investment will always turn out in my favor...turn out to show me that his love...my love for myself and the life I had before...but more importantly the life I have NOW...is worth it...

He bought into me when he let me love him...I bought into him when he allowed me to love him...and I still love him...and I feel in my soul the eternal love we still share....and that investment was and is worth every second of every day....crashes...rises....recessions...and all....

Love is worth the investment....but even more...life is worth it....

I'm So Tired

This image seems so familiar...

I’m tired - surprisingly tired.  My determined effort to make progress on the things that need to change in this big house continues.  But even the most minor movements forward are exhausting.

I remember this type of tired.  It’s not the “I haven’t slept for 10 days” tired.  It’s not even a “I’ve been re-roofing my house” tired.  It’s different but familiar.  I haven’t felt it since, well, Maggie was with me to lift me through the exhaustion with her smile.  Now, I have no reward.  I have no sweet angel's smile to push me forward.  Even progress is no reward.  I only have what It Is.

It Is me sorting through books wondering if she read them, when she read them or why the heck she read them.  It Is me flipping through the pages of the books and finding purchase receipts or random notes used as bookmarks, looking at the dates on the receipts and trying REALLY HARD not to go down that If I Only Would Have path to Crazy Town.

It Is me sorting through the silverware wondering what the heck this particular serving spoon was used for or if this thingy was expensive or if this what-the-hell was a gift someone gave us that I should be remember and maybe offer back as a memorial.

It Is me wondering why the heck we have so many wine glasses…. And then choosing to separate those down to only the matching sets even though I don’t drink (and have never drank) wine.

It Is me doing every possible thing I can do to stay committed while I push with every ounce of strength I can summon as I stumble clumsily yet with surprising clarity through this insanity. Yup.  That's what It Is.

…..

Last Wednesday and Thursday I took pictures off the walls.  (Yes, it literally took two days.)  Saturday, slowly and with many, many tears, I took the pictures out of the frames and placed them on the coffee table.  Sunday…. Oh, lord, Sunday, I put the pictures away in a box.

I’m so tired.

I will not stop.  I will honor my wife, my love, my Maggie by completing this task.  One life was lost despite every desperate effort we made otherwise.  I refuse to allow one lost life devolve into two.  It's now my job to look after the one she cared the most about.  Thus, to honor her, I will exert every effort I have left in my soul to find my new life.  I will not fail.  I have little to lose because I have so little left. But that's more than Maggie has and, for her, I will not stop.

But I’m so tired.

Slipping pieces

source

This past weekend, we finally made a trip up to Canada to see Jeremy's completed grave stone (I may blog more about this later). It's been done for a month and a half now and we haven't been able to get up there before now and it's been tearing at me. I'm so glad we finally got to go see it. It doesn't feel right for something to be done for/about/in honor of him and not be a part of it, because he's a part of me.

I'm always so glad to get up there. Not just to Jeremy's grave (although I strangely look forward to going, perhaps because I know I can't just go anytime and I feel Jer there) but I really ache when I'm away too long. I miss Jeremy's family. My family. I miss his presence that's always in the midst of whatever we're doing there. I miss the familiar smells, faces, and places that are just him. They are not associated with anyone else.

I noticed something happening this trip though. It's happened once or twice before, randomly, but it always catches me off guard and leaves me frustrated and on the verge of tears.

I started to forget.

It's small things. This weekend, while sitting around during our ritual late night conversation filled with inappropriate jokes and bodily sounds (very Jeremy-esque), I suddenly heard in my head the sound of Jeremy burping. Ya know, that manly burp that's loud and obnoxious - he was always so proud of it. Well, he used to try to burp the alphabet and see how far he could get, or more often, he would burp "Ralph Forfar" - don't ask me why. But for a split second, I couldn't remember that name. His sisters had to help me remember, while I choked back tears for forgetting.

It seems trivial and silly, but anyone who has lost someone close understands how scary it can be when pieces of the ones you love start slipping. You suddenly forget the feeling of them next to you, just for a moment, and it scares you half to death. Or you can't remember the name of that one place you went to together, or exactly what started that inside joke. Or for me, not remembering the exact phrase that Jeremy used to repeat all the time from a french cartoon he watched as a kid. It was the only french he could remember and he recalled it anytime someone asked him if knew French (cause apparently all Canadians are supposed to). I can hear the inflection in my head. I can see his facial expressions. But the piece left me for awhile and made me angry with tears every time I tried to remember it.

It taps into my biggest fear: people forgetting Jeremy. If I can't remember a detail about Jeremy and I was closest person to him, who's to say others won't forget things too? Obvious, that's an irrational thought, but grief is not rational. It plays with your every emotion, every insecurity, every fear. It sneaks up and rearranges every puzzle piece you've tried to put back together in your life only to change the picture that was on the puzzle to begin with. The pieces never fit back together like they used to and when the pieces you've held onto the tightest start slipping, it threatens the very breath and life of you.

My only comfort in these moments are focusing on the things I do remember. The things I will NEVER forget. And the things that are only mine. Ours. I'll carry those with me in my heart wherever I go til the day I die.

Scarred For Life ......

                                                                     source          

...... and yet blessed for life, too.

Our oldest son graduated from college this past May.  Before he graduated he was offered a job with a very large firm that sells life insurance and does wealth management.

He came home this past weekend so that he and I could discuss long term health care insurance (even though I refused to discuss it with him when he first broached the subject ...... other than to tell him that I was nowhere near 90 years old!).
But I did finally tell him that we could talk about it and he could give me his view on it.

I had also decided that I wanted to take out life insurance policies on my six kids.

Not for them.
Not for me.
But for their future spouses.

None of them are near getting married at this point in time.
But that doesn't matter to me.
Because I've been scarred for life.

Yes, Jim's death has left me forever scarred.
But his provision and security for me and our children has left me forever blessed, too.
He planned for the day that we hoped would never come.
At least not for about 40 or 50 more years.

But come it did.
And much, much sooner than either of us expected.
And I was scarred.
Not only by his death, but by the knowledge that I later gained.  The knowledge that most of the married couples I know do not have life insurance.
Or wills.

Most of the husbands I know have not taken action to keep their wives and children secure, in case that day comes too early for them, too.
Even knowing Jim and our family.
Even seeing what can happen.
Even seeing how much Jim loved and cared for his family.

And that infuriates me.
And leaves scars on more people than just me.

There is no excuse.
None.
Especially when you know someone who's died young and left a family behind.

Please know that I am not pointing fingers at any of you here, or your spouse.
I'm talking about people I know ...... who now know better.
And still have done nothing.

I've talked to some of them until I'm blue in the face.
I can only do so much.  Then it's up to them.
And it's between them.

But I can do something.
I can make sure that if something happens to one of my children, and he/she becomes seriously ill or injured, their spouse will have enough support to get the help that is needed.
I can make sure that if one of my children dies way before their time, their spouse will receive some financial support to continue caring for their children and themselves.
At least I can do that.

I can make sure that the love and support Jim had for us and for our future, is carried on to them and their families.
I can make sure that my future son/daughter in laws are not left with a burden.

I wish I could do the same for my friends.
And for some of my family.
So that they will be forever blessed.
And not forever scarred.

Can I play my immunity card now please?

I don't quite know why I haven't worked this out yet, but being a widow does not mean I am protected from Life parking its enormous derrière over my head and emptying its dysenteric bowels.

If life was remotely fair, it should protect me from further heartbreak.  
It should also deliver me a million dollars, a permanent job, a full home renovation, an overseas holiday, and after a time, a hot, intelligent man who can look at me and all my baggage and still say "Phwoar, what a woman!" 
....and yet none of that has happened.

I find myself back in a place of uncertainty.
The hole that I have been trying to climb out of since Greg died and left me on this shaky, moving earth without a still-point, a protector, a person to say "Everything will be OK." 

So much of my current angst comes from not having job security and having a misguided right-wing State government who is hell-bent on austerity measures that include sacking a whole heap of public servants ... and I expect that they will then poke about in the left-wing Federal government's unemployment figures and decry their terrible management of the country's economy and jobless rate.

Surely there's got to be some law of nature that protects widows  from further harm??  Some sort of immunity card that I can play when Life insists on throwing curve-balls.

Except there is not, nor has there ever been. 

So I guess it is up to me to rescue myself......  Which I'd gladly do if only I knew how.
I am trying to be my own hero.  I am proactive at looking for work.  I strive to make a better life for my children. Perhaps I have given up on the hot bloke with the big brain ... for now .... but I haven't given up completely.


...and short of finding some armour and a unicorn, I shall just have to keep trying everything I know to get The Universe to shift its great posterior to another location. (In other words- I shall have to suck it up and plod on).

...at least plodding is moving right?

The Power of We

My New We

Today is Blog Action Day 2012. The theme this year is "The Power of We".

Thinking about the word we brought back a vivid memory of the first few weeks after my husband Dave's death. I remember suddenly noticing how often I still said we.

I had many visitors in those first few weeks. I would hear myself telling them "We are getting new siding," or "We grew corn this summer but not last summer," or "We were going to go to Italy again," and the word we would punch me in the stomach, leaving me winded and nauseous.

My we had turned to me in an instant and my heart and mind hadn't had a chance to understand. The power of the loss of my we was immense and crushing. Almost a year and a half later and I'm still trying to understand it.

My we used to consist of Dave and me.  He was my family, my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan and the person I trusted most in this world. And then I became just me. Overnight.

Everything was still there. His shoes, his wallet, his phone, his email account. But he was missing and so was the me I had been when he'd been here on this earth.

He had been dead for less than 3 months when I went to San Diego for Camp Widow. I was 35 years old and was completely consumed with the need to find my new we.

I vividly remember the feeling I had as the escalator at that Marriott brought me to the second floor where Camp Widow check in was taking place. I looked around at all the people milling about and thought "They're all like me," and I swear I took a deep breath for the first time in 3 months.

I was comforted just by the knowledge that I was surrounded by my new we. It wasn't anything like my old we and it couldn't replace my old we.

It didn't make the pain of his loss any less devastating, but it was power in numbers, and I didn't feel alone anymore. That first camp was the beginning of my re-entry into life.

When I returned home, I would picture all of those people I'd met, doing incredible things, like Michele Neff Hernandez, starting the foundation that allowed me to find my new we in the wreckage of Dave's death, and Matt Logelin, finding strength in his daughter and getting his beautiful love story to her and her mom out into the world and I borrowed their light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't see mine yet, so I used theirs.

When I was sure I couldn't withstand the pain of grieving the loss of my old we, I would call someone I met at Camp, and even from several states (and a country) away they would extend a strong hand through the dark and pull me out into the light, reminding me that we were in this together at least for that moment.

When I'd do the same for them, I felt a connection almost as strong as any I'd felt before. It was as though I could suddenly feel the invisible cords from my heart to theirs, extending hundreds of miles, allowing strength to surge back and forth between us, as needed.

My identity from my before-life was gone, but my new identity was a WE again. A different we.

We widowed people are warriors.
We are heroes, the kind of people who have power from the depths they've clawed their way out of to find the light.
We are a force to be reckoned with.
We know intimately the true value of love and the impermanence of life.

I don't know if I'd truly understand that if it weren't for SSLF and Camp Widow.

Just the simple but incredible act of communicating online with widows from all over the world through this blog is a we that spans the globe and includes millions of people in its web of connections.

My neighbor, two doors down, just lost his wife to cancer and in my condolence card to him, I included one of the SSLF outreach cards I carry around. So, I've cast the net over him, too, including him in this we. Hopefully, he will not feel as alone just knowing that there's a we out there for him, too, whenever he needs it.

SSLF allowed me to have a we again, during a phase in my life that could have been isolating and horrifically lonely.

The power of we, indeed.

Who am I?

Me at Camp Widow West 2012

Who am I?

How did I get here?

Where am I going?

What has my husband’s death taught me?

These are questions I struggle with everyday.

After spending 10 years with Seth, it’s hard to figure who I am without him.

We started dating when I was 21 years old; my whole “adult” life was with Seth.

Figuring out who I am is a constant struggle.

Through the 3 years of Seth being sick, I learned how deep our wedding vows go.

“Through sickness and health, tell death do us part”.

Sure, I could have given up on him. I could have left him. I could have kicked him while he was down.
But I made a promise to him the day we got married. Little did I know death would be so soon, and I didn't know that death does not end my love and commitment to Seth. Tell death do us part, does not stop YOUR love.

I love Seth more every day.

I have dealt with depression, PTSD, insomnia and anxiety.

I have fallen into stages of depression that no one should ever have to experience.

I have loved again, and had my heart broken.

I have gone through the anger stage more times than I can count.

I have screamed at god. I have screamed at Seth.

My neighbors probably think I’m nuts.

I struggle daily with the embarrassment that my husband committed suicide.

It embarrasses me because I think it makes me look like a failure.

If I was a good enough wife and friend, he wouldn't have killed himself.

Which I know (now) is not true, but I still feel like a failure.

I have had people look me in the face and tell me my husband’s suicide is my fault.

I have experienced heart break so intense that I don’t know how I lived.

I have experienced forcing myself into counseling, grief support groups, supporting suicide widows, writing for Widows voice. I have pushed myself out of my grief comfort zone, and put my story out for the world to read.

Writing about my story has been a struggle for me. It feels so exposed and public. But I know there are a lot of widows in my same situation, and I know I can help at least one person.

And for my own sake, my story needs to be released out of my soul.
I have kept my story locked up in my soul for two years too long.

I push myself to do things I sometimes feel I can’t achieve. Such as trying to have the law on FMLA changed to cover the death of a spouse. (See my petition here).

I have taken peoples criticism, such as I’m not trying hard enough to get over “it”.

I have cut toxic people out of my life. There are just some people I can never satisfy, and at this point in my journey, my happiness and comfort is what matters most.

I have learned how much my family and friends really do love me. Far more then I realize. Far more then I will ever understand.

I have realized my parents lost their son the day Seth died (This realization just happened a couple of weeks ago).

I have learned to ask for help.
And asking for help doesn't make me a weak person.

I have learned the world doesn't stop, when it should.
It doesn't stop and let me catch my breathe, or let me get back on my feet.
The world keeps turning.
Tomorrow always comes.

I have learned to pat myself on the back, when my only accomplishment for the day is getting out of bed and going to work.

I have learned to congratulate myself with each passing death anniversary, wedding anniversary and birthdays. After all, I made it through those.

I have learned to be proud of where I am in my journey. Even when I feel like I should be further ahead.
I have learned I am exactly where I am supposed to be in my grief.
And I can't rush through it, even though I try.

I have learned to say no.

I have learned that sometimes staying in bed really is the best decision for a certain day.

I have learned to be selfish.

I have learned - I am my own worst critic.
There are a lot of dreams and goals I want to reach, but I always tell myself I can’t do it.

I’m working on this! I have realized there is never a good time to go back to school. There is never a good time to start a new relationship. That life is never “right” and I have to just jump, even if I am scared to death. After all, the worst has already happen. I know how to pick myself up, dust myself off, and move forward.

I am still learning to not look at the word “widow” as a bad thing.

I remember I was flying to camp widow west 2012, I was sitting and looking out the window of the airplane. I was thinking of my upcoming adventures at camp widow, and I thought “how in the hell did I get here?? How am I a WIDOW??”

I told myself widow is a horrible word, and I need to come up with a new word to describe my marital status.

I was thinking my marital status should be along the lines of awesome with a splash of glitter.

I struggled with this “widow” word the whole weekend at camp widow.

I was at a WIDOW event. What was wrong with me??

Then Michele got up on stage. She was talking about how we hate the word widow. She brought up that our best friends are widows. And we love them (and know them) because they are widows. We do not hate the widow inside our friends, so why do we hate the widow inside of us?

It dawned on me that “widow” isn't bad.

It stands for a lot of things that "normal" people don't understand. 

Commitment, dedication, courage, strength, and most of all, love.

We are who we are because we are widows.

We love, and know what can be lost, deep into our souls.

I personally think I am a better person, better friend, and eventually a better wife, because I have been widowed.

I know I am a survivor. Even on days that I fail.
I push through and tell myself I can do this.

I know I will keep growing and moving forward.

Today is 810 days since Seth left this world.
But I refuse to let the death of Seth be the death of my soul, dreams and goals.