I Didnt Know

I did not know that it was possible to miss someone this much. 
I mean - I actually, really, honestly, did not know.

I had no idea that I would go see a production of the hilarious play Noises Off tonight, put on by the Theatre Department at the University I teach at; and laugh so hard that my ribs hurt, and then get in my car just a few minutes later, and suddenly be sobbing.

Sobbing because I used to take that ride back home with my husband, and he would be the one driving, and he would pull up the car to the performing arts building for me so I wouldn't have to walk in the rain to the far away parking lot, and then we would talk excitedly all the way home about how much we loved that play.

I did not know that the silence inside that car, and the absence of those conversations and those late-night theater reviews, would be so haunting and so painful and so unbelievably present. That the rain and the drive home alone would depress me so much, or that hearing one of my colleagues say: "That was great. I'm coming back again tomorrow with my wife" would feel like a knife twisting inside of my soul.

Innocent moments. Tiny things. Ginormous things. Small fragments. Friends. Phrases. Movies. Sporting Events. Food. A scent or a look or a weather pattern - I did not know that any or all of these things plus many many more, endless things - would have such a deep and profound effect on me, all the time, everyday that I live. I didn't know.

Why didn't anyone tell me? Shouldn't that be included in the "So You're A Widow" pamphlet? Might I have received some sort of directions or input on what to expect of some of the things that would be unexpected? No. Nobody thought of that. Nobody knew.

If I only knew, before I knew, sooner than I knew, what I now know today - I know this would be a lot easier to crawl through. Wouldn't it?

Maybe not. Probably not. Who the hell knows? Do you know? I don't know. And if I did know, I might not even tell you, because you wouldn't get it. Until, of course, you did get it. And then we would both know, more than we knew, back when we didn't know.

I miss the days of not knowing, all the many things, I did not know.
You know?

When words are not enough

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This Saturday marks 3 years since Jeremy took his last breath.
How can that possibly be?

Every year, I am in awe of how crazy it seems that so much time has passed, and yet how far away it seems when so much life has been lived in between. I have truly experienced more in the past 3 years than most people do in a lifetime. Since Jer died, I've bought 2 houses, purchased a new vehicle, traveled all over the country, lost and gained friends, dated and remarried, blended a large family, moved out of state, had a baby without his daddy, and am preparing to have another child with another man. Surely these things couldn't possibly describe MY life...

And yet, no matter how much life has been lived since I've seen Jeremy, the weight of the hole he has left in my life is still so evident, and still a very painful reality I face daily. The last several weeks have been especially hard for me. Part of it is because I now grieve so far away from his family and friends, far away from the life I shared with him, and far away from where I can feel his presence. I feel so far removed. I ache to hold on to pieces of him during this season. Part of it also is from the fact that the closer I get to delivering, the more terrified I feel. Pregnancy hormones alone could do me in, but the sleepless nights remembering a piece of my grief that I never thought I'd have to face again is sometimes too much. My anxiety level is high, to say the least.

I was texting with a friend this weekend just about how crazy it is that it's already been 3 years. And I realized how much I ached just to talk to someone about it. To let it out. To have someone actually ask me. I confessed that it's been hard to feel like I have no outlet lately. She asked me if writing was no longer an outlet. I had to think about that for a minute....

Writing has always been my way of expressing emotion. Words are my ally and my weapon of choice. They help me sort through my own head when things don't make sense. And being able to write about my grief journey has brought me more healing than I could have ever imagined. But I found myself at a crossroads of guilt. Guilt for feeling like I couldn't talk about the depths of my pain without somehow sounding ungrateful for the life I have now and the blessings that come with it. And guilt for being too grateful for the life I have now and feeling like people think it means I'm just ok and don't need to talk about Jeremy anymore. I also just don't like feeling like I'm seeking out attention. Writing makes people think they know me and therefore the personal connections are lacking because they think they know where I'm at. They can watch from a distance.

The truth is that words sometimes are not enough. Most of the time, I really don't have much NEW to say. I've run out of ways to express how much I miss Jeremy, how much my heart longs for him, how hard it is to watch my kids grow up without knowing him.......it really never changes, just evolves. I want to scream from the top of my lungs just how much grief sucks still sometimes. I want the world to know what an incredible husband I have now, and that how deeply I cherish him has no impact on the amount of grief I have and will continue to carry through the rest of this life. I wish I could find the right words....words that connect with everyone. But like Janelle said, we can't reach everyone. All we can do is write what we know, what we are living.

I keep going back to an analogy I heard shortly after Jeremy died, I think in a book I read somewhere. It painted a picture of train tracks, one track representing grief and one representing joy: both running side by side on the same path. They both exist together.

This week, I don't have the right words. Just a jumbled mess of emotions that seem to represent my heart these days. My words are not enough. But just remembering to put one foot in front of the other is sometimes all I need to do.

Finding A Balance ......

                                                              source
                 

...... is sometimes difficult to do.
In all areas of life.
And on this blog.

It's difficult to write posts that will connect with everyone.  If we write about how horribly dark and depressing and hard-to-survive those first days, weeks and months are ...... we don't connect with those who've been in this "club" for quite a while.

If we write about finding happiness again (albeit a different happiness) and that life is once again worth living, we don't connect with those who are drowning in grief.

We can't always reach everyone.
So what do we do?
We write what we know.
We write what we're living.
That's all we can do.
It won't always be enough, but that's why there are seven of us.  Hopefully at least one writer will write something that will make you feel less alone, less crazy, less ...... lesser.

There's no doubt about it ...... having a reason to be here, reading this ...... sucks.
And that's putting it mildly.
I came kicking and screaming into this club.  I didn't want to be here, I didn't think I belonged here, and I hated being associated with anyone who was here.
And while I still hate that I have a reason to be here, I've come to accept that ...... here is where I am.
No amount of kicking or screaming, or hating that Jim is dead ...... will bring him back.

That acceptance did not come easily, and it did not come quickly.
At least not for me.
I grieved hard.
But then, I loved hard.
I had him for a long time.
Not long enough, to be sure.
But long enough to ensure that I was going to grieve a long time.

I'm not dumb enough to believe that I will reach a point where I'll never grieve.  I will always miss him.
Always.
But I have arrived at the point where I am no longer sitting in the bottom of that deep, dark, cold cave that is grief.  I slowly managed to walk out of that cave.  And I do mean slowly.
In the beginning, I thought I'd never get out of that cave.  I imagined I'd die in there.
And I almost did.
Almost.

But I was stronger than I thought I was.  I made it out.
It took longer than I wish it had, but hey ...... out is out.

So what's my point?
Just this:
We are all grieving.  Yet we all grieve on our own time line.  There's no right way ...... or wrong way.
We grieve the way we grieve.
For as long as it takes.

But hopefully, once we get past those oh, so very hard first months ...... or years ...... one day we look forward, and notice that the air around us is a little lighter.  The future has turned from coal black, to dark grey.  And for the first time, we feel hope.
Hope that the sky will become lighter still.
Hope that we'll one day be able to take that last step which will take us, finally, out of the cave.
Hope that one day we'll smile again ...... and feel it.

So even though you may not believe it, or want to hear it, hope is out there.
You don't have to believe it ...... yet.
Some of us will believe it for you.
And we'll be here ...... when you're ready.

So while my words won't connect with all of you, I want you to know that I was there.
In that cave.
And if I could make my way out ...... anyone can.
I promise.

Does my bum look big in this?*

This post is going to sound like an underhanded grab for compliments ..... but bear with me, it does relate to being widowed and it does ask a genuine question....

I took this selfie this morning on the way to work.  We had a special breakfast in celebration of the Melbourne Cup  - the race that stops the nation.  (Trust me - it's a BIG DEAL here and the dress code is frocked-up with fascinator).

For those that know me well, I don't frock up too often so I donned the required garb (it was a toss-up between the flowers or kitty-ears headband) and decided that I looked atrocious but that kids are forgiving in what they think I look like and it was a bit of harmless fun, not to be missed.

So I tottered off to work feeling Quite Ridiculous but feeling in a fun mood. ..... much the same feeling as if I had donned a unicorn onesie for pj day or something.

But the thing is, I got So Many compliments today that I started to wonder if I actually didn't look quite as stupid as I thought I did.

Now you have to know that my standard dress uniform is a pair of jeans and a t-shirt paired with thongs (Oi! - that's flip-flops to you) or boots (all of them nice ones of course, not ripped, daggy ones).  .... one of the reasons I like my job is that I can wear neat casual clothes and get away with it.

So wearing a dress, jewelry head-dress and fancy shoes is not a normal day for me.

...and I got to thinking that without Greg to let me know he appreciated what I was wearing, I've tended to have a rather low opinion of the way I look.  Not a negative opinion .... I just assume that my relative attractiveness is not particularly important to anyone else and so long as *I* felt OK, then it was OK.  ...and not to imply that  I am really not a 1950s girl trying to please her man and only dressed up for Greg.  It's just not something I do for myself anymore.

So all the compliments got me thinking that maybe I should change the way I think about myself.  Maybe I shouldn't just assume that I am bland and unattractive and that I should back-myself more often because DAMN it felt good to be complimented.

Almost prompting me to ask "does my bum look big in this?"*

So my question for you this week is what do you do to remind yourself that your relative attractiveness  did not die along with your spouse?

*  - running joke between Greg and I.  It was how I would ask him if he thought I looked OK before we went out somewhere nice.

Remind Me

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I've been scary sad in the past few weeks. The kind of sad that feels impossible to withstand for one more second, that tears through me and sounds more like a scream than a sob, that makes me afraid to be alone, that makes me want to give up.

I think I've just felt too much pain to keep up the charade anymore. It wasn't that recent events were that awful (nothing can come close to Dave dying). It was that I hadn't had enough in reserves to withstand ONE MORE loss.

It's sent me back to the same symptoms I experienced in the month or two after Dave died. Tremors, generalized fears, chaotic mind, trouble reading, trouble sitting still, trouble eating, sleeping and getting through the day without crying, giant memory lapses. I feel trapped, desperate for comfort and not sure what would comfort me short of Dave returning from the dead.

I think I am simply terrified of being alone. The idea of living the rest of my life in my home, alone, freaks me out. I have an incredible network of loving, funny and intelligent friends. I have the time and space and money to explore my passions and discover a new path for my life that might make me happy. I have my health (when I'm not suffering from trauma-related symptoms), I have so much. Somehow, though, the one thing I can't have, has become the one thing I've decided I don't want to live without.

But I don't get to live with it now. Thinking that I might never have companionship like that again makes me miserable, so I try not to get too attached to that particular worry. I'd rather spend energy thinking that there's a great chance I will have that again or just attempt to direct my energies toward self care and let everything else fall into place as it will.

But what if a partner is not the answer? What if Dave's death cracked me open to uncover the real truth which is that I never felt good enough on my own and needed others' love and approval to feel worthy? What if I have to learn for the first time, how to live without it while deciding I'm good enough, regardless? If that's so, how the hell do I do that? Especially when the status of a single woman over 35 in this society is that of a spinster, a crazy cat lady or at the very least, is to be slightly pitied? Or when every time I see a smiling couple and their kids strolling through the park, I feel my heart spasm in jealousy? When I'm suddenly, for the first time since before I met Dave, afraid to be alone? Or when I most need the particular comfort you can only get from a loving spouse at the exact time in my life when I don't have one?

Okay. So I do it again. I get my feet under me again and regain my strength. I heal enough to get to the point where I feel a tiny spark of hope for the next day. I turn to my loved ones for as much comfort as I can find. I try to find comfort in helping others. I distract myself, stay busy, take baths, get massages, see my therapist, make gratitude lists, write, treat myself gently, heal, heal, heal.

I've done it before, I can do it again. It only feels like I'll never be happy again.  It only seems like life isn't worth living if I'm alone, but it's a lie. Life is worth living simply because it is and there's only one chance at it. Right? Remind me until I can believe it again, myself. Please.

Time Flies....(Guest Blog - Michelle Dippel-Dahlberg)

(Thanks very much to Melinda for letting me write on her day!)

It's that time of year again.  I've marched towards today for the past month and a half.  Grumpy one day, fine the next - I think most of my family has felt the uncertainty of my moods but they have hung in there.  This year was different for a couple of reasons - one, I forgot the day the march starts.  Let me clarify that though, my conscious mind wasn't thinking about the day, but my subconscious was right on target.  I was obviously in a sour-ish mood and I couldn't explain why.  It was only a couple of days later that I realized the dates and figured it out.  I think your entire body chemistry is changed by grief.  My body grieves even when my mind isn't fully engaged - I have less energy, I'm more prone to getting sick.  It's just weird.  

Enough about the march!  Eight years ago.  Hard to believe it has been so long and yet it seems like just yesterday. Daniel's last day at home was Halloween, and he died in the hospital just three short days later. He was supposed to go home that day, but it didn't work out the way we thought . It's so easy to take myself back to that moment.  Honestly it still makes me sick and horrified.  I can recreate almost every moment of the last few minutes and the few hours after as our family came to the hospital.  It's so easy to travel back in time and be right in it.  Amazing.

More amazing though is how hard it is to imagine that 8 years has passed.  He'd have been 43 now, and G is 13.  Crazy talk.  What a great conversation the two of them could have now...more likely a heated discussion as each one tried to be more right than the other....the Dippel-genes are strong in my not-so-little guy! ;-)  I sometimes imagine what they would be like together through G's sports and his math homework. Only a couple of items on a very long list of wonderings. What would it have been like?

It doesn't matter though now - and it is the path we weren't allowed to go down.  Our path is very different now and yet very good.  I'm blessed with a fabulous husband who makes me very happy and is a great step-dad for a 13 year old boy who needs that kind of attention. We have aged, changed, grown, healed, and moved forward along our new path - always with thoughts of Daniel in our hearts, but knowing that he watches over us and is proud of us for making a new life in spite of the hardships.

To honor today, we are loading up in the car and heading to Wurst Fest - one of Daniel's favorite festivals. We do it every year at this time. We'll wear ridiculous hats, load up on beer and brats, eat fried pickles until we feel sick and raise a glass to Daniel.  Cheers Daniel.  We wish you were here with us in body, but you are always with us in spirit.

  

Faith

When he died, my faith died.

Faith in a god, life, living...

There was only one thing I wanted to believe, that he'd come back home.

When that didn't come to fruition, it was believing that life would end shortly thereafter.

It didn't.

Nothing changed.

It wouldn't change until I started believing.

Believing that I could survive. That I should survive.

Believing that inhaling and exhaling, at some point, would be a natural process that I didn't pay attention to, mostly because there were too many times I wished I would have stopped doing both.

Faith became a silly word I loathed using.

I've always thought that faith was a belief in something bigger than one's self.

I forgot that for a while.

But when the turning moment came for me to believe that I could survive....thrive after losing him, so came the moment that I realized a truth.

That I still had faith in our love.

It was bigger than us both.

It still is.

And now, 6.5 years later, that faith has allowed me to know, believe and trust in those things.

With one of the most important being the angels that have guided my way.

Sometimes it was a child smiling at me in line after a night of crying. Other times I know it's been Michael with the synchronicity that could not be explained. There are even moments when I realize I am one for myself.

Sometimes it just takes us believing.

And with the belief comes the faith.

And with the faith comes a world possibility, in one that once seemed impossible.

And with that, an unveiling of a world or people, things and moments that make once unfathomable seconds, now worth it.

Faith never died. It never will.

Believe me.

“Everyone has an Angel. A Guardian who watches over us. We can’t know what form they’ll take. One day, old man. Next day, little girl. But don’t let appearances fool you, they can be as fierce as any dragon. Yet they’re not here to fight our battles, but to whisper from our heart. Reminding that it’s us. Its everyone of us who holds power over the world we create. You can deny angels exist, Convince ourselves they can’t be real. But they show up anyway, at strange places and at strange times. They can speak through any character we can imagine. They’ll shout through demons if they have to. Daring us, challenging us to fight.”