50 Reasons I Love Don Shepherd

On October 27, 2006, I married my forever soul-mate. On July 13, 2011, he died. It was sudden and out of nowhere, and now, 3 years later, I still struggle to understand why I have to live without him, and why he doesn’t get to live. Today is November 6, 2014. Today, Don Shepherd would have been 50 years old. But instead, he will be forever 46. It’s unfair that I can’t throw him the big 50^th birthday party that I always pictured throwing in my head. Instead, I will gather with some friends in Central Park, and sing and play guitars in his memory. And I will write this list – here are just 50 of the reasons why I loved, still love, and will always love, my beautiful husband. I will pass this out and share it with the world, because he deserves to be known by many, and he deserves so much more …….

1.       He made me understand that I am worth loving.

2.      He always handed me the keys to his car with a full tank of gas, and the oil checked.

3.      Even though it was his car, he called it “our” car.

4.      He often left himself with no money in his wallet, so he could give me his last $10.

5.      He smelled like soft sheets and warm blankets and peppermint.

6.      His blue eyes were the only thing I wanted to see.

7.      Dogs and cats ran to him, demanding his attention. He was a magnet for animals.

8.      The way he brushed our kitties teeth, and brushed their coats. So gentle and loving.

9.      His twisted and surprisingly dark sense of humor.

10.  How sexy and magical it was every time he strummed his guitar.

11.  The way he used my knees and legs to create a beat with, like imaginary drums.

12.  He said I was beautiful, often, and he meant it.

13.  The way he looked at me when I was performing onstage, like he was in awe of me.

14.  He carried me to the bathroom, cooked for me, and waited on me for 7 days straight when I threw out my back years ago.

15.  He asked for my dad’s permission to marry me.

16.  He called my parents “mom and pop” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

17.  The way he made me feel un-broken.

18.  His amazingly beautiful , animated laugh.

19.  The way he cried whenever an animal was in pain, or when our kitties Ginger and Isabelle died. The way I had to hold up his 6 foot 4 body, as he collapsed in my arms.

20.  The way he folded his arms and started his sentences with: “Ya know …. “

21.  He was a natural teacher, and he knew so much about so many topics, and I was always learning things from him, without ever feeling like I wasn’t as smart or as equal.

22.  Nobody gave hugs the way he did.

23.  He was my human pillow. My head slept on his chest and he would play with my hair and soothe me to sleep.

24.  That thing he used to do in bed .

25.  The way he could adapt to anyone or anything. He felt just as happy and comfortable at a gourmet restaurant as he did inside of a Burger King.

26.  The one I watched and went to all my Yankees games with.

27.  He taught me how to play tennis, and he got me so interested in the sport itself. His passion for everything was contagious.

28.  The way he would do things he didn’t want to do (like take 8 weeks of ballroom dance lessons for our wedding), because he knew it made me happy.

29.  Because he would have been an even better father than either of us imagined.

30.  That other thing he used to do in bed .

31.  The way he used to give me 3 cards on special days; one serious / mooshy one, one funny one, and one from the kitty cats.

32.  Because we could sit in silence together, or talk for hours together. It was all good.

33.  He packed up his life into a moving truck and came from Florida to New Jersey, to take a risk on us.

34.  He was so incredibly kind.

35.  Sometimes he wouldn’t talk for hours, and it was never awkward.

36.  He looked so damn sexy in his boxers.

37.  He looked so damn sexy in his EMS uniform.

38.  It was so hot when he would start talking all “medical” and I wouldn’t have a clue what the hell he was yapping on about.

39.  He brought me through and sat beside me during the absolute worst thing that ever happened to me .

40.  He saved me, in so many ways, over and over and over again.

41.  He had so many reasons to feel sorry for himself, and he never once did.

42.  I was honored and lucky to be his wife.

43.  Saying the words “my husband” gave me intense peace and joy.

44.  His presence in my life made me feel safe from all things frightening in the world.

45.  When I was at work, he would call and say, in the sweetest voice: “When will you be home, Boo? How long?” He missed me when I was not there.

46.  I trusted him with my life.

47.  Our cat Sammy would sleep ON his head, and he would lay there smiling, with a cat on his head.

48.  I loved our simple, beautiful, extraordinary, ordinary life.

49.  He held my hand in bed until we were asleep, and then longer.

50.  He was the best person I have ever known.

Happy “Not Turning 50”, 50^th birthday - my beautiful, dead husband.

I will love you until I no longer breathe, and then, even longer .

To read more of our story, or hear more about my upcoming book: My Husband Is Not A Rainbow, please go to my blog at: www.ripthelifeiknew.com

Thanks for reading. 

My Heart

My heart is raw. It breaks open easily. It doesn't take much. Another memory of the life I lost when Mike died. Another tragic story from another new member of our terrible club. Another heartbreak from a fellow widow having made the effort to find new love and life and been hurt. Another day of pain and sadness in a friend's ongoing attempt to move forward without a beloved partner. Another outcry from a wounded fellow traveler. Another experience of the unfair circumstances that befall any and each of us as survivors.

My heart is broken. I am broken. We are broken.

But I couldn't have made it this far without my comrades in arms. I wouldn't be here, standing, without being part of this community. Without sharing the hurt and pain. Without reading, listening, hugging, grieving, crying, hoping, and yes, even laughing at times, together. Without the common struggle.

I sometimes envision us all standing together in a wide open field. Soft green grass; flowers as pinpricks of color swaying in the warm sun far as we can see, their sweet perfume tingling and lingering. Azure skies with bright, puffy cotton clouds overhead, and a few trees on the outskirts calling their rooted cries of life while we cling together arm in arm - hundreds, thousands, millions of us, holding each other up as we wail into the wind our deepest pain and agony. As we exchange tears, smiles, stories, hugs...as we share that profound experience of the joy of being alive amidst the misery of death leaving us behind.

For what else is life? A solid structure of emotion, color, and landscape. Of hunger, bitterness, loss, love, pain, friendship and beauty, all at the same time, until we go, finally, to whatever place it is our loves have gone.

My heart is open.

Next and Next and...Stop~

Mostly, I stay in the here and now.  Who can bear to even imagine 24 hours from now?  So I focus my eyes right in front of me, the next step, the next mile.

18 months and a couple weeks since Chuck's death and I still look down at my feet to see where they are and I stay there.   Mostly.

I'm in Key West right now, with my daughter, as I continue my Odyssey of Love for him.  Memories of him are everywhere and each one stabs into me with pain, a reminder that he's gone.  So, yeah, as I sat on a beautiful beach today staring out at the aqua waters, you might think I'd be appreciating the sun and sand-and you would be so wrong.  I stared out at the bright blue waters into the endless horizons of the Gulf and saw only the vast emptiness that echoes in my heart and my mind, untethered, took off into my future and the anxiety began pulsing through my blood with each pump of my still working heart and I wondered how the fuck do I do the rest of my life without him?

My daughter anticipates her return to Arizona and her husband and setting up their lives after her 6 months on the road with me.   Our older son who resides in Arizona is busy with his daughter and his
job and a new girlfriend and it looks like they have a future together, and our younger son in Connecticut is nearing the end of his schooling for EMT certification and he and his lovely girlfriend are planning their lives, and Chuck's daughter continues her active life with her two kids in Vermont.  
All of this is, of course, everything a parent could wish for, and I'm so thankful they are creating their lives.  I know they miss their dad dreadfully, and always will, but their lives are truly continuing and that fills my heart with love for them.

Today my brain slipped ahead in time, after I drop my daughter off.  Not in a self-pitying way but in a holy hell and fuck, what do I do next?  What do I do for the rest of my life without him?  I read about other widows who are years out, ahead of me, who talk about the still-there pain and grief and I shudder and flinch and think how unsustainable this is in every way but this is what I have and I don't know how to do this long-term.  How do I spend the rest of my life with his absence?

I'm open to love again,  I'm open to life;  each day I get up and drive and do and I'm involved and I meet people and new experiences happen continually and none of it touches that place inside me that just fucking stabs reminders into me.  My only worry, really, is that this pain will continue the rest of my life and that is completely and utterly horrifying to me.  I know that it can ease over time; I get that.  But how can it be that it isn't there always, in some form?  The level of grief is equal to the level of love one holds and even if another man comes into my life to love me and be loved, Chuck's absence will always be present.

He is missing from me and it's agony.  

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Like often happens when I read the rest of the writing team's posts, Sarah's post on Sunday struck a chord.  I wonder when I'll get to the point where pretty much the first thing I say to someone isn't "I'm a widow; my husband died two and a half years ago" or some variation on the theme.

And then changes just keep on happening around me that have me feeling I am being told to hurry up to the next identity stage. 

First, I didn't get the internship, but I'm ok with that and was expecting that outcome. 

Just considering work at this time is a change in and of itself.

Then the next one hit.

Sunday evening it was announced to our church community that our Minister has been called to another congregation.  This community shockwave has come after our Associate Minister announced he was leaving about a month or so ago. They each move on to their new communities early in the new year.

Honestly, I'm glad I have a counsellor's appointment this week. 

This change is significant in terms of Ian and I's story.   The Minister was there when Ian first brought me to this community about 5 years ago. Then a little while after, in the space of 15 short months, he baptised John, married Ian and I and conducted Ian's funeral service.  And just last week, he conducted a short ceremony as I interred Ian's parent's ashes at the church's memorial wall. 

But he won't be there to do Ian's when I'm ready to. 

Since Ian's death, I have developed many more connections and friendships within the community, but at that time of crisis, it's the ordained leaders that get turned to and who get the front row seat to the action.  My dad's most repeated phrase during Ian's hospitalisation was probably "Call the Minister".

The change will signal different things to each of us in the community and as a result some will stay, others may seek alternative congregations, some may play 'follow the leader' to the next congregation, others may step up into leadership of some form.  In many ways, this transition period is probably going to shake out similarly to what I saw happen to the workforce during a company acquisition and the instillation of new leadership.

But personally, I think my experience will be I'll feel their departure twice over:

Loss of the friendships forged through the support they gave through Ian's illness and death.

And John's dealing with the departure of men he adores & who've helped fill the male role model gap left by Ian (along with plenty of others in the community).

Just as each member of the community will face their own process of growth through this season of change, maybe for me it's a sign that I'm really through the darkest period of my widowhood and like Sarah said earlier this week, ready to emerge into a new identity that's coloured by the experience, but not defined by the title of 'widow'.  A sign that maybe I no longer need some of those key players around as consistently as I have to date - but it's ok to wish they'd be around.

Like every significant loss or change to date in my life, there is a bit of lead time, a period of transition to come to terms with the changes. Time in which I can coach a particular small person that sometimes people move, but they're not permanently gone (since that's all John's actually experienced to date). 

The community the Minister's going to lead is the local church of a friend of mine and is not too much longer a drive from my home than our home congregation. 

And as good friends do, she's offered to have us over for lunch after service every now and then.  

Flight From Grief

How can I describe the strange set of circumstances that brought me here, from North America to Northern England, to this wild and expansive place, with its sloping, green hills, its mossy, stone walls, to this terrace house, built in 1889, to live the life that my husband gave to me? Over the weeks and months, you will come to know these things. But today, on my first visit to these pages, the most I can muster is a summary of events.

I came from Florida to work in London, in a sort of flight from grief. I had lost my sister and then my mother, there, within eleven months of each other, both through lingering illnesses, and the pain of those losses sent me in search of a different life. I responded to an international recruitment of Social Workers to live and work in the UK, and, six months after my mother’s death, in May of 2009, I arrived at Gatwick Airport, with two suitcases and a broken heart.

For months I covered over my grief, hiding it behind the flurry of concentration it took to negotiate living in a foreign land. I was intrigued by this new place, dazzled by its theatre, overwhelmed by its transport system, excited by the art museums and history museums, enamoured with the wealth of talent and the breadth of history in this country I now call home. I had much to do and see and learn. But I was not good at reaching out to others, and making connections in such a polite and formal society was not an easy task. It was a busy but lonely life.

The man that became my husband attended a Buddhist Centre in Manchester, from the same tradition as the South London Centre that I attended, and we came to know each other through our practice, there. We traded emails and phone calls for a couple of months. He shared his life story with me, and I was impressed by his ability to express his sorrows so openly, and that he seemed able to forgive those in his past who had caused him harm. He called it ‘shaking hands’ with his childhood.

Once, about a month after we had been communicating, I awakened in the morning to an email that contained a poem by Rumi and a picture of a sunflower.

How many 60 year old men read poetry and admire flowers?

I wanted to know this man.

We met. I held his hand at the Manchester train station, and looked into his clear, blue eyes. At 5 foot 4 inches, he was almost the same height as me, a rarity. Already we seemed a perfect fit.  On our first date, he drove me through the bustling streets, past the red buildings of Manchester’s inner city, to the Buddhist Centre, a beautiful building of wood and brick. Everyone knew him there, and greeted him warmly. We sat in silence, for awhile, before the shrine, the sweet smell of incense smoke twirling toward the ceiling.

He cooked me a meal, we drank some wine, and spent the entire weekend together. And the one after that. And the one after that—until our weekends became weeks and vacation times and grabbing every precious moment together that was possible for two people living and working 200 miles apart.

He shared his vibrant, colourful world with me—Sunday dinners in country pubs tucked into quiet corners at the end of winding roads, long drives throughout this vast and stunning landscape he cherished, a large and robust family—six children, four sisters, three grandchildren, a host of lifelong friends. Music and dance. Humour and joy. He was comfortable with who he was. He was grateful for his life. He was peaceful and content.

We married on the 17^th of November, 2012, and set about building a life. I moved into his home, found work, made a place for myself, and settled into my plan to grow old with the man I loved.

We overcame anxieties and conflicts and sadness, too. Merging the lives of two people who had traversed through many years and been hurt in other relationships had its challenges. He had some health problems, as did I. In April, he spent five days in hospital with an infection, and his recovery was slow and arduous. He lost a good friend, earlier in the year, and another good friend had had a heart attack.  He was beginning to feel his age.

I had ties in America, a son I needed to visit, and this, too, put a strain on our relationship. We both could not afford a trip to America each year, so I went, on my own, in the summers, to visit my boy. In May, he graduated from university in upstate New York, and performed a senior recital, and I felt I needed to be there. My separation from Stan at this tender time was difficult, and far too long. We missed each other, terribly. I vowed not to be away from him for so long, again.

Five days after I returned from America, the police came to our door to tell us that one of Stan’s sons had been found dead. He was 39. We spent the next two weeks swimming in grief and shock. We made funeral arrangements, notified his brothers and sisters and other relatives, cleaned out his flat. Stan was tired, and distant. I chalked it up to the exhaustion that comes with such a deep and tragic loss. I tried to console him, and give him space. I didn't know how to make it better. We were intent on getting through the day of his ceremony, hoping, then, to begin to heal.  Gavin’s funeral was set for the 9^th of June.

On that day, after Stan had said goodbye to his son in a moving tribute that left everyone in tears, he walked hand in hand with me outside the chapel, looked into my eyes, and collapsed to the ground.

CPR, defibrillator, paramedics, rescue attempts.

Ambulance, A&E, more defibrillation, more CPR.

Flat line.

Shock, sorrow, wailing, disbelief.

My beloved husband was dead. 

He brought me into his vibrant, colourful world, and left me in it.

Nearly five months later, I am still in shock. Except when I’m not. Except when the reality of his absence sends me to my knees. Each night that I arrive home and there is no one to pick me up from the train station. When I put my key into a darkened door. When I reach for him in our bed and find an empty place, instead. When I chase away the silence with television and internet.

These hills carry his spirit. I feel him everywhere. Sometimes they bring me comfort. Sometimes I want to run away from them, move to a different part of the world, like I did before, to make another flight from grief.

But I won’t. It doesn’t work, anyway, this running. I love these quiet, windy places, surrounded by stone, dotted with sheep. This is where he is. And I don’t want to leave him behind.

This time, I’ll face my loss. Lean into it. Shake hands with it, as he would say.

 I have no other choice.

Healing Forward

I was talking to a widowed friend the other night about the whole idea of sharing this part of our life and how it changes over time. I remember well the first year after my fiance died. The first thing out of my mouth was this information. I told everyone and anyone. Friends, family, coworkers, customers, the mail man, police officers, the tech support guy, random strangers... No one was safe. I spewed my raw pain out all over the world like a continually erupting volcano. 

My friend did the same. We talked about how at first, it is the only thing we wanted to talk about. It is the only thing that mattered. And for a while, it really did swallow up our identity. And we talked about how we felt like we lost the whole rest of our identity for a time to the label "widow". Which left us both feeling conflicted - simultaneously wanting to be completely defined by our love for this person, and resentful that people now only saw us as a widow.

Then we raised the question: when did that shift? When did we go from the hurling our widowhood at every innocent bystander to becoming extremely protective of this information and very choosy about who we share it with? 

It has happened somewhere in this third year for me. I've begun to re-emerge into life again. And as I have, slowly my desire to be defined as a widow has become less and less. After two years of talking about nothing but death and about him in exhaustion, I am finding that its okay not to talk about it all the time anymore. I'm finding myself wanting to talk about other things that are a part of me; art and writing, new music and travel, fun recipes and healthy living. 

Instead of my widowhood being the first thing I tell people now, it is usually that I am an artist. Sometimes I wait months before sharing with someone new about being widowed. My friend - who's a few years ahead of me on this road - does the same thing. And we wondered, what causes that transition from sharing it with everyone to keeping it more private? 

Our initial answer was that we have just grown tired of the myriad of awkward reaponses we get from people. And tired of being pegged as The Widow. And tired of the unwanted advice. Eventually, it becomes easier to just avoid all that as long as possible. But there were other things we realized too as we discussed it. More positive things. 

We talked about how we were so raw at first that we absolutely needed to talk to anyone and everyone about it. Acute pain needs serious acute talking to begin to heal. Over time, all that sharing and other things we've done for ourselves have helped us to heal to a point where we no longer need to talk about it all the time. So the fact that we can comfortably not talk about it now is a sign that we are healing.

Our desire to be defined by other parts of ourselves has begun to return too. This horrible, unspeakable thing happened to us, but it is NOT who we are. So somewhere in this year 3-5 area, we each found a desire to reclaim and rediscover who we are now. 

We also talked about how difficult that transition is. How we each felt scared that we were leaving our partner behind if we began to talk about them less or reenter into life again. How we worried that it would make us lose them all over again. This is what I have struggled with largely most of this year - this push-pull between wanting desperately to fill my life with other things again and feeling guilty about it and scared I'd feel farther from him.

What we both found though, is that it didn't make us feel farther from them at all. In fact it has felt more the opposite for me. This year, I've transitioned into spending more of my time thinking about the present and the future. I've started to accept that I must build a new life of my own and begun to work towards building this life into something happy and meaningful. To my surprise, he has come with me every step of the way.

 It turns out that beginning to live again doesn't mean I have to move on without him. To my relief, it actually seems to be quite impossible to leave him behind. He is so deeply interwoven into the fabric of this new woman I am that I'm finding that nothing can separate us now. He is in everything now - even the new beautiful things and people that weren't part of our life. Especially those in fact, because his death is what has lead me to them... And so it feels like he is always leading me to happiness. It's been a beautiful discovery which has come out of this third year of widowhood. He will always be. 

Giving Counselling Another Go

 

Source

This week I tried counselling again. I am a strong advocate of therapy - not just giving it a go but, if it doesn't feel right, trying another psychologist and another until you’ve found the right fit.  I’ve had mixed success in the past but recently I decided to practice what I preach and try again.

I’m so glad I did.  One year, three months and six days after my husband’s unexpected suicide, I finally feel like someone might be able to help me find the tools I need to process the trauma of that experience.

To explain how many attempts it took me to find this fit, this was my FIFTH go with a new counsellor.  My first took place the very day after Dan died, when my best friend arranged a visit to a psychologist she found through her work’s employee assistance program.  This woman just stared at me in shock as I told her what had happened the day before.  When I finally asked her if she had any advice on how I might survive this nightmare, she feebly explained the stages of grief (failing to mention they are NOT linear!) and said I would probably feel better in a year. Wrong. I didn’t go back to see her.

In the following months I tried two others.  One of whom was fresh out of university and tried different exercises with me like ‘cognitive behavioural therapy’, which is a great tool, but way too early for me when I was still so deeply in shock and trying to make it through one day at a time. I battled on with her making me feel like I was failing her as a test case until I met counsellor number three, who ran a suicide bereavement program through a wonderful charity here in Australia called Lifeline. 

This experience was life changing and helped me to understand Dan’s illness and death in a way that brought a real sense of acceptance.  For the first time I felt like Dan’s suicide wasn’t about me or due to anything I did or didn’t do.  I also understood that it wasn’t necessarily because of anything Dan did or didn’t do - he was sick, he had a disease and he died.

I would have loved to keep meeting with this counsellor after the completion of the program but due to budget restrictions she wasn’t able to offer ongoing sessions.  However she referred me to psychologist number four, who I started seeing earlier this year. 

These sessions were good, I was able to get a lot of thoughts off my chest and it was a great outlet to vent, however I wasn’t sure if I was ‘improving’ in any way.  I always walked out feeling a bit lighter, but the same thoughts would eventually creep in.  Until one day when she asked if I was sure I wanted another appointment, because she thought I was doing so well that maybe I didn’t need counselling any more.  Well that threw me!  Was I ‘cured’?  Was I boring her or wasting her time, sitting here moaning about how I missed Dan? I mean, I knew I was functioning well, I go to work, spend time with friends, go on holidays, etc, but I’m still deeply grieving and have regular moments of being confused and overwhelmed.  So I figured maybe I didn’t need counselling any more and stopped going.

Until two months ago, a new doctor that I’d found closer to my work suggested I give it another go.  I knew I still had a lot of work to do.  I cry often, I have days where I don’t want to participate in the world and the emptiness is deep.  I have flash backs and haunting questions and reoccurring doubts and guilt but, after that last experience, I wasn’t sure if I needed more counselling or if I just needed more time. 

So that brings me back to this week.  After a particularly tough few days I thought I’d give it another shot.  I called the office on Monday and they happened to have an available appointment Thursday afternoon.  I went in and re-told the horrible story about the day he died, the months leading up to it, our love story and what my life has been like since.  As much as it was painful to re-live the finer details of his death, there was a release again, as I sat and sobbed in this stranger’s comfortable chair. 

When I finally stopped talking, I looked at her through my tear-stained eyes and said, ‘Is this normal?  Is there something wrong with me?’.  Her reply was just what I needed to hear.  While confirming that there was nothing ‘wrong’ about where I am at the moment, she explained that my brain has definitely been affected by the shock of what I’ve been through.  She said after such a significant trauma, my understanding of how the world works would have been shattered - causing me to lose trust in logic and ‘right and wrong’.  The good news was that there is work we can do to help calm my racing mind, rebuild that trust and help me long-term.   

My relief was overwhelming.  First of all, to have someone say something other than ‘you’re so strong, you’re doing so well’ and actually acknowledge that there’s a reason I still don’t feel ok was so validating.  Secondly, to hear that there is actually help – that there are things I can actively do to process the pain in my heart and the mess in my head, rather than JUST sitting and waiting (which still plays a significant part in the healing process) was also wonderful.

I’m glad I gave it another shot and tried again to find the ‘right’ counsellor for my particular, unique little bundle of grief.  Maybe this will be the long-term counsellor relationship I’m looking for.  Or maybe again I’ll find out that it’s not quite the best fit.  If it doesn’t work out, I am going to come back and read this post and remind myself again that it’s worth it to keep looking.