Still human...

I arrived back home (Cape Cod) from my vacation and the Conference on Widowhood late last night and went straight to bed, more tired than tired.

This morning I got up and took a look around.
The grass needed to be mowed, the garden needed to be weeded, and the house had a layer of fine dust that I couldn’t see but I knew was there. My desk was the same messy mess that I left a week and a half ago and my voice mail was full.

The first thing I did was to fill the bird feeder. My finches don’t need food this time of year, but I feed them anyway because when I do they put on a colorful show.
The second thing I did was to make myself a cup of good, strong, Starbucks coffee. I then flopped in my favorite comfy chair and recalled the flight home.

Flying from Seattle to Boston I sat in the middle of a family, two parents and three small well-behaved children. I rested, as much as one can inside of a 180-thousand-pound missile hurtling through the atmosphere aiming hopefully for one’s city of origin, in my case, Boston. Knowing the landing would include flying over water, I was not comforted. I don't like flying.

But my mind gradually drifted from the quite lengthy list of possible catastrophes, to the young family that surrounded me.

That family, I thought, that family was supposed to be us. Two parents, many kids. We were supposed to be going on trips and coming home late at night and quietly, together, depositing our sleeping children in their beds. We were supposed to be whispering above their dream-filled heads about our plans for the next day or the next week. We were supposed to be reminiscing about the vacation we had and planning the next. And furthermore, I'll bet our kids would have been as smart as theirs, or smarter and more musical and more athletic and and and and.... And better behaved.

(God help me, this was really what I was thinking...)

And so there I was. Right in the middle of self-pity and pettiness once again. The good karma from the Conference and my vacation, evaporating before my eyes.

I have been a widow for a good while now, and I know the signs. I know the difference between grief and self-pity. I know, as they say, that pain is inevitable and suffering is optional. We must grieve. We must feel the brokenness of our hearts. We must talk about what we have lost. And we must do it over and over again, for as long as it takes to get better.

But the truth is that I am happy these days, and I treasure our very little family. I have done my grieving. I have an amazing daughter and an equally amazing (and pregnant) stepdaughter. I can recognize that my life is different than it would have been without once again causing myself to suffer.

So why do I still sometimes choose to suffer? Yikes. I don’t know. Habit maybe? Anyhow, this time I caught myself in the act and stopped my jealous thinking…and instead fed on the memories of the amazing gathering of widows in San Diego. And I was happy for those two parents and their beautiful children. That is what I will focus on for today.

Mie Elmhirst

Widows Breathe Coaching

110 Carriage Place

There's something daunting about entering the place where your life last thrived. I know for a while now that I had to make a trip to Clarksville, TN, where David and I were stationed,but I chose not to dwell on the idea. To be honest, we'd be happy in a cardboard box so long as both of us fit in it, but Clarksville was never our favorite place to be. Yet, it was our home, we built a life and had a routine... we were happy here. At one point, I vowed never to come back. But as fate has it, our tenants moved out and our house needed some fixing. So! Off to Clarksville...

I was doing good! ...Until I drove past Exit 4 on the highway... the beginning of Clarksville. The beginning of all the memories to come. My heart started raising and I had to catch my breath. Did I really want to do this?! ...Too late now, I guess. As the military base entered my view on the right a particular panic began in me and I knew if I didn't call someone I might just lose what strength I have left. I called my WSM. I needed another voice... someone to tell me I was crazy or I could do this. While on the phone I drove around aimlessly for a bit, collecting my mind and taking in all that was familiar. ...The walmart we always went to, his favorite taco stand, the post office, the park... I asked WSM to stay on the phone with me while I made my next stop... 110 Carriage Place... our home.

I sucked in a deep breath as I turned the corner past the street sign... our home in full view. "Memories are too painful for me," a woman once told me... I thought about this as I drove up to the house. I held the house key in my hand for a while... determined to go in... determined to make it through the next few minutes. I stood at the red door with the phone to my ear and the key in the door.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't open it.

I let the key go for a bit, then went to turn it... then let it go... I did this a few times. What if the place wasn't what I remembered? The tears began. The panic found me. I could do this...

I couldn't understand what WSM was saying but I did hear her say something about "good memories..." Yes. Good memories... I have good memories here. With that I opened the door. It was bright inside, open and airy just like I remember. The sunlight came flooding in from the all the windows in the same way it did the first time David and I saw the house. It's was made us fall in love with the place... it reminded us of California. It was perfect.

I walked straight to the spot I've daydreamed about most the past 18 months... an area on the floor not far from the door. I've longed to return to this simple spot on the carpet... the spot where we laid next to each other before I dropped him off the night he left to Iraq. The house was empty, all our furniture was in storage. We had no were to sit so we just sat by the door. It was in this spot where we spent our last moments in our home, in this spot I tried so hard to keep my brave face... in this spot where I cried... in this spot he kissed my tears. It was in this spot that he last held me... he held me the way I will never forget and always crave. One hand under the small of my back, the other under my head. Without thinking, I collapsed my body on the very spot and closed my eyes. I realized how much I love this place and just how good our memories are.

For the past three days I've been at 110 Carriage Place... a tiny house on a cul-de-sac, jam packed with good memories. Happy memories. Every wall, every room, ever cabinet- a memory. There is so much I didn't remember!! But I'm so glad I gave myself the chance to do just that... remember our best moments at 110 Carriage Place, because the woman was wrong.... because for me forgetting is way more painful then the quick sting of a memory.

Life goes rushing by ....

.... way too quickly sometimes. Or is it just mine?

I doubt that ..... look who I'm writing to. We ALL know that life went rushing by too fast.

But my life as been so hectic in the last day or so, that not only did I not write on my own blog yesterday, I forgot to write my post for this blog!!!

So, here it is.

Another wave this week .... but one I'm dealing with pretty well, all things considered.

I think I lost a friend this week.

Or, if I didn't lose her completely, I lost the kind of friend that she was. Which, I suppose is only fair, since she lost the kind of friend I was back in December of 2007.

This friend does not like the way I am healing.

She does not agree with my choices.

She is upset with me.

Might I add ..... she's never been a widow.

This has caused me a lot of pain and sorrow over the past few months. A lot.

And the other night it came to a head.

And I cried. And felt so much hurt and sadness.

But the next morning .... I suddenly didn't.

Because I knew that there's nothing I can do to change her mind. I cannot force her to walk this road with me, growing as I grow ...... not as she wants me to grow, but just as I grow .... and heal.

And so I did the only thing I could ....... I slowly, very, very slowly ..... let go.

I cannot put myself out there for more pain and sorrow just because I cannot meet someone's expectations and needs.

I can't.

It's physically and emotionally impossible for me to take on someone else's needs at the moment. I'm doing the best with my 6 kids' ..... and sometimes mine.

And .... the funny thing (if there IS a funny thing in all of this) is ...... I think I'm doing OK.

I can see that I'm healing. I can see that I'm making progress .... sometimes one wave at a time. But there are days when there are no waves. I love those days and I stop to enjoy them and do not take them for granted.

So, while I hope that this friendship can one day be mended ..... I know it cannot until she can learn to accept my healing and growth as I accept it. As a blessing, and as a slow progress (and sometimes a quick recession). But it's mine and I'm doing the best that I can.

After all ...... I didn't get the instruction book on how to deal with the death of the most important person in my life.

Did you?

Put on a Happy Face...

Here's my happy face. This smile isn't fake, it was very sincere at that moment - I'm sure the free margaritas were enough to buy some sincerity, but I could be wrong. ;-)

In the first months after Daniel died I didn't feel like I put on a happy face. I didn't feel capable of it. I've heard from others that I did and I seemed to be "okay". Three and a half years later, I don't have to put on a happy face. Most days I just have one on naturally. I've found lots of things to be grateful for, and lots of things to focus on that make me happy. Obviously Grayson plays a large role in my happy face! But it is also the littlest things that do it: a hot cup of coffee, a call from a friend, a day with no firedrills at work :).

Right now some bigger things put a smile on my face. My new job, although incredibly challenging, is going great and I'm happy to be there every day. I've found a new house, close on it in a few weeks, and I love it. I can't wait to move in, put my stamp on it, and make it my own. I'm living closer to lots and lots of loving family (which is growing as we speak..congrats David and Leslie!) and am already enjoying the extra time with all of them. Grayson is enjoying his summer camp and growing like a weed, our tickle fight this morning was enough to keep the smile on my face most of the day! :)

Alright, so what is my point? I don't know really, but I sometimes have to remind myself of the things that make it all worth while. I don't always have sunshine shooting from my major orifices...but I do make an effort to be glass half full (while my widow self waits for the other shoe to drop). It doesn't take much for me to see the bright side, but making a list of all of the good things is a great place to begin. So, that is my start to the day on this hot Tuesday in Austin Texas.

Happy Tuesday! - Michelle D.

Remembering When

The word remember has taken on a new meaning since Phil died. Looking back is both painful and comforting. Sometimes recalling a specific event that I shared with Phil causes a jarring pain in my chest. These memories are often visceral...the atmosphere of a specific restaurant; the inflection of Phil's brother's voice; or the smell of a hotel room when you first pass through the doorway. Each of these sense triggered recollections throw me back to a time when Phil was alive. The reality of his death seems doubly cruel when my senses convince me that only moments have passed since I last heard his voice. Four years later I am still occasionally thrown unexpectedly back in time.

On the other hand, the kids and I talk about Phil with ease, and laugh often as we remind each other of jokes he played, his very definite preference about any number of things, and the nicknames he gave to just about every item in our house. The lightness with which we speak about him has been a gift to all of us. The fun memories have become a treasure that increases in value with the passing of time. We mitigate our loss by savoring what we have left.

A journal entry, that I wrote just months after Phil died, screams out my frustration at having nothing concrete to hold onto after he left us. In those early days I wanted something, anything, that would be real. The visions of us that danced in my head were both excruciating and infuriating. Seeing him in my minds eye, but being unable to touch him, was maddening. I alternated between torturing myself by calling up every available memory, and avoiding thoughts of him like the plague...just to stop hurting for awhile.

I don't know exactly when I realized that thinking of my life with Phil made me smile more often than it made me cry. At some point I became capable of looking at a date on the calendar, and intentionally recalling what we did on that exact day 6 years ago, without feeling the need to lie on the floor in the fetal position. When looking at photos I could recognize the happiness evident in the moment, when years ago all I could do was bemoan the lost opportunity for more of that brand of contentment. All of this happened when I wasn't looking. So if you find yourself wondering if you will ever be able to look at your wedding photo and smile, you will. In time.

The Freedom To Be

Overheard in the hotel check-in line at the San Diego Marriott..."Did you hear that there is a WIDOWS conference here in the hotel this weekend?" The unspoken next line was most likely, who would want to go to a widows conference? Ugh. And don't we look miserable? ;)

Convincing people that this weekend would not be a downer was one of the most challenging parts of the planning for this event. Because face it, who wants to go to a conference about widowhood? As I have reflected over the last week about the experience of hosting well over one hundred people who have lived through the devastating pain of losing their spouse, I have been awed by the courage they each displayed in walking through that hotel lobby to find the widow conference. "Pardon me, do you know where the registration desk is for the widow conference?" or "Hi, I am here to talk about death, do you know where I can go for that?" or maybe "Yes, my room is booked under the widow conference block." and finally... "Oh, excellent, I should wear this lovely tag and it will let everyone in the hotel know that I am widowed." Nice. Actually, really, really nice. Because for once I wasn't a widow alone.

There was an unexpectedly powerful feeling of freedom in the ability to be a widow among other widowed people. We laughed, we cried, we laughed some more...and nobody gave anybody that awkward glance. You know the one. We asked each other how we lost our spouse without tiptoeing over the words. We nodded in agreement to the phrase, "Well, you know things have been worse." No matter how long ago we received the news that life was unalterably changed, we were part of a community that accepts us where we are, the good, the bad, the really bad, and the ugly. Long after each official conference event was through small and large groups were gathered laughing, drinking wine and sharing stories late into the night. It was magical.

My favorite part of the weekend was watching each person slowly begin to stand up tall. Upon first entering the hotel mentioning our purpose was almost embarrassing, but by the end of the weekend what started as a meek inquiry about where to find other widows became a unique pride in standing side by side with other people who continue to fight the war against despair. Our green lanyards became the sign of hope, instead of the mark of the dreaded "W". We banned together, we lifted each other up, and we allowed each other the freedom to be momentarily happy. The weight of grief was lightened by sharing the load.

**This photo is of your Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday girls...we couldn't find Friday and Thursday and Saturday were there is spirit!**

Old Things

I've long had a fascination of things from the past...things with a history. I can rummage for hours through an antique story, thinking of the stories that lay behind each piece, and the lives that created them. I love to feel old pieces of furniture or read old postcards and then in my mind weaving a tale for those who sat on it's cushions or pushed the lead to paper.

I also love going to used book stores. I go in with little to no agenda on what I am looking for. A spine will catch my eye and I'll briefly glance at its description and decide whether it's a keeper or not. The best part though, is coming home, opening the book and finding a hand written note or notes in the pages. I stare at the curves in their letters, wondering why or how the book came their way.

All in all, I'm fascinated with the idea that there are items out there that have been in the hands of others. They are people I don't know, people who may no longer be here, people that are proof that time will come and go and so will there physical belongings. Their items may have been donated or purchased at an estate sale, they may have loved them or simply never thought twice about the object, and now for some reason their are in my possession.

I wonder if one day my items will be for sale at a thrift store. I wonder if one day some person in the world will open a book they picked up at a book store and see the lines I underlined for their special meaning, quotes they gave me strength when I felt I could no longer go on. I wonder if they will know what those highlighted sentences got me through. Or maybe one day someone will come across a letter from Michael or I, will they read it and feel the love that I feel?

I do not know and I have no notions of what they may bring to others. I just know that the past has proven to overlap into the present. I feel that when I pick up that book or feel the carved wood, I have taken something that used to be forgotten or overlooked and brought it into my present, brought it into my life. The power that book may have had on someone 30 years ago will now become a part of me and that is amazing but also reassuring.

These random items are proof and reinforcement that my past and memories are guides and will continue to be my "antique finds" when times get tough.

There are rest and healing in the contemplation of antiquities.
- Mark Twain