Well the countdown is over and today is the day. Four years ago today I watched my husband die when only moments before, he had asked me to climb into the hospital bed with him and he’d told me how hard this battle was for him and how much he loved me. We thought we were leaving the hospital the next day; he was only in for dehydration issues from his chemo. We’d only just been told he had 6 months to 2 years. We thought we had more time. We were wrong.

It amazes me how easily I can transport myself back to that hospital room, the sweet moments before, the awful horrible devastating and bewildering moments of, and the horror and numbness after: calling the whole family at 2am, waiting for everyone to arrive, sitting alone while they “cleaned him up.” I sat, hunched over myself, rocking, staring at the friggin ugly green hospital socks I was wearing, saying over and over in my mind: “this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening”.

I am almost hyperventilating just typing this stuff, and I still find it hard to believe it happened. Yet, here I sit drinking coffee, typing a blog post for a blog for widows. Who would have thought? Certainly not me. Today I am taking the day off. I'm walking Grayson to school, having coffee with a friend, lunch with another. My mother-in-law and I (and Grayson) are driving out to the cemetery this afternoon. We'll talk about the past and laugh and cry. It sucks that we have to, but is so good that we can do it together. The cemetery is by the wonderful old church we were married in; it's beautiful out there and I always feel a bit more peaceful when I leave.

I've survived the march for another year. I'm glad it's over. In celebration, a group of us will head to Wursfest on Friday - one of Daniel's favorite fests of all time. What could be more fun than a bunch of great people, drinking beer, wearing ridiculous hats, eating fried pickles, and listenting to polka music? I'm looking forward to it.

Happy Tuesday - Michelle D.

Growing Pains

For Halloween this year each of my teenagers were occupied with their own pursuits. What used to be a kid focused holiday full of parental supervision, has become a mom on her own holiday hoping the kids are safe throughout the festive night. Though my boys were close by, I found myself sitting on the back of my car handing out candy at our Church carnival. Alone. To my left was a large family (moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas, kids of assorted shapes and sizes) and to my right was a man eagerly decorating his car while waiting for his family to arrive. The way the cars were arranged, chatting was not managed easily, and we were all quite busy with the kiddies coming and going from our decorated trunks.

I sat, tucked into the back of my car, greeting little ones and their parents, commenting on cute costumes, and generally attempting to be involved in the activity at hand. But I was lonely. There was no one with whom I could enjoy the pageantry, whatever thoughts popped into my head just rumbled about between my ears, and the only person I could reach out and touch was Jack the Pumpkin King. As I watched the world go by from my perch I thought to myself...this is not how I want my life to be.

Dreaming about how Phil would have helped decorate the car, being certain that he would have found a way to meet all the "neighbors," knowing that he would have loved the Mexican themed decor of one big SUV, or thinking about how much fun it would have been to hear his comments on all things Halloween was not enough. Somehow missing him used to fill a void. Now missing him just emphasizes the emptiness in my life. His absence has become a different sort of pain.

Jackie's post this week really spoke to me. Kids experience all sorts of growing pains, and I am discovering that widows do too. Healing has led to growth that I did not expect or desire. I have always feared the grief stage of "acceptance." I don't want to accept that Phil is dead, but he is. I don't want to accept that life will go on without him, but it does. I don't want to accept that my body will evolve and change while his stays exactly the same, but the proof is in the mirror every day. I don't want to accept that if Phil were to come back today he wouldn't know many of the most important people in my life, but four years later that is definitely true. I don't want to accept that one day I will need more than memories as my daily companion, but that truth is becoming more clear every day.

Knowing that today I need more than the memories of Phil can provide hurts. Knowing that the time we had together is all we will ever have hurts. Knowing that I have to make the conscious choice to move forward every day hurts. Acceptance does not cause the ripping pain that accompanied the first realization that Phil was really dead. Nor does this phase cause the drowning feeling I knew so well as I learned to tread the waters of living life without my husband. I imagined arriving at this moment throwing a massive temper tantrum. Instead I feel resignation. Acceptance isn't what I thought it would be. Now I know that there is no such thing as 'done' when living with grief, but I also know that growing pains actually do lead to growth.

Somehow a monkey, a giraffe, two lady bugs, several princesses, a few pirates, and a really cute guitar pointed out that growing up is a life long experience.

20 Day Before His Death

I'm not really sure why I'm sharing these vignettes. Maybe so you know me, know him? I think that somehow if you know us, his death will mean something more to you. And if it means something more to you then it will, in a weird way, not be such a loss. Another widow friend of mine calls this Widow Mouth. It's when a widow shares the whole story of how she became widowed over and over and over again, all details included, in an effort to make it more real, or less hurtful or ________ (fill in your reason here). But the real purpose of Widow Mouth is to feel more at peace.

In the retelling of this story I see now the signs that he was not doing well. I didn't see them then. I saw life and fight and being cancer free. In re-reading these posts I now see death and discouragement and tiredness.

Our story, in it's retelling, brings me closer and closer to some weird sense of acceptance. He's not coming back. Ever time I tell it, I feel that and it becomes less and less terrifying. It makes sense of the senseless...sometimes.

---

March 26, 2009

A Visit To the Cancer Center

20 Days Before His Death

Yesterday, I was afraid of Art.

He had a PetScan.

We arrive

and wait

for wheel chair transport, compliments of the Cancer Center, to take us to the imaging Mark Taper Imaging Center.

At Taper Imaging,

we wait…

and fill in paperwork.

We move to the you-are-responsible-to-pay-for-uncovered-costs-associated-with-this-procedure-sign-here window.

We move to the waiting room with the TV that no one is watching

And wait.

We are led to a small, muted yellow toned room where they remove, from a lead lined cylinder, radioactive material. The nurse injects it into his just-put-in-for this-procedure IV line.

We are led to a purple waiting room with semi-comfortable chairs where…

he moves from the wheel chair to the semi comfortable chair.

I wait for him and

we wait

for an hour.

They come for him.

The nurse we know. She is sad to see him again, looking unhealthy.

We wait

for Art to get back into the wheel chair. He and the nurse leave.

Art waits in a tube that takes pictures of him, six inches at a time.

I wait in the purple room.

He and the nurse return.

Three hours have passed since we have arrived.

We wait for the elevator to go to the cafeteria.

He waits…

at a table while I get lunch.

We go to the cancer center to have his picc line cleaned.

He waits.

I wait

and worry. He is looking uncomfortable and is telling me he doesn’t want to wait anymore.

I insist we wait.

He insists we go home.

I debate. Infected Picc line? Clogged Picc line means new picc line on Tuesday or worse another hospital stay.

He starts to get mad.

I hold my ground.

I offer my lap, where he can lay his head and sleep.

He sleeps.

I wait.

Nurse comes.

She waits while I rouse him.

He sits up, he gets his bearings

The nurse leaves. I wait 20 minutes before he can move to the wheelchair.

I wheel him into the Picc line cleaning room.

We wait for the nurse.

He gets weighed. 160lbs!!!!! only on his 6'6" frame.

We wait for the nurse.

He gets mad.

“I’m not waiting.” he says.

“We need to leave!” he says.

I ignore him.

I try to find the nurse.

“We need to do labs on him.” She says.

“I am waiting for doctor’s orders.” She says

He raises his voice to me.

“I’m not staying. We need to leave…now.”

I think “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He raises his voice to the nurse, “I am not waiting for labs.” He blusters.

I leave the room.

And I see that I am afraid.

Afraid of his anger, afraid of what it says about me. I take on its message, believing that it speaks the truth.

"Unworthy."

it says.

"Not good enough!"

it screams.

Later,

I am either brave enough to look at it

Or too exhausted to care.

Either way, I know, the anger was lying.

I am good enough.

I am worthy too.

The cancer has made that clear.

And so has he.

Insert Soul Mate

After traveling the last 18 hours, I have arrived home! Ireland was amazing and lived up to all of my dreams and expectations (though I had set none). From Cork to the Wicklow mountains, I compiled a dictionaries worth of memories.

With each new locale I'm blessed enough to see, I capture some of the best shots through the lens of my camera that Michael bought me while serving in Iraq. It's my dream Canon, and with it I've frozen some of my most beloved moments in time. When Michael died it began to gather dust. Taking photos brought me so much pleasure, and due to the "woe is me" attitude I had in the beginning, I wanted to enjoy nothing....even that which Michael knew brought me happiness. It's a selfish act that still tries to creep in at dark times.

It would be months later that I took it out. The first shots were in a National Cemetary. Slowly, I eased into other things, and when I began to travel it would be all of the sights before me. Shot by shot a slight void was filled, a passion rekindled.

One thing I have done through the glass shutter is bring a picture of Michael with me and take a photo of it in a spot I know he'd have loved to see with me. Afterward, I place it in a spot to stay forever, a way for me to leave a part of him, as I know I do with locations that I never dreamed to behold

Above is a photo in Finisterra, Spain after my 16 day trek. This past week I found two of the most amazing spots to cross my range of vision, Michael is there too. As it makes no better sense, since through him I have seen what true beauty is in this world. Not only did he give me the camera to capture so many moments, but the heart and eyes to perceive it.

Often while traveling with a camera we arrive just as the sun slips over the horizon of a moment, too late to expose film, only time enough to expose our hearts.
~Minor White

growing up

In the first days after being widowed, I was much like a young child. Oblivious to the world around me. Completely in my own little realm - though not one of wonder but of grief and fear. My existence was confusing. I didn’t understand what had happened. I relied on others to care for me. To make sure I was fed, clothed, and essentially, breathing.
As those fuzzy and half-remembered early days passed, I began to realize that there were others out there. Other widows. Other people who had endured various other forms of terror and grief. And these people amazed me. I was in awe of them.
Even if they had been widowed a few days, weeks or months earlier than I had, I saw them as veterans. I looked up to them, much as a ‘tween’ looks up to a teenager. I thought they knew it all. Had mastered all their grief and easily morphed into their new lives. But I was bumbling and dorky child-widow.
But now, when I meet other ‘younger widows’, I realize that some of them are looking to me for confirmation that they too will make it. That one day will pass into the next and they will still be standing as the widows before us are. That as they watch my journey, they can see that they will have a journey and they too will learn and grow from it.
But, so very often, as I stare at myself in the ‘mirror’, I think, “Who me? Really, we are all just groping in the dark. I am no more wise than you.” I feel like everyone else has more of a handle on all of this stuff than I do.
Other, more rare times, I am able to give myself more credit. “Yup, I am entering widow teenage hood. I am wiser than I was as a child widow. I am pimply and awkward and don't know it all, but I have a grasp on a few things. And if my growth and vertical position gives you the hope and strength you need, I understand. And I can tell you, I know you can make it at least this far."
One day, a child widow will look to you for confirmation that they will be able to smile, even briefly, again one day. And they will be grateful that you have gone before them and the hope that you provide as an 'adult widow'.

regrets

some of us

were talking

about madeline’s long fingers.

someone suggested

that she should be a

piano player.

i said,

“just like her momma”

and then i realized…

i was in love with liz

for over

12 years

and i never

saw her play the piano.

and that made me sad.

then i got to thinking

about the other stuff

we never did.

we never skied together.

we never made it to egypt.

we never went on that african safari.

we never made it dubai.

(she really wanted to see those crazy human-made islands)

we never got one of those

cheesy family portraits

(you know what i’m talking about…the three of us all wearing the same all-denim outfits).

but really,

those are the only

regrets.

amazing.

I Can't Make Up My Mind .... Part 2

This is Jim with Son #1 and Son #2 (Son #3 was 2 years down the road):

Last week I wrote about my sons and the likeness each one has of Jim. I mentioned that I have let the boys go through Jim's clothes.

Well, I've decided that I can't make up my mind about that, either.

I want Jim's clothes to do more than just sit in a closet. I think.

I want the boys to be able to have something of their dad's and to be able to wear some of his clothes. I think.

I like seeing the boys wearing Jim's clothes and bringing back memories of him. I think.

Sometimes I like these things.

Sometimes .... not so much.

Sometimes I feel angry that he's not here to wear them.

Sometimes I feel resentful that his clothes can be worn so easily.

Sometimes I feel like taking every item back and boxing them all up securely.

Sometimes.

But not all of the time.

I miss him.

I miss him wearing these items and this not being an issue.

I miss being a mom who never had to think about things like this.

I miss our life "before".

And so I can't make up my mind.

Do I want the boys to take his clothes or not?

At the end of the day, when all is said and done .... I guess I would have to say, "Yes. Mostly."

I don't want Jim's clothes to just lie around collecting dust.

I do want the boys to have things of their Dad's that mean something to them.

And I do want the memories of Jim wearing those clothes. I do want to remember my "before" life and I want to cherish those memories. If the clothes just sit in a box then they can't bring back those warm memories.

And so I have to make up my mind. Again.

And decide I'm going to be OK with this.

Even on those days when I am not.

Especially on those days when I am not.

Do you ever have days like that?

Or am I totally crazy?

I don't know.

I can't make up my mind.

Janine