In Between

I'm currently in between jobs. Because I wasn't exactly sure when my new job would begin, I had to play it cautiously, and give two week's notice to my most recent employer. It was a matter of jumping through many pre-employment hoops, then play the waiting game of all the required documentation to be returned to the Human Resources office, for them to then schedule my initial orientation. Well, all the doc's didn't return as quickly as I would have liked, so now I have two weeks of no work to deal with.

Everyone was keeps telling me how fortunate I am to suddenly have two weeks free. Everyone seems to think that having time on my hands is a good thing. Everyone but me.

You know, I'm doing really well these days. I'm making all kinds of progress, feeling good about myself, and making strides to propel my life forward. What most don't understand is that it is all very carefully choreographed, and the slightest change can set off a flood of emotion. I need my daily life to be full. I need to keep busy. Too much time, and the flood gates come crashing down. It's sad to admit this, but it is so true.

Open time. Free time, creates cracks in the facade of strength. Tears can overcome me at any given moment. Just today, I'm driving back from paying my mother a Mother's day visit. It's a two hour drive home, and my 12 year old is fast asleep in the seat next to me. It's too quiet in the car, and it's too damn quiet in my head.

Tears.

I come home, and find a huge, I mean three feet by tw0, card, with a lovely bouquet of roses, sitting on my front porch. It is a Mother's day gift from my daughter, letting me know that I'm the best mother she could possibly have. A big smile on my face. Then without much thought, massive amounts of tears.

Why does this have to happen? I look at the beautiful flowers, and think about the roses I used to receive from Michael on every special occasion.

Massive amounts of tears.

I pick myself off the bed, go wash my face, and tell myself to just keep moving.

As I previously said, I'm really doing quite well these days. I'm not just in between jobs, I'm in between the world of being widowed, and being single. I've joined the world of Internet dating. I learned early on that loudly stating my widowed status was a real turn off to most guys. I changed my profile to appear less dark, aiming for something a bit more uplifting, which my life actually is, and placed the fact that I am widowed further into the description. It feels like a better fit actually.

I am learning to become more comfortable with my in between status. I don't always need to be hiding at home in my mourning clothes. I can reclaim my fun and sensual side, shed the darkness, and can even be a bit flirtatious. I'm enjoying the pursuit. I'm finding that it is better to pursue others, than sit at home feeling less desirable as the widowed guy. I'm finding that when talking to new guys, I can quite comfortably talk about what I am looking for in a potential relationship, and at the same time talk about what I am going through with the loss of my spouse. It feels quite geniune actually.

Being in between is kind of freeing. I don't have to feel married to any particular role, rather, just be who I am, and speak from where I am, at that given moment. Is it always going to feel this way? Maybe not. Yet, just knowing that it doesn't always have to be gloom and doom, is a good awareness to have. So, for me, a good place to be right now, is in between.

A Different Grief

Pallas and Langston

It was a lovely evening. I could feel the exhaustion running all the way into my finger tips and for once I welcomed it. It was 9:30 pm. I checked the clock 7 times to make sure I hadn’t misread it.

9:30 pm and for once all three of my children were in bed and….asleep.
A self-congratulatory smirk (accompanied with a sigh of unimaginable relief) passes over my lips. I’m in bed at 9:30 pm!!! I close my eyes doing a happy-skip-run-prance towards sleep.

I am exhausted. In an effort to take care of myself I have run myself into the ground. Eating healthy and answering all those kid questions, paying attention to the long and drawn out stories, making orthodontist appointments, and ordering skin cream and buying bikinis and getting my 9 year old to SLEEP IN HIS OWN DAMN bed and getting a break from them and running a business (two now….) and trying to have a social life and exercising and trying to spend quality time with each of them so they don’t feel further abandoned and teacher meetings and volunteering (which I admit I HAVE TO STOP doing) and talking to a new widow 3 times a week and remembering who has what game/doctors appointment/play date when
has
run
me
into
the
ground.

9:30 is huge fucking triumph!!!

I drift into my triumph

At that mother sleep level, the level that allows you to hear the cough, the sneeze, the bathroom runs, the talking when you are asleep but not quite wake up, I hear him rise from bed. I hear his heavy methodical one-foot-slightly-dragging footsteps make their way towards the bathroom. Only they don’t stop they keep heading my way. I think “Lie really still. He’ll just go away.”

I remember those nights when all three kids just seemed to keep getting up, Art and I would pretend to be asleep so the other one would get up with whichever kid had just wandered into our room. I remember how the person who “won” would feel guilty and would hold open the covers.

So I’m pretending and it’s not working because Art’s dead and I’m the only one here. Langston, my oldest, says to me, almost pleading, “Mom I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.” His voice is nasally, stuffed up, then that mother awareness memory kicks in. He’s been blowing his nose….a lot. My big man-child has been crying. A lot. Him in pain jolts me awake.

“Hey … kiddo, what’s going on?” I hesitate using ‘kiddo” it’s what Art called him. I let my mother imagination fly … drugs, girls, bullying and suicide. He won’t tell me. He won’t alleviate my anxiety. He repeats over and over again “I don’t’ want to go to school. I don’t want to go to school.”

I repeat “I need to know what’s going. I need to know what’s going on. “

After the seventeenth “I need to know what’s going on.” He shouts, exasperated, “Never mind!!” and storms out. I get up, go into his room, he’s not there. I find my crocks, grab my sweatshirt and head out the front door, that I just noticed is ajar. And there he is. Sitting on the front stoop.

“I want to be alone.” He says. I pretend I didn’t hear him. I sit next to him. I put my hand on his back wondering when did this back become the back of a man, and not of a little boy. His man back is shaking as he cries.

My heart, that feels so fragile, begins to tear at seams that have been mended over and over and over again.

“Sweetheart, tell me what’s going on. It’s safe. I promise you it’s safe.” I say
“It’s everything.” he says “I miss Daddy and no one understands. Only one of my friends gets it.”

I say “Yes, that’s true. Many of my friend’s don’t get it and it makes me feel lonely.
But you know people who get it. You can talk to them.”

Then he says
YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!!!”
I want to laugh.
I’ve been waiting my whole parenting life for one of them to say that to me.

“You don’t,” he catches a sob in his throat, “You don’t have to walk past his office every single day!

Rip…the seam is completely undone.

Langston attends school where Art used to work and he does walk past his old office every day. I thought it didn’t bother him.

I’m such as ass.
Such a mother ass!
I know better than those not-knowing people who act all surprised at my sudden tears over Art’s loss and say “Are still mourning?”


“I think about him all the time, Mom. All the time, every day and I don’t want to think about him every day.”

He’s sobbing. He’s almost pleading. My 6 feet-225-pound-14-year-old is sobbing. I'm trying to use my 5’7”-130-pound frame to comfort him and it feels entirely inadequate.

This is THE WORST PART OF ALL THIS.

I can’t fix it for him.
I can’t protect him from this loss.
No amount of words, or actions or back rubs will take his pain away.

It is like watching someone drown because I am unable to swim.

I’m silent. Every day he walks past Art’s office. Every day. How many of those days does he think he might see his dad? How many of those days does he just want to punch that door?

It feels like for the first time I am seeing his world, a world that doesn’t include potential other fathers the way my world includes potential other husbands.

He lost his father. There will be no other.

I breath deeply. He is not ok…he has been hurting all this time? Shame rises and then falls. In Art’s death I feel the lack of motherhood omnipotence.

He’s right. I don’t get it.
I don’t understand because I don’t walk past Art’s office every day. I don't understand because my dad lived till I was just one day shy of 40, not when I was 12.

Then he says, “Mom, it was so hard having you and Pallas and Ezra fall apart but I couldn’t.”

I let out the kind of sob that hurts my body.

“I know, baby. It must have been so hard for you to lose Daddy and then have me not being able to function. Sweetheart, I’m here now, I’m functioning. It’s ok. We survived it.”

He continues, “I felt so powerless. Unable to do anything to help you.”

This is when I hear my heart shatter.

I stifle the sobs. “I know how you feel.” I say.

He just sits there and cries. And I sit next time him, my hand on his back, or stroking his hair, his neck. I do what I wanted so many others to do for me.

I witness him.

I witness his pain. I honor it. I validate it. I don’t hand him a tissue, I don’t say “It’ll be alright.” I don't distract him with "You know your father loved you." or "Your dad used to...." stories. I just sit there until he’s cried out.

I put him to bed and he lets me rub his back as he falls asleep. I notice that it takes longer than I remember to traverse the distance from his left shoulder to his right, then down diagonally to his waist and across.

He has grown in the last two years, inside and out. Another loss for me. I feel like I am seeing him for the first time in two years, since Art died.

And in those long strokes, I send him courage and strength and love, love, and love. I sit in my powerlessness, finding that I do have some power.

My power is not in protecting him but in honoring his journey. My power is in not lying to him, telling him it will be ok because it will never be ok. His father is dead.

My power is in letting him have his feelings and making them ok. My power lies in showing him that the bad is followed by the good, which will be followed by the bad and the good again.

My power is in teaching him to hold tight to those moments…all of them because they are what will make him so wonderfully approachable and human.

I see his grief and my grief as separate. I always saw it as the same.
He lost a father, someone that cannot be replaced.

I mourn his innocence.

-----

I finished writing this, the eve of Mother's Day, and for a moment I can't think. I keep wishing everyone else a Happy Mother's Day and forget that it applies to me as well.

I'm not sure how I feel about it or that I should even put much thought into it. The man who is partially responsible for me becoming a mother is dead, but I'm still a mother. A very, very different mother than I would have been if he were still alive. I haven't thought about the ways I've changed till now.

But when I re-read my post I see. In Art's death, I am becoming the mother I always wanted to be. The approachable kind, the kind that my kids (and others?) know will love them, will honor them, their triumphs and foibles. I am impatient, but real (I'm sorry guys. I don't have the space right now to help you.) I am harsh. (It's because when I was your age I didn't have the chance to do it. It may not make sense to you. But you are doing it anyway!) Above all I hope my kids see that I am human -- flawed and imperfect, courageous and terrified and still moving, changing and forever growing. I have never felt more like a real mother than I do today, at this moment.

Art's death freed me to be this kind of mother.

So to all you widow-mothers out there -- I love you. Our journey through motherhood without husband's is not easy. Yet we not only live it but grow in it.

That truly is the miracle of motherhood.

Books Revisited

**I've been revisiting past blogs. It's sort of a way to remind myself how far I've come and continue to go. Here's one I wrote May 9, 2009, that I wanted to share. I think we all, in some way or at some point, turn to books, blogs (wink, wink), or other forms of writing for healing**

I believe for me, that a huge part of figuring out one's grief, one most know themselves. Now I know some could say this goes without saying, but after the loss of your soul mate it's difficult finding out who this new you is, or in my case, who this new me is.

It is has been through meeting others in like situations, reflecting on my own thoughts and actions, and lastly, making my self-aware of auditory and visual things out there that may help in describing things that may not be able to be put into words, that I have grown leaps and bounds.


One such example of the latter would be books. From Lewis to Emerson, it is in those bound pages that I have found that what that ink and paper holds is far more precious than ever imagined. It was in college that I began reading a book entitled, "The Myth of Tomorrow" by Leo Buscaglia. After concluding the last chapter I realized the strength, power, and changes that I was allowing the words to have on me. I read things I had never pondered, things that stretched my thoughts and emotions to a new plain....and I loved it.


Miguel Ruiz explained in "The Four Agreements" that it is words that can either be the poison or tonic that determines our moods, thoughts, actions, etc. Anybody can read a paper, but we are the ones who determine what will impact us. We hold the pillar to what will light our way.


It is because of that, that I am proud to say I happily stand in the "Self Help" book section! I love it there! I especially fancy the used book stores where there is a plethora of spines staring at you. I go into the section with no certain book or author in mind. Whether it's the title or decor, I'll pull out only a few, and usually in that mix, will find a book to take home. It is because I have no preconceived notion or background on what I will read that my mind is more open to soaking in the words or inspiration or knowledge that will help me on this lifetime journey we are all on.


Now you must excuse me, as I have a couple hardbacks calling me to the bedroom.....

The worth of a book is to be measured by what you can carry away from it.
~James Bryce

kinship

Photo from here....

Nine months after Jeff died, my beloved grandfather joined him in the great fishing grounds in the sky. My grandmother was, understandably bereft. She asked me, "Does it ever begin to feel any better?" In that moment, I was struck by one thing. We were now not only linked by blood and family, but by the kinship of grieving our spouse.

Marriage always ends. Either by divorce or death. I am unaware of a "sister/brotherhood of divorcees" as, fortunately, I have not had to endure this. But I have definitely become part of the fraternity know as "widowed".

I am so very often struck by the kinship and kindness that runs through this group. The nods of understanding and the gentle acknowledgement of each other's pain. Whether 20 or 80, we understand. The details are always different, but the pain of loss is always the same.

Us widows? We have each other's backs. We stand up for each other. We support each other. And we assist each other.

If I have to be part of either group, although I hate what has brought me here, I am glad to share it all of you. Thank you for holding my hand, laughing with me through hysterics, helping me to jump my hurdles and lending an ear.

Let's all remember to be empathetic and sensitive to each other. Because at times, we are the only ones who understand. And I want each and everyone of you to know how much you are appreciated.

another one.

last week in austin

i met someone

who will

die soon.

i looked back

at her, listening

as she shared

her life with me,

learning that she'd soon be

leaving her husband

in the position

we all find ourselves in.

cancer was there,

staring me in the

face but all

i could see was

one of the strongest

people i had ever met.

i cried with her

(yeah, in public, in front of lots of other people)

and told her

that there was

a community of people

that would be there

for her husband

in case

(when?)

he needed it.

she nodded at me.

she knew that.

she was there to

say thanks for giving her

hope, to say thanks

in advance.

...

it just ruins me

to hear from

people like her,

to know that there will

soon be another

family like yours, ours,

but it's further

proof of the

power of community,

and a reminder that sometimes

(just by talking and writing about our situations)

we can change

the future for others.

A Double Edged Sword ....

.... is something I should be used to by now.
I'm not.

I am in Alaska this week.
This is my second visit.
The first time was back in 2007 .... with Jim and the Sons.

It was to be our last family vacation.
Ever.
Jim died 6 months later.

My brother lives here and I came to be his "nurse" after he has back surgery today.
(I'm not sure why anyone would consider me to be a good care-giver .... I left home with one of the Sons sounding like he's hacking up a lung).

Anyway, being here .... walking through this home, taking my suitcase into the same bedroom we used ..... is a double-edged sword.
It's piercing my heart with the missing of Jim and yet making me grateful to have one-on-one time with my brother, which we've probably never had before.

The above picture is one of my favorites of Jim ..... as well as one of the last.
He loved Alaska.
He loved my brother and his family.
He loved how beautiful it is here (in the summer .... not so much right now) and was enjoying the view from a mountain that we were in the midst of climbing that day .... our last day here.

I wonder ..... do the "firsts" ever stop coming?
Do reminders of the "lasts" ever stop coming?
Because after 3 1/2  years ..... I'd like them to stop.
But I don't think they will.

I still have marriages ahead of me.
Daughters with no father to walk them down the aisle.
Sons with no dad to give them sage advice before their wedding day.

I, hopefully, still have grandchildren to be born.
Beautiful children who will never know the wonderful man who was their grandfather.

I still have graduations to go through ..... and one Marine boot camp graduation.
That one would have made Jim cry like a baby.
I know that I'll be crying for both of us.

All of these "firsts" are double-edged swords .... they will bring heart ache .... and joy.

I am happy again.
But it's a happiness that is many times tinged with sadness around the edges.

I'm happy to be here with my brother.
I'm grateful that I could make the time to come and help him out.

But I'm sad that these walls and this place are also reminders of one of our "lasts".

Happy.
Sad.
Firsts.
Lasts.

Life is full of double edged swords.

Introducing Chris and Maggie

Like everyone else who shares the title “widower” or “widow”, I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t kick sleeping dogs or twist baby toes to make them cry. I can’t imagine what I did that pissed off the devil (or God) to get me to this place but here I am. Here you are. I’m not going anywhere so I might as well be polite and introduce us (me and my wife - we come as a package.)

I’m Chris Weaver. But I’m hesitant to draw the attention toward me. I’m just a guy who fell in love with a girl who happened to be the most fantastic woman in the world… and then she died. Now I’m the scribe, both for her and for me as I move beyond our loss. (I say “our loss” because we both lost: lost time, lost memories, lost love, lost experiences, lost pretty much everything.)

On June 14, 1999 this charming, delightful woman named Maggie Pilat walked into my life. It was immediately obvious to both of us that we had a very unique connection. Time has proven that, back then, we clearly had no clue how perfect a match we were. From that day forward we were inseparable (other than three pesky years in law school.) We were perfect together – like the hands of a higher force molded one for the other. When we met it was if my soul said “Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking for you!” I might could say that June 14th was the luckiest day of my life. But reality is that every day I spent with her was the luckiest day of my life. Maggie might have said the same (I wish you could still ask her.) So, imagine if you will how that feels – to have lived 3,612 days with your best friend, your perfect match. It took a long time for us to find each other but we finally did. We were the luckiest couple on earth. I was the luckiest man on earth.

If that’s not enough, the blessing of a fair amount of luck early in my career helped sweeten our time together. During the early 2000s, we enjoyed a lifestyle of silliness and indulgence together - romping, laughing, and exploring. I couldn’t have shared that time with a more adventuresome, enjoyable, appreciative and exciting person. We lived a fairy tale life of travels, food, and toys. What great fun it all was!

On February 28, 2004, I was privileged to watch my then-girlfriend, dressed all in white, walk arm-in-arm with her brother Virgil past friends and family while smiling the most beautiful smile I had ever (and still have ever) seen. Climbing the stairs, looking radiant, she took her place beside me on stage as my equal to proclaim our love and devotion to each other to all who witnessed. We became husband and wife.

On February 29, 2004, we did it all again, but this time in Las Vegas with Elvis leading the ceremony with 30 or so of our closest friends playing along. See, the first wedding was her white wedding. This wedding, on leap day, was mine. She was dressed as Marilyn and I, James Dean. It was just another chapter in the fairy tale that was our life.

On January 5, 2007, while Maggie was in her final quarter at Baylor, The Cancer called. Colon cancer, Stage 4. Our lives instantly turned into a whirlwind of surgeries, incomprehensible drug names, final directives, tests, and hospital stays. It was unpleasant. All of it. But through it all, she kept smiling.

Despite the diagnosis, we continued living our lives fully. While undergoing treatment to knock back the disease, she graduated from Baylor Law School, took (and passed) the bar exam, opened her own law practice and helped many people who were themselves having a tough time. She also traveled to Wyoming, Greece and Ireland; hosted an art show featuring more than 40 of her own fantastic paintings; and helped me raise two puppies named Kali and Niko. Likewise, I enrolled in and graduated from a business school called Acton with my MBA. We followed our dreams despite The Cancer. Every day we laughed, celebrated and had a great time. We were good at having a great time - REALLY good. Every day she smiled. As best we could, we made The Cancer a part-time gig.

Eventually, we couldn’t do that anymore. Eventually, fighting The Cancer took over our lives. Then it got bad. Then it got worse.

But she kept smiling.

On May 4, 2009 at 7:30PM she stopped smiling.

It took me a long while to remember how to smile again. Smile, heck, it took me a long while to FEEL again. Eventually, with the gentle and loving help of friends, I did. Now I can smile and laugh. I can even remember without crying. But my heart still beats with quite a limp.

Today, a mere two days from the two-year anniversary of her Angel Day, I feel I am more healed than not, more stable than wobbly and more happy than sad. I’ve had nearly five years of mourning now. The first three years my Angel held my hand. The last two she’s held my heart.

I’m honored to be able to share my travels down this road with you. I wish I wasn’t here. I wish you weren’t here. But since we are, let’s travel together for a while – you, me and Maggie. (Did I mention we come as a package?)