Great is worth it

A very special moment during the Saturday night message release

I'm still recuperating from the travel and lack of sleep from Camp Widow.
It was totally worth it. :)

I anticipated going to Camp Widow to reach out to other widows/widowers who have been through this horrible journey called grief. But instead, I was blessed.

I watched hundreds of widows take this huge, scary leap into an unknown world to reach out in their grief. These courageous men and women who all came together just to know that they're not alone. But they didn't just reach out. They shared, they laughed, they cried, they helped each other, they danced..

they lived. 

What a blessing it was to sit around with a group of people who shared their hearts, their fears, their worries, they're anger, and even their joy. They have no idea how much they touched my heart and blessed me.

As Michele gave her keynote address, she said something that became my mantra for the weekend. So often, we settle for good enough, because after we lose something so incredibly important to us, great is so scary and comes with the probability that we could lose again. But as most widows/widowers would agree, I would NEVER trade my time with Jeremy even if I knew I would lose him so soon. Because love is worth it.

Great is worth it.

Whether it means taking that huge leap into giving your heart to someone else, or whether it means baby steps into finding joy in your every day life, don't settle for good. Because underneath the pain and loss and hurt and grief is life. And life keeps moving forward even when we don't want it to. But, it can be good. Better than good. And the risk is worth it.

Thank you all for the reminder to keep striving for great. For me, for Jeremy, and for every person out there struggling through this roller coaster journey called grief.

Back To Normal ....

                                               photo source

...... whatever that means.

I returned home last night from Camp Widow.

Back from spending 4 days with people I know and love .... people who understand, and love, me.
Back from meeting new people, who I understand ..... and with whom I instantly connected.
People who don't expect me to be anyone other than who I am ..... now.
People who know there's really no such thing as .... "normal".

I always leave Camp Widow wishing that we all lived in the same community.  Can you imagine living in a place where most of the people you know are widowed?  Where everyone understands that some days are just "stay in bed days", and that sometimes a wave comes out of nowhere and knocks you to your knees.
How different would it be to live among people who know that hitting the one year date does not magically bring about healing and who don't question or blame you for not "getting over it" and getting back to "normal".
I think that living in such a community would make me feel ..... ironically ..... more "normal" than I've felt in over 4 years.

But that's not where we live.
And those aren't the people who surround us.

So here I am .... with another Camp done, summer coming to an end and another school year rapidly approaching.  My schedule will start filling up as different activities start back up.  And I'll often be the only widow in the room.
And I will deal with that.

But I won't stop being who I am to make other people feel comfortable.
And I won't meet some expectations to be who I used to be.
I will not meet their definition of "normal".

I have a new "normal".  Which really doesn't look "normal" to most people at all.
Some days .... not even to me.

But I know that when next April rolls around .... and Camp Widow East begins .... I will once again be surrounded by friends .... who will make me feel absolutely, positively .... normal.

Eight more months .... and counting.
:)

The tough days

Birthday Candles (Photo credit: Chealion)

Tomorrow is Miss K's birthday.
She will turn 10 years old.
I can't believe she is already in double digits as I swear I only gave birth to her two years ago.

Except I didn't.

Two years ago was when I became both mother and father to Miss K and her younger brother.

Of all the wounds of widowhood, grieving for my father-less children has been the hardest.

Miss K was 7 and a half when Greg died.  Mr H was 5 and a half. 
Too young to have lost their father.

For the most part, they cope OK - much better than I could have dreamt of two years ago.

But that may be due to them being oblivious to the loss which is blindingly obvious to me: they simply don't know any different whereas I know what Should Have Been.




Recently, H asked me: "Did my Daddy like riding his bike as much as I do?" 
"Of course he did - don't you remember him riding along beside you on the bike track?"
"Not really Mum.  I don't remember him that well."

That kills me.
KILLS me.
This beautiful baby boy of mine does not remember the tower of love that was his father.

His memories come from photographs and half-remembered dream-like moments from his first 5.5 years of life.

This is despite me talking about Greg All The Time.
Making and reading memory books All The Time.
Telling them stories about their Dad All The Time (you get the picture).

But nothing replaces having a Dad who is right there with you.

Miss K remembers more about her Dad, but then, she was older when he died. 
Certain things are etched in her memory.
Most of them are good, but some of them are for the times she was "naughty"..... she was cranky that last morning and she has that memory burnt into her brain. 


....and I feel sad for all the things that he is missing.
Does he know that our beautiful nearly-10-year-old girl is growing up? 
Does he know how clever she is? 
How beautiful?

Does he see that our boy has his engineering brain? 
Does he know how proud his son is of his perfect hero of a father? (in H's mind, his father is the greatest superhero ever).
Does he hear him tell anyone who will listen that he will grow up "Just Like My Dad"?

I'm guessing that he does..... after all, what  is heaven if not to be able to see your loved ones .... at least that's my idea of heaven.

But this coming week of birthdays (H's is the following Monday) is tough .... for me more than them I think... they are young enough to only dream of presents and cake and not dwell on Who Is Missing. 
But me - I've lost the person who can remember the moments after they were born and who loved them as much as I do.
The memories are now only mine.
There is no eye I can catch and know that we are sharing the same memory of birthdays past, or the perfect pinkness of their newborn faces.  Nobody to remember the exact tone of their one-year-old voices stringing sentences together.  Nobody to marvel with at just how amazing they are....

....and it hurts.

But I smile and wrap presents and make preparations to make this a happy birthday for each of them. 
....and I hope that when I tell them that their Daddy is here too, looking over their shoulders and giving them big birthday hugs that they can feel the certainty in my words and know he is really there.

Child of a Widow

My dad, my cousin and me about 2 years after my mom died

When I was five, my mom lost her fight with cancer and my dad was widowed at almost exactly the age I was when  I was widowed. The Universe has a really strange sense of humor, by the way.

The two of us had to navigate this new life we didn't plan for. He never got us any professional help and he didn't have much of a support system that I know of.

At school I was the only kid who'd lost a parent. I felt utterly alone and Mother's Day was torture for me as I tried to pretend I had someone living to make a card for.

At Camp Widow West this weekend, I was a part of a panel of amazing widowed people who came to a session to hear from adult children of widowed people. The facilitator and I were the two of us who were both widowed AND children of widows. As each parent took their turn to share their story, a common theme revealed itself. They just wanted to do their best to make sure their kids were okay.

Then I was asked to talk about what helped me when I was a kid and I realized that what would have helped me tremendously is if my father had reached out for help more often like these parents were doing.

Regardless of how he handled his grief or my grief, I turned out okay, though. I'll grieve the loss of my mom my whole life, but I'm okay.

I wanted so badly to reassure these parents that their children would be okay, too. Showing up at Camp and reaching out for help on the journey was a step my father didn't and couldn't really take advantage of. I can only imagine what it might have been like if my father and I had had the resources that SSLF and other grief groups offer.

He needed support for the Herculean task before him and he didn't have it. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, but I do know what it was like for me. I needed to talk about my pain and my loss. I needed to be with other kids who'd lost their parents. I needed female figures in my life who would take me under their wing and provide some mothering. I needed my teachers to know ahead of time that I didn't have a mommy so they could help soften the blow of Mother's Day. I needed to see a counselor. I needed to keep some things of my mom's. I needed to keep her memory alive as much as possible. I needed to feel loved and wanted by my remaining parent.

Most of this I've managed to either find or create for myself as an adult, but ideally I would have had them as a kid, too.

If you're raising kids as a widowed person, I want you to know (from the other side) that it will be okay. Reach out for help as much as you can. You can't do this alone. Please don't hesitate to have you and your children seen by professionals. If you can, find a camp or a support group for your kids so they have a community of children like them to be a part of. Reach out for help whenever and wherever you can.

And come to Camp! There will be so much support for you there. So many people are out there, doing their best to raise kids after widowhood.

I won't tell you that my childhood wasn't difficult, but most of what made it so was my father's inability to reach out for help, not my mother's death. You are not alone. Please remember that. Reach out for others who are traveling this road, too. We need each other.

Back to School

It’s Saturday night and I watch my two oldest girls go through their newly purchased school supplies like it’s Halloween candy.  Still in the plastic bags, they go through one by one, taking out the pens and markers, pulling out the nine folders I bought of baby animals and like a draft, selecting one by one which one they want – Haley selects the bunny rabbit which was a bit of surprise as the kitten hanging out of a basket was the odds-on favorite to win.

The only reason they are still in bags is because I came home and just threw them in the closet.  School doesn’t start for another few weeks and I assumed they wouldn’t even care.  As a matter of fact I also assumed I would have to be the one to go and organize.  However, Haley came up to me while I was sitting on the couch and asked when we were going to go through the items.  I told Haley they could go ahead and do it themselves if they really wanted to.  I was confident my response would leave to a “never-mind”, but instead they both ran downstairs to begin their organization. 

If I remember correctly, they’ve been complaining about school starting soon, so this joy in anything school throws me off.  I put my paper down and walk downstairs.  There they are with all the bags on my bed.  Haley has her new backpack almost filled and tries it on with every new supply put in and walks around to give it a test run.

Kelly sees me and asks if I still have her back pack, now I feel bad as I only bought a new one for Haley, Kelly’s is still in good shape.  I am about to tell her I will pick her up a new one, but they seem to be having so much fun that I walk to the closet and pull out her pink Hello Kitty pack.  I get a “Bonus! I still have this!” and off she goes back to the bed to put in her supplies and –like her big sister, at this age always like her big sister – puts in an item or two and give it a test walk from the edge of the bed to the doorway, a whole four feet of walking.  Kelly nods her head as she gets to the door - she has given her approval that these number 2 pencils I bought will do just nicely in her Hello Kitty bag – and then back three and a half steps back to the bed to begin on the markers.

I am now in full dad mode as I hide behind the door and peek in so they can’t see me.  I watch the organization of this grand event – “Kelly tell you what, want don’t you take my, pooh bear pencil case, if you will let me your puppies notebook?” Haley says, holding the pencil case in front of Kelly to make the trade seem more desirable. “Deal!” Kelly says immediately, as she grabs it from Haley and begins to put in her scissors and glue sticks without handing Haley the folder, but seems satisfied with the exchange.

I like seeing my kids be kids.  I love these reminders that life is good and there is still so much to enjoy.  They force me to get out of my head of how difficult things can be, how much sadness is in the world, how much crap there is to deal with.  They don’t have time for all that over-thinking; there are pencils to be sharpened and flash cards to put rubber bands around.

It’s infectious, I think I put those bags in my closet because I don’t want to have to deal with the fact that school is starting in two weeks.  Is there anything more annoying that summer is ending and school is starting?  I don’t want to even think about all the details that school for three kids will involve.  But the kids didn’t even give me an hour, they pulled those bags right out of the closet and started their little party.  I can’t believe that I am thinking this, but I think I’m now excited for school to start also.  Damn the details, there is a year of new possibilities and wonder ahead for them.  Thanks girls, I owe you one.

Camp Widow + 1 Year

Almost exactly to the day, one year ago I sat outside a room filled with strangers who shared a common experience with me – we had all lost our spouse.  I didn’t want anything to do with “those people.”  I didn’t want to be one of them.  I didn’t want to walk through that door and admit that my life had been changed forever, that my wife had died, and that I was a widower.  But I did.  And because I did, I’m a changed person.

In that room I met people who understood what it felt like to lose my Maggie. They understood that I still felt married to my wife.  They understood how our closest friends abandoned me.  They understood that sometimes on some days the only possible thing I could bring myself to do was breath.  Or that remembering to eat was a win.  Or that wishing that a meteor or train or random, armed psychopath would strike me down.  Or that I would give anything (including my own life) just to talk to Maggie one more time.  In that room, there were people who truly understood.  In that room, there were people just like me.

Thinking back on that day a year ago, it’s difficult to get that old me into focus.  I have grown so much and changed in ways that it’s hard to believe.  My feet are steadier.  My emotions are less in control of me than I am in control of them.  And I am no longer and never again will be ashamed of being a widower.  I am proud of what I’ve survived and the choices I’ve made.  I own this (not the other way around.)

What made all the difference to me was meeting others who understood my past because of their own similar past.  Talking with other widows and widowers made me realize that I wasn’t crazy.  And meeting widows and widowers who were further along this path than me gave me just a glimmer of hope that I could do it too.  I could survive this long, cold winter.  And, one year later I can tell you I have survived.  I’m still here, despite my daily wishes otherwise.  Take note: if I can survive this, you can too.  Write that down!  Put it on your mirror in your bathroom.  You can do it!  But what will really help you is to find others that you can talk to that understand, TRULY understand what it means to lose a spouse.

I’ve changed so much in the last year.  I’m literally a different person. I’m not “healed,” what ever that means.  I’m not “over it,” again, what ever that means.  And I’ve definitely not “moved on.”   None of those labels will ever apply; grief just doesn’t work that way.  I’m a different person because I chose to walk through that door one year ago and let new people into my life.  I am who I am today because of the people I met one year ago at Camp Widow.

Today I get to meet the new strangers who didn’t want to be here.  I’ll sit just outside the door and watch for those who, like me, don’t want to “join.”  Hopefully, they’ll come inside, meet new friends and realize that they aren’t alone.  Despite how it feels, none of us are alone.

See you soon.

Grief for the people pleaser

source

I am by nature, a people pleaser.
That's not a bad thing in and of itself. I don't like hurting anyone or being the cause of inconvenience for people. I like to make other people happy because that's what inevitably makes me happy. But when you throw grief into the mix, then it can become a problem.

I've noticed over the course of my grief journey, and especially over the last year, that you can never grieve right. You'll never grieve long enough or short enough or hard enough. You won't say the right things and people will give you too much space and then not enough. You can sacrifice your own happiness, but you will always let someone down.

On top of grief itself, this can be a dangerous mix for the people pleaser. Losing sleep because you're miserable about losing the most important thing in your life and yet worried about what everyone must think about it. You don't want to hurt anyone so you conform to what you think they want, and end up only hurting yourself.

Then, if you dare to find someone new, you have to be prepared to face a lot of judgment and opinions from other people. I discovered that remarriage is the people pleaser's nightmare.

The good news is, grief has also taught me to let go a little bit and not always worry about what everyone else thinks. Age has taught me that as well. I haven't perfected it, but I know that when I follow my heart and not what I think are the desires of others, I tend to feel better about my decisions.

Grief has this funny way (and by funny, I mean torturing and un-called for irony) of re-shaping you into someone new. Not something you could have ever imagined, but something stronger, more durable. Someone a little more content with what you still have left, and little more appreciative of good things that come your way. Someone who knows the value of life.

And when you understand the value of life, you understand that it doesn't matter if what you do makes everyone else happy. It matters that you soak up every moment with the people who support you, value you, challenge you to be better, and love you no matter what you do.