Sea, Sand, Wind

This is life.

I felt like this while walking through Spain. I wanted to touch, smell, hear everything to it maximum capacity. I was taking notes in my head to give Michael, experiences that I wanted to share with him. It sucks on those days when I don't get to have those notes to give him, but the days when I do, the days when I feel I have lived, those are the ones which are bound and printed in my memory for him.
Have a great Week!
_______________________________________________________________________________________

Love Sonnet LXXXIX by Pablo Neruda


When I die, I want your hands on my eyes:
I want the light and wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me once more:
I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.
I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you
to sniff the sea's aroma that we loved together,
to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.

I want what I love to continue to live
and you, whom I love and sang above everything else
to continue to flourish, full-flowered:

so that you can teach everything my love directs you to,
so that my shadow can travel alone in your hair,
so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

An even darker hell....

Daniel and I bought these coffee cups after he was first diagnosed with cancer in 2004.  When he got his third diagnosis in 2005, I said I was going to get the ones with it spelled forwards - but I never got the chance.  Cancer beat us to the punch.  F*ck Cancer.

I have recently been on the far sidelines of a horrific cancer story.  A friend of a friend lost his wife to cancer 15 years ago.  Last week his daughter, now in her 20's,  wasn't feeling well, was having a little trouble breathing, and went to the doctor.  She's not left the hospital since...cancer.  What kind of horrific messed up story is that?  He is widowed, raises his only child alone, and now she has cancer too?  When I heard the story I was beyond horrified.  This story is my worst nightmare.  I always think something terrible is about to happen to G, and I know I can't control it....but good lord I guess you sort of hope that your widow card will stop the really really scary crap from happening.

I'm angry for him, and scared as hell for me and G.  I'm not naive enough to still think life is fair.  I've had front row seats to witness that fact.  But come on, there's got to be a line.  I just can't imagine why something as horrible as that has to be "part of God's plan".   I told Carl last night if that happened to us and I still managed to make it to Heaven...it wouldn't last long, they'd be escorting me to the door for trying to kick some heavenly ass.

Fine.  I can live with that. But before I head to the dark side, they have some splaining to do.  Seriously.

Grief is always in season

source

I feel that time coming on.

The weeks leading up to Jeremy's death.

The march.

It feels corny to call it that, and I have to admit I've been resisting it. Because truthfully, I have no reason to complain. Life is good. I have an incredible family, a wonderful loving husband, a beautiful home, and great friends.

But, I feel the hole that can never be filled.

I didn't really realize what it was at first because I was trying to focus on being thankful. But I felt sluggish, tired, emotional about everything, unmotivated....not really wanting to participate in life right now. But the more Steve and I talked through it, the easier I recognized it as grief rearing its ugly head. It makes sense because I held on to all those days before Jeremy died - trying to remember every detail and holding on to every piece. I remember my last October with him. And now, I feel him closer than usual from remembering all those little details I've locked into my heart to never forget.

The distinctly annoying characteristic about grief is that it's always in season. No matter how much I want it to go away, it never goes out of style. There may be days, weeks, or even months when it's more obvious than others but it never really disappears. It follows me around to creep up on me at any given moment.

In the bedtime stories that I remember him reading to the kids.

In a silly chord progression in a hymn at church that he loved to sing.

In the smell of fall.

In the talk of applesauce that Caleb wants to bring as a snack to school.

In a situation where I need his particular advice.

In a photo of Tom Hardy that a friend posted on his FB page that looks eerily like him.

I can't escape it. I stopped trying to. I've learned to embrace, yes embrace, this time and soak up the moments when Jeremy feels close to me. Even if it's painful.

It's Just a Cord ........

                                                      (not wound so perfectly after I used it)

........ or at least that's all it appears to be.  Right?
Yeah, that's what I thought, too.
A very long, very bright extension cord.

One day last week I noticed that some of our shrubs were looking like they had "just woke up hair"(yes, I do have some "shrubbery", for those of you who know what that means!  :)
Branches were sticking up at embarrassingly odd angles ...... kind of like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

So I decided to give them a trim, before I received an ugly note from our home owners' association (don't get me started).
I hauled out the hedge trimmer and the extension cord to get the job done.
But then something hit me ...... and I was stopped cold.

The extension cord was not just an extension cord.
As improbable as it seems, it was a "wave".
Not a huge wave, but enough of one to really stop me in my tracks and take a few deep breaths.

You see, Jim was the last person to use, and thus wind, this cord.
It was perfectly and tightly wrapped around the plastic frame.
Still tightly wound after he last used it ...... 5 years ago (which I realize gives you more of a mental picture of what our shrubs looked like :)

When I reached up to take the cord off of the shelf, I never suspected that it would be anything more than an extension cord.
I didn't see that wave coming, so it hit me from out of nowhere.
And as I sit here and try to tell you this story, it seems very silly and rather difficult to understand, as well as to write.
But I know that you get it.
Or at least I hope you do.
It makes more sense in my head than it does in written form.
But I'm going to forge ahead and hope that it makes sense to someone else, too.

No one had touched that cord since Jim had.
And for some odd reason ...... that realization hit me like a wave.
I was going to have to unwind that cord, thus erasing yet another sign that Jim had existed.
I was going to have to un-do something he had done.
And even though it was a silly orange extension cord, it mattered.

I stood there in my yard, letting the wave wash over me.
If a neighbor had been watching, he or she would probably have wondered why I was hesitating so long ......  just standing there staring at a cord in my hands.
And if someone had asked me what I was doing, I would've replied, "Remembering."

Because that's exactly what I was doing.
This wave that had snuck up on me wasn't the usual type that threatens to knock you to your knees ...... and seems to suck all of the air out of your lungs.

It carried several emotions with it, as they usually do.
But it also carried memories.
And they were good.
As were most of the emotions.
I think it was the first time I didn't mind getting hit by one of the waves.

I still hesitated about unwinding the cord, but not for very long.
Yes, unwinding it would be un-doing one more thing Jim had left behind.
But now I know that there are very many things he left here that cannot be undone.

Like our children (who can't be undone even though there are sometimes brief moments when I might wish otherwise!).
Thankfully, the different ways that they each look like Jim cannot be undone.
Nor can the love that he filled them with.
Or the lessons he taught them.

The impact that he made in our community and the legacy he left behind in our school district can't be undone.
They might one day be forgotten, but not for a very long time.

The time that he spent on a weekly basis with a group of middle school boys in our church can't be undone.
Nor can all of the Indian Princess/Indian Guide campout memories he gave to our children.
Or his wonderful, dry, sarcastic sense of humor.

And, no matter how much time goes by, or how many things change during that time ...... no matter who may come into my life, and into my heart ...... the love he gave me, and the woman it grew me into, will never be undone.
Ever.
I am who I am today because of him.
The unconditional love, support, acceptance, accountability, security ...... and confidence he gave to me  will be with me for the rest of my life.  And with my children.

So yes, that extension cord was more than what it seemed.
It was a wave.
But it was a wave that left me smiling, rather than crying.

And I'll take that kind of wave any day.
:)

Inner Voice

**Filling in for Amanda today...but she will be back next week!**

Decision making was never difficult for me. Options don't confuse me, and once I have made a choice I rarely question myself. I realize that many people engage in a mental wrestling match with every decision they make, and I have regularly been grateful that my mind and I generally agree pretty quickly. 

And then came widowhood.

One of the most disturbing aspects of widowhood for me was the about face I experienced in my decision making abilities. My previously certain mind betrayed me at every turn. When Phil died an avalanche of decisions that needed to be made immediately began, and then an on-going slide of questions to be answered by the last person standing continued. The first heart wrenching choices to be made included: whether or not to donate his organs (you have to make this one in less than 24 hours), burial vs. cremation, what type and how many memorial services to have, and will you be purchasing a monument Mrs. Hernandez? Once these choices were made I began to second guess each one asking myself repeatedly if I made the right choice.

The decision making process did not get any easier as the weeks and months passed. I discovered that I was entering the wrestling match of the uncertain on a daily basis without regard for the importance of the choice to be made. Was I doing this task correctly? Should I purchase the blue or the brown sheet set? Water the grass every other day or every third day? One minute option A seemed best, the next minute I was more inclined to go with option B. I found myself seeking advice on choices large or small; allowing myself to be swayed toward my adviser's way of thinking regardless of what my own instincts were telling me. Buy a new fence or fix the old? Sell Phil's truck or keep it? Get a gardener or teach the kids how to mow the lawn? Vacation or no vacation? The list went on and on....making a decision of any sort became a monumental effort. I lost confidence in myself, and began to believe that everyone else knew what I needed better than I did. Until one day when a well meaning friend stepped over the line regarding my privacy, and a little voice sounded inside my head..."He did not just do that!" Hearing the familiar sound of my own voice I realized in one mind blowing moment how much of my daily life I was allowing to be determined by what other people thought, felt, knew, said, or sometimes even ordered. The silence of my inner voice suddenly became deafening.

The truth is our inner voice still speaks while we are grieving, but sometimes we can't hear her/him over the din created by sorrow. The initial realization that we are no longer a part of a couple often begins an all-consuming tempest inside of us. But at the eye of the storm still rests the core of our being. That innermost self still knows what we need. When I first became aware that I was abdicating my right to run my own life, I asked myself the question...who are you? I didn't recognize the woman I saw in the mirror, because I allowed her voice to be silenced by grief.

When my inner voice finally spoke, the first thing she told me was that I would be okay. She spoke up when I tried to do too much, and pointed out when I needed a mental health day. When I wanted to quit, she reminded me that quitting wouldn't stop the pain. When I began to hear her again, she helped me choose between going out to dinner with friends and staying home to watch a movie. Myself helped me figure out how to manage the holiday season. She knew instinctively what I needed on the first anniversary of Phil's death, and all the ones that have come after. She consistently, and confidently, knows which choice is best for me. Sometimes I ignore her, and when I do I usually pay a price. But she loves me and she is proud of what I have done, and of who I am becoming. Only she knows the effort this has required. Finally I realized that her approval is what I need most. No one knows me better than I know myself. But I only discovered that fact when I was willing to trust my inner voice once again.

Booster Shot

source

There is a question that always makes me freeze up. It's not "Are you married?", although that's a rotten one, too. It's "What do you do?".

I think it rattles me so much because it gets right to the heart of my biggest source of fear - that I no longer know what I'm going to do with my life. My identity is still forming in this new life of mine. In this life I'm only 16 months old and I haven't had enough time to figure much out. So, when someone says "what do you do?" I feel like saying "try to put my life back together".

People want to put other people in categories. I know I do it all the time. I want to know when I meet you if you're a teacher or a lawyer or a librarian or a chef. If you tell me "I don't know", I'm not going to be able to categorize you right away and that makes most of us a little uncomfortable.

When I asked a woman I met yesterday what she does and she replied with "Oh, that question is so hard," my fellow-widow alarm went off and sure enough she told me what she used to do and then said "but my husband died a year and a half ago, and now I don't know what I'm going to do," It was like hearing myself talking.

"MY husband died a year and a half ago!" I replied, suddenly fired up with the recognition of someone else who might truly get me.

And whoo boy, did she get me. She told me about her lovely husband and how he died and I told her about Dave and how he died. As we discussed our observations of this new journey we're  on, I felt understood and recognized and truly heard. The veil of loneliness dropped away and I felt the ease of not having to pretend to be okay or find words for feelings nearly unexplainable.

We talked about how year two is harder than year one, and what to do with ashes and how to find ways to sleep well again. We talked about how, in our society, people often don't seem to be versed in dealing with the bereaved because it's a taboo subject in daily life. We compared notes on how sharing our widowed status often sends people nearly running from us in discomfort.

Meeting someone else on this journey always feels a lot like being thrown a life ring, or at the very least, having someone join me in the waves so I don't feel so terrifyingly alone as I tread water. 

I gave her one of my SSLF cards with my phone number and email address and told her about Camp Widow and I felt the urge to scoop up all the other widowed people out there and move in together.

That would be an idea that my therapist would say is "over-identifying with my widowhood" but it's normal to want to feel as though I belong and I haven't felt that way much since Dave died.

I know that I won't always feel as though I don't belong outside of the time I spend with my widowed friends. I get that.

I also know that right now, the feeling of belonging is so comforting that I need a little injection of it on a daily basis to keep my strength up.

A little fellow-widow booster shot.

Suicide Survivor

Picture of me hugging my grandpa at Seth's funereal. 

November 2009, two days before my birthday, Seth had his 3rd suicide attempt.

I headed to the Grand Canyon. I kept the gun on my lap in case I got pulled over I would just shoot my self. I got to the Grand Canyon and enjoyed its bountiful views and watched the sun set. After all the people left I help the gun to my head for 3 hours. I was so afraid of the pain I couldn’t pull the trigger. I was so mad that I couldn’t do it. I left the park and stopped at the store out there. I ate dinner, tipping the young small town waitress $100.00. After dinner I bought some beer and got a room for the night. I thought if I got drunk enough I would stop being scared and I could just pull the trigger. Well I sat there drunk with a gun to my head for 7 hours.

I finally called Melinda crying and she talked me into coming home. 

My physiatrist got me on some new meds and I went through 8 sessions of Electric Shock Therapy. The treatment made me loose lots of my memory but I think it really helped me.

The ECT (Electric shock therapy) made the biggest difference, from what I could see, with Seth's depression. 

He lost some memories and his short term memory was shot. 

It was sad that he lost memories of us.

The ECT was pretty painful for him, he would have major headaches, but he finally had that spark back in his eye.

I don't know if bipolar or medication took away that spark, but it had been missing for a long time.

His memory eventually returned to normal, but he didn't get all his memory back.

I thought we could finally move forward with our lives.

July 27th, 2010, Seth had his 4th suicide attempt.

He did not live to share his story.

The love of my life, shot and killed himself,

July 27th, I was thrown into two groups I never put much thought into.

Widowhood

And Suicide survivor.

I was widowed at 29 years old.

Seth's story is sad and tragic.

Watching someone I love completely change into someone I do not know was the hardest and most frustrating thing I have ever been through.

Fighting so hard keep him alive, and in the end, it came down to his own choose.

There are times I feel guilty for asking Seth to keep fighting for so long.

He was suffering so much. 

But for my own selfish reasons, I wanted him here.

He always told me "if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be alive".

When the detectives came to the door and told me my husband was deceased, I should have died on that very spot.

I can't believe I didn't die right then.

I remember hitting my knees and screaming. I don't remember much more beyond that.

I have never experienced anything so painful in my life.

Every night, as I tried to sleep, I was convinced my heart would stop beating in middle of the night.

No one should ever face that pain. No one should LIVE through that much physical pain.

In my widow journey, the first year was the worst.

Around the 8 month mark, I fell into a deep depression.

I finally understand what it is to be a suicide survivor.

At the 8 month mark, I didn't care if I lived or died.

I welcomed death.

That is when you become a suicide survivor. 

When you are so depressed over your loved ones suicide, that you become suicidal yourself.

Fighting through that and choosing to live, made me a survivor.

I really could have took my own life, and joined my husband.

But I choose to live.

I just passed the two year mark in July.

In some ways it's gotten harder.

In some ways it's gotten FAR easier.

Through it all, I miss my best friend.

My best friend left his body 5 years ago, but has only been physically gone for two years.

I feel like I lost Seth 5 years ago, which in my mind, feels like a different lifetime.