THE Valley ....

.... you know the one. I think that most people, even those who are "non-religious", are familiar with its name.

It's the big-daddy of them all.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death.
It's mentioned in the Bible and has been referenced in countless books, movies, TV shows, etc.

It's been on my mind a lot lately.
You see, I never really knew what it was .... "before".
I'd read about it, even memorized the 23rd Psalm, where it's located.
But had never really given it much thought ..... beyond what I thought it meant.
Of course I thought I knew what it was .... but then.... I thought I knew a lot of things "before".

I used to think it was a proverbial valley that one went through on the way to one's own death.

But now I think that's not quite it.

I think it's the valley that I was plunged into in the early morning hours of December 18, 2007.
It's the valley that I laid in, crawled through, walked in .... or just sat in for 2 years.
It was hell on earth.
And it's not something that I like to think about now. Even as I write this my stomach is hurting and my heart is racing.
It was a very dark, deep and cold valley.
There really aren't words to describe the horror of this place.
And for the longest time I could see no way out of it.
Ever.

But I continued to crawl.
Some days.
Some days I just sat there and sobbed.
Other days I went backwards, trying to see if I could leave the way I had entered.
Nope.
There's no back door out of this valley.
You can only go forward .... or not.

If you're reading this then you've probably been, or most likely are, in this valley.
We all take different amounts of time to get through it.
There's no right way.
There's no guide book.
It's just guts and instinct.

I can now say that I am out of this horrible valley .... though I can turn around and see that it's still very close behind me.
Some days I slip back to the edge of it.
But those days are fewer now.

I don't feel special for having made it out of this valley.
I don't feel courageous or victorious.
I know that I am stronger now because I walked through it.
But I'm also humbler.
And very, very grateful ....
.... that I made it out.

And I'm more than thankful .... that when I look at that valley now .... I am looking behind me.

And I'm wishing every ounce of strength I have onto those who are in it.
I am "willing" them to come out.
In their own time.
At their own pace.
I am pulling for them.
Just to make it out.

And I hope, that as I greet some of them on their way out, they will join me in "willing" others out.
Because, unfortunately, there's a never-ending line of people walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
And we all need each other.
We need to share our will and our strength and our encouragement.... and our stories.
Because that's all we can do.

But it's something.

Slow Dance. Last Dance.

So, here I am, writing my first blog right before Valentine's Day.  Right before what would have been our 24th wedding anniversary. I'm getting ahead of myself, I know. I was going to introduce myself, give some back-story, and I promise I will.  But maybe, because of the timing of this first entry, I'll give you a glimpse into the world that was mine with my beloved husband, let you peek through the keyhole so you can understand the missing-ness of him in my life.  This, dear ones, is the memory I carry with me in my heart and soul.  The only memory, really, that I can easily call to mind. (Why is that?)

As I remember him, and me, and our full-time travels of the last 4 years, this Death Valley dance lingers in the nooks and crannies of my heart.  Exploring Death Valley National Park in California was a dream of ours, and for 3 days we drove up and down the Valley, exploring the muted colors of the Canyons. Chuck was already sick and in pain; we thought it was the die-off from a fungal infection.  We thought it was a pinched nerve.  So this last day was taken slowly.  He'd managed a short hike back into the rocks.  Our last hike, but we didn't know it then.  All we knew was that it was getting late, he was tired, and it was time we returned to our ranch cabin.

But, as I steered the car over the road to the ranch, looking at the changing colors of the rocks around me, my instinct told me that here was a memory that we needed to imprint on our hearts.  I'm relieved now that I listened to that instinct that made me maneuver the car to the dirt on the side of the road and say to him “Let’s dance”.  We loved to slow dance, and Chuck was a master at it.  He wasn’t quite sure of the footing on the rutted ground but I said let’s do it anyways.  And he smiled and got out of the car.

It was that most beautiful part of the evening that the Scots call “the gloaming”.  The quiet moment when the day is done but right before full dark sets in.  Silence surrounded us as I met him in front of our Ford Escape.  The strains of “You’re My Inspiration” by Chicago wafted from my IPOD.  Our song.  He put his right arm around my waist and clasped my right hand in his left, wrapping his fingers around mine.  In spite of everything, his body was strong against me.

And on the side of the road, there in Death Valley, in the setting sun, we danced what would be our last dance.  

Chuck's romantic heart met my even more romantic heart and we kept that passion alive for the 24 years we were together.  This Valentine's Day is my first without him.  Our 24th wedding anniversary is the 18th.  I don't know if any one particular day is more painful than another because right now every day is filled with immeasurable pain.  I miss him kissing me and holding me and dancing with me and loving me and that slow wink at me from across a room. 

I miss him with every beat of my heart, with every painful breath that keeps me living without him.

Catching Up....

Did you spend time alone?

For the first month after Phil died I was alone very little. My family and friends surrounded me, and I moved from one moment to the next gratefully enveloped in love and concern from my support system. But at the end of those first few weeks I found myself craving solitude. In my quiet alone moments I felt free to express the depth of the despair Phil's loss created. The responsiblity of taking care of the kids, the need for managing the household, the necessity of making life decisions when my life was so upside down--each took their individual toll on my already depleted energy. In some ways the emptiness of the house when I was home alone was easier to handle than the emptiness I felt whenever I walked out the door or took care of the many things we used to manage together. The changes inside our home where obvious and expected, but I was often blindsided by the unexpected void Phil's death created in the world around me. So I did spend time alone, and though it was excrutiatingly painful those moments were also the only times I grieved without reservation.

Did you do anything daily that helped you cope with your loss?

Moments after Phil died I was struck by the concept that I would never talk to him again...turning often to the person next to me expecting to see Phil waiting to hear whatever it was I wanted to say. To suddenly be unable to call him, or tell him just one more thing, was disconerting and traumatic. On the first morning after his death, searching for a way to talk to him, I caught sight of an unused journal. Through my tears, I poured my heart onto the page in the form of a letter to Phil...and for just a moment I was comforted by having shared my thoughts with him. Eventually, I settled into a ritual of closing the evening by writing him a letter. These journal pages were not necessarily filled with details about my day; sometimes I wrote down my favorite memories of him so that they were safely stored. Other times I talked about a problem I was facing, working it out as I told him the details. Many of the pages were stained with tears; tangible evidence of the depth of my despair. Entries varied in length depending on the day, but each reflected the need of the moment. My journal went with me everywhere, storing my sorrow, my fear, and the love I held in my heart for the man I lost. My little red book became the way I could talk to Phil whenever I needed him...and an unexpected record of our love.

Did people tell you stories about your husband after his death? If so, how did you feel about hearing them?

At both of the services we planned for Phil's funeral many people shared their own stories about Phil with me. I loved hearing how his life impacted our friends and families. Sometimes the stories were bittersweet, but for the time that the storyteller was speaking--I felt for a moment like my husband was still alive. In the first months after his death, I found myself daydreaming the stories I heard about him, mixed with my own personal experiences, so that I could live in the fantasy world where he and I were still sharing the same space. There were times when the past occupied my every thought, and the future was a black hole that I preferred not to gaze into. Even three years later, certain smells, places, combinations of people, or dates on the calendar take me immediately back to the precious days when talking to him was as easy as walking into the next room. In my office I have a greeting card posted that has been my inspiration through many difficult moments. The quote on the card reads: "In time, the warmth of every memory will transform your tears of sorrow into liquid gratitude." I remember reading those lines for the first time and wondering how long the process would take. Now I believe that transformation is an on-going journey, and the flowing river of gratitude an unexpected gift.

After your husband's death did you put more pictures of him up in your home, take them down or leave them as they were?

Just before Phil died we finished several home improvement projects. We picked out paintings together, fought over where to hang shelves, sat on the floor side-by-side covered in old wallpaper, and just generally really enjoyed working as a team. One evening, after a full day of "ceiling popcorn" removal, I came out of the shower to discover that he had set up a picnic dinner for us on the floor of our empty living room. After his death every picture that was around our home was a reminder of the many discussions we engaged in while negotiating that particular frame placement. Everywhere I turned I was surrounded by the work that was a source of pleasure and pride for both of us. The only room in the house that was still unfinished was our office. Slowly what was once our office became my office, and I have to admit, a shrine of sorts. Whenever I came across a picture of him or of us that I loved--I tacted it up on the wall or put it in a frame on my desk. The collection quickly grew. I also placed some favorite shots of him in my car so that he was with me anytime I was away from home. Friends sent me photos, sleepless nights spent sorting through old pictures led to new snapshot discoveries, and my kids each began their own collections. I think each of us found comfort in being surrounded by his image. To this day, all those pictures are just where I placed them in the months after Phil's death. The difference now is that there are a variety of new ones added to my little shrine; the walls of my office have become my personal collage of support. Some of these new pictures are of people Phil never knew. Others are of people he knew, but would hardly recognize. Many of the new photos depict changes in my life, or the lives of people I love. There are shots of trips I have taken, other widows I have met, children born to friends and family, and inspirational quotes foreshadowing what I have yet to accomplish. Every once in awhile I sit back in wonder at all that Phil has missed since he has been gone. More often I look up at my support network collage and am deeply grateful for the love that has co-existed with the loss throughout the past three years.

Did you wear black clothing after your husband's death? If so, why and for how long?

This was one of the questions that drove me to begin my interviewing journey. I really wanted to know if widows still wore black, for how long, and if there was a 'right' way to observe this tradition. Yes, I did wear black, exclusively, for six weeks after Phil's death. For me, there was a beautiful symbolism in outwardly showing a sign of the depth of my personal loss. When I got up in the morning, I allowed myself to wear my grief on the outside. It was a way for my private self, who didn't want to share how damaged I was with everyone I knew, to speak the feeling without using words. Instinctively I knew that I needed to give myself a time frame, so I decided to follow my dark dress code for the length of my leave of absence from work. As the day approached when I would return to a scheduled life, I realized that my time in black was my own personal cocoon; as long as I doned my mourning clothes there was no need to hope, no need to smile, no need to put my life back together. Without a specific limit, I think my wardrobe choice would have led me to be constantly depressed, and it would have definitely limited my ability to move forward with my life. But within the parameters I set for myself, my time in black was invaluable. The day I went back to work, I put on a red shirt. Immediately, I felt lighter. That too was the value of a short dark period...on the prescribed day the sun came out--even if only in my choice of clothing.

Did you feel comfortable staying in your house alone?

When I married Phil, I had been divorced from my first husband for three years. Since the kids were gone every other weekend with their dad, Phil and I spent quality "adult time" together regularly. During this time we would plan short trips, go on long hikes, complete home improvement projects, plan outings with friends, and just enjoy being together. In the immediate aftermath of his death I was alone very little. But, once life settled into what would become normal, I began to dread the weekends that the kids would be away. It wasn't so much that I disliked being alone, as that I missed Phil so much is was physically painful. As soon as the door would shut behind the kids, I would turn toward my living room and the emptiness would envelop me. There were many a weekend when I spent hours crying and wandering about the house, as if I were looking for Phil. Even though I knew I could make plans with friends for dinner or even visit my family in Riverside, the need to keep myself busy saddened me as much as the fact that I didn't want to. My heart felt as if it were bleeding as I tried to figure out how to accept my new, unwanted life situation.

How did you fill your time after your husband died?

When Phil died, I owned and operated a personal training company. This kind of work requires the ability to create positive energy...as you might imagine, I wasn't feeling capable of being anyone's motivation! My clients were wonderful and patiently awaited my return, six weeks after Phil's death. During the time I was off I focused all of my attention on taking care of the kids. But when they weren't home, I alternated between sitting on the couch staring at the wall, and dealing with the variety of chores death leaves behind. After about four weeks, most of my family had returned to their lives, and I realized that whether I liked it or not, my life was heading in a whole new direction. One evening I sat on the curb outside my house, and looked up at the stars...searching for some way to make sense of the chaos my life had become. That night I knew I had to learn how to direct my life instead of letting my desperation and fear make all the calls. I have never been more afraid or uncertain than I was in that moment--I didn't know how to march forward when my chest felt like it could burst from the pain that I carried with me every step of the way, but I prayed for strength to take the first step and tried not to think about the next one.

How were the first few days after the funeral?

Immediately after the funeral, I was relieved to be done with all of the services. Being around people was very draining--partly because I wanted to curl up in a ball and stay locked in my house, and partly because I wanted to be able to comfort the many family and friends who lost Phil too. With the conclusion of the services, came the opportunity to hide from the world. While we planned the memorial services my emotions had been dulled by shock--I kept a constant vigil in my mind for signs that the past few days had been an awful dream--but as the days after Phil's death contiued to pass, reality continually crushed my wishful daydreams. The worst time was always first thing in the morning. Each day after the alarm went off, I would lay with my eyes closed for a few minutes. Before I opened them for the first time I would slide my hand over to Phil's side of the bed to check and see if he was there. Upon finding a cold, empty spot on the bed, I would shed the first tears of the day, because once again his absense confirmed that the life I was living was not a dream. For several weeks I started the day with this ritual...I remember being sad the first time I woke up and knew before I opened my eyes that Phil was gone.

What do you remember about your husband's funeral, were you able to plan for it?

It amazes me how the human mind works. When Phil died, my brain was shut down by shock--there are many parts of the funeral I remember, but others that are a total blur. Since he died in an accident, I did not plan any of his service in advance. Phil and I only spoke about dying on very few occasions, but I did know that he wanted to be cremated. What I was unprepared for, however, was how I would feel about signing the authorization at the funeral home. My hand shook so badly, I took breaks while signing my name. Every funeral preparation I participated in forced me to acknowledge that Phil wasn't coming home. His physical absence from our home was one thing, but each procedure I agreed to regarding putting his body to rest, made me feel sick to my stomach. Irrationally I felt I was making it impossible for him to come home if I cremated his strong, beautiful body or donated his organs. How could he live if I gave away his liver? He couldn't come home if I let someone burn him up! My mind was whirling with fears and doubts as my family made the funeral arrangements. For the first two days after his death I sat in a daze on the couch--listening for his truck to pull into the driveway. But, though I was mentally absent for many of the final preparations, when the time came to attend the services I was overcome by a need to represent my husband well. I cherished the opportunity to be recognized publicly as his wife for the last time--I knew after the funeral I would always be thought of as his widow. Getting dressed for the funeral, I prayed that I would be able to keep my growing despair in check, so that I could be truly present as our children, family and friends said good-bye to a spectacular human being. Looking back now, all the hugs I accepted, the kind words that were spoken, and the outpouring of compassion from our loved ones penetrated my numb exterior--and spoke to my heart. I am very grateful that some of the memories of that day remain.

Was your husband an organ donor? How did you feel about that decision?

Phil was adamant about his desire to donate his organs to people who could use them. I have to confess that when he was alive, I fully agreed with him, but upon his death I found the process to be more difficult than I would have imagined. There was no question in my mind about donating Phil's organs, but when the time came to authorize the procedure, I was in shock, aching for my husband, and horrified by the idea of cutting him up. There you have it, all I could think of when talking about the donation was that he was going to be cut up. I was shaking as I spoke to the very kind representative on the phone. While I agreed, individually, to donate each organ I realized over and over that Phil would never use that eye, or kidney, or tissue again. Yes, someone else would--and thank God for that--but I have to admit I wasn't much comforted by that thought in the moment. When I was asked if I would like a letter telling me what organs were used and how, I said, "No, thank-you." As I write this today, I am so glad I followed Phil's wishes, and even more grateful that other people benefited from his strong, healthy body. My advice to everyone is TALK about organ donation NOW. If I had been at all unclear about Phil's wishes, I am not sure I could have gone through with the process--not because I don't believe in it, but because I was hurting so badly at the time. Because of Phil's determination, someone in the world has the eyes of a wonderful human being that they look through everyday--I sometimes wonder how it has changed their outlook.

Tell me about your husband's death.

On August 31st of 2005, Phil left the house around 5:00PM for a bike ride. It was the first day of school, and I was cooking dinner while the kids worked on homework. About thirty minutes after Phil left, the phone rang. When I answered, a woman's voice came on the line and told me that my husband had just been hit by a car. I was out the door within minutes, and headed to the place on Long Canyon Road where the caller told me I would find Phil. I arrived in time to tell him I loved him--he died of blunt force injuries to the head and chest less than an hour after he kissed me good-bye for the last time.

What were some of the things you loved about your husband?

I enjoyed asking this question, because there was always a misty look in the eyes of the woman I was talking to when she answered it. It is a pleasure to remember the wonderful things about the man you love, even as you mourn his loss. So, what did I love about Phil? He was one of the most loyal people I have ever met. Though he tended to relish shocking others with controversial comments, he actually valued both family and religious traditions. He refused to wear shorts to Church...the few times he did he squirmed through the whole service! I loved his smile which was closely linked to his crazy sense of humor. He was constantly pushing my conservative buttons, and enjoying every minute of my reactions. Phil had the kind of quiet confidence that lit up a room. People were drawn to him, because he was both witty and kind--which is an interesting combination. He was ridiculously gifted athletically, making it virtually impossible to keep up with him while running or riding...but I could kick his butt in the water! I was always happy when we went for a run, AFTER he had already been on a long bike ride! Funny thing though, he always wanted me to come with him whenever he was working out. When I would insist that he should go out on his own so that he wouldn't have to wait for me, he would tell me, "I like waiting for you." One thing I miss about him is that he believed I could do anything. Sometimes I would laugh out loud at the things he thought I should try, but what a gift it was to have a person as dedicated, strong, loyal, and generous as Phillip Hernandez in my corner. I miss him.

Tell me about your courtship and marriage...

Phil and I dated for only one month before he asked me to marry him on Valentine's Day of 2000. For any of you who knew Phil, you should be laughing out loud right now! He was the anti-valentine...yet proposed on the magic day of love! Having both spent a few years on our own after our previous relationships, we were very confident about what we were looking for in a partner. From our first date we realized that we enjoyed the same activities, loved the time we spent together, encouraged the best in each other, and found that life was sweeter if we lived it together. We were married on a trail in the hills of Simi Valley in June of 2000, surrounded by a small, wonderful group of family and friends. Having three children each gave us the nickname of The Brady Bunch...though with three dark and three fair children I doubt we fit the mold of the original bunch. Our first year of marriage was spent figuring out how to be a couple, step-parents, and most importantly a family. After many challenges--and a lot of fun, too--we did manage to turn a pack of eight individuals into a family unit. Phil and I relished our time alone, and planned lots of weekend getaways to recharge and celebrate the things we loved about being together:hiking, biking, running, and racing were all regularly on our agenda, making life full of both fun and love.

How did you meet your husband?

Phil and I first met while coaching track and field for our community track club. He coached the 12-15 year-old boys, and I coached the 5-7 year-old girls. Since everyone shared space on the track, we girls learned to move over fast when the "big boys" went speeding past us. What I remember most about first meeting Phil was his quick, infectious smile, and the natural way he interacted with kids of all ages. In addition to our common interest in coaching, he was a member of the gym I managed, and many times we ran into each other at various community sponsored running or biking races. Sharing a love of all things athletic meant we crossed paths frequently; I was always intrigued by his self-assured, quiet manner and the devotion he inspired among the people who knew him best.

The Pain Vs. ....

.... the Dance.

If someone had been able to tell me 27 years ago (and I had believed them) that I would experience Hell on Earth, walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, be a single mother of six kids, and ..... know the pain of being a widow at a young age ...... would I have still married Jim?

Honestly?  Probably not.  I mean, wouldn't hearing that scare the crap out of anyone, especially a 23 year old girl/woman?!  (To be perfectly frank .... the part about the six kids would have had me moving out of the country!)

But .... if this person had also been able to tell me that during the next 27 years I would experience a love that defied reason, the feeling of two hearts actually becoming one, the unquestionable support and encouragement from the best man I knew, and the opportunity to watch him grow as a husband, father, businessman, community leader and a Christian ..... then maybe I would have continued down the aisle.

Most days I can say that the Dance was worth far more than the Pain can ever dish out.

Some days .... I'm not so sure.
Those are the days when I have to make the single parent gut-wrenching decisions, the days I feel that I am much less of a person now, the days that I feel I cannot stand his absence one more second,  the days that there are 4 things that need to be fixed in the house, two of the cars have red lights staring at me and one of the kids is ready to defy my wavering sense of authority. Those are the days that my whole body is wracked with the pain of grief and even breathing is almost too difficult to accomplish.
On those days the Pain is more like a living thing that threatens to take over my already-weakening existence.

But then there are other days ..... increasingly more days now ..... when I can stand strong against the Pain and know without a doubt that I would .... AND could, live through it all again ..... just to have one more chance to Dance.
The Dance gave me the love that fuels my heart, no matter how broken it is.
The Dance gave me 27 years of good times and bad times, but more importantly .... growing together times.
The Dance gave me six pieces of Jim .... each reminding me of him in so many different ways (both good and irritating!).
The Dance gave me strength .... to be my own woman because I was loved for who I was.
The Dance gave me more than I think I could ever list .... it gave me Us .... and everything and everyone that entailed.

The Pain took Us away .... on the outside, but it can never remove Us from my heart.
The Pain knocked me to the ground ..... and yet ultimately gave me the desire to be strong enough to defiantly get back up again.
The Pain made me question myself ..... who I am and what I can accomplish, but it  also caused me to remember the love that grew me into the woman Jim knew.
The Pain ripped away my support and my foundation.  Or rather .... it and I thought it did.  The Pain didn't know that I still had God .... and the love of family and friends.

Yes, the Pain has given .... and taken away ..... so very much in my life.  And I know that it's not done.
But the Dance .....
Oh the Dance.
The Dance continues to warm my heart again and make me smile.
The Dance gave me enough love and memories to push past anything the Pain has to thrust into my life.
The Dance made me into the woman that Jim loved ..... and into the woman I am today.
A different woman indeed.
But a stronger woman.
A woman who knows that life is short and that it sometimes sucks.
Very much.
But a woman who also knows that life is precious.  And that loved ones are to be held tightly .... for a while.
A woman who knows that she can .... and will survive.
And a woman who knows that life can be enjoyed ..... all over again.

I am a woman who Danced.
And would do it all over again .... in spite of the outcome.

And maybe, just maybe ..... I am a woman who will Dance again.

It Takes a While ......

                                                         source


...... before happiness can be a choice.

Last week I wrote a post about a powerful fortune that I found in my cookie at a Chinese restaurant.
It was about looking for my happiness in front of me, not in my past.
Those words stunned and overwhelmed me, but not as they would have stunned and overwhelmed me in my first 2-3 years on this "path".

Because now, at almost the 5 year mark, I have the ability to choose to be happy.
Most of the time.
Way more often than I did in those first few years.

I wrote that post as encouragement to those of you who are behind me on this path .... and who have yet to be able to choose happiness.  Or sadness.  Or what's for dinner.  It's difficult to make almost any choice in the beginning.  I get that.
I remember that.

But in writing that post, I think I unknowingly put pressure on some of you who aren't there yet.  Those of you who don't have the ability to choose ...... yet.
And who can't even imagine EVER being happy again .... by choice or otherwise.

And for that, I apologize.
I hope that you now are familiar with me enough that you know I would never intentionally cause any of you pain.  Or sorrow, or grief, or pressure.
My goal is to let you know that you're not crazy, that you're perfectly normal in a perfectly abnormal situation, and that your timing is the perfect timing .... for you.  No matter what your friends or family members might say.
My goal is to let you know that you're not alone and that there is no ONE right way to grieve.
My goal is to give you hope.
Not pain.

So while I wrote about choosing happiness ....... I should have made it more clear that I was writing about me, and only me, being able to choose happiness now.
It's taken almost 5 years, and The Happiness Project, to show me that.

But just because I'm at a point in my life where I can choose to be happy (most of the time) doesn't mean that I don't remember, with every fiber of my being, those first few years when happiness was not a choice I had.
In fact, there were very few choices that I had.

Grief ruled over me with an iron fist.
He was a very cruel and a very stealthy ruler.
I never knew when he was going to show up .... which was often at the most inopportune moments.  He would pour his hot, horrendous pain all over my body, but with particular preciseness .... he'd slice it straight into my heart.
And it didn't matter where I was ..... at home alone, sitting in church, driving down the freeway, or in a business meeting.  He'd show up and leave me in a mess of tears and sorrow and pain.

Sometimes I knew when to expect him.
Interestingly enough, the pain at those times wasn't as bad as I had anticipated.

But there were far more times when he would descend upon me out of nowhere.  I'd never see him coming, never hear a warning bell, never be able to prepare myself for his onslaught.  Those times required a longer recovery period.  They left me emotionally and physically drained.  I often wondered how much more I could take.
And how many tears I could possibly physically make.  I never understood why I wasn't constantly dehydrated from all of the tears I seemed to constantly shed.

Yes, I remember those days.  We all remember those days.  Which makes me all the more passionate about sharing hope with you.
I didn't know many widowed people in my early days out here.
I didn't know of any websites where I could find encouragement and support from people who understood, mostly, what I was going through.
I wish I had.
Maybe my dark, dark days wouldn't have lasted so long.
Maybe my darkness wouldn't have continued to grow so dark that the only escape I thought I had was death.
Maybe.
Maybe not.

The "maybes" don't matter so much to me anymore.
What matters is that I'm still here.
I am a survivor.
I have experienced the worst thing that I can ever face (in my opinion).
And I'm standing.  Tall.
Well, as tall as a person who's 5'3" can stand.
And that's a lot taller than you think so don't even ponder making a short joke!!

I have been through "THE Valley".
It was a very long, very hard, very painful and very exhausting trip.
I thought I'd never get out.
But I did.
One day I looked around and found that I was climbing upward, approaching the lip of THE Valley.  And someone ahead of me was there to reach down, grab my hand and help me climb over the top.

I made it out.
But I still didn't have the ability to choose happiness.
That didn't come until a year or so later.
It just kind of snuck up on me ..... like almost everything else on this path.

So what was the point of this very long, very boring description of my time on this path?
My point, or rather, half of my point, is this:  to tell you that I get it.  I remember.  I will never forget the days, weeks, months, years that all I could see in front of me was cold, dark blackness.  No future.  No joy.  No happiness.
And no choice.

And the other half?
To tell you that you won't always see only cold, dark blackness in front of you.  You won't always despair at having a future.  You won't always believe that you'll never be happy again.
And you will one day be blessed with the ability to make a choice.

I can't tell you when.
I can't give you any short cuts.  Because there aren't any.
I can't walk through this Valley for you, though there are many, many times when I wish I could.

You will get to the other side when you get there.
Don't measure your progress against anyone else's.
No two journeys are the same.
You will walk through the whole Valley.  One step at a time.
Some days you'll just sit, too exhausted to take a step.  And that's ok.
But you will get through it.
You have to.
Because that's what you'd want for your loved one ..... if he/she had been the one left behind.
And it's what we do ...... fight to survive.
And it's a fight, believe me.

So many of you, right now, can't imagine happiness.  You can't imagine a future any longer, because the future you looked to so very often, will never exist.
And again, that's ok.
You don't have to imagine it.
I will imagine it for you.
Others who are further along than you are will join me in imagining it for you.
We will keep hope alive for you.
Because we can.

Just as you, too, one day will do for the person behind you.

So for today ...... for right now ....... if you can't believe that you have happiness in front of you, let go of that.
And just believe that I do.
I have a lot of happiness before me.
I believe it so much that I know it's certain.
Believe me.
Because, though you aren't aware of it, though you can't feel it, as you believe me ...... belief in yourself will be planted within you.  It grows slowly, so you won't notice it for a while.  But it will grow.
It will grow into Hope.
And once Hope arrives, fully formed ..... Happiness comes soon after.

Believe me.
And just breathe.
One breath at a time.
I'll do the believing for you.
For now.
:)

Then ......

...... and now:

The first picture is of Jim, on our last vacation together ...... 5 months before he died.  We were visiting my brother and his family in Alaska, and we had climbed up one hellacious peak with the three boys.  I just happened to catch him in a quiet moment, looking at the amazing view.
It's one of my favorite pictures of him.

The second pictures is one I took today, of Son #1.  He and I are in Oregon, visiting my father and my sister and her family.  Today the Son and I climbed a peak near here.  All the way to the top.  Which is much easier written, than done.  But we made it.
I had him stand away from me, on a nearby rock, so that I could take his picture with the view in the background.
Before I could even click the button and capture that moment ...... it hit me.
It hit me hard, though I managed to swallow it down and continue with the picture taking.

This picture of Son #1 was taken today ..... pretty much 6 years, almost to the day, that I took that picture of Jim.
The similarity of the scene was not lost on me.
Nor was the similarity between the two men.

I'm trying very hard to not let the dam of tears break as I write this.
Sometimes it so wonderful that each of my children can look so much like Jim.

Other times ...... it breaks my heart.
It's such a fast and difficult trip back through time ...... like being grabbed by the back of the neck and drug through the past 6 years in less than a couple of seconds.
One moment I'm looking at my son ...... a moment later I'm looking at Jim, just as he stood in that exact moment ....... before I was aware that my wonderful life would disintegrate in less than 5 months. Before I ever came to a personal knowledge of the word "widow".
Before I knew that it doesn't matter how good people are ...... bad things will still happen to them. Sometimes very bad things.
Before ...... when I was naive and thought I had my life all figured out.
Before ...... my world, as I knew it, came crashing to a devastating and very quick end.

Funny, as we began climbing this Peak/Butte/Mountain, I didn't even think back to that day in Alaska. At least, not in a way that made me pause ...... and wonder how this might feel once we got to the top.  I did remember that climb back in 2007 and remembered how very difficult it was, and how worried I was that one of the boys would get hurt.
But that was all.

It wasn't until we finally made it to the top of the peak today, and I turned my camera towards Son #1, that I was fully slammed in the gut ...... about how alike these two situations were, and about how alike these 2 men have become.

God, I miss that man so much.
And yes, I still cry every time I type those words.
Every.
Single.
Time.

I miss him with every fiber of my being.  And I always will.
I know that this will never change.
Just as I know that there will always be times when something, or someone (most likely one of my children) will send me reeling back to my "before".
And though there is sometimes pain with that (as there was today, and while I write and re-read this), there is much more comfort now.
Comfort in the warm memories, and comfort in what we had, who he was, and who we were together.

Where there was once always unbearable pain at those thoughts, now there's usually comfort.
Much more comfort than pain.

Just as there will be for those of you on this path.  Especially those who haven't been here very long and can't believe there will ever be comfort in your life again.

I promise that there will.
I don't know when.
I don't know what that will look like for you.
But I promise that it will arrive one day.
Very quietly and unobtrusively.  You won't see it coming.
You'll just feel it one day ...... the comfort instead of the horrifying pain.
And you'll know that you're going to be ok.

The comfort won't be there all at once, suddenly covering up the pain, but it will slowly appear more and more often.  As I said, I think there will always be pain, but one day there will be more comfort than pain.

I pray that each of you has the strength to walk through this valley ..... at whatever pace you walk.
Please know that, while we who are ahead of you can't remove you from it, as much as we'd like to, we have to watch from afar, cheering you on and willing you to feel the encouragement we're sending out to you.
Please know that we are up on the edge of that valley.  We've climbed out.  But we haven't left you behind and alone.  We're still here, up on the edge, waiting for you to climb your way up here and grab on to one of our hands so that we can help pull you up and over the ledge.

You will make it.
We are here.  Waiting.  Praying.  Encouraging.

And knowing that one day you will feel more comfort and less pain.
I promise.

Wide Open

Balch Creek, Forest Park

It has been 11 months today (I'm typing this on the 4th of May) since he left this earth. This morning was taken up by volunteering for the Audubon Society and I couldn't spend a lot of brain power on the significance of the date while I was looking for and identifying birds. And besides, every day is another day without him. Whether the calendar says "3" or "4" or "24", he's still dead, and my heart is still broken.

But later, as I walked in the woods, a place so sacred for us and so important in our relationship, the significance became more apparent. I experienced many so many stereotypical grief emotions in that one hour walk.

Denial: As I started out, it felt like any other hike and I could almost pretend that all I was doing was taking a walk in the woods, as normal as can be. Muddy shoes slapping on slippery trail. Rain dripping from leaves onto coat, onto dirt. Breath in, out, feet finding a rhythm. This is a normal day. Everyone carries on with their lives. I carry on. I hike in the woods. I walk upright. It couldn't possibly be that he is dead. Dead. Dead and Dave. No way those two words go together. No way in hell. No way that I'm still standing if he didn't live.

Anger: The woods were post-rains and the creek was swollen and raging through the valley below me. The new spring growth was chartreuse and actually glowed in the dim light that made it through the canopy. The green was something you could absorb through your pores. It was so vivid it almost buzzed. You should be here to see another spring like this!, I screamed silently. Can you see this? Can you see what you're missing? How could you be taken from me? How could life be that cruel? You will never get to see another spring like this with me and I hate that. I hate this.

Depression: As I hiked back from the halfway point, past some people I tried to hide my grief-ravaged face from, the rain began to pick up and I pulled my hood over my head. The drops battered the fabric, raising a roar inside the hood, filling my ears, and rice-sized hail began to ping off my head and bounce on the ground. My mind turned to a familiar groove. The "I don't want to be alone forever" groove. I thought for the millionth time that I want love again, but I'm so scared to risk feeling this way again. Maybe it's just not worth it, I thought. Maybe it's better to just be alone. Thankfully, this thought was quickly discarded. The thought of a life without my time with Dave because I'd decided love wasn't worth the risk is something I don't want to ponder. Miss out on love to save myself pain? I can't do that. I just can't. But the time I will spend without that kind of love feels eternal to me right now. To be loved so completely by someone for 15 years and then...nothing? To say that it's a shock to my system is a laughable understatement.

Acceptance: As I hiked along the banks of the creek, I imagined what he would be doing if he'd been by my side. He'd have been carefully inspecting the waters with a fisherman's eye. He'd comment on how muddy the water was and point out a pool or two where fish might find refuge from the current. But he's not here, I thought. We'll never have those talks again. We'll never be walking down the path together oohing over a chipmunk or hummingbird or marmot. He is gone and never coming back. This concept is one that I don't wear with ease. It's a new pair of shoes that I can put on and tolerate for a very short time, but all I can think of is kicking them off to end the discomfort.
My mind still bounces right off of this one, but it comes back to it more often these days, gradually getting more and more familiar over time.

As I left the trail for the pot-hole ridden parking lot, and climbed into my waiting car, I felt heavy with grief, but free of hopelessness. Sad but not bottomless-pit-sad. I realized that my heart is broken, but it's also been cracked wide open. While this makes me endlessly more vulnerable to pain, it also makes me more open to new things, too. New possibilities for ways to carve out this second life of mine. New empathy for others, new appreciation for the small things in life. New depth of spirit and softness of heart.

Maybe a broken heart can mean more room. I hope so.

My Valley

It's Thursday. As I lay in my bed pondering all the emotions I've traveled through this week... I can't help but smile and shake my head... Wow. Where the heck did I go this week?? And how did I get back?!

Have you ever traveled through the depths of the "valley" of grief and lost recognition of who you are? I think and say things that surprise even myself while I'm making my way through the dark. I speak of doubt and my thoughts are easily consumed by hopelessness. I become lazy as the remote control becomes my best ally, my social skills go down the tubes, and I see no end.

Convinced that the past 8 years have been nothing more then my imagination, I doubted David. I doubted his very existence. I doubted his love. I doubted us. Sinking deeper into my couch cushions, I began to ask myself: Did you ever really know him? Did he really love you? The possibility that I exaggerated the strength of our love... the connection of our souls... My valley got darker before I saw even a flicker of light. I can't even count how many times I've thrown in the towel while curled in my ball of pain. Still, I survive. Still... I'm here. Why??

I called David's mother... to make sure he was real- that I didn't make him up. And I began to sift through the emails... emails he wrote to me. I laughed out loud, smiled childishly, and cried my eyes out. This time, my tears were not tears of hopelessness, rather tears of comfort and hope. He is real. I remember now... He is real.
"...We were meant from the very beginning of time to love each other."
-David, from an email in August 2003-
I held on tight to his words...HIS words and began making my way out of my valley.

I decided that I have a mission- a purpose. I have NO idea what, but I'm trusting that the moment my "mission" is complete that I too will return to eternity... return to "the very beginning of time," where our souls were destined to be united. This is what pulled me from my darkness this week... This is my hope.

Count on This

I have outlasted all desire,

My dreams and I have grown apart;

My grief alone is left entire,

The gleamings of an empty heart.

From Grief Alone Is Left Entire, by Alexander Pushkin

The poem from which the excerpt, above, was taken, could be considered rather bleak. The writer speaks of his grief being the only thing he can count on in this world. It is the one thing he can cling to, he says, and he waits, in desolation, for the end to come.

I can't say that my inner life echoes the sad words of this writer, these days. There are bright periods with slivers of hope. But always, underpinning them, is the experience of this loss, and the grief that surrounds it.

Last week, I attended a pension planning seminar at work. I don’t know what I thought I was doing there. The presenter spoke of setting money aside, from our monthly paycheques, so that we could receive a lump sum, tax free, at our legal retirement age, which, for me, now, is 66. Men and women in their 30s and 40s raised their hands and eagerly participated in the session, calculating their future riches, counting up their pounds and pence.

I looked at them, so certain of their years on this planet. So trusting. So naïve.

I don’t count on anything, anymore. I assume nothing. I know that I could be cut right down, like my husband was. I could be out in the world, on a sunny, summer, day, enjoying the birdsong and the flowers blooming, and my heart could say, ‘enough’. I could be surrounded by family, (like he was), in the midst of grief, and I could walk outside, into the sunlight, and I could crumble to the ground.

I put some pounds and pence aside, when I can. But I am not going to squirrel part of my paycheque away, each month, in the hope that I will be here in eight years to enjoy it. I am not going to work and work, and wile away my precious time on this earth, dreaming of some future pleasure, my arms filled with tax-free cash. I have seen too many people put their lives on hold until retirement, and never make it there.

My sister-in-law died one month after she received her first Social Security payment. One month.

I do make some plans for the future. I hope to someday hike the Appalachian Trail. I am working on some short stories. I have plans for this weekend, and next month and next year. Retreats. Hikes. Visits with family. Phone calls.

But I know that those plans are not real. They may never happen. If nothing else, my loss has taught me this: everything changes, in this world, everything. Everyday. 

Even my grief. 

My grief is no longer frozen. It is a landscape of hills and valleys, rivers and streams, still lakes and turbulent waters. On days like today, when the sun shines, and the air is warm and breezy, I awaken with a sense of calm and hope. I stand at the top of the hill, looking out. I go about my routine, and try to remain aware, and mindful, and I may even feel happy, for awhile, until something hits. A remembered image of him, on the ground. A walk past the shop where we bought our wedding cake. A lingering look through the window of our coffee shop, on the High Street. Remembering our last time there, together. Such minute moments in time can send me tumbling, face first, into the valley of my grief.

The grief is always there. It might shift and change in shape and breadth and width, but the depth of it remains. It is dark, and sits in the pit of my stomach. Some days I can move around it, or mould it, like clay. Other days it is hard, and unrelenting. Like coal. Like rock.

I can count on this grief. I know it will never leave me, entirely. My love was deep. My grief is real. 

It is the one true thing I have left.

Dark Nights of the Soul

Warning: This post may be unsettling to many. It was written 8 days ago.

I thought about it today.
And yesterday
And actually been thinking about it for 5 days straight.
Considering different ways to do it. Quick, painless ways to do it.

I’ve been thinking about killing myself.

The fact that I am writing about this means, I think….I am working past this feeling.

I hope.

This running of me, the running of my children’s lives, the running of my business, the worry of money, the worry of asking for help…..again. It’s stretched me beyond ….
I am so thin, wispy….. I can’t see myself.
Father’s Day, a school wide celebration called Moving Up Day, the death of the husband of a friend, the running out of money, the knowledge again, that there is no protecting my children, just shielding them from a few things and offering them tools to cope. Ha!

Tools to cope, where are mine?

I know suicide would be selfish.
I know that it is possible that my children would never understand.
And I know that I am in extraordinary pain.
And I know that dying would be quieter, easier and would end the pain. I know this is what my husband felt when during his battle with cancer he said to me “I’m just so tired. I just want to rest.”

I know that you, the reader may call me cowardly, a horrible selfish mother.

And you would be right and you would be wrong. The pain is so intense that I feel my kids would be better off without this monster mother I have become, roaming freely in the world, angry, mean, blowing up for no good reason at random.

I find myself looking at another shopping list, listening to another bickering session between my kids, packing another lunch, making another play date phone call, trying to stretch $1 into $2 and then going to bed and doing it all over again the next day. I find it all too much. And I ask,

“Is this all there is?”

After the intense loss, after learning how to be OK without him, after the grief has turned deep and mellow, is this all there is? Is this what I was fighting to get too?

I remember when Art and I would share the weekends. One morning one of us got to sleep in. For a few hours in a week, one of us got time to ourselves to do whatever we wanted to do. I remember we provided for each other with back-up, guidance, help, humor (I have forgotten what it feels like to have a really big belly laugh!) I remember feeling like I could fall down cause not only was there someone there to pick me up but to clean up the mess as well.

The wave of grief has me so far down that swimming to air, if I knew which way was up, feels like it would take too much energy. Energy I simply don’t have.

My friend said, “Imagine BP (the oil company) losing ½ their staff during this crisis. That’s what happened to you. You lost half your staff when Art died and you were in crisis and still are.”

That makes me smile. It puts an image to the burden I feel.

He follows with “You need a break.” And I want to smack him. How do you take a break from kids who can’t stand to have you go away?

Everyone says you need a break and yet no one helps you get one! I wrote this once before, it’s like the airplane thing when they say put the mask on yourself first. What if you mask is all tangled up, barely within reach, in knots.

What then? A break feels like that tangle knot. I simple don’t know where the energy to plan for break will come from. One “So sorry, Kim, I can’t.” from a friend who I ask for help would rip a whole in my already thin existence.

----

Later

I did go to the beach today for one hour while the kids were in camp. And I slept. I slept for two hours before I was awakened by my alarm that said “Get up, get up. Time to be a mom.” And I got up and I picked up the kids and I fed them (a meal full of carbohydrates with a trace of vegetable called sauce.) and they are now in bed. It is all I can ask of myself right now and it has to be good enough. It just simply has to be.
---

Saturday, June 26, 2010
As I reread this to prepare it for posting, I realize the suicidal thoughts have diminished greatly. I have only been this depressed one other time in my life. The whole experience makes me shudder. The dark nights of my soul were so dark that it will take many nights of light till I feel normal again.

I credit one good friend, my therapist and a re-commitment to my spiritual practice for saving my life. “Walking into the fear, instead of running away from i,t is when it losses it’s power.” Kinda the "though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." For me it was about walking into it, instead of trying to dodge it.

And, mostly I credit my kids, their hugs, their “Mom can I help you?” and their gentleness towards me during those really tough days. While they didn't know what I was thinking, they were hipped to the intense emotions. If Art hadn't died, if my kids hadn't seen me grieve and hadn't grieved themselves, I don't think they would ever have been able to offer up their support as beautifully and honestly as they did. They can drive me to the edge and it is with incredible gratitude I see they can also bring me back from it.

Life Does NOT Look ......

                                                                   source

...... the way I expected it to look ...... 6 years ago.

Six years ago he was still alive.
Although for only 14 more days,  unbeknownst to any of us.

Over the years, I remember looking at people I knew, who had lost their spouse, and wondering, "What were they thinking 24 hours before?"  Seriously.  I thought that.  I wondered.
I don't know why.
But I did.

And then it happened to me.
Suddenly.
Unexpectedly.
Horrifically.
Horribly.
Cruelly.

And I knew that other people were thinking, "What was she thinking about ...... the day before?"
Well, I'll tell you.
I was thinking, "Thank You, God.  All of the kids are now home."  The last one had arrived Saturday night.  She experienced a few hours with Jim on Sunday, before his aorta tore in the middle of the night on Sunday/Monday.
I was thinking, "I can't believe that Dan Fogelberg died today."  If you had read my blog back then, you would've seen that post.  The last post I wrote before Jim died.
I was thinking,"My Christmas shopping is done!  Now I can sit back and enjoy the time with my kids and the holidays."

That's the kind of thing I was thinking ..... only hours before my life went to hell.
Those are some of the thoughts I had ...... in my innocence, in my naivety, in my "before".

And now?  What are my thoughts now?
First and foremost ...... my life does NOT look at all like I expected it to look.

Oh, I had thoughts of living in NYC.  Jim and I had discussed the idea ...... a bit.  He thought it was a great idea.
And then he died.

So I had thought of us living here.
But I'd never thought of just me living here.
Me and two daughters.
With one son wanting to move here and my third daughter wanting to join us.

I pictured the two of us living in TX, where all of our friends were.
But I knew that we'd have to move in the next couple of years.  His job would have required that.  But we both figured that we would ultimately move back to TX one day.

It's funny (not ha-ha) how fast life can change.
One day you think you know how everything is, and will be, going.
You think you finally have a handle on things.
And then one day, you wake up to find that you don't.
And that you really never did.

So my life doesn't look like I thought it would.
But that doesn't mean that it's horrible.
It was.  For a very long time.
I don't like thinking about that time.

But slowly, sometimes at almost a snail's pace, things changed.  I changed.
I knew that I had a choice to make.
Finally.
Before that point I had no strength to make a choice.  Any choice.
But one day ...... one day, I did.
I had to choose to either ...... die ...... or live.
I knew what Jim would want me to choose.  And by then, I knew what I wanted to choose.
Life.
I was done with Death.  He had taken over too much of my life.  He had moved in and taken ownership over too many things.
It was time to kick him the hell out.
And so I did.

I never pictured losing the friends I lost.
Or gaining the amazing friends I've gained.

It didn't happen over night.  Nothing along this path does, with the exception of the actual death that starts us here.
It's a very long, very dark, very painful and very cold valley.  We all have to walk through it.  At our own pace.

I made it through that valley.  And now I can say that life doesn't look the way I expected it to when I went in.
I never thought I'd be happy again.
I never thought I"d enjoy life again.
I never thought my heart would stop feeling painfully broken.
I never thought I'd really want to live again.
I was wrong.
Thankfully.

I never thought I'd be a person who could offer hope to anyone else.
Seriously.
But here I am.
And that's why I write.
The only reason I write.

No, life doesn't look the way I thought it would ...... 6 years ago.
But that doesn't mean it's not good.
Finally.

Fulfilling his last wish

Early on in our relationship, Seth and I talked about what we wanted if one of us ever passed away.

Seth wanted to be cremated and have his ashes spread off the top of Angels landing in Zion’s National Park.

One of our first vacations together, we went to Zion’s National Park.

We even hiked Angel’s landing.

The hike and view was amazing.

Seth and I on top of Angel's landing - 2002

But it’s one of those things that I was glad I did it, but wouldn't do it again. The hike was super hard and parts of it are super scary. One part of it you walk along a ridge, holding onto a chain. It’s cliffs on both sides, one wrong step and you would fall about 5,000 feet before hitting the ground.

Shortly before Seth died, we again talked about what we wanted if one of us died.

He reminded me that he wanted his ashes spread off Angel’s landing. I reminded him that I was keeping half of his ashes, at home with me. In all honesty, really, I shrugged it off. I figured by time he died, I would be far too old to make the hike.

When he did die, my brain constantly reminded me of his wishes.

The following Memorial day, me, my friends and family, all drove to Zion’s National park to fulfill Seth’s last wishes.

I was angry with him. I didn't want to climb that damn mountain, just to dump his ashes over the edge. I could dump them on the ground in Zion’s without having to climb the mountain.

I questioned if Seth even cared now about what happened to his body. I questioned if all that mattered was that I was happy with my decisions for his remains.

 Because I promised him I was spread his ashes off Angel’s Landing, I had to keep my promise.

Even if my promise didn't matter to him anymore.

I knew if I didn't keep my word, it would always haunt me.

I separated his ashes into small bottles. So everyone that went to Zion’s with me, could spread part of Seth. There were people that couldn't make the hike, that spread his ashes elsewhere in Zion’s. With his ashes I mixed the ashes from his 21 year old cat we had to put down years earlier, and sand I brought home from our Hawaii vacation that we took weeks before he died.

We set off really early to hike Angel’s landing. It was freezing cold and dark when we set off on our hike.

The whole hike up Angel’s landing, I was mad. Mad that Seth would ever ask me to do such a chore. Cried thinking about dumping my husband off a cliff. But the army of people that were with me, kept pushing me on. Even when I wanted to turn around and run home.

Source  The flat spot at the top of the picture is Angel's Landing

Once we finally made it to the top of Angel’s landing, I looked out over the valley. And thought “This is it. I came all this way, just to dump his ashes off the edge”.

I was the first to spread my bottle of ashes. I almost couldn't do it.

It seemed like life froze, and it took me a decade to open the bottle that held my husband's ashes.

I have never had so much anxiety and fear running through my veins. The worst had already happened, yet letting go of my husband’s ashes was terrifying.

Once I finally opened the bottle, the wind picked up. Even if I didn't like it or wasn't ready for it, his ashes were taking flight.

It took every ounce of mental power I had, to turn that bottle upside down, and let the wind carry my husband away.

I was shocked at how far his ashes flew. I could see his ashes in the air for miles.

At the end of the day, as much as I hated doing it, I was proud of myself.
Proud that I fulfilled Seth’s last wish.
Proud that I had enough courage to do it.
Proud that I could physically make the hike, especially with everything my body had gone through. 

Proud that I could now rest, knowing I gave Seth his dream.

His dream to fly off Angel’s landing.

Now when I die, some poor soul is going to have to hike my ashes to my husband’s final resting place.

Angel’s Landing. Once thought to be so high that only angel's could get to it. 

Now it all makes sense. My husband is with the Angel's.

Me on top of Angel's Landing, watching my husband fly away.

So Today I Bought a Shirt ....

.... which really isn't newsworthy (or blog-worthy) in and of itself.
But I think that all of you will understand why I felt the need to write about it .... and to show it to you:

Looks like a simple enough t-shirt, right?  Other than the fact that there's a heart on it, which gives me mixed feelings.
Mostly because I haven't visualized my heart looking like that.
Not in a very long time.

This is how I feel my heart has looked since the end of 2007:

                                        picture from here

Yep, for the last 3 1/2 years my heart has felt like a gigantic piece of it is missing.  A gigantic piece that held Jim.  And now that he's gone, that gigantic, heart-shaped piece is gone.

But the funny thing is, he is still held by my heart.
And he always will.
So while my heart may feel broken .... shattered into a million pieces .... the reality is that it is whole.
It hurts, yes .... to be sure, but it is whole.

I haven't always felt that way these past 3 years.  In fact, it's a rather new-ish development.  Because I now know something that I once knew, but had forgotten.
Grief tends to do that to a person.
Makes them forget ..... a lot of things.
Or is that just me.  (   :)     )

When I was pregnant with our first child, I never imagined how much love I would feel for her when she was born.  Yes, I loved her while I was pregnant but please ..... that is nothing compared to the love that fills your heart the moment you look into those eyes.
The instant I looked at her, counted her fingers and toes, stared at the tininess of perfection ..... and looked into her eyes, my heart doubled in size.
I could actually feel it growing, day by day those first weeks.

And then we became pregnant with number 2.  Which, at five months, turned out to be 2 and 3, but that's a whole 'nother story!
From the moment I found out I was pregnant that second time .... I worried.
Not about the baby's/ie's health.  Not about my health.
But about my heart.
I knew there was no way I could love another child as much as I loved that first one.
It was not physically, or emotionally, possible.
So I worried.  A lot.

And then the day came when I saw those two precious babies.  The day I counted their fingers and toes and was amazed at their tiny perfection.
And then I looked into their eyes ..... and felt my heart beat a strong and extra beat.
It had happened.
Again.
My heart had grown in size.
And I was amazed.
I am still amazed at the way a heart can instantly grow and hold more love.
It is nothing short of a miracle.

And as soon as I remembered that lesson, I knew that my heart was still whole.
Yes it was bruised, cracked .... and in much need of repair, but it was, and still is, whole.
Jim's love will never, ever be gone from my heart.
I carry him, and that love, with me wherever I go.
And with whomever I'm with.
No, there's not anyone in my life at the moment (not in that way), but I know that my heart is a lot stronger and flexible than I thought it was.  So if that day ever comes, I know that my heart will grow again.
It won't rid itself of Jim's love in order to make more room.
It will just .... grow.

So I bought that shirt today.
And just in case you couldn't see it closely ...... here's another view:

It's taken me a while, but I can definitely wear that t-shirt and mean it.
Not every day.
Not every moment.
Not all of the time.

But life is ..... mostly good now.
Which is a bit ironic, because this is the t-shirt I was wearing when I bought it:

This shows how I've felt, mostly, over the past 3 years.  And I still do .... sometimes.
I have looked up towards the sky too many times to count and asked/yelled, "SERIOUSLY??!!"
And I'm sure I always will.

But most of the time, I hope that I think .... life is good.
I know that Jim would want me to think that.
He would also agree with the fine print on that new t-shirt.
The writing that I didn't notice until I took it out to take a picture of it for you.
It's on the bottom right of the first picture.
In case you can't make it out ..... here it is:

And I am.
Finally.
After a very, very long time.
After a journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death .... which I barely lived through.
Which I didn't want to live through.

But here I am .... doing something that I love doing, communicating with, and supporting other widowed people, letting them (you) know that you, too ..... will be here one day.
Seriously???
Yes.
Yes,  I do .... and yes, you will.

And I hope that one day you will be able to know that .....
Life is good.
Mostly.
:)

My Favorite Trail

Long Canyon Trail, in my hometown of Simi Valley, is one of my favorite places. This beautiful dirt road has been pounded by my feet on many a run. It is also the place where Phil and I most often rode our mountain bikes, went for evening runs, took the kids for night hikes looking for frogs, and did many a "double workout" on the steep hills that lie within the canyon. And on the night of Phil's death...this trail is where he was headed.

On August 31, 2005 while riding up the street towards this trail head on his mountain bike, Phil was hit and killed by a large vehicle. I was called to the scene by a witness, and sat on the green grass of the sidewalk that I passed countless times on the way to my favorite place...watching as my unconscious husband was loaded onto an ambulance. He died less than an hour later.

About a month after Phil's death I was struck by the desire to get outside. After spending much of the first month after his death in semi-seclusion, I was desperate for some fresh air~and a break from the terrible sadness. My trail home was calling, and I longed to answer~but I would have to go down the road Phil died on to get to my destination.

It was possible to get to Long Canyon by taking the "long way," but I didn't want to give in to death. I couldn't control the fact that my husband was gone, but I didn't want to allow death to rob me of every joy. So, I determined to drive that path in order to find out if my trail still felt like home without Phil. As I drove down that road the first time my leg shook as I pressed the gas pedal. My brain flashed all the images of the last moments of Phil's life. Approaching the place in the road where Phil was hit, my heart started pounding and my breathing became shallow. I could almost feel my heart breaking. And then in a moment I was past the spot, and headed to the place that held so many wonderful memories.

Yes, going to Long Canyon hurt. Every tree, bush, hill, and rock screamed Phil's absence. But I didn't want to let death win, so I went back, over and over again. Eventually, the trail we loved helped me heal. Slowly those hills represented climbs I conquered alone. Some days I cried through the whole run; some days I was wrapped up in my daily life and thought of Phil in fleeting moments; some days I marveled at how far I have come since that fateful night. One thing hasn't changed, I never go to these hills without a smile for Phil~and I never feel alone there.