Believing

I was thinking yesterday about the day after Phil died. Revisiting that day makes my skin crawl, literally. Mentally I can now stand at a distance and watch myself try to out run the pain; walk around in circles hoping that once another full revolution is complete I'd wake up from the nightmare; and stare at each of my friends and family in turn seeking something in their face that would show me how I was going to live the rest of my life without Phil. There isn't enough mental distance available to protect my heart from the waves of pain that still radiate around that day. Every time I speak to a newly widowed person, I take that virtual journey back to day two of my widowed journey.

Janine is not writing today, because she is revisiting those early days as well. Her family is walking beside a young lady whose father died last week. He leaves behind a wife and family who are now living the first days of loss. She has asked me to ask you for prayers, good thoughts, and your supportive energy for this family, and for this man's wife. Not only for today, but for the journey ahead. If you could also stand beside Janine as she does her best to support these people she cares about, and walk beside her son who is watching someone he loves mourn her father...as he mourned his.

August 29, 2005 I loved my life. September 1, 2005 I did not want to live the life that was traumatically dropped into my lap. On some level I knew I would find a way to make it through the days ahead, but I was certain those days would be devoid of both happiness and joy. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other, until I found you.

My widowed community (discovered on a crazy journey that is a whole other post) changed my life. I looked into faces that knew the pain I felt, and found a way to smile. I heard stories of both failure and success. Each widowed person I met had their own way of making the most of the life still ahead of them. I was awed, and inspired, and grateful. Because until I met people who outlived a spouse or partner and found the way through the searing pain into a life that was full and meaningful, I did not believe it was possible. 

Now, I believe. Not just for me, but for you. And for the family we've been asked to virtually support today. We are the living proof that surviving this brand of pain (sometimes I think of it as torture!) is possible, and they are going to need us. 

The best part about having a community like this is that you don't have to summon the energy to believe that goodness WILL return to your life, because you have a bunch of sisters and brothers (that you may never have met) who will believe it for you until you can believe it for yourself.

Spider Cracks

It’s almost midnight and she lies in a hospital bed at the all-too-familiar emergency room.  Tears emerge as the nurse pushes the needle into her arm - in order to find a “good” vain for the IV.  This is the nurse’s second attempt, the first one only producing a puncture that will be sore for days.

I stand hopeless next to the bed, lightheaded with dueling emotions of anger and concern.  I hate being in the hospital, hate seeing her in pain, sick, scared.  The nurse finds the vain she is looking for and finishes up.  She starts to walk out the room as she says, “We just need to do a couple of tests Mr. Croke; this IV should stop the vomiting.” She walks past me; her scent is sweet and uplifting, it doesn’t fit the atmosphere of the room.  “She’s a brave little girl.” the nurse adds as she disappears through the curtain.  I sit on the bed next to my six-year-old daughter.  She looks so much like Lisa right now - something about being in pain that matures ones face by 10 years. 

As I look at my daughter, my mind keeps replacing her with Lisa.  I touch Kelly to comfort her, but rubbing her cheek transports me back to four years ago and I'm in the same ER, looking at all the tubes and machines around my wife.  The smell of disinfectant is still the same, it starts with a pungent odor you can taste in the back of your mouth and soon evolves to a smell that is disturbingly comforting.    

 I shake my head to bring myself back to the present - if anyone were to see me right now, they’d think I had bees in my ears.  I see Kelly trying to rest, but she won’t take her gaze off the needle that stays inserted in her arm. With a quick breath, she sucks in air through her teeth to express discomfort.  My imagination once again replaces Kelly with Lisa and she says, “You would think if they can invent a motorized body board, someone could invent an IV without needles.  You know, create some patch that could administer the fluid.”   I shake my head once again to break my imaginary conversation. I summon all my focus to stay in this world with Kelly.  I was hoping these images of Lisa in the hospital would fade as time went on, but seeing how my mind keeps replacing Kelly with Lisa, I come to a stark realization that my journey will never end, only evolve.

We are a thin plane of glass and the death of a loved one is a rock hitting us square in the middle.  Sure you can patch where the rock made the mark, but that won’t address the hundreds of spider cracks that have formed around the hole, finding its way to every corner of the plane, each crack a different issue.  While Kelly’s ER visit turned out to be nothing more than a spastic stomach flu that anti-nausea medicine fixed, the whole experience had lasting effects that kept me up for more than a few nights.  It looks like I haven’t fully addressed the last few weeks of Lisa in hospice.

So, if you see me walking down the street and I look like I am down.  Chances are something happened that either reminded me of Lisa, or made me go back to a darker time. I hope my above story will explain that if you approach me, and say, “Why don’t you go to a movie, try to take your mind off things.”  I may respond, “Okay, maybe I will,” but my face will show, “Thanks for trying, but there are still a few more spider cracks I need to repair that a movie won’t help fix.”

Bedroom Conversations

I have never reposted anything here, as I prefer to speak in the present, yet I wanted to share something I wrote on my own blog a few days ago. It's something that is still very much on my mind, and something that is likely on the mind of those around me.


Funny how lying on a bed can bring about soul searching, or heart wrenching, conversations. My bed is no different. It has been host to many discussions in the past, and continues to host myself, and various people I love, as we explore our intimate thoughts and feelings.

Earlier, after coming home from work, and getting out of my work duds, I was lying alone on my bed, looking at Michael's urn, and feeling a variety of feelings. I wanted to smile, and I felt like crying. I'm in a good place right now, and yet my grieving continues. As I began to bury my face into the pillow, and allow myself to give up control, there was a knock at my door. It was my 13 year old son, who asked if he could lay on my bed with me. We lay there, in silence, with my arm across his body.

"Dad, can we talk?"

Yes, Remy, whatever you want to talk about.

He wanted to talk about my developing relationship with this new man in my life. He expressed, as well as a 13 year old boy can, how conflicted he feels about how quickly things appear to be moving for this person and me. He said that it is clear that I am happy, and he is happy for me, but what must Michael be feeling right now? Before I could answer, he said that he knows that Michael would be very happy for me, because Remy knows that Michael wanted me to be happy, and to love again. Yet, Remy wanted to know, "Don't you think Michael might be just a little bit mad?"

It's been two years, two very long years. And yet, it also feels like it just happened yesterday. In the two years that Michael lived with his death sentence he would speak of my next boyfriend, and what my life might be like. I would ask him not to talk like that, but he never would stop. He was very clear with me. He wouldn't be happy, if he knew that I wasn't happy. He wanted to die knowing that I would find love and happiness once more. He believed that I deserved that.

One day, long ago, my older son Dante was having a conversation with Michael. He told Michael that he worried that I wouldn't survive after Michael died. Michael told him, in his usual humorous way, that he certainly hoped that I would be heart-broken, and that I would miss him, but that he had no doubt that I would survive. After all, Michael was there with me when I went through many a trial in raising my kids.

Today, while lying there with Remy, I reminded him that we are all so capable of loving. I love him with all my heart. I love his brother and sister with all my heart. I love Michael with all my heart. And, I can love someone new with all my heart.

One love does not negate another.

Tonight, lying in my bed, I spoke with this new person in my life, his name is Abel, and we too spoke of Michael, of Remy, of Dante, and of Arianne. We spoke of my journey as a widower. We spoke of my heart-break and healing. We spoke of the time needed to grow into love, and we spoke of how we can carefully navigate all this while being mindful of younger minds and hearts.

This has become a part of my nightly ritual. The nine o'clock hour arrives, I pick up the phone, I call him, we talk, we listen, we laugh, and we smile.

I have the ashes of my husband to my right, and I have the voice of a new love interest to my left. Is this balance? Is this chaos? Is this right? Is this wrong? Will it last? Will it not? Will I be happy? Will I be sad?

There are no easy answers, but then, I'm not looking for easy answers. I'm looking, and planning on, more work ahead. I'm expecting struggle, and I'm expecting ease. My life is a journey that I often have little control of. At this point in my life, I no longer seek to control it. I choose to experience it, and to embrace as much of it as possible as it unveils itself to me.

I consider myself gifted by this new person in my life. I am experiencing hope once again. I'm feeling like I have much to offer, and I feel like someone is extending a gentle hand my way.

After an hour of intimate conversation, it was time to say goodnight. There was a longing there, which we both verbalized. It gave me a feeling of anticipation when I will have this person before me once again. I rolled over on my bed, and looked up into the brightly lit night. I thanked Michael for his love. I thanked Abel for his open heart. And, I smiled.

A Look Back

 I was looking through some old posts today and this one caught my attention.  I wrote it on December 18, 2008.  One year after Jim died.
I wrote about that year, and how far I/we came in those 365 days.
I thought I had come a long way.
I had no clue.
None.

I still had so much further to go.
But still .... after reading it today .... that's what I thought:  But still ....
It was .... a year.
It was a lifetime .... in 12 months.

Which must mean that I have now gone through almost 4 lifetimes.
At least.

And you know what?
The lifetimes have gotten better.
And richer.
With every passing year.

And I guess that's what I want you to know.
In sharing this.
My life, and all of its lifetimes, has gone from a dark year of just trying to breathe, just existing, just trying to make it from one day to the next and everything that year held ....
to becoming years with more richness and texture ....
and living.
And joy.

So keep breathing.
Keep existing.
One day you'll look behind you .... and be surprised at much life you are living.
:)


Looking Back ....

Well, Honey ...... I'm not sure where to start.

It's been a ride, that's for sure.  And not a ride I chose to get on, or wanted to stay on, but I seem to be strapped in for life.

I started to just write about the year and post pictures from events, but there were way too many to post ..... so many that this entry would've taken several weeks.

     I guess I'll start at the beginning, which ironically, is an ending.

A year ago today.  Around 2:00 a.m., to be more exact.  You were there ...... and then you weren't.

I like to picture you as you are in the above picture .....  up in Heaven, just looking out at everything and taking it all in.  And waiting for me, of course.

Since you left you obviously missed the most amazing memorial service I've ever seen.  I was in awe.  You would have been embarrassed.  You never knew how very well thought of and loved that you were.  I wish you had.  I hope that you do now.

Anyway, you left and then the kids and I left.   We ran away from home, from Christmas, from all things/people familiar.  We took a cruise and skipped Christmas.  I'm glad.  I wish I could've done it again this year, to be truthful.  

So last Christmas did not exist and therefore does not count as our "first" without you.  That is definitely this one.

     We came back home and shuffled forward .... and backward, mostly.  The kids all went back to school.  And we continued shuffling. 

I took the kids to the farm at Easter.  We needed to see your mom, who wasn't doing well.  It was the last time 4 of them saw her.  The next month she joined you and now I picture her standing next to you, waiting.  And loving having time with you.  I'm jealous.

     You missed the letter that told Daughter #1 she gained an interview with Harvard.  You missed that beaming face that lit up most of Texas.  (I'd like to think that you didn't really miss it, but I'm not sure where I stand on that.)  She doesn't beam all that much, as you know, so it was a big deal.  And I'm so thankful that I was there when she got the letter.

     You also missed the letter that told her she got accepted to the graduate program there. One of only four people.  We always knew she was intelligent .... too intelligent for me sometimes, but Harvard?  You would have been so very, very proud.  I'd like to think you are.  She left in July and she loves it.  She's even putting up with the cold, knowing that it's only a wee preview of the cold she'll find in Moscow in February.  Our little girl.  Our first baby ..... going off to Russia.  We did a good job, Jim.  She's very much like you.  :)

     You missed seeing Daughers #2 & #3 in the yearly college program "Sing" .... our first one to not see together.  They were amazing, as usual.  I went with several supportive friends and the other kids.  We had a good time.  Even though I cried through it all.  Another "first".

I hate "firsts".

   In May there were several of them.  Son #1 graduated from high school.  Our first without you.  He had his 18th birthday.  Daughters #2 & #3 had their 21st.  Big birthdays.  You left a big hole in those days.  

     In August I took Son #1 to college.  And didn't cry as much as I thought I would.  Of course, that's what I have Xanax for, too.  

I'm sure it's no surprise to you that he's loving it and that he should've been there at the age of 6.  He is so You.  It's unbelievable.  He would've made you proud in the way he's stepped up to take care of me ..... as much as I let him.  I never want him to feel pressured to be You.  Because he can't.  I think I've surprised him with the things I've done on my own.  Heck, I've surprised myself.  I'm sure you haven't been surprised at all.

     At the end of August I took Son #2 to military school.  I'm not going to lie, Jim ..... I have shed many tears and have had many angry words with you over this.  This is the ONE thing that makes me the most angry that you're not here.  I should NOT be doing this alone.  I should NOT have to put up with the anger, the frustration, the depression, the hateful and hurtful words  ..... not ANY of it .... alone.  Very, very alone.  I do not pretend to understand God's will in any of this.  I do not pretend to understand why I have to suffer losing you and go through this at the same time.  Sometimes I wonder what I must have done to piss Him off so much.  Or what I'm not learning that makes him keep slamming my heart to the ground.  

And so I shuffle. 

Son #2 seems to be trying to do better these past few weeks.  I wish you had been here to see him in his blues uniform.  You would've cried.  Don't try to deny it .... I've seen you cry over things related to the Marines many times.  You would've been proud .... and proud to have tears in your eyes.  I pray ...... sigh, I'm not sure what I pray for anymore when it comes to him.  I mostly cry and pray with groaning, trusting that God does indeed understand those prayers.  

But that son also makes me smile.  And he can make me laugh.  He has a great sense of humor and a deep and faithful heart.  He is going to do something big some day.  God has a firm grasp on that one, Jim.  I just wonder if I'll be around to see it?

And then there's Son #3.  You missed his football season this year.  His undefeated, District-winning football season.  He did a great job.  He's done a good job of helping, loving and protecting me this year.  He takes his job as "only child" quite seriously.  He certainly was God's gift to us, wasn't he?  

The house is much quieter.  After all, last year there were 6 of us living in it.  Now there are two.

So it's been a year.  A year of many, many "firsts".  Some horrible, some easier, all lonely.

Some days I can't imagine feeling any worse and then I get up the next day and .... I do.  

Some days I can't imagine feeling anything good and then I get up the next day and .... I do.

I have learned many things.  First, never expect things.  Just take each day as it comes.

And appreciate the time I have with our children.  And our wonderful, supportive friends.  Their acts of love, kindness and support would also have made you cry.  And you'd be proud.

I've learned what an awesome man you were.  I mean, I always knew that, but not to the extent that it goes.  

There are people from all over the world sending notes to me to tell me what you meant to them.  To tell me how you impacted their lives.  One of your accounting professors even called me at home the other day to tell me what you meant ..... way back then.

And tomorrow there will be a dedication in your memory.  A building here has your name on it.  Go figure!  You will go on impacting our school district, its teachers and its children for many more years.

I thank God for you every day.  I did it when you were alive (I'm so thankful that I always knew how blessed I was to have you)...... I do it still.  

There are no words to express my love for you, for our children and for the life we had together.  You were my heart, my soul and half of me.  I'm so thankful to God for putting us in that Speech class together 28 years ago.  I'm so thankful for the time we had, for the children we have, for the fun, laughs, tears, joys, frustrations, travels, love we had.  And for the love the kids and I still have for you.

And will always have.

And that, my Love, will carry me on into the next year.  God is still doing mighty things through you, Jim Eggers, and He is using the loss of you to do good.  

I love you.  I miss you.  I cry for you.  I smile and laugh at the memories of you.

And I can NOT wait to be with you again, hand in hand.

Give your mom a hug for me.

All of me,

Janine

"What-Ifs ....

                                          picture from here


.... get us nowhere."

I'll type it again.
"What ifs get us nowhere."
That's a direct quote.
From my sixteen year old son.

He texted that to me the other night, minutes after we'd had a heated exchange of words.
He had said some things that I thought were beyond disrespectful.  And I told him so.
I also told that him that he would never, ever have said things like that if his dad were here.
To which he promptly turned away and went into his room.

And thus, the text.
Only, before he wrote that, he wrote,
"He's dead, that sucks, but it's the past.
What ifs get us no where."

I think I may have sucked all of the air out of the room and into my lungs when I read those words.

But I've been pondering them.

"He's dead, that sucks, ...."
Yes he is.
And yes that does.

".... but it's the past."
Ahhhh, those 4 little words say so much to me .... and hold a lot of powerful emotions.

For my son, it's true.  Mostly.
He did die.  That is the past.  My son has the rest of his hopefully-very-long-life ahead of him ..... two years left of high school and football and pretty much breezing through his classes.
Then college.   Oh how I loved my college years.  I so look forward to seeing how much fun he has in college.
And then ..... who knows?  His future is a blank canvas at the moment, just waiting for him to add some color to it, to dabble in different mediums, to make of it what he chooses.

"but it's the past."
For me, those words felt like a cold knife slicing into my heart.
Because for me, it will never feel like "the past."
It still feels like Jim's death is the past, the future and very much the moment.
Not that I'm grieving him the same way as I did in the past.
Thank God.  I know that neither my body or mind could not have held on to that kind of grief much longer ... and survived.

And I am moving forward in my life.  I am happy.  I am content.
I am finding pieces of the "before Janine".  Good pieces that, when added to the "after Janine" make for a better person.
But .... they are still only pieces.

Jim will always be with me.
As will his death.
For me .... it will never be "the past".
It won't define me, in a negative, "woe is me, the keening widow" way.
But it will define me as to why I am who I am, why I think the way I think and why my heart feels the way it feels .... more tender, more compassionate, more quick to express love.

And I know that, for my son, Jim's death really isn't "the past", either.
It will certainly define him, as it will all of our children .... as to why they are the wonderful people they are.
Part of that is because of Jim's death.
And much of that is because of .... Jim's life.

Though I know that Jim, and his death, aren't really "the past" for my son, and that he used those words in an emotional moment, I know that they also hold a grain of truth.
The deep, painful, gut-wrenching, life-pausing, paralyzing grief ..... is "the past".
But the things we've learned, the compassion we've been shown and now have more of, the time we don't take for granted, the very many "I love you"s ..... those will continue on.

But one thing is definitely certain .... and yet sometimes difficult to get past .....
"What ifs get us nowhere."
Indeed.

I think my sixteen year old is wise beyond his years.