Both Feet In

This past week, a friend of mine shared a story with me about a woman she recently met while out shopping for boots at a western store. As they looked through the sale rack, the woman told her how she got through the death of her husband by promising herself a new pair of cowboy boots every time she had to do something hard in relation to her grief… like going to the mortuary, or collecting his will. Eventually, she had a whole shelf of them and she wore them everywhere she went. "Even to church" she said. "I medicated myself with old western movies and cowboy boots". My friend, who is actually a grief counselor, fully endorsed her grief medication. 

This woman's story made me smile instantly, and reminded me of my own boot story. About a month after my fiancé's sudden death, in June of 2012, on a horrible, grief-laden, sunny afternoon in Dallas, I walked my shell-shocked self into a local western store with one specific goal. To buy a pair of boots. Not just any boots, but THE boots. Golden tan with beautiful blue inlaid wings and red hearts. Meticulous stitching and hard soles for dancing, and walking a hard road. They were boots I had swooned over for the entire length of my relationship with Drew. The ones that were "too expensive and unpractical" to ever actually buy. The boots that were too bold and showy for me. 

At least... for the old me. 

The widowed me though, didn't give a shit about any of that. She didnt care about being too showy nor did she care about how expensive they were. So she walked into that western store, dropped $300 down, and walked out with the goddamn boots because she wanted them and she damn well deserved them. It felt SO GOOD. I knew right then and there, that these were the boots that were going to carry me through this mess. It was a glimmer of hope. When I walked this hard road, I would do so with wings on my feet. I would do so boldly, and proudly, and without apology to anyone. Those wings would always remind me of the pilot I love and of his zest and passion for life. They would remind me to keep on living, and that I can still be whoever I want to be.

I wore them to every art opening I showed my artwork in, I wore them to work, hell I wore them grocery shopping. Every time I put them on, it felt like wearing the essence of our love for all to see. Because we were bold. We lived and loved boldly and fearlessly together. We left no room for regrets and always walked a bit more confidently out into the world when we had each other. 

The boots provided some piece of that back, some reclaiming of my own power despite everything falling apart. They gave me a way that I could say to the world (and to myself) - I am still here and dammit, I am going to choose to live. I'm not going to lie down and let this destroy me. It may take months and years to get back to living life more fully again - but until then, these boots will remind me of the promise to myself - and to him - to keep on living life. 

Sure, you can see this sort of thing as silly. Or frivolous. Or a waste of money. And before he died, I did a good job of that. But when you're down in the pit, things look very different. It's dark down there. And pretty damned hopeless. And maybe, just maybe, a simple thing like a pair of fine-ass boots isn't so frivolous. It reminded me that no matter how broken I felt, I could still create my own hope by the choices I made, even the seemingly small ones. 

As it turns out, those boots became a symbol not just to live boldly. They became a reminder that I had the power to decide what would carry my feet through the day… and that was the first step towards knowing I had the power to choose how I would carry myself through this entire experience of living with his death. They reminded me to choose each day to try and live what's left of this life boldly, and with both feet in. 

Healing with Pride

Photo © Sarah Treanor / Ceramic Wounded Heart © Beverly Mangham

I've been thinking a lot lately about accomplishment, and just how important it has been in helping me to heal and learn to live again. I'm a few months into my third year of being widowed now. Since he died, there have been dozens and dozens of leaps into the unknown. Like most of you, a lot of what I have accomplished I did not have a choice in; planning his funeral, making it through all of the "first"s of year one, or even just getting out of bed on the days when I had only about one cell left in me that was strong enough to do so.

It can be so easy to forget to look back at all the things we've accomplished, especially when we're in pain. Even though these past few years are full of things I never wanted to accomplish - things I never wanted to be able to say I have done - each one of them still makes me feel incredibly proud. It's a kind of pride unlike any other. Because his death did break me… it completely broke me. And for a long time, I was terrified I might not survive. Yet here I am, somehow, learning to live a beautiful life once more and discovering that he is still an integral part of that. And I am proud - not because it didn't break me - because it broke me and I am still here. 

There are also the other things I'm proud myself for since he died… the ones I did get to choose. I have done things I never imagined I'd do because they are things he never got to do - like open-cockpit aerobatics in a WWII era biplane (I am still astounded that I did this!). I've achieved lifelong dreams that he and I talked of often - like having my first solo art show, selling my photography for the first time and visiting my first national park. I've even achieved a few new goals that the old me NEVER would have set for herself - like taking up Crossfit and, just recently, doing competitions (a big deal for a woman who hasn't done anything athletic since the age of twelve! No, seriously).

When we're talking about building our broken selves back up - pride in who we are and what we can do is a vital part of it. Because that pride - along with trust - breeds hope. A hope that "maybe, just maybe… I can survive this." which turns into "Maybe I actually can have a happy life again" and becomes "I am building a happy life again, no matter what".

Whether it's the things we never imagined having to do, or the things we never imagined we could do - it's really all about one thing: surprising ourselves and never forgetting it. There is so much healing in sitting down each day to allow yourself to feel pride in all you've accomplished. Going hand-in-hand with that is continuing to give yourself new things to accomplish each day that you can feel proud of. Things that allow you to surprise yourself. Even if that something seems very small, we all know - in grief - no accomplishment is small.

There is also, I've begun to realize, another aspect of accomplishment which I didn't expect to have after my fiancé died; him. He is interwoven into every single thing I achieve. Not only because his death has changed everything about my life, but because I still feel his pride in all I do. Death has not changed that. Sure, it still really sucks that I cannot call him or see his face light up when I tell him. That will always suck. But I still feel how proud he is and I decide to focus on that.

At first, accomplishing things was just survival… a thing I had to do. But over time, I'm discovering it to be one of the most important parts of building a meaningful and happy new life that includes him in it. With every moment that we surprise ourselves, we come to know, love and appreciate ourselves more fully and see our partner's place in our lives more clearly. Each accomplishment becomes a gift from their afterlife to our after life - ensuring they never really leave our side.

I challenge you to get out there and surprise yourself (and your partner) today. Big, small, doesn't matter. Spend ten minutes (or all day!) allowing yourself to feel proud for all you have accomplished up to this point of your journey... And feel how proud your partner is too. A little pride can go a long way.

Spirit

"Spirit" © Sarah Treanor 2014 

Living with the loss of partner, or any great loss, is one of the most challenging things we will ever face in life. It sends us on a journey through the fire – into a darkness the likes of which we have never experienced before. It brings us to our knees and breaks us. Severely. I certainly remember this feeling well. Before my fiancé died, I knew I could handle anything that life threw at me. Only I didn’t really know that at all…

On the day he died, and the dark days thereafter, I came to find out what it really means to be able to handle anything life throws at you. To lose a soul mate – particularly in a sudden way – takes you to a place more painful and terrifying than I ever knew could exist. It breaks you right down to your bones. I know… I don't have to explain that to any of you. You have all, unfortunately, been there too.

I feared for my life – in a very real sense, for probably the whole first year. I feared for my life because I feared the death of my spirit. I was so badly broken that I honestly did not know if my spirit could ever recover. I was afraid that I would become dark and lose my sense of childlike wonder and hopefulness about the world. That this brokenness would overtake me and I would not be able to come out of the fire with my eyes ablaze anymore.

YET… I can still recall in the midst of it all – in those first hours and days and weeks – something inside me WAS ablaze. Something inside me was saying that this world can throw anything it wants to in my face and I will not stop believing that this life is beautiful. Or in the words of Mr. Tom Petty… “You can stand me up at the gates of hell, and I won’t back down”. (one of my go-songs right after he died, and still today).

I didn’t really know it at the time, but am quite certain now… that this was my spirit. This is the kind of stuff that amazes me about the human spirit. How broken we can be and yet still somehow, inexplicably, that soul part of us stands up for our broken human self. It doesn’t mean we feel any less broken. Or powerless. Or scared. But what I do know is that listening to my spirit was – and still is – something that gave me the ounce of strength I needed each day to get up and keep on trying to figure out what to do with all of this.

Looking back over things two years later is incredible at times. Because it feels like no time has passed at all – and often I still feel like I’m back at square one with my grief. But other days, like today, something lends me some perspective. And on days like this I can actually begin to feel like, yeah, I’ve crawled out of the fire… out of the worst of the darkness. This week's image from my "Still, Life" self portrait series is about just that. I’ve been battered and bruised and burned and scarred by this long journey, and I will be battered and bruised and burned and scarred much more before my time here is done… but I have not been broken. My eyes are still curious, my heart is still hopeful, and my spirit still burns bright… perhaps, even brighter than before. 

"Still, Life" is a weekly self portrait/written series I am doing for the entire year of 2014 - all about my journey of living with loss. To see more of this project you can check out my blog at 12moc.com. 

Hope and Healing at Camp Widow

Photo booth shenanigans with new friends 

By all accounts, I really should be feeling pretty awful right now.  This past Tuesday marked my first birthday since Dan died (turning 34, his forever age) and coming up this Thursday, July 24, is the first anniversary of his death.  This is a tough time of year, there's no two ways about it.  It sucks, it hurts and it's freaking unfair.

But in a really weird way, I feel suspended from the weight of the grief at the moment.  I know it's there, lurking... most likely waiting to strike when I arrive home from my USA holiday on Wednesday, all jet-lagged and grumpy (maybe it will even hit on the 13-hour-trip home which will be fun for the people sitting around me). 

I'm pretty good at tapping in to my grief and leaning in to it when I need to rather than pushing it aside and playing the denial game, so I was thinking today, why do I feel 'ok' right now?  Where did this 'good vibe' buzz come from?  And the only thing I can really put it down to is Camp Widow.

It feels like attending this event last weekend was some kind of turning point in my grief journey.  I arrived in San Diego on Thursday afternoon so excited and bouncing with enthusiasm. I'd heard the stories from other people who'd left Camp Widow feeling like they could take on the world and I couldn't wait to feel that too.  Bring it on!

Then Friday morning arrived, I jumped out of bed and walked up to the registration desk, ready to get started.  That's when it hit me.  What the hell was I doing?!  How on earth did I think I could travel half way across the world on my own, waltz in to a conference of 250 people I'd never met, let down all the walls I carefully maintain to keep myself protected and composed and talk to strangers about Dan's death!?  

I felt so vulnerable and naive and promptly started freaking out.  I had made a serious mistake and couldn't do this - I was way out of my depth.  Before I had the chance to flee I was ushered in to the 'new campers' workshop by a friendly volunteer, where I sat with tears running down my face, carefully noting my nearest exit route and avoiding all eye contact.

After an introduction and run down by one of the Soaring Spirits board members we were instructed to turn to the person next to us and introduce ourselves. Oh shit, crunch time - this is it Rebecca, you finally have to turn up and start playing.  So I paired up with a lovely lady called Angela from Northern California and after blurting out my name, said I'd lost my husband Daniel just under a year ago and broke down in tears.  Once I calmed down and confessed to how nervous I was feeling, I realised Angela was tearing up too.  She assured me it was ok and pointed out that we weren't the only ones in the room crying, I looked around and she was right, I wasn't the 'weird crying woman' at this event, we were all in the same boat.  This really was a safe place and no one was going to point and stare at me. 

Over the next two days my confidence slowly grew.  I started feeling connected to these strangers and felt more comfortable opening up.  I sat and listened to other people's stories - their fears and their pain along with their triumphs and goals.  I cried with them and I cheered for them.  I heard presentations from widows who are further down their path than I am and who have managed to make sense of their grief and even build something positive from their pain.  Many of them had even remarried and I was fascinated that they had found happiness again with partners who embraced their grief so fully that some had even attended Camp Widow with them! 

I danced.  Now that is huge.  I am not really a dancer at the best of times and haven't danced since my wedding in June last year, six weeks before Dan died.  I put on silly props and posed for photos with my arms around women I had only met two days earlier (I'd seen the photo booth photos from previous camps and thought 'seriously, I can NOT imagine feeling comfortable enough with these grieving strangers to pose for laughing photos together' - but it happened!).  

And when it came time to say goodbye, I cried.  I cried because I would really miss these new friends whom I cared about deeply.  I cried because Camp Widow made me feel so happy and normal and actually excited about a life that lay before me, I was scared to leave in case I left those feelings behind.  

I cried because I still missed Dan and I wanted to tell him about my amazing weekend, but I realised that the pain I felt at losing my Great Love (my kryptonite as Michele so eloquently put it in her key note address) could also be my super power, as I carried that love forward with me, propelled by the knowledge that my time with him was a wonderful gift that I am still receiving by being the woman he saw in me, by being the better person he made me and by growing through this horrible life experience.  Love never dies and his love will be my super power as I live the rest of my life. 

This is something I NEVER thought I'd say, but I left Camp Widow feeling proud to be a widow.  How crazy is that!?  I felt proud of the resilience I'd developed, of the compassion I felt for others, and of the strength I never knew I had.   I felt proud to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these incredible men and women who had also left their homes alone, travelled to an event where they knew no one and let their own walls done in the hope that there was more.

I am now trying to work out if I can make it back to the USA or Canada for Camp Widow next year and anyone else who is considering making the journey, I can't recommend it enough.  There is more for us, there is hope.  This situation may not be what we WANT and it's still certainly not fair on any level, but we don't have to settle for a life that is less than.  

A New Word ......

...... that describes what I am.
Much better than the old, much-hated word.

I think it's very interesting that the hatred of that word is almost universal.
Men hate it as much as women do.
The word?
Any version of "widow".

Did you hate that word when you first found yourself described as one?
I can remember the first time I heard it ...... the first time someone used it in association with me.
Shock tore through me and sucked the breath right out of my lungs.
I was literally stunned.
And then furious.

That seems insane, I know, but the picture that word put into my mind was pretty much identical to the painting, "Whistler's Mother" (above).
And that was NOT me.
Hell, I didn't even feel like a widow, let alone look like one.
I still felt very much married to Jim and I thought I'd always feel that way.
I resented being called the "W word" and I refused to even say it.

But one day ...... that changed.
It didn't happen over-night, or quickly.  It, like almost all things on this path, took time.
And it took meeting several other people who had been here longer.
But there came a day when I heard that word ...... and I didn't hate it.  I think that shocked me almost as much as when I first heard it.

I realized then that the word "widowed" meant something very different to me than it first did.  And the picture that came to mind had changed drastically.
I no longer saw an old woman dressed in black, sitting in a rocking chair.

I saw a woman who was stronger than she thought she was, a woman who could do more than she thought she could ...... a woman who was a survivor ...... after being to hell and back.
That was the new definition I had for the word "widow"...... Survivor.

But now I have a new word, a word I never heard until I was driving the other day and listened to a song on the radio.  I immediately identified with that song ...... and that word.
"Overcomer"
I like it.  Because that's exactly what I am.
And what you are, even if you don't feel like one.
One day you will.

I have overcome so very much in the last 6 1/2 years.  Not everything, but a lot.
I'm still here.  And I'm glad.
I couldn't always say that.
There were many, many days (weeks, months) when I thought that Grief would overcome me ...... when I almost gave up ...... when I thought I couldn't stand one more minute of pain.
But I'm still here.
And though I feel that I've "overcome" Grief, he still comes to visit me once in a while.
But he doesn't have the strength to pull me under now.  Or maybe I've grown stronger, so I can withstand his visits now.

I will always, always miss Jim.  And I will always hate that he's not here.
But I've learned that it's ok to decide to move forward.  I haven't "moved on", because that seems to imply forgetting the past, getting "over" Jim's death ...... and those things will never happen.
But "moving forward" means choosing to live life and to live it as fully as I can.
In spite of ...... well, you know.  In spite of everything.
And because of everything.

I'm an "Overcomer".
And so are a few hundred of my favorite people.
:)

 

Camp Widow

Since I lost my fiancé almost 2 years ago, I have been acutely aware of how uncomfortable my very presence makes people at times. I talk about it less and less on Facebook, and even with my closest friends and family. It turns out people really don't like being reminded of death. Who knew? I've started to feel like I am carrying around some bad omen on my back - like some I'm some messenger of death now that brings a black aura everywhere I go. It's definitely a shitty part of this journey - feeling like my very identity upsets people or makes them uncomfortable. Which is made to suck even more by the fact that I am one of those people too - I also don't want to be around my own pain and this new unwanted identity of "widow". It is a constant battle for me to try and make peace with this new part of who I am that reminds me of everything I do not have.

Not entirely sure of what to expect or how it will help me with this identity crisis, last Friday I hopped on a plan to go to Camp Widow for the first time. If its new to you, this is a conference for widowed people held three times a year - the only one of its kind. Upon arrival I am surrounded by a few hundred others just like me. I even meet a few close friends for the first time in person. These people are incredible. They are not famous, they are not peace prize winners or hollywood actors, they are just you and me - all of us regular people - deciding to show up even though life has completely broken us. There we all are… still trying to find hope and healing and something good in life. Despite it all… Still fucking trying!

I meet Tanya, who's fiancé died in the 9/11 attacks and whose story both drops me to my knees and simultaneously fills me with so much hope and strength that my soul overflows. I meet a woman who lost her husband just three weeks ago - and somehow she managed to get out of bed AND get on a plane AND show up at this massive event. And Jennifer - the warrior - who is only 32 and has already been widowed twice and is raising six kids now on her own. I meet a woman who traveled alone all the way from Australia just to be there - knowing no one when she got there, and her husband died less than a year ago. I watch my dear friend Kelley do an incredible stand-up comedy act all about death and the death of her husband - getting widowed people to laugh harder than they probably have since their partner died. I mean wow people. Who needs Oprah when we've got all these widowed people around?! And somehow we are all just opening our hearts fully - with tears and with laughter. SO much laughter. So much understanding and kindness.

There are moments that I just stand there in this great big ocean of courage and take it all in. The unfathomable pain of everyone there crashes into me like a ten foot wave, but the love… the love and the extraordinary strength of so many willing to share themselves fully changes my entire perspective on what it means to be widowed….

I leave the conference on Sunday and head for the airport… I am wearing my "Hope Matters" shirt, and I realize… I am different. I am changed and I can feel it. No longer am I a woman who is fighting with all her might against the idea of being a widow… suddenly, I AM a widow - and no part of me is fighting it inside. I am walking around a crowded airport literally wearing my identity, and for the first time in this whole horrible, excruciating, exhausting, terrifying, earth-shattering journey… I am PROUD.

I am proud to call myself a widow. I am proud that anyone around me can read it right there on my shirt. I don't want to hide it away. I don't want to hide myself away. I don't care if I make every single person in a five mile radius uncomfortable. Because the thing is… there will be someone in that crowd who is hurting just as bad as me. And if I can be honest about my pain, it helps them be honest about theirs too. That is what all these brave people taught me - they were honest about their pain, and they allowed me to let my guard down and be honest about mine (and it turns out, I am still SO NOT OKAY with ANY of this and have been putting on a really good brave face for a long time). Everyone there helped me to realize that I really am strong, even in my most broken moments - we all are.

I don't think I even realized how much of a wall I had built up over the past 2 years, it's so easy to do and happens so gradually. This life may not be pretty a lot of the time, and everyone may not want to look at it or hear about it, but I have been reminded that hiding myself and my truth away does not help me - or anyone else - to heal. I need to be who I am, where I am, exactly how I am and to keep letting people into my life who can support that. I also need to make sure I am sitting with my pain and honestly seeing it too. I guess I just needed an army of other widowed people to help me remember that.

This experience definitely opened my eyes and made me realize that now, in my new life, this is a club I DO want to be a part of. And I plan to be, for a very very long time, coming back to Camp Widow each year. And I hope that next year - if it feels right for you - you will join me too.

Related Links:
Camp Widow

This Is Hard ......

                                                                 Long Live Love!!!!!!

...... in fact it's one of the hardest things I've had to do.   Not THE hardest  of course.  I've already done that.
As have each of you.

The time has come for me to say good bye.
Not good bye for good.
Michele has said that I can sub in whenever she needs me.

And I'll see many of you at a future Camp Widow.
Whoop!

But it's time for me to stop writing on a weekly basis.
Here, anyway.

You all have been wonderful for the almost 6 years I've been writing here.
You've put up with my sometimes TOO honest posts (and just so you newer ones know, I did write about sex once.  Here.  :)
You've hung in there when I've ranted about depression and suicide ..... and my thoughts about them.  
You've stood by me through dating for the first time, with a man who was a better friend, than partner.
And you rallied behind me when my first on-line relationship (and last ...... so far) turned out to be a psycho SOB who targets widows ..... and their money.
That one was tough.

You've been sad with me when waves of grief continued to knock me to my knees ...... and you've been happy for me when the smiles started coming more often than the tears.

I couldn't ask for a better support group.
And I can never say thank you enough.

But I will ask one thing of you:  please don't congratulate me for leaving because I'm "healed", or "better", or "moving on".  I've never enjoyed reading those posts when other writers have stopped writing.  
I don't know about everyone else, but I didn't write here to help me heal.  Yes, that may have been a perk sometimes, but that's not why I wrote.

I haven't had any kind of epiphany or vision ...... nor have I been struck by lightening (or anything else).  I just came to the realization (several months ago) that I have less to say, especially to newer grievers who don't really want to read about "Hope", or feeling better, or learning to be happy without him/her.

For years I have written for two reasons and only two reasons.
1.  To give you Hope ...... about anything and everything.
And,
2.  To let each one of you know that you are not alone, you're not crazy, there's no timeline to follow, and there are no set-in-stone stages of grief.  It simply is what it is, for as long as it is.
                                          
I hope I've done that for most of you.
Thank you to all of you who told me that I did.
Because every time you did that, you helped my Hope continue.
And that, my friends, is one of the best gifts we can give to each other.

Please keep commenting.  Comment to the authors and comment to each other.  We all need to know that we've made a connection.

So I'm taking my leave.  But I'll never be far away.  I'll continue to read here ...... and comment.
And if you decide that you just can't make it through a day without my humor, wit and sometimes boring posts ...... just shoot me an email and I'll tell you where you can find me still spouting off about life.  Mostly my life, but one never knows what I may pontificate about on any given day!  However, it's most likely to do with living in NY (was that a spoiler?).  :)

For those of you who are new here, I started a blog 3 months before Jim's sudden death, and continued it for 6 years.  It's still there.  I won't take it down because I know that it can still do someone good.

And I started a new blog after I moved to NY this past year.  It's a bit different, but I'm still a widow, so that will likely always be a part of my writing.

Now just so you know, I'm leaving you in a pair of very capable hands.  The hands of an adventurous woman, named Alison Miller, who joined our ranks in the spring of 2013.  
In 2009 her husband, Chuck, retired and the two of them decided to hit the road and travel, rather than settle down in Florida (or any other popular place for retirees).  They enjoyed being "Happily Homeless" and driving all over the country ...... until cancer caught up with them, and took her wonderful Chuck 3 weeks later.

And then Alison did something I couldn't have done ...... she decided to keep traveling, for both of them.  She painted her car pink (so "he'd be able to find her easier out there!) and she got a trailer, which she had trimmed in that same pink.  
Is that awesome or what?!!  :)

She still grieves, of course, but she's out there ...... on new roads with her new life, and I'm sure Chuck is cheering her pink self on.

Here's what Alison has to say:

"I've always thought of myself as a strong woman.  It's only now that my husband died that I'm finding out how strong I really am.  I'm determined to survive, and thrive, beyond this pain.  Dying of a broken heart isn't as easy as it sounds, so, since I haven't died, I've decided to create a new life for myself that will set the world ablaze.  I'm hurling myself into new situations: indeed, my entire life is vastly different from what it was with him.  All I have left of him is our love, and that is my guiding force in life as I full-time it on the road in my PinkMagic rig."

I know you will enjoy her fresh and different perspective and that you will welcome her with open arms (and lots of comments!).

You all rock, so much more than you know, and I am going to miss the hell out of you.
Thank you for always making me feel special.
I consider you my friends and look forward to meeting as many of you as I can in the future.

Take care.
Hold on to Hope.
And keep breathing.

With gratitude and love ...... and a few tears,

Janine

(For blog sites, email me at Janinee@sslf.org)

I Miss Touch ......

(It's been a crazy day and I'm suffering from writer's block, so I've decided to do something I rarely do ...... re-post.  I was going through some old posts and this one from Sept. 2009 caught my eye ...... because it still applies ...... almost 5 years later.  Except for the part about having 2 teenage boys at home.  

So I apologize for re-posting, but I hope that some of you can still relate.)

...... for the past week or so one fact has been glaring me in the face ..... and all over me:
I miss being physically touched.
Note that I did not say I miss being sexually touched (not that I don't) but those are two very different things. I live in a house with two teenage boys who aren't that crazy about touching, let alone hugging, their mom. They are normal.
And I am starving.

I miss the small reassuring pat as he walked past me. I miss the hug from behind as I stood at the sink doing dishes, or at the stove, cooking.
I miss the kiss goodbye ---- Every. Single. Morning.
I miss the kiss hello ---- Every. Single. Evening.

I miss holding his hand.
I miss rubbing my hand over his too-short buzz cut.
I miss doing his laundry.
I miss him picking me up and squeezing me hard to help pop my back when I needed that.
I miss his massages.

I miss dangling my short legs over his long legs when we sat in a movie theatre (for some odd reason, that habit started on our 2nd date and never stopped).
I miss crying in his arms when I was upset/frustrated/angry about something.
I miss him holding my face because he loved looking at the smile in my eyes.
I miss him pulling me down onto his lap to just sit and cuddle.
I miss falling asleep with him, hand in hand.
I miss gently touching him to wake him up when he was snoring so that he'd roll onto his side.

I miss hearing the loud clacking sound of his biking shoes as he walked through the house after a ride.
(I miss making fun of his biking shorts before he left for a ride.)
I miss shutting the pantry doors behind him because, as a male, he couldn't manage that.
I miss hearing him thank me for dinner ...... whether it was soup and a sandwich, or a wonderful steak.

I miss the "just because" phone calls during the day to check on me.
I miss the text messages he'd send from the school board meetings.
I miss him opening doors for me ..... and making sure his sons did the same for me and for their sisters.
I miss the light in his eyes when he talked about biking.

I miss him helping me zip up a long zipper on the back of a dress.
I miss asking him which pair of shoes looks best with an outfit.
I miss making eye contact with him from across a room when we were out at a party.
I miss trying to avoid making eye contact with him at a party because I wasn't ready to go home.

I miss his arms ..... he had great arms.

I miss watching him drive the boat at the lake and how much he loved being there.
I miss watching him freak out when the weather turned suddenly and the waves ripped in while he tried to dock the boat with out uttering too many four-letter words in front of the kids.

I miss seeing live theatre regularly with him ..... which he learned to love because I loved it and he loved me.
I miss his deep voice.
I miss his whisper.

I miss him telling me that I'm beautiful.
I miss him, when I would complain about the heat in a room, telling me it was because I was "so hot".
I miss telling him he was full of crap when he'd say those things, but thanking him anyway because I knew that he truly saw me as beautiful ..... even if I didn't.

I truly don't understand how I've managed to stay alive this long with missing him so much, because this list of things I've missed is only a minute fraction of the things I miss. I can't believe that my heart has not just given out.
There are many, many days when I've wished it would, but there are starting ..... ever so slowly .... to be more days when I don't wish for that.
I watch my other widda friends who are further along on this path .... and they give me hope. I read the words of other widda friends and acquaintances who are further along, and they, too, give me hope.
I need hope.
Lots and lots of hope to help take the place of the things I miss.
I want hope.
I want laughter.
I want happiness.
I want to live so that I can encourage others and give them hope.

I want a lot.

And I think that's OK.

The People I Love ......

...... have grown in numbers over the past 6 years.
Some people have faded from my life.
Some have stayed.
Some came in during my "after".
And those have never left.
I doubt that they ever will.

This past weekend I spent time with 8 of these people.
They are 8 of the most amazing women I know.
And 8 women that I'm proud, and so very grateful, to call "friend".

This is the board of Soaring Spirits International.
We all come with different backgrounds, different stories, different views on somethings.
I would trust them with my life.

But on one thing ...... we are in 100% agreement.
We have a passion for widowed people.
We want to give them Hope.
We want to let them know that they are not alone.

We just spent a weekend talking about all of you who come here each day, especially the new people who come.
We discussed Camp Widows and how we can get more of you to come and be emotionally fed during that amazing weekend.

We talked about reaching more and more widowed people.
We talked about wanting to give them Hope.

You are very important people in our lives.
We love you.
We care for you.
We cry for you.

And we want to give you Hope.
Plus the knowledge that you're not alone.
We're here.
And we will be here.

Long live love!

Another Birthday ......

                                                                 source

...... remembered, but not celebrated.

Jim would've been 54 today (as I write this it's Tuesday night).
Instead, he's forever 47.
And that sucks.
In more ways than one.

I hate that his birthday is so close to Christmas ...... which is so close to the day he died.
This time of the year can be one onslaught after another.
And yes, it still brings tears.

But it also brings warm memories.
Memories of baking spice cake for him every January 7th.
Memories of surprising him with a limo filled with friends ...... and a restaurant filled with more friends when he turned 40.
Memories of sitting around the table with the kids, having his favorite dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes.
More memories than I can list.
Which is a pretty wonderful thing.

Yes, I could sit here and write about all of the things he's/I've/we've missed out on.
But that would only serve to make me feel depressed and worse than I want to feel at the end of this day.
So instead I'm going to focus on doing more than I thought I would do today.
I'm going to do more than remember him.

I am going to celebrate him.
I'm going to celebrate who he was, and who he still is.
I'm going to celebrate the time we had, for as long as we had it.

I'm going to celebrate love.
Because it never ends.

Long live love.

New Year's Resolutions ......

                                                                      source
                                                         
...... whatever.

I don't have any resolutions.
I wish that I could say that's because Jim died 6 years ago.
But I didn't make resolutions before that.

I tried, for years ...... really.
But I found that most years, I failed at whatever it was.
Maybe I set the bar too high.
Most likely I set the bar too high.
But one year I just gave them up.

For me, making new year's resolutions is kind of like giving up something for Lent.
Which I don't do, either.
I think that I should always be in the process of bettering myself, of trying to give up bad habits, characteristics ...... people.

Not that I always succeed, but the purpose is to continue to try.
I don't want to do something because it's what's expected.
That's the rebel in me.  Of course.
And that's no surprise to anyone who knows me.

So as far as the year 2014 goes ...... I can only hope that it starts off better than 2013 is ending.
It's been a difficult week.  On many levels that are beyond my control.
Not a great way to end the year.

I know that Hope is real.
Even when I don't always feel it.
Hope is more than a feeling.
Thankfully.
Because feelings rise and plummet.

I cannot control anyone else in the world.
No matter how much I wish I could.
No matter what I want for them.

All I can control is me, and how I react.
I don't always react well ...... I wish I did.  I'm still working on that.
Maybe I'll work on that for 2014.
Not that I'm resolving to do that!
Not formally.

I'm just saying ...... maybe I'll try.

And thank you ...... to all of you who read and support us.
I know you'd rather not be here, so thank you especially for being here ...... in spite of that.

I wish us all a peaceful and Hope-filled 2014.

The Ghost Writer ......

                                                                             source


...... of Christmas Past.

I know that most of you out there wish this day was just an ordinary day.  Just the 25th day of December, no more, no less.
Actually, I know that most of you wish that you could've fallen asleep around December 22nd or so and stayed asleep until January 2nd.  Or February 15th.
I get that.
All too well.

In honor of all of us, I decided to go through my blog and give you posts of my past Christmases. Christmases that have occurred in my "after".
Maybe you'll relate to one or two of them.
Maybe you won't.

But here they are, for whatever they're worth.
I hope they help.

Year One:
12/23/08
"Let's Be Honest ......"

...... not everyone likes Christmas.

    Let me clarify.  It's not Christmas itself.  I mean, I'm thankful for Christ's birth.  I'm great with setting aside a day to be extra thankful for that and to remember that without this birth my life would be very black indeed.  I'm grateful that this birth gives me the gift of hope --- and the knowledge that I will be with Jim again.

     But I have oh-so-recently arrived on the "other side".  The "outside looking in" side.  And the people on the outside do not like Christmas.  Not the event, but the season.  Or more specifically, the way Americans celebrate the season .... starting before Halloween.  

     I've always been aware of the 'outside people', but since we're being truthful here, I didn't give them a whole lot of thought.  Of course we've donated to charities, we've worked for the homeless, we've bought gifts for families who had none, etc. etc. etc.  But once I'd done that, my attention shifted to MY family, MY shopping, MY celebrating, MY plans.  The thought that one day I'd be an 'outside person' never entered my head.  Never.

     Yet here I am.  Looking at the "joy" and the commercials and the shoppers and the commercials and the decorations and the commercials and the people who feel pressured to go out among the millions of crazy people shoppers to get one more gift.  Or maybe two.

And now I see, really see, for the first time, what a mess we make of this holiday holyday.  It's like my eyes had some kind of film over them "before".  The same film that millions of people have over their eyes.  Or is it thousands of people?  Or hundreds?  

     I'm not sure what's worse:  to have had the film and then have it torn away, or to never have had the film in the first place.

     My eyes now see how many there are of us on the outside.  I didn't see them before.  And now I am one of them.  And there are hundreds of them.  Or is it thousands?  Or millions?  There are more than you know.  Many of them clamp those masks on for this time of year, so they're harder to identify.  But I see them.  Most of them anyway. 

    I see the people who have no family.  No one to "celebrate" with.  No one that looks like the people in the commercials.  

     I see people who have "family" but cannot, choose not, should not spend time with people who don't deserve the title of "family".  

    I see people who have nothing -- who feel and see the pressure of "celebrating", but can't afford it.  And then feel worthless because they can't make their family look like the ones in the commercials.

     I see people who have only one thing in their life .... because that one horrible thing has pushed everyone and everything else out of it.  They don't want this thing, but don't know how to free themselves of the demon that it is.

     I see people who are angry.  I see that they were hurt first, and then became angry.  And that anger is their shield of protection to push everyone away.  They don't have anyone to "celebrate" with, but they also don't have anyone close enough to hurt them.

     I see the people like me -- the ones who's hearts are torn apart and hurting.  The ones who's bodies feel so heavy that smiling is exhausting, let alone "celebrating".  The ones who wonder if they'll ever want to "celebrate" again.

     

     But then I remember this holyday.  And what it's supposed to be about.  What it's really about.  

 I know that the film will never grow back over my eyes.  

But I think that's a good thing.

And I hope that my heart, though it will always hurt, will hurt a little less.

And I know that's a good thing.
****************************************************************************
Year Two:
December 27, 2009
"It's the Most Wonderful Time ......"

..... of the year.

Or not.

I wonder why we have three such huge holidays slapped right up against each other?  Who was in charge of that?!

I mean, really?  We (read: "outsiders") just get through the whole "being thankful" thing and then, a few weeks later we manage to barely get our head above the crashing waves of Christmas.  But we do.  We tread water and manage to survive the waves as best we can.

And then ..... just when we think the waves may be subsiding ...... the tsunami of New Year's roars in.

For us "outsiders", there is nothing ....... (well, other than that pesky 14th day of February) ..... worse than New Year's Eve.  

And I think that we make the "insiders" very, very uncomfortable.  They don't know what to do with us on those two days ..... so they don't.  

I can't say as I blame them.  

Really.

I envy them.  

I hope they realize how blessed they are.

I hope they don't take for granted how blessed they are.

And I hope they have a wonderful New Year's Eve.

And maybe toss a lifesaver out into the waves once in a while.
***************************************************************************
Year Three::
December 22, 2010

"You Should Be Happy ......"

.... is what someone told me last night.
Actually, the entire sentence was .... "All of your children are home.  You should be happy."
I felt like I had been slapped in the face.
I was on the phone, explaining to this person, through tears, that I was feeling sad.
And that sentence was the response I got.

Most people would probably agree with that statement.
But you who read this blog are not "most people".
Thank God.

My response was to almost yell into the phone, "Don't tell me that!  Don't tell me what I should be feeling!"
There was quiet on the other end.  But no apology.  No attempt at an explanation.
I said, "I AM happy that the kids are home.  But it's very bittersweet.  Yes, we're all together.  But we're not ALL home.  Jim is not here and that makes me sad.  Very sad.  Yes, even after three stinking years it makes me sad."

It's been a difficult week.  I'm content one minute, in tears the next.
I don't remember being this emotional last year, but then I AM a widow and so my memory is not what it once was.
I AM happy to have all of the kids here.  And so very grateful.
But the presence of seven of us is a huge reminder that there are not eight.
Just like the stockings that are hanging over our fireplace.
This is the first year that I did not add Jim's.
It just seems too painful to constantly see it there.
The stockings are such a visible reminder that he is not .... visible.

So yes, maybe in the eyes of some people I should be happy.
I am blessed.  My children are all healthy and they are all home.
I have many loving family members and friends.
I am financially secure.
I should be happy.

And I usually am now.

But this week, this month .... I am sad.
And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

Except ignore the ignorant, thoughtless words of people who don't know what the hell they're talking about.
Sounds like a plan .....
*********************************************************************************
Year Four:
December 24, 2011
"I Have a Love/Hate Relationship ......"

.... with Christmas Eve.
Actually, I'd love to say that I weigh in heavier on the love side, but I don't think that would be true.
And I hate that I hate some of it.

Every year we go to one of the Christmas Eve services ..... and then we go to dinner with friends.
And every year I sit there and cry through most of the service.

Every year at least one person stops me after the service and says, "Are you ok?"
And every year I say, "No."
Sigh .....

It doesn't get easier.
It just ..... is.

I dread going to church on this night.
But I can't imagine not going on this night.
It's part of Christmas.
It always has been.

Staying home wouldn't do anything ..... it wouldn't make me feel any better.
It would just make one night different .... one night that should probably stay as much the same as possible.

And so .... it does.
I hope one day I will love it again.
At least more than I hate it.
*******************************************************************************
Year Five:
December 22, 2012
"December 22, 2012 ...... A Date That Will Live ......"

...... in my memory.
Forever.

This is the day ...... the very first day in 5 years and 5 days ...... that I have truly, unquestionably and finally ...... felt 100% happy.
Happy without reservations.  Happy without "if only".  Happy without having to add "mostly".

I have all 6 kids under one roof (although only momentarily because Son #2 has to leave shortly and Son #3 just returned home).  And we have two additional friends here, spending Christmas with us.
Nine stockings have been hung by the chimney with care.  Two dogs are frolicking around our family room (and I'm good with that ...... I'll soon have two more here permanently).  The beds are all full, as are two additional air mattresses.
The pantry and the fridges are full.  The games are out and ready to play.  The packages are wrapped (don't get me started) and under the tree ..... almost dwarfing the tree this year.  (The problem with doing all of your shopping on line is that you sometimes lose track of what you've bought .... and who's been ordered what.  I'll have to do a much better job next year).

It's been a very good day.  We didn't go anywhere.  Or at least I didn't.  Daughters #1 and #2 left to get a couple of presents and to go to the airport to pick up Daughter #1's friend tonight.
We've watched great classic movies.  And Harry Potter #3, which I don't consider a classic.  Not for quite a few years.

Son #2 came over after he got off work.  We all had pizza for dinner.  And a little wine. (OK, we ALL didn't have wine ..... 2 of the 9 are too young, much to their chagrin).  And momentarily, as soon as HP3 is over, there is talk of doing something called "Irish Car Bombs", which is a hugely politically incorrect name of some kind of "shot".
But I'm a game girl and willing to hang in there with the young people ...... for at least one of them.
And then praying I'm not upchucking all night long.

Tomorrow we will meet at Son #2's apartment and then go out for lunch.  Then we'll attend a Christmas Eve Service, and then come home for a home cooked meal.  We haven't decided what that will be yet, but most likely, Italian.  And maybe the start of a new tradition.

I.
Am.
Happy.

And so happy that I'm happy.
It's about time.
It's beyond about time.
It's been 5 years.
And 5 days.

Yes, I wish Jim were here.  But he's not.  And I can't do anything about that.  So I will enjoy who I have, while I have them.  And remember him and treasure his love and him ...... in my heart, where he'll always be.
So, in a way, he's here, too.

It feels so great to feel 100% happy.
T.A.N.W.*

Thank you to all of my loved ones, who've waited for this day with me.
Thank you to all of my readers ...... who've rooted for me and for the arrival of this day.
Thank you to all of you who are on this path with me, both ahead and a bit behind.
Don't lose hope.
Ever.

While I know there will still be painful days, and still be tears that come from nowhere, I am still happy.
And that's very, very huge.
************************************************************************************************************
So there you go.  Five Christmases without him.  Today is number 6.  
And I can truthfully tell you, though while I wish with every fiber of my being, that he could be here, it's still going to be a good day.
He would want that.  As I would want that for him and for our children.
Christmas, just as every other day of the year, is not the same.
But that doesn't mean it can't be good ...... again.

It's been a long road.
A very long road.

For all of us.
Please know that today I am thinking about all of you.
And wishing you peace, love and contentment.
They might not come today ...... but they will come.
Please hang in there.  And hang onto Hope.
Because someone is on this road, right behind you, 
thinking, "If he/she can make it that far, so can I."


*T.A.N.W. = There Are No Words

Wistful ......

                                                          Source

...... is probably the best way to describe how I am feeling today, the day that marks the sixth year since Jim died.
It also happens to be the birthday of my sister, my brother and my step-dad.  Which totally sucked for them 6 years ago.  I hope it sucks less now.

I'm at a good point in my life, and yet ......
...... I miss him.
So very much.

I'm looking forward to Christmas, for the first time in six years, and yet ......
I'm also sad that two of my sons will be back in Texas, while the rest of us are up east.
I know that this eventually happens with most families with adult children.  And with six children, I can't really expect that we'll all spend every holiday together, no matter how much I'd like that.

I love living in New York and I truly feel that this is home now, and yet ......
the tears have flowed this week, and flow as I write this.
That's because I can never, EVER say, or write/type the words, "I miss him", without crying.
Even after 6 years.
God, how I miss him.

But I am in such a better place now, even with the tears.
Rather than feeling depressed and hopeless this week, I mostly feel wistful.
Which is so much better than how I've felt the past six years.
I looked up the definition of "wistful" and here's what Merriam-Webster's says:

wist·ful

 adjective \ˈwist-fəl\

: having or showing sad thoughts and feelings about something that you want to have or do and especially about something that made you happy in the past

Wow!  That pretty much sums it up.  I'm having sad thoughts and feelings about someone I want to have, and especially about someone who made me happy in the past.  Wistful, but not full blown grieving, because I've moved forward and know it isn't possible to have him back.  And I know that focusing on my grief at this point in my life will keep me from seeing the good in my life.
It will keep me from living in my "now", and enjoying the people and things I have now.

Hell, that doesn't mean I wouldn't trade everything to have him back.  That will always be a "given".  It just means that I now accept the fact that I'll never have the chance to do that.  But I do have a chance, every day, to focus, and enjoy my "now".  
That doesn't mean that there won't be more tears today, or in the future.
It doesn't mean that things are always great, or that they will always be great.
I'm not a fool.

I'm just a woman who's grieved very, very hard ...... and is relieved to just feel ......
wistful ...... on this day.
And during these holidays.

I wish that for each of you ...... in your own time.

I love you, Jim.  And always will.
No matter how many December 18ths come and go.

Tears Amongst Happiness ......

                                                                          source


...... is what I've experienced this week.
Yes, this is the time of year when I usually experience my annual "death march".  The time that my body marks, better than any earthly calendar.  The days leading up to Jim's unexpected death on December 18, 2007.

This has been a good year.  In many ways.
And yet, it seems unbelievable that I am coming up on 6 years.

It seems even more unbelievable that I'm not experiencing the usual depression and hatred of all thing Christmas-related.

But that doesn't mean that there haven't been tears.

The other night I was writing to a friend, telling her how happy I was that she was able to be traveling all over the world with her husband right now, with her kids in college.  As I started to write those words, the tears began to flow.  And I admitted to her that I am envious.
Envious because that is what I should be doing right now, with Jim.
But I'm not.

I'm still able to be happy for her, and to smile through the tears.

Tonight, I took my mom to see Billy Crystal's one-man show, entitled "700 Sunday's".
I had no idea what the title meant, I only knew that it was about his life.
And that he's incredibly talented.
And that I truly enjoy him.

But ...... here's what I found out:  "700 Sundays" refers to how many Sundays he estimates that he had (his favorite family day of the week) with his dad ...... before he died when Billy was 15.

He had a great childhood, to say the least, until his father died.
In the show, he talks about the night his father died, and how his mother came home to tell him about it, when he was in bed, asleep.

And as he talked about this point in his life, time seemed to swirl around me ...... and then it took me back to the wee hours of December 18th, 2007.
The night I climbed into bed with my 15 year old (and then my 13 year old) ...... and had to tell him that, in spite of what I had been told, what I had believed, what I had told him ...... his dad had died.

The tears would not stop flowing.  He talked about how his father's death affected his life, emotionally, physically and financially.  And suddenly, I could see December 18, 2007 ...... and its aftermath ...... through the eyes of my 15 year old.

I wish I could have seen it that way then ...... but I could not.  And, truth be told, if it were to happen all over again, I believe I'd react the same way.  I lost my husband, my first love, my best friend, my protector, my supporter, my cheerleader, my moral compass, the father of my children ...... my future, in one unexpected moment.
I doubt that I'd react any differently now, though I wish I could've.
It was what it was.

So tonight I laughed.  And laughed and laughed and laughed.
And I cried, and cried and cried.
It was a great show.  It was very moving and very emotional, which I did not expect.

Two years ago, this show would've done me in.
I would've been depressed for weeks.

But tonight ...... tonight I can see it for what it was.  A true story, with many, many laughs over happy memories.
A true story with many, many tears ...... because that's what life is.
Tears amongst happiness.

It used to be smiles amongst sadness ...... but that's changed.
I'm mostly happy.
Tears still come, as they have this week ...... and as I'm sure they will continue to come at this time of year.
But I am happy.  And I know that the tears will not come in waves that will pull me under.
Like they used to.

Everyone has happy memories.
And everyone has sad memories.
Which makes me ...... normal.

I thank God for normal.
Now.
:)