The call to do something

source

For a long time now, I've felt God calling me to do something with my story, and with Jeremy's legacy. To somehow help others through what I have been through. However, I had no idea where to start. And more importantly, and most selfishly, I didn't want to. I wasn't ready to let God use me because I was too angry that it had to be at the expense of such a great loss. I wasn't ok with me or my children suffering such heartache in order for other people to benefit or learn something.

I can honestly say that I still sometimes struggle with this battle. But the pull I've felt on my heart to help, to follow the calling I feel like I've been given, has been outweighing my selfishness. The stirring that I have felt has started to bubble over and I've finally felt ready to take a step forward.

Last week, a dear friend and her sister stop by our garage sale to see me. Her sister had just lost her husband weeks before. He died suddenly of a heart condition as well, leaving behind two children and a very distraught wife who wanted to come talk to me. As she hugged me and sobbed on my shoulder, my mind raced searching for something to say - just one thing that someone had told me when Jeremy died that helped in some way that I could offer back. I realized, though, that nothing I could say would make her feel any better. Death sucks, and grieving can never ease with words. Only time. I don't know that she was looking for words of wisdom (and if she was, she definitely wasn't gonna find any from me), but just to be in the presence of someone who 'got it'. Someone who survived. My heart ached for her as I recalled those first few weeks and months after Jeremy died. I still relive those moments every once in awhile like it's still happening. The confusion, the injustice, the anger, the desperation, the defeat...the heartache. I don't know if I helped her in any way, but she's been in my prayers and on my heart ever since.

I realized that even though I'm ill equipped to really move forward, God has really been using my story to help without my knowledge or even my consent for quite sometime now. He let me kick and scream and throw fits (and still does) while continue to bring beauty from the ashes.

I want people to know that grieving is a dark and terrible part of life that never leaves.

I also want people to know that there is hope and healing.

I want to do more.

Steve and I have been praying that God work through our redemption and relationship to bring a unique perspective to others and somehow use that to help, and bring hope.

I am excited to announce that Steve and I have been asked to host a workshop for Camp Widow. Ironically, the workshop is titled "Mad at God: A conversation." Uh, yeah - I have some experience in that department, I'm not ashamed to admit it! I am anxious, excited, nervous, and overall humbled for the opportunity to help in some way.

I can't wait to meet some of the inspirational people that have been integral in my own grief journey. I'm thankful to have Steve by my side to share this passion with me. I hope this is just the beginning of many other opportunities to finally step forward and feel like I'm making Jeremy proud.

The "A" Word: Acceptance

Amanda is turning in grades this week in Australia (teachers work so much more than we know behind the scenes!)...so she has asked me to write for her this Tuesday. Looking through the archives, I found this blog I wrote about the concept of acceptance, and thought I would share it again today. As you all know, acceptance is the final of the stages of grief. Well, I guess it would be the last stage if the stages were indeed linear...but that is a whole different post! Here is my idea, written two years ago, about how I found peace with the "A" word....and since Phil and I would have been married twelve years on June 16th, I thought a photo taken on our wedding day would be the perfect image for this post. Long live love.

Since Phil's death, grief has created a long struggle between the desire to overcome daily challenges and the need to accept the realities that widowhood has brought into my life. The concept of acceptance when applied to Phil's death was not okay with me. Somehow I felt that accepting Phil's death was a horrible combination of giving up and giving in to the pressure I felt to be "better." The way people said the word always sounded so FINAL to me. So, instead of heading toward the horrifying land of acceptance...I stubbornly planned around any roadblock that would slow what I thought was forward life progress, but I trudged forward with no clear destination. I think I believed that if I kept moving I could outrun the need to accept the fact that the man I loved was not coming home.

One woman I met just a few months after Phil died shared this idea with me, and I have never forgotten her words. When she was surrounded by the pain of either loss or loneliness after the death of her husband, she would challenge herself to "rest in the riddle." She allowed herself to not know the answer; to sit in the stillness; and gave herself permission to not ask why, when, what or how. This was a foreign concept to my stubborn, planning, determined mind. I remember wondering HOW exactly she did that. Since resting would require being still, would acceptance sneak up on me unbidden while I wasn't busy doing? What I can see now, that was not so clear then, is that I was terrified of being frozen in grief. IF I stopped what would happen to me. Would the darkness swallow me up? Would accepting Phil's death mean he was forgotten? What would I have to let go of in order to meet the acceptance criteria?

I have struggled with this answer for five years, and it has taken me every bit of that time to find a path towards acceptance that didn't feel like giving up, or somehow failing Phil.

Eventually I embraced the concept that my life is a tapestry. By making my every relationship, word, effort, endeavor, friendship, challenge, and tragedy a part of my life work...nothing is ever left behind.

Accepting Phil into my life tapestry, and weaving a pattern with his love so beautiful that it becomes a piece of the whole that is noticeably more vibrant than many others gave acceptance a purpose. His love shines through my weaving, but only if I can allow him to become part of me instead of an idea outside of myself. That thought turned out to be a form of acceptance I could live with...and a worthy place for the kind of love Phil and I shared.

Every day we are faced with choices about what to add to our own piece of life art. Your loss will color the final product, but so will your love. The lost moments we so long for are often the smallest gestures, the quietest moments, the most unimportant seeming details...you are still creating those every day, and are slowly stitching them into your own personal tapestry. 

Stitch with flourish.

making cookie batter together

photo from here

Jackie sent me a message last night to let me know that one of her little ones is sick, and she hasn't been far enough from a pail to write for today's post. My job as editor means that if a writer is unavailable, I am on duty...but you already heard from me yesterday...so I looked over some past posts and realized that Jackie had an unfinished draft of a post that I love. So, she wrote the first half and I wrote the second...hence the title, Jackie and I are making cookie batter together! We hope you enjoy the result!

I am a widow. Yes, it's a huge part of who and what I am now. But it's not the first way I would choose to describe myself.... anymore.

If each role we play in life is like an ingredient, like a batter of sorts, can't widowhood be the cream in the "Hazelnut Cream Cookie" rather than the first ingredient mentioned? I am afraid that having the widowhood portion of my dough become one of the unmentioned contributors (i.e. eggs or flour) would be doing a huge disservice to the memory of Jeff, and I am still not at the point where I can erase "him" from my cookie title. But I am certainly ready to have my widowed status demoted to the second word identifying me as a cookie.

I don't want my title of "widow" to be my primary identity. I want to go back to being "Jackie". I want to be described as "funny", "kind", even "bitchy" if necessary....I despise knowing that I have been described as "You know the young widow with two little kids?" Yes, I am a widow. But I am a mommy, a sister, a daughter, an auntie, a friend, a neighbor...and so many other things too. Yet, the one thing many people remember is that my husband is dead.

As my heart heals bit by bit, I realize that not allowing my widowhood to be my most important identifying attribute is not dishonoring my late husband. In fact, learning to describe myself by using words that point out my unique qualities reminds me of all the reasons he fell in love with me in the first place. Without him by my side it is easy to forget that Jeff thought I was beautiful, kind, funny, and a great mommy. I am more than what has happened to me. I am all that Jeff saw in me, and I can't be defined by just one word. So for now I may be a Hazelnut Cream Cookie or a Oatmeal Toffee Crunch Cookie...just know that this cookie is made up of a variety of quality ingredients...not all of which you will find in my cookie title.

This I Believe

I wrote this in June of 2009 to describe how the death of someone I love so much redefined life's important (and not so important) moments. Every time I happen upon this essay, I renew my commitment to never lose sight of what death and grief have taught me.

As a young woman entering into adulthood with lofty goals, sterling ideals, and great hope for the future I could have easily created a long list of my personal beliefs. This list would have included ideas about both the tangible and the intangible; broad concepts and specific ideals; God and mortal beings. There would probably even have been a mention of death and eternity…but only in the abstract because my beliefs about death were untested until August 31, 2005.

My husband’s untimely death in a tragic accident turned my personal credo upside down. The day I lost my husband was the same day that theory became reality, and faith became more than just a concept to which I paid lip service. Grief is the ultimate test of faith. Faith requires trust. Death robbed me of the sense of security on which trust is so often based, making the idea of trust incomprehensible. And the whole vicious circle renewed itself daily as I tried in vain to determine why I was living a sorrow filled nightmare. My inability to escape the reality of widowhood forced me to evaluate my idealistic beliefs and determine whether they could withstand the blinding glare of grief.

As the reality of my husband’s death set in, I began to imagine the following personal truths as tall pillars that I view through a cloud of dust and rubble created by a major earthquake. Though everything around these support beams has fallen, they miraculously remain. I rub my eyes to look again, because for any structure to survive an earth shattering experience of this magnitude seems impossible…and yet these columns stand tall amongst the debris of loss and grief.

I believe in everlasting love. I believe that God is not a being who resides in a structure, but a spirit who lives in the hearts, and hands, of loving people. I believe that the length of your life is not an indication of your impact on the world. I believe that time is indeed a gift. I believe that human beings have the power to heal each other. I believe that shared experience can bond individuals in a unique and life changing way. I believe that our lives are a tapestry and each experience, wonderful or terrible, adds richness to the final fabric. I believe that tomorrow is only a dream. I believe that life is too short to hold grudges. I believe that people are inherently good. I believe that buying lemonade from my daughter at her new job is more important than spending an extra hour at my own work. I believe that the people who come into my life do so for a reason. I believe that kindness changes lives. I believe that this too shall pass. I believe that life is a gift, but like all gifts must be opened to be truly appreciated.

These are a few of the pillars that have survived my personal earth quake. I lean on them when I feel unable to stand. When grief occasionally stirs the dust of sorrow, I look for them to steady my course. My widowhood experience has taught me that when faith requires me to walk forward blindly, those pillars will guide the way.

Hopeful New Year

No tears tonight. (It's New Year's Eve as I write.)

Tonight I celebrate what lies ahead of me. Tonight I take notice of what prior New Year's brought my way. I know that tonight a friend is celebrating a wedding anniversary without her husband. I know that tonight another friend is remembering this as the day she met the husband who is also no longer beside her. Yet knowing each of these women, I'm sure that even if tears are falling, there are beautiful smiles on their faces.

Looking ahead to the new year is our way of projecting hope into our future. For those of us who are widowed hope is not something we can always easily access. Yet for me, at this point in my life, I do have hope, and more of it than expected.

I know that years ago after learning that my husband was terminally ill, I thought I lost hope. Yet, in the days that followed his emergency surgery I found myself accessing hope that I couldn't recognize at first. It was that hope that spurred me on to seek out the right path for us as a couple, and it was that hope that allowed me to not get stuck so deep in my unexpected sorrow. It was also that hope that provided me with two more loving years with the man I gave my heart to.

After losing Michael I felt that once again I had lost all ties to hope. I was not able to see beyond the pain and sorrow, even as the days and months went by. I began to question if my future carried any real meaning. After surviving on scary night I decided to trust that hope was there, even if I didn't recognize it. I made a decision to set off in a new direction, and I trusted that there was something, not necessarily someone, out there for me.

Tonight I sit here in my home, with all the chaos that is included with a house full of kids and pets. I had hoped for a very quiet peaceful night, one like last year, yet it is clearly not what I am to have. The television is blaring, the dogs are running around, I have struggling with a miserable cold, and my new love is at work rather than sitting beside me.

Inside my head I keep hearing Mick Jagger singing these lyrics..."YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT." For those of us who find ourselves seeking out this blog, this is a bit of an understatement.

My point is this, no, I don't believe I got what I wanted. I got more. I got a lifetime of Michael's love. It wasn't my lifetime of love, but it was his. I know that he never stopped loving me, nor I him. I know that loving him gave me so much hope in my future. I know that loving him taught me that sometimes hope takes a different turn. Before meeting Michael I thought love had passed me by. I had somewhat lost hope. He renewed it. In learning that I was soon to lose Michael I thought I had lost hope. Once again, it was renewed. In losing Michael I was sure that I had lost hope. Yet, here I sit, being hopeful once again.

Let's all look forward to a hopeful year. Let's say our thanks for what we had, and let's be open to what the future holds.

Happy New Year.



You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes, well you might find
You get what you need

Thankful

Two Thanksgiving celebrations down, and one to go.

It's been an interesting couple of days. Friday night I hosted an office Thanksgiving potluck at my home. Almost every person from the office came, along with their families. There was so much food, wine and desert, and everyone was in a very good mood. Most had hoped to meet Abel, and since he had to work, I was explaining all night as to why he wasn't present.

Since most of the folks I work with have never been to my home I took the time to give each of them the official tour. What I realized is that this crowd of people never knew Michael, or of my life with him. Of course many have likely heard that I am widowed, but it is something that is more historical information to them. As each entered my bedroom they were greeted by the large wedding photo of Michael and I, which is balanced across the room with his urn. To create a festive mood throughout the house I had votive candles everywhere. Two specific candles are often burning on each side of the urn. I think these images were a bit jarring for each guest, as it put some reality into what I have experienced over the years.

On Saturday I had another early Thanksgiving celebration, this time at my parents' home. All of my brothers and their families were present, and with each person that greeted me there was the same question, "where is Abel?" That part was very similar to the questions and responses on Friday night, only this crowd had a very personal perspective of not only my loss, but of theirs.

I was enjoying a glass of wine with my sister-in-law, and having a real heart to heart when she commented about how quickly life can change. She was remembering her weekend visit to my home at the end of the summer, and how I was expressing that I was now ready to begin dating. She pointed out that the expression on my face now is very different than times in the recent past. She said that I look happy for a change. As we spoke more about Abel she shared with me that even though she is happy for me, and Abel seems like a nice guy, it is very difficult to see me with somebody new. She told me that even though it's been two years, she still thinks about how much she and everyone loved Michael, and how she misses him. My sister-in-law said that Michael was such a special person, the type that doesn't come along very often.

I appreciated what my sister-in-law shared with me. It was a good reminder that others around me continue to be affected by Michael being taken so soon. I know that my family is pleased that I have found happiness with someone new, but they will need time to adjust, as they don't see me, or us, often.

Before we began to eat our Thanksgiving meal all of us formed a circle in the room. We joined hands for the Thanksgiving prayer. My father voiced a collective thanksgiving for all that we have, and for what God will continue to provide us. These words sort of took me to another place. Yes, I am thankful, yet part of me is still feeling the sting of personalizing that God took Michael from me. I know that this internal debate, did he take him, or was it just his time, is not something worth wrestling with. I know that if God did take him, it is not for me to know why. So for now I will focus on being thankful for what I have.

I am thankful for my children, and the love we share between us. I am thankful for all of my extended family, and for the many years my parents, and each of my brothers, have been given in their marriages. I am thankful for all of my widowed friends, and all those that come here to read, connect, and heal. And yes, I am thankful that for now, and for how ever long I am blessed with this new person in my life, I have companionship.

One more Thanksgiving to go, which will be just my kids, Abel and me. No explanations needed.

Hope and Rope

After a week of being less social that usual, last Friday night sucked. Really, really sucked. I have no idea what triggered the mess. I wasn’t wallowing around in old wedding pictures. I hadn't gone back in time to read our Great Cancer Adventure blog (reading about our last days together still transforms me into a wailing mess of a man.) But for some reason, Friday evening was the night an ugly freight train of emotion hit me like never before. Maybe the train’s always been there but I have always had some judo to derail it before it picked up speed. Friday, it was just me, dark thoughts and a fast moving train.

From December 2006 (just prior to the diagnosis), I’ve been fairly good at staying positive or at least letting the negative waves of emotion and fear wash over me without pulling me endo via a riptide into unsafe depths. I’ve learned to control my thoughts and, when powerful negatives start echoing around in the emotion-amplifier called my brain, I just change the subject, quite literally. I don’t try to resolve the un-resolvable (“Why us? Why now? How can this happen?”) I just hear the questions form in my brain-chatter and let them run right out, giving them no energy or focus. Then I immediately change the subject to ANY other subject. I don’t avoid them but I don’t let them control me either. I just acknowledge them and move on. I’ve always been careful not to give them any energy because without energy, those thoughts starve and die.

...At least until last Friday night. That night, for some reason, I was weak. My idle mind filled quickly with widower-style un-resolvable questions (“How do I rebuild? Will I always be alone? Are my best years lost?”). Every question led to worse follow-up questions. Down and down I went. Eventually I was building doomsday scenarios, each more terrible than the previous. (Oh, I’m very resourceful and creative with my doomsday scenarios!) Each one played out like slowly falling dominoes clicking together to create my destiny. Eventually, I had built up multiple scenarios that painted my life so bleak that within just a few falling dominoes, I’m homeless, friendless, starving and living under a bridge. I’m never seen from again and no one bothers to look. Good riddance of that widower guy, they all say (in my head, of course.) My existence fades into a timid whisper between old friends at parties, much like Maggie’s has become, it seems. My life is over.

On and on I piled the punishment. For hours I whipped up a furious storm of morose self-abuse. Then came the Big Question: Why don’t I just call it quits right now?

That last question scared me. It wasn’t really the question. It was the feeling that drove the question. It felt like the only option. And that’s the key part – it seemed like the ONLY option. In a matter of hours, I had built an impenetrable wall that forced me down one path in my future that led to one inescapable conclusion. There was only one way out: call it quits – suicide.

Now this had gone too far. Something inside me sat straight up, wide awake and screamed “ENOUGH OF THIS!” But I wasn’t quite sure how to rescue myself. I felt like a panicking drowning victim, quite aware of the danger but not clear on how to escape. I was stuck under negative emotional debris while the riptide of a dismal future was carrying me quickly out to sea. It sucked. I was scared.

Then something simple and unexpected happened. I got a message with a casual invitation to lunch Saturday. It was sent from a person whom I had met exactly once but found engaging. Simple, yes, but it was just the rope I needed. That imagined impenetrable wall forcing me down the inevitable path of doom cracked. This unexpected lunch invitation wasn’t on that predetermined path. Instead, it was a trailhead of many paths, many I hadn’t considered. And if there were many paths, especially ones that I hadn’t seen yet, then there couldn’t possibly be only one option. And if there are lots of options, then there’s certainly no needed to call it quits now, with so many options still to explore. With that one simple message, the whole carefully-crafted notion of a single path of doom-and-gloom unraveled. As yet unseen options and opportunities were out there! Yay, hope! That was just the rope I needed to pull myself out.

The lesson: Even when it’s darkest, believe with all my heart a trailhead is just around the corner. No matter what, I just have to keep trudging forward. (And keep more rope handy for use around pesky sinkholes.)

Ode to a Frog

(photo from: kissingfrogs.net)

Kim's blog this weekend got me thinking...fondly reminiscing about the "joys" of dating again. This blog isn't really a poem...more of an epic journey, the story of a quest.

I met my husband at the ripe old age of 16, and married him at 22. We did date other people for a while in college, but really - he was "the one" from the beginning. Fast forward through marriage, college, grad school, the birth of a wee one, and a deathly battle with cancer....(not to go quickly through that important stuff, but those fabulous years are not the topic of this blog). The scene is set with a suddenly widowed 36 year old woman wondering...WTF now?

At first, I had no intention of dating, and had clearly stated "NEVER". Really? Who wants to go through that? If there is a 100 percent chance that we don't make it out alive...I was not interested in the odds of reliving widowhood. It sucked once, but twice? No way. Besides the obvious risk of death, there was also the equally obvious: my husband was awesome, and those still single this late in the game are single for a reason. I didn't want to find out why they were single. They could stay single far, far away from me.

But, as a woman who had been happily married and really missed it, I eventually became curious. Could I find something like that again? Initially, I went out on a few dates as a horrible experiment. Horrible is really the magic word here. Not good at all.

I had a couple of dates with "sensual in public man" - quite charming and entertaining, but inappropriate PDAs when there was no private interaction to back it up. Cool as a cucumber when we were alone, and hot for me when we were in public. Awkward. I'm pretty sure he was gay and trying to prove to his friends that he wasn't.

Next came "I will fix you" man. This one saw me as his pet project. His goal was to erase my past and replace all hurt with happiness and light. We only went out for a few weeks, but his agenda was clear: make poor hurt woman forget about past - eradicate all painful memories by replacing with flowers and jewelry. This was interesting for a short time, but the pressure was intense. I took a break from him and from dating...I think I was dating out of boredom, but my heart just wasn't in it.

About a year later I met "Delegation Man" - this guy was charming and fun for a while, but was intent on engaging me in the running of his life. He effectively managed all things in his life via delegation. It took me a little while to figure out how useful I was to him and how much my work load had increased since I'd met him. I was an only parent with a full time job and suddenly had an additional dependent. Not good, and his expectations only grew over time. He wasn't looking for a partner, he really needed an executive assistant. On the other hand, the experience with this one made me realize that although he wasn't the right one, I missed having a last call before I went to sleep at night and a date for the Christmas party. Maybe dating wasn't all bad, just dating this one wasn't good.

Shortly after ditching "Delegation Man" - Michele and I dared each other to try eharmony. She signed up first and a day later I joined the madness. She met Michael the first day...and is now living happily ever after. I was not so fortunate. The list of frogs grew with my eharmony membership. Fortunately, it was a relatively short list. I can usually tell in a single coffee date whether there is something amiss, so no kisses required to weed out the bulk of them. BUT, a few made it passed my initial inspection. I went on a few dates with a fellow widower, but the chemistry just wasn't there - he wasn't really a frog, and I didn't kiss him, so I guess he doesn't really count. Next, I dated "I'm almost divorced" for several months before determining that "almost" has a variety of definitions. He served an important purpose though, "almost divorced" made me realize I was capable of letting down my guard and allowing someone in my life. He wasn't Mr. Right, more Mr. Right Now, but he wasn't without value. He taught me a lesson and prepped me for the future. He helped me to see some of the things I didn't want and solidified for me that I did really want someone in my life.

There were several others, most one or two dates at the most - "gift giving man", "i hate women but you seem different guy", "dirty txting guy" (only a single drink for 30 minutes led to a dirty txting episode...awkward), "you're my best friend now guy", etc. I hope you get my point here. There were multiple attempts to try to get back into dating, and multiple breaks to decide if it was worth the hassle. I kept telling myself you have to "kiss a few frogs", but how many???? I'd taken about an 8 month hiatus when I decided to try eharmony again at the suggestion of Grayson, who said "how do you expect to find someone if you're not even trying?". Whatever, don't use your powers of logic on me, punk kid....
Okay, okay. I'll try.

I'd been back on eharmony for a day or two when Carl turned up in my matches. A few days of fun electronic correspondence followed by a drink that turned into a four hour conversation, a few fantastic dates and a crazy impulsive trip to New Orleans (we booked the trip on our 3rd date and hadn't even kissed yet...stupid....but it worked out!) and suddenly we were inseparable. It was a few months before I could believe the frog was indeed a prince, but he's fabulous and I can't believe my luck.

Wait a minute....LUCK? No way. Perseverance is more like it. I'm lucky Carl came along, but it wasn't because he fell into my lap. I decided I really wanted to find someone special. I kept looking, hoping he was out there, and I kept risking the frogs in the hope that the prince would appear. Thank goodness he did.

Keep on going, and the chances are that you will stumble on something, perhaps when you are least expecting it. I never heard of anyone ever stumbling on something sitting down.~Charles F. Kettering

The Passing of Time

Six years ago today.

Six years ago today started with a horrific shock at about 1 in the morning. It happened so quickly I can hardly believe I was there for it, or that it was real. One moment I was laying with my head on Daniel's chest listening to his heart beat, and moments later the ER staff were in our room fighting to save his life. They were not successful.

In my day to day life now, that time seems like a terrible nightmare lived by another woman. A woman who doesn't exist anymore. In my quietest moments, if I allow myself to go there, like right now, it is as if I'm right there and it is still happening. I'm 36, my husband is 35, our son is 5, and Daniel is fighting for his life with every ounce of strength he has. For the first year, nothing was real except that moment. I relived it constantly, replaying it, trying to look for some meaning in the moments. I wanted to review it to see if Daniel knew I was there, if he knew I refused to leave his side while they worked on him - even when they asked if I wouldn't rather wait outside.

The horror of the scene and the terror I felt in those moments is still there, permanently imprinted on my brain and in my heart. If I think about it now, I still feel the urge to cry and throw up at the same time. I still want to know how it was for him. I want to be reassured that it was a hell of a lot more peaceful for him than it looked. I want to know he's okay and that whatever heaven looks like it is so wonderful that he isn't up there somewhere sad that he didn't get to finish his life here the way he planned. I want to know that my vision of him laughing and enjoying his ever-after life is true.

I won't know the answer until I go there myself - which is why I don't allow myself to contemplate it very often. What's the point? I may never know. I have learned to live with that. It's during the days leading up to this anniversary that I can't control the memories and I have to wade through them. Starting in about mid-September, I put the memory hip-waders on and prepare to gut it out.

It is an amazing process each year and this one has been no different. Six years ago today I unknowingly said my final I love you to a great man. I did not get to say goodbye or a final thank you, and I'll always regret that. How do I feel 6 years later? Still sad. I'll always feel sad that things turned out the way they did. It wasn't fair to him or those of us left behind. But six years later I also feel incredibly blessed and grateful. Thank you Daniel Dippel for the years you spent with us. It wasn't enough time, but I'll always be grateful for every moment of it. It was a lovely cruise indeed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfY4NMaQd68

I'm Okay

Filling in for Jackie today, she'll be back next week!

Six years ago my husband died in a tragic accident (is there any other kind really?). I woke up the next morning, and felt certain that I had been dreaming. With my eyes closed, I slid my hand across the bed to Phil's side, and felt the cold sheets where his warm body used to lie. I wasn't dreaming.

The pain of his absence was searing. There were so many days when I thought for SURE that the gut wrenching pain would kill me. In fact, to this day, I am still surprised that it didn't. I felt like a zombie that was bleeding internally, and dragging my blood soaked bandages as I wandered aimlessly through life. Attractive, yes?

Day by painful day I put one foot in front of the other. Many days were awful, others were worse. Getting out of bed was sometimes  a Herculean effort, but other times getting into that empty bed at the end of the day took every ounce of strength I could muster. My life was full of these mind-bending contradictions. I wanted to be alone; I hated being alone. I ached to be around familiar friends, but their presence shone a spotlight on the hole left by Phil's death. I wanted everything in my life to go back to the way it was, and yet everything familiar was also torturous. Yes, no, move forward, run back, cry, laugh, cry some more...I felt like a spinning top with endless momentum. When would the pain stop, and who would I be when/if it finally did?

Maybe the hardest part of healing for me has been the fear of what would come after. After what? After I was done. After I was "better." After I reached the semi-dreaded state of acceptance. After I was done being widowed. What would happen then?

I can't tell you what will happen for you when you have lived through 2,213 days of widowhood, but I can tell you what I have learned through these past six years. First, I will never get over Phil's death. I am certain I will always think the fact that he lost his life was a terrible waste and that the world would have been better with him in it. Next, I now believe that my widowhood belongs to me in the same way that my motherhood, and sisterhood, and daughterhood, and friendhood does. Being widowed is part of my life story, and this painful chapter has colored the rest of my life in rich, deep colors. I have met some of my dearest friends while navigating the waters of grief, and I know we will be surfing together for life...no matter what lies ahead. Lastly, I have realized that life will always be delivering a new challenge, another test, a different circumstance to my doorstep. How I handle the package will determine what impact the unexpected bomb, or bouquet, has on the next chapter of my life. Thanks to my widowhood, I know I will survive.

And what will happen after? I (and you) will be okay.

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

If Widow's Voice Has Helped You....

This is me with Chris (one of our Tuesday writers) at Camp Widow 2011...like my t-shirt??

Before 8/31/05 I didn't think much about non-profit organizations. I admired people who worked for great causes, donated here and there, volunteered my time fairly regularly, would probably have clicked on a "vote for us" link to help a friend or co-worker win one of those contests...but the mechanics of the non-profit world were unknown (and of no interest) to me. Then Phil died, and I landed on another planet.

As the months passed and I looked at the scattered remains of my life I searched frantically for proof that I could survive the loss of my husband. I wanted living proof...who survives this kind of pain? Where are they? Why don't they wear badges or something? How do I find widowed people out in the regular world? They must be here somewhere right? Oh, please tell me that I am not the only one. I can't be the only one. Right? 

I began seeking other widowed people out of desperation. And I found a community one person at a time. After each interaction with another widowed person I felt less alone. No matter what was different about our story, the sameness of the fact that we both found ourselves asking the pivotal question of widowhood...now what?...tied us together in a uniquely powerful way. My widowed community saved my sanity; they walked each step of my grief process beside me; each and every one of the people I met gave me hope for the journey ahead; and eventually I knew that the people who came after me needed this community too. So I started a non-profit called the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation in order to provide the people who would walk this road in the future with access to the hope that saved me. Because hope really did save me.

I had no idea what running a non profit would require. In the beginning, I lacked all kinds of essential things (like funding!), but the call to do this work was something I could not ignore. SSLF began with one program (Widow Match), and the idea for a conference where widowed people could find each other...lots of others....proving that they were not alone and providing them with tools to answer the what now question. Friends helped, my family became volunteers, ideas grew into programs and I am very proud to say that three years later SSLF now touches over half a million (we are SO not alone) widowed people every year, with no operating budget. And the need for our one-of a kind programs continues to grow every day, because hope will always matter to widowed people's recovery. Count on that.

 Soaring Spirits is the parent to this blog and five other programs. In the three years I have been writing this blog and running this organization I have never openly asked for help for our programs.But today I am asking for your help because SSLF has a great opportunity, and the way to help is easy. If this blog or any of our other programs has mattered to you  or to someone you love please help us continue to help you/them. 

Pepsi Refresh offers grants to non-profit organizations based on public support via Internet voting and Pepsi Product purchases. It may sound like a gimmick, but I assure you it is not. Pepsi is giving away hundreds of thousands of dollars in support of great ideas to Refresh the world. SSLF is in the running for a $50,000 grant. This would be a game changer for us. Funding is essential to both day-to-day operations, and to future growth for a grassroots organization like ours. How do you help? Here is a list of ways to support our effort to secure this grant:

1.) Follow this link (http://pep.si/pCouk7) to vote for SSLF and Camp Widow every day until 9/30...only 23 days to go!

2.) Purchase Pepsi Products with the "Power Vote" logo on the packaging. There are codes inside these products (under the cap or inside the box) that can be used for up to 100 votes each! Collect them from your friends, give Pepsi away as a gift...gather codes and enter them all at once by registering HERE.

3.) Don't give up. Vote every day, buy Pepsi products (I know this is a shameless plug) and use those codes to support SSLF. We need you to make this happen!

Maybe you are like the before me and have never given much thought to how non-profits do what they do? The hard part is not just coming up with the idea and managing the logistics...it is finding the funding to get the support programs going and then keep them going. This grant would do just that. We've made it easy for you to vote...just look for the Pepsi badge at the top right of this blog. We need thousands of votes to win. Lucky for us thousands of people read this blog every day...if each of you support us for the next 23 days what a difference YOU can make....for me, for you, but most importantly for them. The ones who don't need us yet. Vote for us so we can help them.Thank you for reading, for voting, and for believing that hope matters.

If you have questions, or feel called to help support SSLF in other ways too, just follow click here for my contact information...I'd love to hear from you!

Always

I'm sitting here, Sunday night, and watching the old Steven Spielberg film, Always. It's one of those films we widowed people try to avoid, especially in the first year. I'm not in my first year, more like at 22 months, but who's counting.

This is one of those films that I remember enjoying, but never really thought to watch again. So, the details of the film escaped me when I tuned in tonight. A pilot dies, leaving his girlfriend widowed, and is sent back to help guide another, younger, pilot. What the pilot doesn't realize is that he is not necessarily sent back to help the young man become a better pilot, he is sent back to help the young man heal the heart of his widowed girlfriend, through new love.

Interesting timing. As many of you know I have just started dating again. For some it may seem soon, but at 22 months, I find that I need something new in my life. Not surprising really, as most of my widowed journey has been about seeking that which is new. It's not the recommended route, nor is it the easiest route. I'm well aware that my grief remains, and that there is still much for me to work through. But, what I also know well, is me. I know what works for me. At seven months into my grief I was feeling like ending it all. Not the safest best place to have been, and not something I share with everyone, yet something I do share with my widowed companions.

I remember that time as the darkest, and most painful, time of my life. I was grieving not just the loss of my husband, but the complete loss of hope. I had gone through so much in my adult life, especially with all the unexpected challenges of raising my three adoptive children. I realized that through some of my choices, and perhaps through some bad timing, I had remained single throughout most of my adult life. I often laid up alone at night, and wondered what it was like for married people. I wondered what it was like to sleep next to the person I loved every night. I wondered what it would be like to make love to the same person, night after night, week after week, and year after year. At some point in my life, I had actually given up hope that I would indeed meet that person.

Then one April evening, without any real expectation, I met Michael. It didn't take much time to know he was the one. And, it didn't take much time to know what I had been missing all of my adult life. You see, it was almost four years later, to the day, that I sat on the floor of my bedroom, with a choice to make. Succumb to the pain, or wake up the next morning with a new plan. That is when I made a plan to pack up my kids, leave my job, sell my home, and move on. It is what I needed. I knew that ultimately it would be the only way for me to survive. I made a choice that next morning to trust that I wasn't making this decision alone, and that I wouldn't be taking those steps alone as well.

Now I find myself out here, 22 months into this journey, knowing that it is time for me to take another step. I know that I need new love in my life, and that I have to go out and seek it. It is what he wanted for me, and I feel like he is once again here guiding me. Funny, there is no guilt. There is only a smile on my face, thinking about the way Michael's whole face would light up when he was filled with joy, or when he looked at me. I don't see him, yet I feel his smile. I feel the warmth of his gaze. It lights up my life.

This week I will be going on a second date. I'm excited, and I am nervous. I know what I had, and I know what I would like to have once again. I hope to maintain my optimism as I begin this phase of my life. I hope to find enjoyment in the process of meeting new guys, and I hope to remain open to the prospect of new love and romance.

For so long I thought I would never have true love.

For a short time I thought I would always have it.

For a time I thought I would never escape the pain of losing him.

For now, I realize that I will always have him, and his love.

I trust that he knew what was best for me, and that he wants me to choose love.

Always.

strength

I have read a variety of quotes with a similar message. I think anyone who has dealt with trauma, loss or tragedy has come face-to-face with this choice. I also think that, at times, we have all chosen each one of the three options. I just hope that as we all get further from the moment that provoked this epiphany, we manage to choose to let this event strengthen us. To grow instead of be wilted. To swim, not sink. There is no need for one life to be wasted for the sole reason that one life was lost.

Home

Six parts of your Widow's Voice home at Camp Widow 2010

Home is where you hang your heart, not only your hat. When Phil died, the four walls of my home became both a refuge and a prison. I hated going out; I hated staying in.

The outside world was too bright. I felt blinded by other people's lightness, innocent happiness, and especially by their apparent disregard for the fact that the world had stopped. I kept forgetting that their world didn't necessarily halt because mine did. I remember very clearly (and it has been 1,981 days) that when I was in public I felt see through, as if there was no substance to me.

But when I was home the familiarity was excruciating. Everywhere I looked there was some misleading evidence that Phil would be right back. Shoe in the corner, lunchbox on top of the fridge, toothbrush in the holder...all signs that the owner of these items had just stepped out. Loneliness seeped from my pores and left a miserable residue on every surface. Home wasn't home. There is a line from a Mercy Me song (Homesick) that best described this feeling for me: "If home's where my heart is, then I'm out of place." Oh how I ached to be home.

Then I found you. This community became a safe, homey place. My widowed friends held bits of my heart for me while I picked up the pieces that were scattered by the winds of grief. Each time I found another sliver, I could just hand it to the people who would eventually help me work out how those fractured shards could once again take the shape of something beautiful. 

On the blog this week this comment was addressed anonymously to a new reader who is hoping that finding this community will help him deal with his loss:

"Come back here. To this blog. I can tell you - it saved my life. I almost didn't make it this winter, it was too painful. It was a very dark time. When it was at its worst, I came here. To the place where others understood. Where someone knew what it felt like to not want to carry on. The widows voice community has offered such wisdom and support and hope. That I can say now 7 months from my spouses death. I am doing better than I was. I still have dark days and hard nights but when I do - I know I am not alone. I come here and read the stories and hear the way others have coped and I know I can carry on. I hope you do return."

Thank you anonymous.

This is what I mean by home. You are home to me, and we are home to each other, and as you heal, grow, and make your way through this whole new crazy widowed world...I hope you will always remember that one home is only a click away.

give me one reason

In any tragedy, early loss or hard lesson, we look for a reason behind it. The "why". Over the last three years I have searched for the explanation, or rationale, for Jeff's death and all the aftermath of his loss. Not the reason written on his autopsy certificate or the coroner's report. Something deeper. Something less concrete but still as real...and "good". I have searched for a sort of justification for his loss. Some signal that the repercussions for his death were not all negative and in vain. I have felt the flicker of atonement when an acquaintance had heard that Jeff's reluctance to go to the doctor resulted in his death and insisted her husband go to the doctor for a persistently bothersome throat...only to find out that he had cancer and possibly had a chance to catch it in time. I felt some sort of rationale - maybe Jeff saved someone else's daddy in a round about way. While signing a co-worker's life insurance papers as a witness after telling them of our life insurance debacle and how life would be so different for the kids and me if I didn't have to worry about money, I felt an acknowledgement for our loss. Someone wouldn't have to face widowhood with children and not know how they would provide for them financially. After singlehandedly installing six fence posts correctly in our backyard with only the help of a postpounder, a level and a ladder (plus an extremely zealous four-year old boy), I wondered over whether I would have not only been able to do this before Jeff's death and if I would have had the confidence to unquestioningly tackle the project alone. I certainly feel that will never be a good enough reason for losing my beloved...But there may be some other purpose behind his loss. A string of positive happens that would not have happened if I were able to hold him just a little longer. Hopefully, each loss of each of our spouses has caused some amount of positive to ripple through humanity. Because I need some amount of rationale. Some amount of explanation. Some amount of knowledge that my love's life did not go unnoticed.

That Other Shoe

Editor's note: See I told you I would pop in now and again! Matt is away for Madeline's third birthday, which precedes by only one day Liz's death. I am filling in for him today with a repost from about a year ago, Matt will be back next week.

Pictures of me in my current state of happiness make me nervous. I look at this photo with a sense of wonder at the fact that my smile looks genuine. The empty look that has shadowed my features for years appears to have faded. I am tempted to compare this photo to one of my "before" photos to see if I can tell the difference between these versions of my happy self. Will the scars of loss be somehow visible? Is the shadow of death really gone, or is it just lying in wait?

See that is what makes me uneasy. I have been this happy before. In my other life I loved and was loved; I looked into my future with optimism; I expected a full and happy life. Deep contentment is no longer something I take for granted, and to be honest, I have a hard time trusting that the future is full of good things. I find it much easier to brace myself for whatever pain lies ahead. Natural disasters will happen. Money will come and go. My children will face pain that I cannot take from them. People I love will die. All of these things I can see clearly in my minds eye, and I can feel my heart gates slamming shut. Batten down the hatches and close up shop. Somehow I see expected pain as more manageable then the unexpected kind, even though I know better. I am constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When good news lights up my day I am sometimes unsure of how to respond to it. Embrace it? Revel in it? Celebrate it? Count all the chickens before they hatch? But what of the inevitable bad news that is sure to follow? If I don't overindulge in the wonder of life does that mean I can also diminish the intensity of the painful parts? Lately I have become aware of a new coping strategy...limiting my happiness intentionally because I am afraid of what might come next. Essentially I hold all things positive at arms length so that if the situation should suddenly turn ugly I won't be close enough to be wounded.

Yet happiness has a way of sneaking up on you; joy encourages you to let your guard down; and contentment seeps into your bones like a warm bath. Peace comes into your life unannounced and before you know it has managed to set up house. As time passes somewhat uneventfully, contentment has begun to feel a little familiar. Recognizing that this familiarity scares me has opened my eyes to the fact that I will only be as happy as I allow myself to be. I can choose to hold love and joy at arms distance, or I can choose to wrap my arms around them and breathe them in for as long as they are able to stay. Mitigating my happiness allowance won't save me from future pain, but my reticence to allow anyone to get too close will rob me of the moments of joy that make life worth living.

"Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder." ~Thoreau

brand name

photo from learning how to live

Doctor

Obsequious

Tattle-tale

Cashier

Humanitarian

Uncle

Artist

Labels are words that used to describe ourselves and others - a way to quickly and efficiently identify traits and tendencies.

When I think about the labels used to describe or identify me, the one that gives me most to think about is 'widow'.

Initially, I despised this branding. I hated the term and what it meant - that my husband was dead. I didn't see myself as the typical widow in black gracefully and wisely fading into the background. I wasn't sure if my personal portrayal of this word was proper or made me a 'good widow'. Somehow this term seemed to mean to me that I had failed.

Over time this feeling has changed. Now I wear this name tag with a little bit of pride and a lot of awe. I have made it this far. Two and a half years ago I would never have believed it. I did not think I would genuinely laugh again. I would not have imagined that I would enjoy life and all its' mysteries. It astounds me.

At the risk of sounding pompous, I am kind of proud of myself. I am stronger that I ever thought possible. I'm not a warrior, but a widow. And I have chosen to get out of bed each morning despite believing that the last morning that mattered had already happened. The loss of my husband has taught me that there are few things in life to be feared and that taking a leap of faith is far less terrifying as I once thought.

Now that I carried the 'medal' of widowhood, I wonder how long do I get to wear it? In five years, does the noun 'widow' get taken from me and get replaced with 'widowed'. Will it cease to be a label and instead become a verb? If I ever enter a relationship again, do I stop being a widow and become one of the ones on Facebook with the status of "Married"? I feel that I would be both....Would "It's complicated" be offbase?

I now wear my label as a mark of my late husband. An etching of "Jeff was here" in my perverbial bark. Although I may be ready for another label or two, I would like to keep my hard-earned 'widow badge', thank you very much.

Five Years

Hi honey,

As I type this letter to you I am wrestling with the fact that you have been dead for five years. Even though I have lived without you for 1,825 days...every once in awhile I still feel I could turn over my shoulder and you would be there with a big grin wondering what I will think of your latest joke.

You would be amazed by the growth in our families this year. Your brother George is a Grandpa twice over, and my brothers and sisters have given us three new babies to love. I can imagine you running away from anyone trying to get you to hold a baby for fear of "breaking the little thing." Despite your fear of all things baby, your love of family and friends was a constant in your life. Many times I still miss the generous way you would lend a hand to anyone you loved who was in need. I even sometimes miss how long it took to go grocery shopping with you since we inevitably ran into someone you knew from somewhere...and then a half hour converstion would follow figuring out how, when, and where.

The kids have become adults in so many ways. They are changed by loving and losing you. Sometimes this makes me terribly sad, and other times the changes in them make me terribly proud. Each one has developed a level of compassion uncommon in people their age. Your death was felt in so many communities; I still meet people who have stories to share about ways that you made a difference in their lives. When I walk away from these conversations I hope you are somewhere near by blushing at the praise lavished upon you.

I am getting married this year. Michael is amazing, very different than you but like you as well. The thing I admire most about him is his ability to be himself. He doesn't try to be you, nor is he threatened by my love for you. He is uniquely Michael, and grateful that I have the capacity to love someone as much as I love you. This is a gift I can't adequately describe, and I feel very blessed to have him in my life.

This five year anniversary has been hard for me. I miss you in so many ways, and carry with me the fact that you loved me, and that you chose me. As my life moves into a future that I am excited to embrace, I need to say out loud that you come with me wherever I go. My heart has expanded to include so many new people, and at the same time the place that has always been yours remains.

I love you,

Michele

Photo from Reader's Digest - laugh yourself to good health

Being a widow is a lot of things. Scary. Sad. Lonely. Guilt-ridden. But an unexpected side effect of the loss of my spouse is the humour and hilarity.
Maybe I was funny person before. Maybe it has been in me all along. But after spending time again this year at Camp Widow, my cheeks hurt from laughing....and I didn't spend the time giggling at myself. Either death finds funny people or funny people just curse those around us.....or maybe, when life has you scraping the barrel, you begin to not take it as seriously. You realize that you can't jinx yourself with a belly laugh and no one has ever ceased breathing for joking about the ceasing of breathing.
I now find it more comfortable to be able to face the sadness and fear down and speak it out loud....and then laugh in its' face. Unfortunately, lay people sometimes seem to be either very uncomfortable with this M.O. or they seem to think that I am flippant or nonchalant about losing my beloved Jeff. I can assure you I'm not.
But a sign-in sheet at work for the staff party where it inquires whether each staff member will be bringing their spouse fills me with a desire to answer in the allotted box, "No. The seat belt won't properly hold the urn."
A man who approaches me at the bar surrounded with other widows who have attended the widowhood conference states to me that it is such a coincidence that he has the same tattoo on his forearm as I do. "Oh?!", I say, "So your husband died too and you got an anchor to signify both his job as a fisherman and his role as an 'anchor' in your life????? Wow!!!!! That IS a coincidence!" Shocked, he tells me that I am mean and rude. I just thought it was plain funny.
A woman at Camp Widow sported a shirt that said, "My husband died and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." This shirt has brought me many moments of mirth for the last week as I recalled it.
I love that we can find humour at such a deathly grave situation. We are not (as) afraid anymore. We now know that you will not be struck dead for a good chuckle.