Grief is always in season

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I feel that time coming on.

The weeks leading up to Jeremy's death.

The march.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the smell of fall.

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

In a situation where I need his particular advice.

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

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

Feeling Him

 

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I went to a masseuse the other day.

When I got there, she sat down in front of me, looked me in the eye and said "So what's going on with you?"

I told her that I'd recently gone through one of the most stressful things a human could experience and that my husband died and now I was rebuilding my entire life and how I don't know what to do with myself now. I explained how the strain manifests itself in tight and painful neck muscles and headaches. 

She said she was sorry for my loss and we got on with the massage. She asked me if it was okay if she told me if she "saw things". I immediately knew what was up. I thought this woman believes she can see "beyond" and/or could see through her hands to my innermost pain and "read me". I didn't hesitate. I was hoping she'd offer this, somehow. 

"Yes. Tell me everything you see," I said. 

A few seconds into the massage, with me face down on her table, she said "What was your husband's name?” 

When the sounds that make up the word "Dave" came out of my mouth I could hear the reverence, pain and anguish in my own voice and tears instantly rushed to my eyes. I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you my heart screamed. 

Being face down, I wanted to avoid crying too much because I knew that if I did, the snot and tears would just instantly collect in my sinuses and stuff me up so much that I'd be mouth breathing for the rest of the day. 

I held it together until she said "Do you feel him around you?" 

My throat completely closed up as the sobs welled up in my gut. I couldn't answer her right away. 
The fact that I don't feel him around me is one  so painful that I can barely talk about it. There is nothing I want more than to feel his presence. Nothing. I talk to him. I beg him to visit me. I beg the Universe to give me the comfort of his presence, even for a moment. 

The fact that it doesn't happen is torturous to me. I tell myself that it's hard for energy to communicate with those of us still in bodies. I tell myself that I'm not ready. That I'm somehow subconsciously not allowing the experience. Somehow, I speculate, I might be so trained not to believe that I've discounted the subtle signs before I can even truly see them. 

All of this went through my mind as I cried on that massage table. The masseuse said "You're not sure, are you? You're conflicted about feeling him?" 

I nodded my head yes as I began to bawl in earnest. 

"Well, he's with you. Always. He's just energy. Energy doesn't die. Einstein taught us that. Once you've connected with a loved one like you did with him, they never leave you. He's right here," at this, she gently brushed her hand down the middle of my spine, from the nape of my neck to the middle of my back. 

"His head is here" she said, touching the back of my neck.

"He's very gentle" she said. "He's just so gentle with you and he wants you to do whatever makes you happy. He just wants you to be happy."

At this point I was crying so hard that all I could do was nod as snot ran out of my nose to the floor. 
I didn't tell her what I instantly thought of. I didn't tell her that when Dave was alive, one of his favorite things to do was to find me lying on my stomach and lie down on top of me, face down. I'd always affectionately complain that he was suffocating me, but really, it was soothing to be pressed down by the weight of him and completely warmed by his body, head to toe. Once we even fell asleep like this, and woke up much later, stiff and with multiple limbs that had fallen asleep too.

So I felt comforted and sure of his presence and skipped off to enjoy the rest of the day knowing my Dave can still make himself known to me. Yay!

Um. No. Didn't happen that way. It's not that it didn't feel good to hear the things she said. It's not that I don't believe. It's more like I don't feel much of anything either way.  I'm not disbelieving her or the experience. I feel like it's absolutely possible to feel him again, somehow. I feel like it's possible she really sensed something. I just don't FEEL it inside me to be absolutely true. Nothing felt assured or doubt-free. I don't feel much of anything other than the loss, the missing, the Dave-shaped hole in me, and the utter frustration that we were pulled apart so early. 

I’m glad I went. I’m glad she told me what she did. I’ll take it all in and allow myself to get whatever comfort from it that I can. It was a beautiful moment and an amazing sentiment. 

Maybe I’m just impossible to satisfy because what I want, what I need, is HIM. Not his memory or a sense of him. I want HIM and everything else is a pale and unsatisfying substitute.
Maybe it’s the fact that even with his energy around me, I’m still alone. He’s not here to do the practical things a partner does, or provide the emotional support he provided, or be my one and only, my Most Important Person. He’s not here to text me how smart he thinks I am or that he can’t wait until I get home. 

He’s not here to chauffeur me around because I get so sleepy when I drive, or to surprise me with elaborate and thoughtful gifts. He’s not here to lie next to me in bed, his solid presence allowing me to fully relax and sleep through anything. He’s not here to tell me that the coffee I make him every morning is the best he’s ever had. He’s not here to tell me that he was so lucky to have found me, or wrap me up in his arms when I get home.

 He’s not here. And that is a frustration that hasn’t eased much yet. If anything it’s more obvious now that I’m spending more and more time alone and have to make more and more decisions without him as I venture farther down the road of this journey without him.

Of course, he wants me to be happy. Of that I have no doubt. But I’m not yet sure how to be happy when he’s not on this planet with me. I’m not yet sure how to make a life without him. I never thought I’d be doing this and I don’t know how. 

And there you have it. No one knows how to do it and no one knows what the future will bring them. In the same way that I never imagined I’d be here, today, I can’t imagine where I’ll be in the next few years, what joys are out there for me, what tragedies. We just don’t know. And we all have to learn things the hard way. I’ve just had a lot of learning to do and I’m really, really tired from all the learning. 

I still will work hard at being happy because it’s what he’d want. I’ll do it for him, of course. But damn it’s hard.

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.

someone who knows

Photo from here...

"My dad is married to my aunt," my friend, Jenny, said. "I know," she said, "it's rather....Jerry Springer-like."

She went on to explain that after her mother died when Jenny was a teenager, her father eventually found love again with his sister-in-law.

Jenny seemed a bit sheepish when she explained this to me. But she needn't have.

I have heard of this phenomenon quite a few times actually. When a spouse loses their beloved through death, occasionally they find understanding, and love, in those who grieve most closely alongside them. Sisters of spouses, best-friends, cousins....

I can totally understand this. I can imagine what a comfort it would be to be fully able to share your grief with another who had known just what you had lost and to be able to share a intimate relationship with that person without fear of being misunderstood or worrying about their feelings of "measuring up" to an unknown person.

I wonder how many of us widows/widowers have found love, comfort or even just close and meaningful friendships with our dead spouse's friends or family after their death?

I wish I had that now and then....Someone to share Jeff's loss with me.....

The Dance of the Deathiversary

This post dedicated to my best friend. Our feet have so often marched to the same drum, and though we both would have abandoned the dance given the chance, I couldn't ask for a better partner in the dance of hope and life. Love to you as the sixth anniversary of Daniel's death approaches. No doubt he would be proud (and unsurprised) by the amazing way in which you continue to embrace life.

I dread deathiversaries, "with my whole soul", as my daughter would say. This dread is instinctual, and has nothing to do with how happy I am in my current life. The creeping feeling of impending doom sneaks up on me at the same time every year, and at odd times when I am distracted by nostalgia or lost in a happy memory. Sometimes the feeling of dread appears as a great crashing wave, hitting me full force from behind and knocking me into the swirling sea of despair, shocked and unprepared. Other times I can hear the drumbeat of the death march from afar, and I have time to steel myself for what lies ahead.

I am amazed by the way my body takes over as the days before Phil's death day unfolds. Singing along to the radio in the car can be suddenly halted by a realization that I am living in the moment when we visited my parents for the last time. How does my body know this, when my mind is completely unaware? The simple act of walking through the front door is fraught with danger when the death march has begun, each time I step over the threshold I imagine a random moment when Phil did the same. Pancakes become tearjerkers, cyclists cause a lump in my throat, photos now stacked haphazardly around the house are dusted and petted, and the memory of the life I used to live whispers my name over and over again.

The craziest part about this death march is that I am happy. Life is good. There are still difficult grief moments, but I am more aware of the goodness in the world, and in my life, than I have ever been before. So why does the death march have this hypnotic power over me? Why do my feet dance to the beat of the drums before my mind is aware that they have begun to play? Why does knowing the outcome of the story not alter in anyway the dread I experience as the day approaches? I don't know.

What I have learned is that the death march is worse than the actual anniversary. I have realized that honoring my feelings, and allowing my body to move to the rhythm that I can neither anticipate nor control, does help. Allowing the people who love me (including my new husband) to walk a portion of the march with me keeps me from isolating myself in the sometimes overwhelming sorrow. One other thing I know from experience--all marches come to an end. When this one moves on, I find myself still standing and holding onto the memories of a love for which I am eternally grateful, and moving forward into a life I am blessed to call my own.

The Look of Love.

I have been missing Michael terribly today. I'm not sure why, but it was one of those days where my heart just didn't want to accept that he is indeed gone.

Throughout the day I kept picturing him looking deep into my eyes. I kept feeling his gaze, and kept sensing his touch. It will be two years in September, yet these days still arrive where I can't make sense of the fact that he is no longer here with me. I just kept asking myself over and over, why?

I hate when I get like this, because it feel pointless. It happened. Move on.

On my usual Sunday drive back from visiting my folks I was listening to some CD's I threw into the car. One that I hadn't listened to in awhile was Shelby Lynne's "Just a Little Lovin'." It's one of my favorites, as it combines Shelby's sultry voice with a collection of songs from one of my all time favorites, Dusty Springfield. As I was getting lost in song after song, I realized that I was falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of longing.

At one point my daughter removed her headphones from the iPod that she was listening to, and asked who was singing. I began telling her about taking Michael to see Shelby Lynne in concert. As I spoke I realized that it was the last concert, and likely one of the last night's out, that we had together. I remember him sitting next to me, smiling, and moving to the music. I remember looking over at him and seeing those beautiful eyes focused on my own.

It was such a simple, yet touching moment, as Shelby sang those words, "the look, of love..." which took Michael and I to a place of bliss. I knew I wouldn't have him much longer, but I was so happy in that moment. I was feeling so much love for him, and blessed to have his love in return.

Then those final words.

Don't ever go.
Don't ever go.
I love you so.