Bridget Jones

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I'm on my annual extended-family vacation this week and the Australian summer vacation period is a big time for relaxing with a book (or ten).  So I've opted to publish a review of the third Bridget Jones instalment that I wrote on my personal blog in October.  It was written for a non-widow audience, so is preaching to the converted in parts.  

Spoiler alert if you haven't read the new Bridget Jones' Diary yet (and want to).

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Having seen the spoilers, out of curiosity I read the new Bridget Jones' Diary instalment. 

My curiosity was how would someone who may not know the widow experience*, write about the widow experience?  Honestly, pretty well, taking into account it is Bridget Jones we're talking about, and she is 5 years into the journey & I'm 18 months.  At least in part, her experience is familiar to me.  Particularly being left on your own to raise young children. 

The widowhood experience is something that is very, very difficult to comprehend until you've been there.  I had no concept before it happened, and the reviews I've read seem to support that; I don't feel there is a widow amongst the critics I've read.  So the book is generally being panned.

Firstly, it was never going to be a contender for the Man Booker - it's chick-lit people.  Take it as such.

One comment that crops up is she's again a singleton/cougar, therefore reverting to type.

Firstly, she's still Bridget. And the singleton/dating scenario is the premise of her character - it's what the first two books were about, why wouldn't the third? 

And I hate to break the 'happy happy joy joy' view that spouses don't up and die on you until you've reached a ripe old age, but we widows are out there. In large numbers. You'll be surprised how many younger widows (and widowers) there are from accidents, suicide, cancer and other medical conditions and illnesses.  And some do want to re-partner down the track, so the fact Bridget's looking (and frankly, only starts at the 5 year mark, with the pressure of her friends - without that she may not have), is also a reality.  This doesn't even cover those divorcees who also find themselves single again in their 30's, 40's and 50's (one reviewer seemed to have the opinion that there are no single people at all in these decades of life - no matter how it happens, hence this comment).

Another critique is that she's still a social klutz.  Again, she's still Bridget.  Mark's influence may well have reduced some of those tendencies through her marriage, but the stress and trauma of widowhood may well have brought them out in force again. Widowhood does change your world view and may change your personality in part, but it's not necessarily a complete personality transplant, which one critic I read seemed to expect.  In fact, that she was a social klutz to start with, it's not surprising she remains one. "Widow brain" (that I've heard a lot of long-timers talk about still experiencing, and may be a PTSD manifestation), is likely to amplify rather than dull this trait of Bridget's. The descriptor of 'foundering' by another character actually describes the experience pretty well; floundering is also apt.

Some raise a timing issue of Bridget being 51, with her youngest child a 5 year old.  This rankled with me initially too, but on reflection, we don't know if both kids were the result of a long effort of assisted reproduction (ART), or even egg donor.  It's possible for the 5 year old to be from a Frozen Embryo Transfer.  And it's her contemporaneous diary, there's no real reason for her to mention it (except for back-story, and Fielding chose not to cover it in back story).  That it's automatically assumed that both are natural pregnancies also shouts to the lack of familiarity in the broader world with the infertility experience. Heck, I did it and I HAVE the IF experience!

Some may argue that Bridget talks about Mark's death, why not any (potential) ART?  Having also been through both, you tend to focus on and re-visit the loss of your husband, not what it took to have your child(ren).  And the loss of a spouse is something that hums away in the background and then intensifies to crippling clarity at the drop of a hat.  It's something I've learned to expect to be life-long.

Early in the book it's mentioned that Mark left her a wealthy woman - this is another of the criticisms; that she's rich so it's not reality. First, they were wealthy to start with, and rich people die, too.  Plus he had made sure everything was in place, just in case - as is stated in the book.

Although really just a passing comment, this is the biggest lesson I see to the general readership of the book.  Mark had made sure that his family would be secure.  Ian and I had not gotten around to getting things in place even though we'd planned to, but our superannuation system meant I've at least been left with a secure roof over John and I's head.   I've encountered a number of widows both on and off line that are not so secure. There was no insurance, or no ability to get insurance, or limited superannuation. They have no choice but to work, and/or they loose their homes when they're still in the depths of grief.  Making sure both partners are adequately insured to keep the family secure is a great lesson from the book.

The upshot is there were moments that cut close to the bone, but it was an overall enjoyable, easy chick-lit read giving an insight into the widow experience through the lens of Bridget Jones.


*in checking, no Helen Fielding has not experienced widowhood. In my opinion, she's obviously done some good research in writing this book. 

Guilt of a Happy Widow

Got this little Nutella freak from here

“Hey! How are you?” she asks.
With that question a hand is placed gently on my upper arm. Her eyes are round, her voice soft and kind, as if she were talking to a person who is old.
I wonder “Do I look ill? Is the lack of sleep that apparent?”
My friend wants to know, to
…really
… know
how I’m doing.
Only her assumption is that I’m not doing well. After all,
I
Am
A
Widow.

And all I want to do is smile and say “I’m doing….

GREAT! Today, the kids got ready for school by themselves and this included Langston (age 14) folding his laundry. The very same laundry he put into the wash AND the dryer by himself the night before.

I had to tell Ezra this morning as he dilly-dallied over his breakfast to “put down the book or I’d have to take it away from him." This same child, 2 months ago, I had to cajole into picking up a book.

Pallas is using me as her confidant (I know this will change) she comes into my room and we talk about friendships and bodies and nail polish color.

Me. Well, I closed my business and I feel free. I have an informational interview next week and you never know where those end up! Our new place is great. I like that there aren’t all these places to disappear to. If Langston is not in the great room then he’s in his bedroom or the bathroom. That’s it. No where else to look for him. And did I mention that it was 75 today? And I wore shorts that I couldn’t fit into when Art was alive because I am now healthy skinny not a holy-shit-my-husband-is-dead skinny? “

I want to tell her all of this. I want to go on and on and on to show her the other side of widowhood, the side that is beyond just getting through another day.

But I don’t. Because I also don’t want her thinking that it’s all OK again. I don’t want her to walk away from our conversation thinking I am “over” Art's death.

And then I feel guilty. Guilty for feeling good..

Guilty for thanking Art for dying. Without his death I would never have become 70% fearless. 89% authentic, and 100% alive. I really like all the ways I have been pushed to grow and expand and live.

Guilty because the kids and I are actually ok. We laugh and have fun without him, without thinking about him.

Guilty because the intense bouts of grief come further and further apart from each other. I can go weeks without crying about him. I can go days without yearning for him.

Guilty because most of the time, when I think of him, it is with sweetness, laughter and a deep sadness that doesn’t overwhelm me.

And honestly part of me doesn’t want to disappoint her. I want her to know that as a widow my life will never be "back to normal." I want her to know that I am still different from her and she absolutely CANNOT complain about her husband to me. I want her to know that it’s still a struggle – just less and less of one.

So instead of answering her, I simply change the subject.

Sudden Grief

Got this photo from here

I’m with her and we are walking to find the bathroom in Macy’s. Pallas (my daughter) and I have just been bra shopping...for her.
A momentous occasion full of “Moooommmm!” and “Why are you looking at me that way?!”
She has requested this shopping excursion and I go along, resisting the urge to take photos and whip out the recorder to “document” the occasion. (Langston forbid me from documenting his first shaving lesson with our wonderful neighbor.)

We walk towards where the sales woman said we would find a restroom.
Completely unaware of the time, the casino-like lighting making me feel out of touch, in a dream like state.
We pass the mens clothing on the left.
I think “Huh, Art would look good in that.” Then chuckle, remembering his frustration. The day Banana Republic started selling tall clothing online was the day I tossed those ugly, but long enough jeans! His 6’6” frame too long for regular clothes.

I stop to touch a shirt as Pallas and I pass the rest of the lingerie department. I see the restroom sign off to the right.
I stutter step in my mind
“Fuck, is he?
Really….no way!
It just simply can’t be.
He’s never coming back? How can someone never come back?
I don't understand.”

The thought encases me in what feels like a full body plastic bag.
I run toward the restroom.
Hands to mouth to catch.
Open stall or not, I don’t care, I need to get it out of me.

It. Out. Of Me!

Pallas is running behind me, “Hey," she says disappointedly, "you can’t just decided to race without telling me!” Using her longer-than-mine legs to catch up. She notices my hunched run, reaches for me and says “Mom are you ok?”

There’s an empty stall
Lunch, bile and tears mix together
Into the toilet
which automatically flushes.

Loss swirling down.

He’s Not Here

Last weekend we moved. 
Our new place is smaller, more intimate.
I like it.

It’s simpler to manage. (There are only so many places Ezra’s left shoe can be!)  It makes sorting through the boxes and boxes of stuff I should have sold, much simpler.  (If it stays, exactly where is it going to go, Kim?) 

And I feel lighter here, less weighed down by stuff and keeping track of the stuff so I can find the stuff. 

But today, I walked out of the bathroom, I looked at my bed and I realized…

Art’s not here.

He’s nowhere in this new place.  Not in the decision of which draw to put the utensils in, nor in which painting to hang where.  He’s not in the money spent at Ikea nor will he be in the car when I return a few things. He’s not in the assembly of the shelves, or the finding of the toothpaste.

He’s not in the walk in closet.

He’s not in third call to Xbox Live in two hours about the hook up issue. He’s not there when the electrician, plumber, handy man and old renter all arrive within 20 minutes of each other. 

He’s not in the dinner I cook, the good night kisses I give, or in the bed where I collapse.

He’s not here. 

It was not till I left the house that I see that I have left him too.   I didn’t think I left him. I thought he was coming with us. But here in this new place, I see that he was in every damn thing in the old place: in the walls, in where the toilet paper was stacked and where the breakfast trays were kept. He was in the lights he put up around the large kitchen window that looked out onto the back yard. He was in where the canned soup goes, the best place for the dresser and the fiction book order:  black writer fiction, black female writer fiction, dead male writer fiction and damn good fiction to reread over and over again. (Yes we really had the books divided like that!)   He was in the up high shelf with the extension cords and the bicycle tools tool box.

There was this weird potential, like maybe, just maybe, he'll show up again.

I could hear him sometimes, in the catch of the kid’s voices as if, for just a moment, they might forget and call to him, instead of me.

In this new place, their voices are clear and call, with piercing clarity, only my name.

The potential is gone.  

This feels like this is where it begins.  Where our new family starts, this family of four.

Our dinner table no longer has the extensions out.  It is square: one side for each of us.  Tonight, I looked at each of my kids, one across from me, two on either side of me and sigh. We are a family of four now.  Four sides of a square for four people.

The most weird, unnerving, pleasant and peaceful thing about this observation is that

I’m OK with it.

In 2009 we became a family of four. It was not what I wanted, not what was planned.

In 2011, it is what I have accepted and come to embrace.  It is what we are, it is who we are. It is neither bad nor good. It just is.

My new place just taught me that. 

The Closer

Special thanks to guest author M,atthew Croke, for his excellent guest post today! Kim is moving and will be back next week!

I want to be a closer in baseball. Or at least I want to think like one.  I was watching a game on TV and one of the best closers in baseball gave up back to back home runs and his team lost the game.  The next night he gets another chance to close out the game. This time: he walks the first batter, hits the second batter, and the third batter hits a double which scores two runs.  They lose again.

Reporters swarm the closer after the game, hoping to get a swearing, out-of-control athlete who will throw equipment and have a meltdown for all to see.  The network news will then reply his weak moment over and over again, happily letting the world see a man who has failed.  The viewing public will stop everything they are doing to see this piece of entertainment every time it’s shown.

However, to the dismay of news producers, the baseball closer sits at his locker; ten microphones shoved in his face, and without flinching, tell the reporters what they don’t want to hear.  “If you are going to be a closer in baseball, you have to have a short memory.  You walk off the field and take the loss, you forget it happened and get back out there the next day and do your job.” He says picking a piece of string off his jersey as if the cameras don’t exist.

“But you’ve blown two in a row, do you feel you’ve lost your confidence?” barks a reporter from the back, trying his best to get the player to lose his cool.

The closer, looking at the piece of string before tossing it over his shoulder, looks back at the reporter and shrugs his shoulders.  “Those games are over, they’re irrelevant to me.  Tomorrow I will wake up and start all over again.”

A few nights ago, I had a bad night putting my kids to sleep: they took forever getting their pajamas on, they were playing instead of going to the bathroom, and every time I’d get one in the bedroom I would see another one come back out to play. By the time I had them all in their room to read stories, I was yelling and told them “no books” and left the room to crying children as I turned off the light and barked one more “Go to sleep.” for good measure.

I went upstairs and without turning on the lights, sat in the living room; the darkness allowing my brain to form a complete thought. It didn’t take long for me to be disappointed in myself for not having enough patience.  I wanted to the day to be over and what were kids being kids, I used as an excuse so I could get out of going through their entire nighttime routine.  It was the end of the day and I blew the final inning. I walked the first batter, hit the second, and then gave up a double to lose the game, kids crying and all.

“I blew the game tonight.” I told myself. “I need to have a short memory, for when I go to bed and wake up in the morning, I will be given the ball again, and if by chance, I happen to blow it two nights in a row, then the day after that I will go back out and try again.”

The difference between a Hall of Famer and a player in the minors isn’t the blown saves, everybody loses games. It’s the ability of the Hall of Famer to walk off the field and forget about it before he steps into the locker room that makes the difference.

Sick, Clothes and Backwards

The last two days I've been sick.
Fever.
I found myself lying in my bed, the wrong way.
Backwards (head where my feet usually are, feet where my head usually is)

The fever is making me feel backwards.

I'm preparing to move from the house the kids, Art and I have been in this home for 6 years. (Huh. The kids and I have been here for six, Art only 4.) It means going into his closet and getting rid of the rest of his clothes. The ones that no longer smell like him. It means going into the attic and going through the ones I put away for the kids and this time asking them what they want to keep.

I am at peace with this idea.
Settled.
OK
Ready.
That feels backwards.
"They" said I'd know when the time was right to get rid of the clothes, to take down one of the photos. I couldn't imagine there would ever be a "right" time in his wrong death.
But without looking for it, it has arrived.

The time is right.
There is peace and gratitude in letting more of him go...
or
is it the fever?

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Post from
August 27, 2009.
4 months after Art died.

Yesterday, I took Art's remaining clothes out of the closet. I divided them into the one's I want to keep and the ones to give away. Today I drove them to the Mission in downtown LA. Some tall homeless person with size 14 feet will finally have clothes and shoes that fit him.

Yesterday, I took down the get-well cards friends, co-workers, familiy members and students had sent him. This wall reflects me.

I am that wall. I am empty, vacant, not complete. I am not surprised at the depth of the grief, just disappointed in it. I am surprised at how quickly I begin to hyper ventilate, and how powerless I feel. I can't talk, even though I wanted to call a friend.

I think we are fine and then it hits, the wave and I swear that I will drown. And I cry so deeply and so completely that my whole body gets involved. I shake and feel nauseous. I force my breath. My nose quickly fills. My head aches, my arms tingle. My feet move rhythmically back and forth across the sheet. I hold myself, I let go. I punch his pillow. I hold myself again.

I know I need to call someone. Anyone. But what will I say? What is there to say? I don't want to be cheered up, I don't want to be soothed. I want to be held, to be allowed to grieve, with the noisy blows from my bulbous red nose and with the lines of tears from my swollen eyes.

I don't want anyone to tell me it'll be ok because right now, it's not. I want someone to wrap their arms around me, to sit with my pain, to stroke my hair and my back. To NOT say "shhhh." To cry with me even. No judgment, no better world. Just this grief here and now.

Tomorrow is my 45 birthday.

----
August 28, 2011

Today is my 47th birthday.

I am in awe at how different I feel, strong, relaxed and ok with my widowhood. It is a feeling I can't describe, the opposite of the black hole of grief (which is equally indescribable). I'm content, at ease, peaceful words that three years ago I couldn't even understand let alone feel.

Today I cried, not from sadness but from relief and gratitude. I'm OK, but for the grace of God and time, I'm OK!!!!

The News

It was Friday afternoon, and I was busy wrapping up some work that had been piled on my desk. I was looking forward to the end of the week, and for some relaxing time on the weekend. There was a lot on my mind, with Camp Widow being just around the corner, and things to get done at home. Suddenly my cell phone rang, and I could see it was my daughter calling.

"Hi Dad. I need to talk to you."

It was the tone of her voice that made me take a deep breath, and purposefully let go of any prior thought that was lingering in my mind.

Yes, daughter. What's going on?

"Well, please don't be mad at me. I know you are going to be disappointed"

I knew it before she could say it.

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

In that moment time seemed to stand still. I knew that whatever I said next could either make, or break, her spirit. I could hear her sobbing in the background. My daughter is 20 years old. She's an adult, and no longer lives at home. I've had to let go the idea that I have much control over what goes on in her her daily life. I still have influence, but it is her life, and lately, it seems that my role is to help her pick up the pieces.

My mind immediately turned to Michael, and I could picture the look he would have given me in that moment. If he had been sitting by my side his hand would have reached over to lay upon my own. He would have discretely squeezed my hand to let me know that I need to remain calm.

Michael was the calm and methodical one in our relationship. He was often the good cop, and yes, I was the bad one. I don't mean that in a negative way, but by the time he entered my life I had already been a single parent for many years. When Michael joined our family it was a breath of fresh air for all of us. The kids finally felt like there was another adult, another parent they could turn to when Dad was already angry. Michael could be that go between person, the one that buffered our responses before temperaments got raised.

When my mind was able to refocused I found that I was quite calm. I had been here before. I had heard news that I didn't want to hear, and was able to recover. Am I disappointed? Yes. But being angry, and drowning in disappointment, will not help my daughter during this time. I reminded her that I loved her, and that she would have my full support. I told her that we would talk during the weekend, and that she would have the opportunity to share this with her brothers.

Today my daughter was able to share her news with my parents. They actually handled the surprising news quite well. I was very proud of my mother, who can be a bit harsh with her words at times. Yet as soon as my daughter left the room my mother turned to me and said, "after all you have been through, this is not what you needed." I looked at my mother purposefully, and explained to her that I have already been through the worst in life. Nothing will ever compare to that. Anything else that comes my way is a piece of cake at this point. And bringing a new life into this world, however it happens, is always a good thing.

I have come to accept that I cannot control the lives that surround me. All I can do is respond to them with loving kindness. I have said goodbye to the man that I loved. I held him in my arms as his life came to an end. Now it appears that I will be saying hello to a new life in the coming year. My only sadness of course is that Michael won't be here to share in this new life. Another chapter to face on my own.

Life continues to move forward. I, in turn, must do the same.

Happy

photo by Ezra

I’m gonna come out and say it.
I’m happy.

I’m a widow and
I’m happy.

It’s not because of another man either,
and I didn’t win the lottery.
I didn’t discover extra life insurance money or an extra $20,000 in my savings account.

I still haven’t found a new place to live. (If you live in LA, I’m looking for a 3 bdrm, 2 bath on the Westside. Hey, ya never know!)

And no, I have not been drinking or smoking the funny stuff.

I haven’t been eating ice cream or chips or cake for that quick high.

I’m happy because today Ezra and I had a good day and this day would not have been possible if
Art were here.

If Art were here,
my two oldest would not have flown on separate flights by themselves back east. They would not be forging their own, significant relationships with my sister and my in-laws.

If Art were here,
I wouldn’t have taken Ezra to the Venice Beach boardwalk. We wouldn’t have marveled at the roller skating guy, the skate boarders, or the guy in the turban with the electric guitar. I would not have been told, “Wow, they don’t’ make them like you anymore!” by the dummy and his ventriloquist.

If Art were here,
I wouldn’t have insisted (a bit meanly) that Ezra buck up and get on his new skate board. I wouldn’t have dared him to fall 5 times. (He fell 7 times and said he won!)

If Art were here,
I would not have been at the neighbor’s pool. I would not have heard “Mom watch this!” only 9 times (a record low) and been amused that I actually DID watch 8 times.

If Art were here,
I would have said, “I’m too tired, you take him.” Who am I kidding, if Art were here, we’d be somewhere else.

If Art were here,
I’d be in Maine, suffering my in-laws.

But
Art’s not here
and still
I’m happy.

I can’t believe I wrote that.
I’m too happy to even bother justifying that statement.

I am happy.

I’m happy.
Down to my hair follicles happy.

I’m happy because without Art here
I found this new strength, this courage, this audacity to just fuck it all and
be happy.

Without him here,
I have found
something
that was lacking when he was here.
A deeper,
more loving knowledge of
who I am,
faults included.

Without him here,
I like what I’m left with.

My "Mr Right"

I recently heard about another widow I know …widowed after me … she has found someone new.

She is quite in love.

This makes me sad.

Not about her happiness.
Just that I am nowhere NEAR being there. I don’t even want to look for someone new, even though I just want to be happily married again Right Now.
….but I want to be happily married to Greg.
Nobody else will do.

I guess it is good that I know myself well enough to see that I am not ready. That I would only be using another person as a crutch...
... expecting characteristics and quirks that only belong to Greg and me...
...expecting another person to drag me out of this hell.

I know I will never be that same, undamaged person I used to be.
That's OK.
....But I do want to be comfortable in my own skin.
Comfortable with my own abilities to steer us through this life.
I want to be able to give as much as I get from someone new....

But.
I’m Not there.
Not yet.

When I met Greg, I had a deal with God that I’d have a thumping realisation when I met my “Mr Right”. I’d had enough of rubbish boyfriends and I didn’t want to spend any more time with people who were … well … just NOT right for me.
So at the tender age of 22, I had sworn off men until I got that kick, that thump, that nod from above that *This One* was my Mr Right.
… and frankly, Greg couldn’t have come with any more bells and whistles.
It was almost like he was wearing a flashing neon sign saying “I’m Mr Right”.
It was obvious to both of us from the minute we met.... obvious to everyone else at that party too....
.....we were Meant To Be.

So what worries me is that while I’m here, forsaking all others, pining after a dead man …. that I may miss the next flashing neon light. But it’s a risk I will have to take, and just have faith in my gut feeling that I won’t be alone for the remaining (50?) years of my life.

I just hope that the next good man to come into my life remembers to wear his "Mr Right" name badge so I recognise him.....

A Child's Grief.

I'm writing this on Sunday, Father's Day. I just returned from visiting my folks, about 2 hours away. It seems that whenever the kids and I visit our extended family, especially on holidays, we end up having a debriefing of our thoughts and emotions on the ride home.

Before I start, let me share with you my own reactions to days such as this. I love my family, and enjoy being around them. We always have a really good time, but at the same time, it is always a reminder of what I no longer have. All of them are married, and without thinking, they often begin describing what each spouse did, or bought, for them for whatever holiday we are celebrating. I sit there hoping none of them ask what I received for the holiday, as it is usually nothing. This isn't meant to be a sob story, just the dynamic of how things go down when you are widowed, or a single parent. And, like usual, nobody did ask me. So I sit there, forced to witness my perception of their idealistic life.

Tonight as I was driving, my 13 year old began talking about how he feels very jealous of all of his friends' families. He was explaining how they all seem so happy, and that they all get along so well. I reminded him that what he is witnessing is how those families act when a guest is present, which isn't necessarily how things are during private family time. At the same time, I tried to honor the reality of his perception.

I let him know that yes, our family has probably had more challenges than most. First, each of my children were born from a mother who had a severe substance abuse problem. So even prior to their birth, there were some givens as to the challenges up ahead for them. Next, within a two year period they learned of their birth mother's death, their step father was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he later died. I also pointed out that up until 21 months ago, we had a full house. He had two loving parents, a big sister and an older brother, all under one roof. Now he finds himself living in a new home, with only his grieving father. His sister and older brother no longer live at home. What was a very noisy and busy home, is now a very quiet home for the most part.

My son then went on to share about how sad he feels at times. An example he shared was that recently his friend's pet rat had died. When he learned of this he began to cry. He said he felt like something was wrong with him, because it wasn't his pet, and it was just a rat. I reminded him of all the loss he has experienced, and how because of that he is always going to have a deeper response to any loss. I explained how a small, insignificant occurrence, can trigger these underlying emotions. He seemed to understand what I was explaining.

Later, after discussing many other things on his mind, I reminded him that given all that we have been through, that we are doing fairly well. I told him that I would try harder to bring joy into our home. I also acknowledged that I, as his father, have changed considerably since losing Michael. Right away he nodded his head, "yes, dad, you have changed." I reminded my son that I, and we as a family, are getting better, but that it will take more time.

How I wish things were different. I too catch myself looking at others around me, and wonder why they got the ideal life, and I got this one. More and more, I remind myself that no one's life is perfect, and everyone has their challenges. Yet even as I say this, I can't help but notice that there is not a single sound in the house, and since my son went to bed, not a soul to speak to.

Not so easy, is it?


***In an ironic twist, I found myself, and my son, reflected on a movie screen tonight. Here is a link to my personal blog, where you can continue to read about a child's grief.

Super 8.

Exhaustion

This has been quite a week. It was one of those weeks that took so much inner strength, and perseverance, to get through. For one, my now 13 year old has recently fallen so behind in his school work, and his grades were literally tanking. He has some issues, one of which being significant ADHD, which requires a real team effort on the part of his teachers and myself. I have found it increasingly challenging to keep him on track, deal with the emotional fallout of doing so, and not let my anger get the best of me. The same can be said of my ongoing battle in getting the state retirement system to see fit in completing the process of paying out my late husband's pension. I believe that I finally did succeed in making some movement with them, but until I have the check in hand, I will have to remain ever vigilant in my quest to put this matter to rest. I wrote, or better, vented, about this on my Facebook page, and have chosen to re post it here. I thought it might be of use to others in understanding the ongoing challenges of being widowed, and how the business of being left behind, can be quite taxing.


I am so furious with the state CalPers program. It has taken them this long, and many of my unreturned phone calls, and me becoming irate, for them to suddenly say that yes, you are due your husbands retirement funds, and that we will mail it out. And oh, we will pay a penalty fee for the past 6 months since we had the info. needed to calculate and pay out the funds. What? Six months? I submitted my request in Nov. 2009. Where have my husbands funds been since then, and who is collecting the interest on those funds while you fail to pay them to his surviving spouse? Another call, another irate me, another supervisor angry at me, and hanging up, to then get another supervisor to say that okay, we cry uncle, and will pay penalty fees from 45 days after Nov. 2009. My then question was what rate is being used to calculate the penalty fees. Another irate conversation, then me finally taking a deep breath, and receiving the first direct answer of the day.

What is wrong with this system? Why am I having to jump through so many hoops. Has anyone else had to do this? This has been my experience with all death benefits from the beginning. Which begs to question...would it have been different if my name had been Danielle? Remember folks. I was legally married. Equal rights and treatment under the law? It's clear to me, that my type, which ever form that may be, can please stand at the back of the room, and be patient

So, that was a few days ago, and I have since calmed down. Yet, it is indicative of how losing your spouse is difficult enough, but you have to continue to also push onward when you are felling beaten down. This can be so difficult to do, especially when we are left alone to deal with such frustrations. The same can be said for parenting. I know there is a lot of talk in our widowed world about being the "alone" parent, but I was a single parent for most of my adult life. I already knew how to do it alone, yet truly began enjoying, and befitting from, sharing the parenting responsibilities, only to get thrown right back where I started.


I apologize in advance, as I am extremely exhausted, sitting here attempting to write my Monday post without much ability to focus. I don't like feeling like so much depends on me, as I still do not feel like I am back in game form. Yet that is what I desperately need to be in, game form. I have to continuously advocate for myself. I have to stay on top of the kids' needs. And, I also need to remain open to what lies ahead. It's exhausting work, and I'm just not always feeling so sure of my ability to press on. So with this in mind, I wish that I had something more to say here, something insightful, or with better clarity perhaps, yet I just feel tired, exhausted, and unable to remain awake to be honest. I think life can sometimes take a more challenging turn, and you can either fight it, or go with the flow. Either way seems exhausting me, but what do I know?

And the Oscar goes to...

No, I'm not watching The Academy Awards. Not that it doesn't interest me. I used to be one of those people who saw every single film nominated, even the foreign and sometimes documentary. I love film, and I love story telling, but that love, those interests, are part of those things that have dropped by the wayside.

Friends and family are still often surprised. "Hey Dan, did you see..?" No. "Hey Dan, what film could you recommend?" Well, I haven't seen anything, so I'm no longer the person to ask. I have no interest in going out anywhere these days. I have no interest in viewing other people's lives.

But I do know one thing, they forgot to list one very talented actor from this year's list of nominees.

Me.

Best Actor in a staring role....Dan!

This life that I am now leading is one that takes careful, and trained, execution. Before heading out each morning, I am already studying my lines. What will I say when asked how my weekend went? What will I say when other's ask how I am doing?

Nobody where I now live and work ever knew my husband Michael. They never knew me when I was happy. They didn't know me when I was on top of the world. They never new me when I was filled with love.

At my last job I was the only person there who was widowed. Nobody had anything to compare me to, so I was a bit of an anomaly. At my current job there are two of us. A widow, and me. I remember not so long ago my office mate said that someone remarked to her that Dan seems to be handling the death of his spouse very well, and that I didn't seem as emotionally fragile as my female counter part. My office mate looked at the person and said, are you serious? She went on to say that I put so much effort into getting through the day, but if you stop and take a good look at me, you will see the enormous pain just below the surface. And, if you follow Dan out to the parking lot at the end of the day, you will likely see him in tears.

You see, acting is a difficult profession. It requires you to stay in character through a sometimes very long and grueling day. When my day is finally over, I have to almost run out of the building, because my pain begins to ooze out of every pore.

When a new day begins, especially on a Monday after the weekend, I have to prepare something to share about how I spent my time. Explaining how many hours I actually sit and do nothing just doesn't cut it. Talking about how many minutes a day are devoted to getting lost in memories of him, or getting thrown off by unexpected jabs to the heart, aren't often what people want, or are prepared for, to hear.

And let me say this about my time at home. While I am often very honest with my kids about how much Michael is still on my mind, and in my heart, I cannot be falling apart around them all the time. Even though I have a staring role in my own life, I play a supporting role in theirs.

As a parent I have to be prepared to tend to their needs, and emotions, at any given moment. I have to be prepared to stop what I am doing, be it typing on this computer, or crying in my bedroom, and go cook them dinner, or rush them to the ER when they fall face forward from their bike and split their lip!

And somehow I do this with great finesse. Apparently, I'm one damn good actor, because no one around me thinks to ask if I'm needing any help? No one around me stops to think that what they say in front of me might make me feel hurt, or slighted. No one stops to realize that perhaps while they are off having wonderfully romantic, or exciting weekends together, I am at home, sitting on my couch, staring at this computer, or staring off in space.

What did I do this weekend? Not a damn thing. What did I feel this weekend? Sadness, loneliness, and that I really need to get my shit together. But, just once, wouldn't it be nice to have some occasion to get dressed up for? I don't need a red carpet, a fancy tux, or even a beautiful trophy. I just need a place where I don't have to be acting. I need other people around who are interested in what is really going on with me.

Well, the night is still young, and the award show is still going, but I can tell you this much, I don't win. Why? Well, because I am all about loss, right? I'm not on the winning side of life, at least I haven't been for awhile now. It's okay, I've come to accept it. I've learned to keep that ever present smile on my face just in case the camera quickly pans my way. And, just like the nominees that will go home empty handed tonight, I have to be a gracious loser. You know the drill: "Just be happy for what you had."

"Argh!"

safety freak

Photo from here

My minivan has a back-up beeper installed and I never fail to safety goggles when required.
I realize that teenagers at the bus stop snicker as I stride by sporting my safety vest covered in all its' reflective glory and a red light flashing out a constant reminder of the whereabouts of my hindend.
And in the past, I would have worried that this safety gear would identify me as a complete dork. A safety freak. Now I see it as protecting my kids.
By wearing this protective paraphernalia, I am hopefully preventing the possibility of creating two little orphans.
I am terrified of leaving them alone in the world. Without Daddy....and then without Mommy.
I have stopped short of wearing bubble wrap beneath my clothing. But I do get my flu shot and wear a helmet when riding my bike. For my kids. I'll do it because they do still need me.

The Positive Side of Awful

Today we have a post from our guest blogger, Mattew Croke. Thanks Matt for sharing your thoughts with us!

I hate that I have learned so much, and have become a better person, because of Lisa’s death. And I am not patting myself on the back, I truly hate that I am better and have learned so much because of her death. I want her back more than ever so I can show her how much better I am. We would have a better marriage, because I now understand the value of a partner. We would be better parents because I am more in tune to my children and their needs. And I’d be a better friend because I have matured.

As far as I can tell, after someone dies there is no coming back, so here I am left with my better self, and Lisa not around to enjoy it. Damnit, she is the reason for it, she should benefit. So not only did she die and not get a chance to raise her three daughters, she didn’t be get the best part of me.

I look back on my life and wonder, how did I ever let something like a football game so consume my life? This past Halloween, someone had to tell me that the "big" Bears game was fell on Halloween, and if I went out with the kids I would miss it. Yet, if Lisa was alive, as ashamed as I am to admit this, I would probably try to get out of treat or treating with the kids to watch TV. But now with Lisa gone and the three girls solely my responsibility, there was no question about what I would do...definitely spend time with the kids.

I was a good Dad on Halloween. A real good Dad, including the party on Friday night with Girl Scouts that I took the day off work for, the costumes we bought, the trick or treating, the dumping of all the candy on the floor at night for sorting and trading between the girls. It was a good day. And yet, I lay there in my bed at night, feeling like crap. I wish I was this way when Lisa was around. But I wasn’t, and now she’s gone.

So, Thank You Lisa. I know I missed out on the potential of our lives together, but I will continue to raise these kids and do my share in this world because of you. They will get the best of me and I will try everything to get the best out of them.