The funeral revisited

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She sat at the front of the church with her mother.
Swathed by relatives.
Confused between the false smiles of mourners  when they spoke to her and the shaking sobs of her mother in the seat next to her.
I watched as this little girl, dressed in pink tulle looked into the faces of everyone who came near her.
Bewildered.
Watching as her mother, grandmother and aunties dissolved into tears before her, and her cousins displayed emotions ranging from nervous frivolity, to shock, to grief as they watched their mother's cry their way through their eulogies.
No doubt, wondering where her father was and exactly what was happening around her.

I looked into her five-year-old face from a distance.  Willing her to see me.  So she would know I was there.... that her teacher had come to her father's funeral....because I know how much it will mean to her later.

.
.
.


I went to the funeral of the father of my tiny year 1 student last week.....exactly 1 year, 11 months and 29 days after the kids and I sat huddled in the same position under similar circumstances: a car accident; a  father suddenly gone.

I remembered holding the hands of our children who had that same bewildered look on their little faces..... my son even younger than this little girl, my daughter only 1 year older.
I remembered smiling through the memories of his life as they played on the screen before us and wishing we'd taken more photos of each other.
I remembered trudging behind the casket as we followed six of his best mates out of the church, his body held shoulder high.
I remembered staring at my feet as they walked out of the church and watching as the casket was loaded into the hearse, not glancing up lest I see the faces of the hundreds of people who came.

....and I remembered how thankful my children were that their teachers had come to their Daddy's funeral.  Teachers who would soon become my colleagues and help hold me together as I began working again.  Teachers who would hold my kids together when they were angry at the world, and teacher who pushed them into learning and achieving.

...and I made a silent vow to this dead father whom I'd never met: I promise to look after your daughter to the best of my ability.  I promise to show her compassion when she needs it and I promise to push her forward and onward. I promise to be there for her for as long as she needs.

I promise.

A very bad day

Last week marked two years since I was widowed.

It was not a good week.....worse than I could have imagined. ....
I arrived at school on February 29 to the news that one of my tiny little students had lost her father in a car accident the night before.
Horrific.
I did not cope well.

So I hope you'll forgive the repost of my own blog entry for March 1 ..... a letter to my husband....



2 years.

Two whole years that simultaneously feel like two minutes and two centuries.

The fog and numbness have gone this time – it’s just pure loneliness and loss this year: I miss you so badly.
I took the day off work …. I got some raised eyebrows when I did this, but thankfully not from my boss. (He is an odd boss – simultaneously infuriating and marvellous).
Plus I needed it after yesterday…

I took the kids to visit your grave.  Finally.  They haven’t been since you were buried.  I haven’t been because I don’t think you are there…..

I didn’t expect the reaction they had.
H cried.
K was quiet.
They sang a song in the car on the way “Our Daddy died on the first of March.  It’s the first of march today”.
sob.

They brought some stones they had decorated and carefully placed them on your (our) headstone.
…and we put in a solar light with a dragonfly on it.
Then we left.

I feel completely wrung out.
Too much sadness around me.
....and missing you more than ever.

I long to lay my head on your chest and fall asleep in your arms.
...and feel safe again.
even if only for a minute.

We miss you.
We love you.
XA

I am not alone (why I am glad I blog)

I'm sitting here, calmly typing this and it's been 622 days since my husband died.
I know exactly how many days because of my regular blog.
But to think that I can type this without tears would have been unthinkable a year ago.

I began writing about my pain just over a month after the accident.

I blogged everything because I knew I'd always be able to find it ... the internet being forever and all.

Now I read those posts back and tears stream down my face.
Was that me?
How did I ever survive such pain?
How did I keep my kids functioning and how on earth did they get from those first jagged, razor-sharp days to these days of a duller, aching pain?
(Pain which still flares up both rapidly and unexpectedly but the jagged edges are not quite so sharp).

and the short answer is that I don't really know how we got here.

... but I do know that time has helped.
I do know that friends and family have helped.
I do know that routine has helped.
and I do know that blogging has helped.

My blog helped (and continues to help) me pour out the hurt, anger, fear, rage, devastation, worry and horror of this journey.
...and *this* blog helped me see that I am not alone in these feelings.

Widow's Voice was one of the first blogs I read in The After.

I've cried and nodded along to more posts than I can count.
I've marvelled at how brave other widows and widowers are.
I've recognised similarities and differences between my journey and the varying journeys we are all on (for our spouses were unique ... as we are ... so no two of us are on the exact same path).
I've laughed at the dark humour.
I've rejoiced at the finding of new love, but seen that it's not a magic bullet that takes away this pain.

But most of all, I've realised that

I
Am
Not
Alone.

...and nor are you.

My name is Amanda and this is my story...

I met my soul-mate on February 6, 1993: it was love at first sight. Greg was the fun-loving, farm-boy to my shy, inquisitive city-girl. He was an engineer who loved all things mechanical and I was in the midst of my PhD in eco-botany. We just clicked straight away and seemed always to know what the other was thinking.

We married in 1997 and after living and working in the tropical paradise that is Australia’s north for a few years, we eventually settled down to married life, buying a house and having our precious daughter in 2002 and wonderful son in 2004.

I was so happy and lucky and loved and I took it all for granted.

Now I am someone different: I am a widow. The man I love beyond breath was killed in a car accident whilst carrying out his normal duties at work on March 1, 2010 – the same day I began my new career as a teacher. He was 47 years and 5 days old; I turned 40 a month later. If it wasn’t for my sheer determination to keep going in the weeks and months that followed, the mawing pit of grief would have swallowed me whole. But I have stubbornly refused to give in to despair, instead pouring my grief into my personal blog.

Today, most of me remains... I am still a Mum to two beautiful children. I am still a teacher. I still am a botanist. I still love Australian native plants and gardens. I still have fantastic friends. My brain still functions on a reasonably good level (short-term memory is a bit wonky though). I still love Holden cars and meat pies and good people everywhere. I still love the beach and the bush and I still love a good laugh.

But I find myself turning into someone new ... I find myself showing more kindness as I have been shown kindness. I find myself seeking out the hearts of others and hearing their story. …and I know one important truth: true love never dies.

~~~~~~~~~~
Widow’s Voice was one of the first blogs I found in the months after being widowed in 2010 and I am honoured to be taking part in this wonderful project. I know I have such big shoes to fill as the wonderful Matt moves on to bigger and better things, and I join with some truly amazing men and women who are also walking this horrible road of widowhood. I hope that I have something useful to say, something worthwhile, something that resonates with other people here and helps us all to feel that little bit less alone. Thank you Michele for inviting me and thank you all for welcoming me here.

I Just Need to Tell You Something

Hi honey,

You are probably wondering why I am writing this letter. Usually I save the letter writing for the anniversary of the day you died, sort of a look back on the year gone by, but today I ran into D at the grocery store and realized that there are still some stories that only you would understand. Since the celestial phone appears to be out of order, I turned to my old staple, the keyboard, to update you on some news.

Our friend D has put her husband M into a full time care facility. He has been diagnosed with a complicated mix of dementia and Parkinson's disease. I haven't seen D in years and as we stood in the aisle catching up on marriages, babies, business, fitness, and all things small town...I asked, "How is M?" Her face fell and she told me about his new home like she was confessing a sin. As she stood quietly telling me the story of their medical journey, my mind flashed to our dinner out with them at that Italian place. Remember the one where the portions were so big we nearly rolled away from the table? The next memory frame was of the four of us riding bicycles down the trail getting them ready for that trip to Holland. You were so patient with M who was already struggling with memory loss and a sinking self esteem. I remember the nights you and I wondered about how long D would be able to take care of him by herself. As we lay in our dark room discussing the inevitability of what D and M would eventually face, we held each other a little closer as if to ward off the coming travesties of disease and mortality. All of this flashed in my brain as I stood between the chips and the sauces searching for the right words to let D know that we believe she is doing everything humanly possible to care for M.

As I walked away from our dear friend I turned to talk to you. I felt you next to me, and knew that for a moment we were standing side by side reaching out to someone we care about who is in a pain we knew would come. All the way home from the store I felt this need to call you. I wanted to ask you how it could be so long since we talked to M and D; relay the ins and outs of the story so you could ask questions that would identify any details I missed, and I wanted to revisit the days when we held each other a little tighter to ward off the long shadow of future trouble. But you and I have come to know the unpredictability of the future rather well, and we have been schooled in the reality that sometimes the shadows we don't expect are the ones that overtake us. Would we ever have thought that poor D would outlive strong, healthy, prime of your life you? Six years ago that idea would have been unthinkable, but what did we know then?

After fighting with an unsettled feeling all day, I sat down here to let you know that there are still days when you are the only one who will understand what I have to say. There are parts of my history so intertwined with yours that no amount of explaining to another will yield the same result as a good sit down chat with you. For a long, long time this realization was a searingly painful part of my everyday reality. But over the past five years I have learned to be grateful that you and I share a portion of my life that will never be repeated. As I forge my way forward into a future that unfolds with new wonder every day, I take comfort in knowing that there are parts of my past that belong only to us.

I love you,

Michele