How ARE you?

I went with some new girlfriends to the rodeo last night. As it usually does when meeting new people, conversation turned to my history and my experience of being a widow. One of the girls had recently lost a sister-in-law and was sharing with me the difficulties her brother was experiencing. It has only been three months for him, but I was interested by the fact that one of the most annoying things for him to deal with has been the dreaded question: “How ARE you?” When I got home I climbed into bed and paged back through some painful memories. That question had driven me nuts for a couple of years.

In these past three years, my life has taken twists and turns I could never have anticipated. I woke up one morning to the horrible realization that the never-ending day before was not a nightmare, but a reality. I blazed my way through my task list –

Call funeral home, check.
Bury husband, check.
Fall apart on the inside while appearing to maintain on the outside, check.

The one thing that became a constant was the sad, scared looks on the faces of friends and family. The visible tension when I entered a room and everyone wondered if I would be able to hold it together. The inevitable question: “How ARE you?” Occasionally I fantasized about telling them the truth. How would that sound?

“How ARE you, Michelle?”

“Well”, I’d calmly answer, “I’m terrible. Thanks for asking. This hell I am in, it sucks. I am so angry, sad, and so terribly lonely. I hate it. I want to scream, cry, and throw up all at the same time. (loud sobs, uncomfortable pause….) So anyway, thanks for asking. How are YOU?”

Of course, outside of my bitter fantasy, I answered in a variation on two words: fine, or okay. I was neither, but the blackness of my heart didn’t really need to be bared to the sweet, well-intentioned people who cared enough to ask that scary question. What a relief it was when I met Michele (my fabulous widow-match!) and we could laugh at the absurdity of the question together, and also answer it honestly. Knowing that my friend understood the blackness of my mood and wouldn’t be terrified of it was an incredible gift. What a relief to have a friend who understood me: a friend, who was another unwilling member in this club; a friend who had to pay the same awful initiation fee to gain membership.

The crazy thing is that whether I wanted it to happen or not, one day I did notice the sunshine, I did hear my child's laughter and not feel like my heart was going to break, and for a brief second I am sure I may have had a relaxed, possibly even happy smile on my face. Those moments gradually became more and more frequent, and much to my surprise I felt…hmmm, not good, not peaceful, still bitter at times, but OKAY. I felt okay. I would never have thought the day would come when the truthful answer to the horrible question “How ARE you?” would actually be: okay. I’m okay.

Step forward a bit more in time, and I can now say I am good. I am changed, and my definition of good is not the same as it was in a previous life, but I am still good. Sometimes, on days like today, when I anticipate the arrival of a wonderful friend for a visit and am filled with hope and an overall sense of well-being, I look back on the past three years with a sense of awe and a feeling of having lived more than just the three years. I’ve aged many more years in some sense, and grown younger in some ways too. Life is sweeter for having had to learn to adjust to a terrible bitter taste in my mouth. I laugh harder and appreciate the small things so much more. I’m still here and I still have terrible days, but I’m determined to make the best of it.

Happy Wednesday, how ARE you? ;-)

Exciting News

This image illustrates for me what widows do for each other. We pull each other up, brace each other from falling over the edge of despair, and we create a life line of hope for every other widow with whom we share a heart. Right now who comes to mind for you?

Today's exciting news is that this blog will be welcoming five other widows to join us as story tellers, cheerleaders, reality checkers...and life lines of hope. We are each going to take one day a week and share our lives as widows with you. I am thrilled about this change as I know that fresh views, different perspectives, and additional voices add to the depth and character of this blog effort. But I think I am most enthusiastic about the opportunity to introduce you to some pretty amazing women. Women just like you and me who walk the widow walk every day.

Over the next few weeks you will be introduced to all of them, and they will tell you a little bit about their journey so far. Once everyone is on-board we will settle into a pattern of a new post by a different writer each day of the week. Awesome, inspiring, and I am jumping for joy...almost literally.

For those who wonder about the fate of my 50 Questions project...not to worry I will keep answering those questions and always title them Question Number ??

So check in daily, you will be glad you did!

Hi there Sassy! Spicy here.... :)

Thanks for the wonderful introduction Tacalla! For those of you unfamiliar with the term, tacalla is a word which means two things that share the same name. We Michel(l)es have happily embraced the word and made it our own.

I'm looking forward to sharing this blog with Michele, as we have shared so many other paths on this widow's journey. It has been an amazing gift to have a friend who has so many of the same life experiences and also the same irreverent way of looking things. I can say, three years after we met, we now share many more laughs than we do tears, and that is a wonderful thing.

(Michele, this week is our third anniversary!!! Hard to believe really, and even better, you're coming to Texas. How fantastic is that?) Happy Monday to you all, and I look forward to sharing some new paths with you too.

Michelle (aka Spicy and Tacalla)

Meet Michelle Dippel

Meet Sassy and Spicy.

Also known as Michele and Michelle, and to some of you as the original "Widow Match." We are pictured here at Michelle's home in Texas celebrating the life of her husband, Daniel, who died in November of 2005 of laryngeal cancer. Our husbands died two months apart, we are the same age, we share a wicked sense of humor, and we are both single moms to wonderful kids. A perfect match, thank you God.

Michelle finishes my sentences, laughs at my jokes, wipes my tears, calls me on my stuff, is the voice on the end of the line that calms me, supports me, or cheers me on...depending on the day.

And I get to share her with you! Michelle will be a contributing author to this blog starting very soon. You are going to love her, and the blog will be enhanced by her witty, real-life, fun-loving view of the world. Welcome aboard, tacalla...I will let her explain that title.

Widows as Agents of Peace?

Have you ever prayed for "peace in our world"? Or have you wondered when reading the day's headlines why we can't all get along? And on the days when the loss of your spouse is so heavy you can't get out of bed do you think about being an agent of peace?!

I have met so many amazing people on the road of healing. It seems that every day brings another story, another tragic loss, another compadre on the journey towards becoming whole again. And with every person there is the story of the death, and then we enter the next chapter...what do we do know?

How does any of this relate to peace in the far reaches of our world today? Do you know of anything more equalizing than death? Death speaks every language. Crosses all borders. Tears out hearts and levels pride in the same way tsunamis clear away all traces of a previously bustling coastal town. The grim reaper does not discriminate. Brown, white, black, thin, heavy, rich or poor, religious or atheist...we all know the power of death.

And so in that moment when each of us stands powerless in the face of death, we are all the same. And peace must come from a place of understanding, of humanity, of equality~we must be no better and no worse than our enemy. Death gets that.

My personal goal remains to make something positive from the ashes of the loss of a man I love with my whole being, and I believe that widows can be agents for peace every single day. When we apply the lessons grief has taught us to our daily lives, we can't help but change the world. Your corner, my corner, the corner in Iraqi, another in Nepal, one over in South Africa, a piece in Canada, the very corner of France, and a nice section of Australia...you get the picture.

Death Knocks Again

When you have lived the grief experience others often assume you know "just what to say" to a friend or family member who has lost a person they love. Many times I have been the go-to person for advice on what to say, how to help, what not to say, and sometimes for requests to make a personal phone call to a fellow griever. Many times I feel overwhelmed by this assumption, because the truth is nothing changes the fact that the person they love isn't coming home. This fact alone is so strong, and devastating that I sometimes feel that words are futile, and the little I can do is but a bandage on a gaping wound.


But I am wrong. Recently my daughter taught me what words, actions, and willingness can do to heal a friend in need. This weekend, I was scheduled to spend three days away with two of my best friends. We spent Friday at the Tour of California (very cool, and I got a photo with Phil Liggett!!) and were on our way to a weekend at the desert when my cell phone rang. Seeing my daughter's name on the screen I picked up cheerfully, but the wind was knocked out of me by the sound of my crying girl on the other end. My first instinct was to be sure she was safe...did she get into a car accident, suffer some other serious injury, was there a relationship issue I was unaware of?? But some part of me knew the unique timbre of those tears, Caitlin was calling to tell me one of her best friend's mother was dead. Between her broken sobs, and confusing explanations my heart began an oddly familiar rhythm. I knew these tears, and the road ahead for this boy's family was crystal clear to me.


Sparing details of the story that are not mine to share, this mother's death was unexpected, mind bogglingly fast, and left three children without a mother and their father without a wife. Not to mention her parents, siblings, friends, and other family members who grieve the loss of a woman they loved. As things turned out Caitlin and I both witnessed the grief of this family first hand, both helpless observers, and seasoned vets. The combination grated my nerves. I could anticipate what lies ahead for this torn family, but felt useless as they each processed this new and devastating information. I paced, I hugged, I made calls, I paced some more, and I watched my little girl gracefully stand to one side both available, and unobtrusive. She reached out when the need was there, she sat quietly when that seemed more appropriate, and she assured her friend that she would be there for him. And she knew what those words meant.


In the moments I spent watching my seventeen year old daughter comfort a grieving family, I remembered the gift of just being. The friends that were the most help to me at the time of my own loss were the ones who could stand beside me no matter where the grief roller coaster took me. Some days I needed them to laugh, other days to cry, sometimes to listen, other times to fill the silence with idle chatter...but most of all I needed to know they wouldn't leave me. That they would be there. And I watched Caitlin do just that with courage, with grace, and with a compassion born of an experience I would have given anything to save her from.


Kids are the best teachers. Mine have easily uncovered some of the most important nuances of living the best life we can. But this weekend Caitlin provided me with a lesson I needed. Grief is only as powerful as we allow it to be. We can comfort each other even without the power to change the facts. A hug and a quiet moment of reflection are priceless. Those of us who have experienced loss have been left with a unique gift; we are hope personified. My little girl made that abundantly clear.

Question Number Eighteen

Did you wear your husband's clothes?

For the first few weeks after Phil's death anything that touched his body was sacred. His shoes were sitting just where he last left them, his lunchbox sat on top of the refrigerator, and his toothbrush was standing next to mine in the holder. One day I found one of his eyelashes and pressed it into a plastic rosary holder for safekeeping. Three days before he died, he was working in our attic and left dirty fingerprints on the top of the door in our bedroom. I was annoyed when I saw the black marks on our white door, and made a mental note to ask him to clean off the prints. Those black marks now hold a place of honor on my otherwise white door.

In those early days I didn't handle Phil's things very often~I was afraid of losing his scent, or masking that unique smell with my own. But after a few months, as shock wore off and reality started to press in around me, I became desperate for the comfort of Phil's arms. One morning I woke up crying (again) and wrapped my own arms around myself trying to imagine that my limbs were his. Rocking back and forth in the middle of my bed I looked up and caught sight of one of his sweatshirts. Even as I literally ached for his touch, I weighed the value of wearing his clothes against the risk of losing even a tiny part of him. With a limited supply of his things their value became immeasurable. But I needed him, so I pulled that sweatshirt over my head. Immediately I felt as if he had wrapped me in a tight hug, and I lay my head on his strong chest and cried my eyes out.

That moment was a milestone for me. I stopped withholding the comfort of wearing his clothes from myself, and just reveled in the warmth of knowing I was wearing a part of him. I slept in his t-shirts, wore his slippers to get the paper, pulled on his raincoat when it poured, and adopted his favorite running shirt as my own. I was layered in Phil, and I loved every minute.

As I became more comfortable using his things and less worried about losing him by making them my own, I discovered that Phil's memory was part of my daily life in a new way. Instead of pulling out his things to torture myself with his absence, I used them to remind me of how much he loved me. The items that were a part of his everyday routine, were proof that he was part of my every day world~even though his body was gone. Our love was obvious to me in his hairbrush, even if that brush was now covered in my hair. When I pulled on his running shirt, I was reminded of sunny afternoons that we headed out the door side-by-side. Slowly I blended what was with what is, and found that the past was paving the way for the future.

I still go out to get the paper in Phil's slippers. Every now and then I giggle as I pull on his favorite sweatshirt, because he would never let me wear it when he was alive. His t-shirts are often my pajamas and that eyelash is still tucked away in the rosary box. What I have learned is that his memory is held not only in the physical evidence of his existence, but in the indelible mark he left on my soul. No amount of time, space, or familiarity will rub that mark off.