If You're Not Having a Good Time....

We had the annual “Mardi-Craw” this past Saturday. I think about my husband Daniel every day, in lots of different situations, but our annual crawfish boil is one particular day I think about him all day long and cuss him for not being there. I have to admit that for the past four crawfish boils since he died….we’ve had SPECTACULAR weather, and always an amazing time. He may not be there in person, but I tend to think he orders up the weather for us and his memory creates a festive atmosphere that no one is immune to.


One of his favorite sayings he used to kick off the crawfish boil was: “If you’re not having a good time, it’s your own damn fault”. I’ve sort of taken that saying, which brings a smile to my face whenever I think of it, and made it my own motto about this life I still have to live. I could let it all get me down; heaven knows there are plenty of reasons to be angry, bitter, sad, etc. I admit that sometimes I am just that: angry, bitter, and sad. But, these days it doesn’t last too long, before I hear his voice in my head and I think about it. He would love to be here, loving our life and raising our beautiful son. He’s not and I am. It’s tough duty without him, but I’m doing the best that I can.

As he would say “if you’re not having a good time, it’s your own damn fault!” Some days repeating those words to myself over and over is the only way I can make it through. Each day is another day; today I’m going to have a good time.

- Michelle (dippel)

Celebration

Celebration of life has become a popular description for funerals over the past few years. And while I agree with the concept, the reality of celebrating my husband's life while trying to grasp the idea that he was not coming home, ever, was hard for me to do at his funeral. While the services we planned to commemorate Phil's' life were truly beautiful; that day was a blur of images and emotions that I would not exactly classify as a celebration.

Time, however, has provided some perspective. As the days, weeks, months, and years since I began this journey of loss and recovery have passed I have learned how to truly celebrate the life of remarkable men who have touched more people in their too brief lives than they themselves would ever have imagined.

Today, we celebrate a man named Daniel Dippel. Fun loving, direct, irreverently hilarious, and the fortunate owner of great legs...Daniel loved a good party. And so a Mardi Graw themed craw fish boil on a lovely lawn, filled with friends old and new, is the perfect way to honor the impact this man has made on the people who will gather to raise a beer in his memory.

As I type these words, I can see him out on the lawn orchestrating the cooking (lobster earring dangling), yelling out a greeting to an incoming guest, and asking someone to change the music. Funny thing is, I never met him. And from his absence in Michelle Dippel's life a gift was born...a friendship that has graced my life and hers, and the opportunity to know him as a longtime friend.

So Mr. Dippel...I'll raise a glass to you today, eat craw fish for the third time in my life, listen to the countless stories your friends and family lovingly recall, and truly celebrate the fact that you brought your many unique gifts to this world...though we all know that the time you were able to share them was much too short. The brevity of his life does not lessen his impact though, in fact, I'd venture to guess that the opposite is true; your spirit lives on in each and every heart that gathers here today and inspires us to live in the moment.

Today we celebrate the life of Daniel Dippel, and thank him for the excuse to throw one heck of a party.

Widows and Teens

My 15 year-old daughter Anneke landed the role of Polly in Neil Simon’s play The Gingerbread Lady. In this play, Polly’s (Anneke) mother seems intent on self-destruction, and at one point in the play, Polly (Anneke) is moved to desperate tears, wanting her mother to be OK.

Anneke was unable to perform the scene. She could not cry on stage and she was unable to access that place of sadness. Thankfully, the very thoughtful and caring director changed the scene to accommodate Anneke.

At first I was surprised at Anneke’s difficulty. After all, her father/my husband, died when she was seven, and she has shed many tears through out the years. I have done my best to let her know that it is OK to have feelings and to cry. I have encouraged her to talk about her father and we speak about him often still. Anneke is very open and courageous.

So why did she have a hard time?

The loss of a parent is very different than the loss of a spouse. My grief was most intense the first few years after Mike died, and now, eight years later, life is good.

Anneke’s real grief work has yet to happen. Yes, her life is also moving along nicely, but there is an under current of incompleteness. At age 7 her relationship with her father was aborted, replaced by a space. The part of her that should have been fed by him and their relationship stopped developing.

This space should have been filled with the growth that comes from baseball games, challenging authority, hugs, fighting and making up, and camping. It should have been filled with words like "you are the most gorgeous girl in the universe and I will do bodily harm to any young man who might transgress". This space should have been filled with the many experiences with a father that support the healthy development of a young woman.

So, yes, she misses him. But that is too easy an explanation. It is much more than that. For a child the space left by a deceased parent does not get filled in.

Instead there are question marks. Would he have liked me? Been proud of me? Approved of me? Would he think that I am pretty? No matter what I tell her about her father, and what I am sure he would think of her now, the question marks remain.

When Anneke cries, regardless of what brings it on, it ends up about the space. It might start out as an upset over a test she hasn’t studied for, or an audition that scares her. But it ends up being about the missing reflection back to her from her father’s eyes that was supposed to help her know who she is.

So, Anneke cannot cry on command. Fine. There are worse things. She hates to cry and I don’t blame her. It is too much damn work for a 15 year- old. Someday, she will have to do the work. But not now, and not on stage.
Mie Elmhirst

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.