Escape

I'd like to get on the boat above and sail off into the sunset to a place where I am responsible for nothing and no one needs me. Ever. For anything.

Sometimes the pressure of being the "only parent" feels so intense I can hardly bear it. All decisions are made by me, all responsibility is born by me. I have no partner to lean on when I've had too much. No one to take over when I need a time out. I have to be in it regardless of my readiness or mental state. There is no other option. The buck stops with me.

If I need help there is no one there to see it and offer it. If I need help I have to ask for it. I feel like I'm constantly having to ask for help, get someone's assistance so that I can have even the smallest break. I'm sick of asking. Its not fair to me that I have to do this alone. It's not fair to Grayson. He doesn't get the best of me. He gets what's left after I work, pay bills, take care of the house, groceries, laundry, dinner, homework, etc. What's left after that? What's left for him? Hell, what's left for me?

I know I'm preaching to the choir, but I guess it helps that you get it. Another chapter in the book of "why it sucks to be widowed". And yes, I would like some cheese to go with my whine. Thanks for listening.

The August Flu

Even though I have now lived through the month of August five times since Phil's death, I once again failed to notice the signs of the anniversary flu as August 31st approached this year. Maybe you recognize some of the symptoms?

physically achy
impatient
slightly glum, but with no real cause
low grade sense of impending doom
decreased level of energy
increased level of anxiety about people I love dying
upset stomach
disinterest in food
dull headache that may last for a day or so
realization that grief triggers are suddenly around every corner

During the month of August my body knows what day it is even if my brain is blissfully unaware. Phil died on the first day of school in 2005, so back to school is awash in bittersweet memories for me. Each year as the kids head off for their first day of classes, my heart aches a little. Somehow during the month of the deathiversary I recall where we were at any given moment because I find myself accidentally standing in the very place that I am remembering. Coincidence? A subconscious desire to walk a path we once walked together? I don't know, but I am certain that there is a visceral memory bank stored in my body that activates somewhere in the middle of the eighth month of the year.

Since this is the first deathiversary that Michael was here in the US, I wondered how the anniversary day would go. I wasn't sure what I needed, we are in the middle of planning a wedding, I was in New York the week before, and the amount of time I have been out of my office of late meant that I HAD to work. First thing in the morning Michael said, "Honey, I am not sure how I fit into today, but please let me know what you need...space, time out of the house, me to go somewhere...whatever." I thought about this statement for a minute and then told him that all I needed was for him to be himself. Oh, and not to die, thank you very much.

After I said this I realized that Michael being Michael and Phil being Phil was just what I needed on that day. My need to spend the whole day in memory of what was lost has changed. I am held up and loved so well by my family, friends, and widowed community that I feel this outpouring of loving remembrance is enough. We went out to Mexican food together and toasted Phil, each of the kids shared a memory that made them laugh. And then we made plans for the next day, because life does go on.

I don't know how many times I will suffer from the anniversary flu, but I do know that I wouldn't walk down this memory lane filled with markers of my final days with Phil if our lives together weren't seeped in love. So even though my body rebels a bit as the days on the calendar pass, the visions I have of our time together speak of the joy of being married to Phil and that joyful, playful, solid, committed love is a permanent part of my personal history.

Ours to Mine

Our wedding rings are no more.

His was so huge. My 6'6" husband had fingers that matched his size.
When he died, I removed his ring
and put it into the ring box that I kept my diamond in.

I don't remember when I took off my wedding bands.
Long enough so that wearing a ring on my "wedding" finger feels odd.

I needed something that would represent us, who we were, who we will always be.
Something that spoke to our commitment to each other, our fights, our love making, our sense of humor, our thought provoking, intelligent conversations.

Something that said moved 8 times, birthed two kids at home, had dogs, interrupted each other to read interesting or beautiful sentences from books. Something that said didn't like to be tickled, loved to be held, incredible father, kind, endearing, stubborn. Something that spoke of our love of Monty Python, riding race bikes and moving our bodies in any form of athleticism only because it felt good. Something that spoke to our competitiveness with each other. Something that held our dissatisfaction of the world and our desire and actions to make it better.

I needed something that would not get in the way of my committing to someone else, but something that would remind me that yes I was fiercely loved for exactly who I am.
Yes, I was worth the time.

Something that will give me hope to being loved like that again ... only differently.

And so I had our rings, his wedding band, my wedding band, the anniversary band and the diamond he gave me, I had them melted and put back together, differently.


Just like me.

26

This Sunday will mark my baby's 26th birthday....or 4th birthday in heaven. However you want to look at it.


Birthday's we're always such a happy time but even three year's later, the angst of certain holidays never weaken with time.


I remember when I had my 23rd birthday...I had officially had lived longer then my soul mate. Though that birthday was hard and not being able to celebrate his with him is equally difficult, I try to use these days to celebrate who he is/was/continues to be in my life.


I like to buy him cards and have them displayed on these special days, because for me, he's on this journey with me as much as I am with him. Ups, downs, and all.


Tonight, as shuffling through the card aisle of Wal-Mart, I found one I thought fit perfectly. I'd like to share it below:


Front:

Real love takes more than flowers

means more than

beautiful words.

Real Love means keeping promises...

holding on when you don't want to, being strong so that others may rest.

And as time and change

swirl around us,

the love we share

stands quietly (or loudly in my case) in the midst of our lives,

forever beautiful,

forever real.


Inside:

Sometimes I stop and think

about what we've been through

together- the good, the bad,

and everything in between.

And I realize that there's

no one I'd rather share

my life with than you.


Happy Birthday to the Man I Love (and I'm in love with)


I love you, baby, and am SO in love with you. The only gift I can think of getting you is the one you give me day in and day out...and that is my love...my unconditional, unwavering, undying love.

Happy Birthday!

stuffing

Photo by Bug'sBitePlayfood

Written on Dec. '08...Nine months after Jeff died

I've been stuffing. I don't mean putting bread and spices into a turkey's nether regions. I mean my emotions.
It's been too painful to deal with this loss. I avoid Jeff's photos. I redirect my thoughts. I do things that seem to take the pain away for a moment. When I talk of the loss of Jeff, I refuse to feel the sadness. I push it down. I turn away. I try to forget. Like a door closed to a fire, the smoke eventually seeps under through the cracks.
I almost felt smug with this coping mechanism. I thought that I had found a way to survive with out crumbling at least once a day. We all hear that you 'should' allow yourself to feel emotions so they don't come back later to get you. But I guess I thought I was the exception. "I can do it", I told myself, "I'm strong." But it turns out that I'm not strong. I'm a coward. I've been hiding under a blanket and hoping that it will be gone when I emerge. Like a child hiding from a monster. But I am hiding from sadness, loneliness and fear.
But now, I can't hide. The last two days have been really hard. I am on the verge of tears constantly. I feel lost and beyond sad.
It's like a wound that superficially closed over but still brews infection. It looked okay but beneath the surface the infection has been pushing at the scab and pulsing. The pressure has been building and causing a lump to form. Suddenly, the wound has broken open again, spilling its' pus and reminding me of the initial injury. I scurry to find a band aid but what it really needs is fresh air and an occasional cleansing.
I have still have dreams that he's alive and I am happy. Suddenly, he can't breathe. Instead of trying to save him as I did in real life, I run away. I hide. He dies alone.
What I'm learning is that there is no convenient time for grieving. I can't hide. I have to feel this. I don't want to. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I am tired and I don't want to do this.

not what I imagined

it's been three

years since i was

here, in the place

that appears to be

the end of the earth.

my life is

much different now than

i imagined it would be,

(whose isn't, right?)

but being here makes

it seem like

nothing has changed.

that blue building

where we stayed is

still there.

i just walked

past it.

the boats in the harbor

continue to ferry tourists

to the fishing spots,

and the deckhands

still give the

same stories to avoid

cleaning the cod.

i'm here now.

feeling like i did back

then, but today when

i get off the boat

with my brother,

liz

won't be waiting

for us at the

bar with the money

on the walls.

but i'll go

and sit there anyway,

with my him and his

friends, trying to figure

out how to say

something funny enough

to make them laugh

when all i want

to do is

disappear for awhile.

THE Valley ....

.... you know the one. I think that most people, even those who are "non-religious", are familiar with its name.

It's the big-daddy of them all.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death.
It's mentioned in the Bible and has been referenced in countless books, movies, TV shows, etc.

It's been on my mind a lot lately.
You see, I never really knew what it was .... "before".
I'd read about it, even memorized the 23rd Psalm, where it's located.
But had never really given it much thought ..... beyond what I thought it meant.
Of course I thought I knew what it was .... but then.... I thought I knew a lot of things "before".

I used to think it was a proverbial valley that one went through on the way to one's own death.

But now I think that's not quite it.

I think it's the valley that I was plunged into in the early morning hours of December 18, 2007.
It's the valley that I laid in, crawled through, walked in .... or just sat in for 2 years.
It was hell on earth.
And it's not something that I like to think about now. Even as I write this my stomach is hurting and my heart is racing.
It was a very dark, deep and cold valley.
There really aren't words to describe the horror of this place.
And for the longest time I could see no way out of it.
Ever.

But I continued to crawl.
Some days.
Some days I just sat there and sobbed.
Other days I went backwards, trying to see if I could leave the way I had entered.
Nope.
There's no back door out of this valley.
You can only go forward .... or not.

If you're reading this then you've probably been, or most likely are, in this valley.
We all take different amounts of time to get through it.
There's no right way.
There's no guide book.
It's just guts and instinct.

I can now say that I am out of this horrible valley .... though I can turn around and see that it's still very close behind me.
Some days I slip back to the edge of it.
But those days are fewer now.

I don't feel special for having made it out of this valley.
I don't feel courageous or victorious.
I know that I am stronger now because I walked through it.
But I'm also humbler.
And very, very grateful ....
.... that I made it out.

And I'm more than thankful .... that when I look at that valley now .... I am looking behind me.

And I'm wishing every ounce of strength I have onto those who are in it.
I am "willing" them to come out.
In their own time.
At their own pace.
I am pulling for them.
Just to make it out.

And I hope, that as I greet some of them on their way out, they will join me in "willing" others out.
Because, unfortunately, there's a never-ending line of people walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
And we all need each other.
We need to share our will and our strength and our encouragement.... and our stories.
Because that's all we can do.

But it's something.