The Importance of Being Frank

(image from istockphoto.com)

It's funny how life changes you. I'm sure part of it is just age, but I know lots of people my age who haven't "turned out" the way I have. What I wonder is: am I really different now, or am I really just getting to know myself?

I think my experience of widowhood has made me less tolerant of bullshit. I know it has. Life is too short to beat around the bush or hope things get resolved. This doesn't mean that I'm totally without tact. It does mean that I have a lot less patience and I'm a lot more likely to start a difficult conversation or ask the question no one else in the room wants to voice. I am "direct" - whatever that means. I guess it's better than being indirect? I hope it's a good thing, because I don't seem to be capable of much else.

I think I was this way before widowhood, but honestly I can't remember. I seem to recall that I was a bit more reserved back then. Maybe some of you remember? Regardless, the "new" me is fun. I like being the one to speak out. I like the thought that people might occassionally think: "I wonder what Dippel will say about that?" I like being that girl.

This is one of the gifts widowhood has brought to me. I'd rather have learned the lesson a different way, but I'm grateful for it nonetheless.

Happy Tuesday!

This One's for You: Musical Monday

Before Phil died, I was that friend. The one you called when you were mad at your husband and needed to tell someone what he did who wouldn't hold it against him later. I was the person who could be counted on to answer the phone at odd hours; watch your kids if you needed a break; or the one person who would remind you of your new years resolution in March. I learned early in life how to be a friend, and worked hard to be a person that earned the title. Then death stepped into my life.

As the waves of grief washed over me, I lost my ability to think outside the box...my box. The world I was living in became so dark that I wandered around my life bumping into walls that I couldn't see. Each time I hit something in the inky blackness I became more disoriented. Grief made my head spin and my eyes blind to anything but my own concerns. More than a few less than appealing traits became the norm when dealing with other people: impatience, intolerance, exasperation, bitterness, and I am sure there are a few others I am forgetting. When listening to another person's woes I had to bite my tongue to keep from spewing the litany of responses that flew into my brain..."Ha! It could be worse, trust me." "At least he is alive for you to hate." "I am sure that losing your job was very difficult." "The fridge broke again, how awful." " Tell me again, what exactly are you complaining about?" I couldn't hear another person speak about themselves without comparing their troubles to mine. And in my mind, death trumped all.

I read somewhere that grief is a selfish state. When I first saw those words I was offended. Obviously the person who wrote them wasn't actively grieving! Clearly no one would make that kind of judgement if they were living the nightmare that begins the minute after a loved one dies. But once I got past the negative connotation, I realized that I needed to be selfish in order to survive Phil's loss. I needed to come first. In order to find my way through the dark maze, I required every available reserve. My needs could not be pushed aside in order to put others first because suddenly the things I needed were so basic that my survival depended on them being met. Selfish was okay, even necessary, for a time.

Eventually I missed the friend I used to be. As time passed my needs became less pressing and no longer required my undivided attention. Slowly I could see that trouble is trouble, and you don't know the trouble of death until you live it, period. As time passed and bitterness started to wane I trained myself to hear the emotion in other's voices and to listen with my heart instead of my head. The futility of comparison became clear and my natural ability to care returned with a new twist. Having known the deep sadness of grief I am grateful for each and every problem that doesn't take me, or someone I care about, there.

Five years ago this song would have immediately reminded me of all that I have lost. Today it reminds me of all that I still have to give. I needed my selfish stage in order to reach my shining stage. This song speaks to the power of peer based grief support. We are the light for each other, even as we find the way through our own darkness.

Emergency

Ever since
April 16, 2009
I have struggled
with
what name to put
in the blank space
that says

"In Case of Emergency"

I loathe that blank space.
It reminds me
no one will love my kids
as ferociously,
as tenderly,
as fully
as Art did.

It makes me
want to go
back
to
bed
as if
sleep will solve the issue.

Knowledge

Someone once said that it is knowledge sets us free, but as I've learned, everyone's knowledge is different.

After Michael died I knew nothing but one thing in life. I could no longer answer questions on why or how things turned out as they did. I could not tell you right from left. As time has passed though, I have embraced the unknown and learned to accept it as a companion on my journey here on earth.

Still though, there are those times, those gut-wrenching, bring you to your knees moments in which the lack of knowledge of how one has ended up in the predicament they're in, can run a muck on the soul we each carry inside of us.

I don't know why I can't hold the hand or kiss the lips of my one true love, I don't know why his vehicle had to be the one to be absorbed by the 2,00 pound blast, I don't know why I must sometimes wander in a world in which few understand me...and yet...as overpowering and heartbreaking as some of these things may be I can only return to the one true thing I know...the northern light in a world that sometime has no direction....

I know I am loved...but not only loved but in love with my counterpart...my chosen one...my compass.

It's all I know in a place that sometimes feels like a dark alleyway.

And that is all the knowledge I need...it's all I need....and I am free.

silence and vulnerability

Photo from here....

The middle of the night is where I feel your void most intensely. I attempt to busy my brain with other less painful activities. I lay in our nightlight lit room listening to the drippy wet sounds of the aquarium down the hall, the monotonous whirr of the bathroom fan left on, the refrigerator starting up yet again. I attempt to make a mental list of activities that I'd like to do with the kids. A registry of people not yet called, thanked or contacted. A calendar of events that are upcoming.
But no matter what asinine or tedious thought temporarily enters my searching mind, it is constantly forced aside by thoughts of you.
I replay my walk down the aisle of the church...both on the day of our wedding and the day of your funeral. Both times, you waited for me near the altar.
On the day of our wedding, as I walked down that strip of red carpet, we smiled at each other, felt comfort in each other's presence and became the only two in the church. The day of your funeral, I clutched Liv's small hand and held Briar's little body close on my hip. I walked that same carpet with nervousness again, but this time not with nervous excitement. This time, it was terror and loss.
Although the tranquilizers administered to me by the doctor allowed me to stare out from my body with my mouth silent and closed, with my head erect, I felt far from 'tranquil'.
I saw the same faces staring at me from the front of the church as I saw on our wedding day. Their swollen and tear streaked faces a constant reminder of why we were there. But you were missing.
I saw your coffin. You were always the biggest in the room, the centre of attention, the one I looked to when unsure. Now you were a box. A big, wooden box. Liv asked if 'you' were in there. She thought she could hear your snoring. While I smiled at her, I could only imagine you, your shell, laying there, oblivious to the events that were taking place. Completely unknowing that today would be the last day that your body and mine shared the same space. Ignorant of the pain that all of us within that church felt without you there to sing out your laughter, grin your famous smile, make some completely ridiculous joke or tell a far-fetched story.
Without you, without your presence, I felt lost. Adrift. Vulnerable. I still do. I long to hear you. But I shy away from listening to your still recorded answering machine messages. I wish I could feel the comfort of my hand enveloped by yours. But the thought of it reminds me that I will never feel them again no matter how I can remember the shape and the feeling of your immense hand. The touch of your mouth. The softness of your earlobe. The shape of your knees.
On our wedding day, there were the sorts of issues that cause stress at all marriage ceremonies. Seating. Flowers. It was...interesting. But you were there. You would NOT let anything ruin our day. And we were together. That was all that mattered. We were together. The day signified our 'togetherness'.
Your funeral conveyed the separation of you from all of us left behind. A ceremony to let all of us know that we would never again walk with you, work with you, laugh with you, hold you.
As I followed you from the church once again, I had tears of loss and fear slipping over my cheeks marking my coat with wet dots. Gone were the tears of laughter and joy that we shared the day we married.
Liv, our little daughter, was with us both days. And this one fact reminds me of what I still need to live for. If only it is to see both of our little ones grown and happy, I must keep breathing until I can see you again. So I lay in this bed and listen to the appliances that surround me. I stare at the box beside our bed that contains your ashes in the orange glow of the nightlight and I miss you. God, how I miss you. And I wish only that first ceremony had happened. The second should not have happened....not yet.

Originally posted on my personal blog on February 12, 2009 (8 1/2 months widowed)

perspective.

back in june 2010,

brooke and i

took maddy to the

santa monica pier for

a day of fun.

it didn't start

off too well

because madeline's

forehead took a direct

hit when a pigeon

flew over her.









(she was calm throughout, and didn't seem to mind, unlike brooke and me).

so why am

i bringing this

up today?

well, because maddy did.

last week.

on the way

to daycare.

7 months after

it happened...

"daddy, what's that on the window?"

she said, pointing

at the big

spot on my windshield.

"that's bird poop, maddy."

(she laughed pretty hard when she heard me say poop)

but then she

got serious.

very serious.

"daddy, i need to wear a hat so that birds don't poop on me in santa monica, okay?"

...

now, i've maybe

mentioned this once

or twice since the

day it happened,

and i wasn't even

talking to her...

i haven't

mentioned in at

least 5 months

and i never mention

the santa monica part.

but she remembers

that a

bird shit on

her and that

it happened in

santa monica.

i had no

idea that a

forehead covered in

pigeon shit would

make such a

big impression on her.

but i guess

i'll never forget about

the time a

pigeon shit on

me when i was

in the

jardin de luxembourg

in paris in 1999.

the big difference?

i was 21

when it happened

to me.

she was a few

months past 2

when it happened

to her.

...

i spend a

lot of time worrying

about how

her memories will

shape her, but

i take heart in

knowing that

her first memory

will not be

about the day

her mom died.

...

and i find it

rather amazing

how perspective

can transform a bunch

of bird shit on the

forehead into a

happy memory.

Places Where I've Cried ....

This is part of a post I wrote February 7, 2008, about a month and a half after Jim's death.
I have yet to go back and read every post since he died ..... especially the early ones.  I'm not sure when I'll feel able to do that .... to go back to that very dark, very lonely place where death seemed to be the only escape.  But I will ..... some day.
So,  this title caught my eye and I thought I'd share it with you:



This isn't a sad post -- it's just ..... my life. It sounds sadder than I feel at the moment (that's for my mom).
It's occurred to me over the past couple of days that there are many places where I've cried.
There are the obvious places: my bed, church (all over the church -- my office, the sanctuary, the women's restroom, etc), my living room, the family room, the kitchen, the kids' bedrooms, etc. Oh, and a funeral home. That's a given.
Then there's my bathroom, on the floor next to my toilet. That was a bad moment. And there's the shower -- picture Glenn Close in "The Big Chill" and that's exactly how it was (well, except for that fact that she's blonde and had a better body, but other than that, exactly). The shower is a great place to cry and to cry loudly. No one can hear you.
And there's Jim's closet. I have actually only sat in there one time and cried. But it was that first week and it was horrible. I try not to spend too much time in there -- just a glance inside once in a while.  That closet gives me way too much pain.
I've cried in my car (I've cried in several people's cars). That option is best used when the car is parked in the garage. People tend to stare while you're driving. And well, it's a bit hard to see through tears. People also tend to stare when you're in a parking lot. Yes, the garage is the safest place.
I've cried in movie theaters and at at two live productions.
I've cried in the woods. I've cried on the tennis courts. I've cried at the nail salon. I've cried at the grocery store and at the gas station.
I've cried in an attorney's office, an accountant's office and a banking office.
I've cried at friends' homes.
I've cried on a cruise ship. That was the most expensive place in which to cry.
I.
Have.
Cried.
But not today. Not yet.  And I don't think I cried yesterday, though I really can't remember much over an hour at a time, so I could be wrong (which is a phrase I seem to say almost daily --- "though I could be wrong").
I wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Yes, I have cried over the past 3-plus years.
Buckets.
Oceans.
That wasn't the last day I cried, but it was memorable because, at the time I wrote it, a significant amount of time had gone by with no tears.
That was huge.
And very uncommon.
And ..... it didn't last long.


I still cry.
But not as much.
Not nearly as much.
Thankfully.
I can't believe that one can't die from dehydration caused by crying.
Really.


I'm sure that each of you could add to the list of places where you've cried.
I'd love to hear where some of the most "unique" places are.
If you'd like to share.


Sometimes it's good to look back .... and see that we've moved a few feet down the path.
Or heck ..... even a few inches ....
: )