The Spot

Phil was on his way to this trail head on the day he died. He left home around five thirty on a summer evening in August, and I got a phone call from a witness of the accident that took his life thirty minutes later. Somehow that trip to get to my husband's side is burned into my memory in a way that other moments from that time are not.

Five years later I still travel the route I took that day in August regularly. Initially, I avoided going down the street where I found him lying on the grass unconscious. But doubling the time required to get to locations on that side of town eventually became tiresome, and I forced myself to face that spot; over and over and over. Mostly in the car, occasionally on foot, and one time only on a bicycle. My reactions to passing the exact location where my life turned upside down have varied wildly through the years; vacillating between hyperventilation and mindless driving. The first time I realized that I'd driven by that mark on the sidewalk without thinking about Phil I cried for hours. Since then I have spent a lot of time evaluating my reactions, wondering about how they would change with time, and testing my recall on the details of that fateful day.

Five years later my heart still skips a beat while looking at that sidewalk. Countless passes by this personal landmark have both dulled and amplified my response to a trip down this road. Some days I am proud of the fact that I am able to maneuver my car down a path that so radically changed by life. Other days I drive by in awe of all that has happened in my world since August 2005. Mostly I just touch my heart or blow a kiss as I motor along.

Last week this landmark threw me one of those proverbial grief punches. For some reason instead of seeing the road as it is today, for the first time in a long time I imagined the scene as the drama unfolded that day. I saw Phil, the suburban, the cars, the people, the police, the fire engines, his bike standing upright at the side of the road, and I experienced the tunnel vision of that afternoon. All I could see in that moment was Phil. As soon as I got within fifty feet of the accident location my eyes were scanning the crowd, the cars, the road...where is my husband? Usually when I think of the accident I focus entirely on him, but in this imagining I saw myself in my mind's eye as well. Kneeling in the grass was a vision of the broken-hearted, shocked, frantic me leaning in complete disbelief over the crumpled form of the man with whom the future was supposed to unfold. My heart ached, my pulse raced, my breathing became shallow and I re-lived, just for a moment, the initial rawness of what that girl kneeling over that man experienced.

And I was proud of her, because somehow she survived.

I Will ...

The "Tired" post now has 35 comments.

The last time I got almost that many comments was on April 13, 2009. Three days before Art died.

This post read...

-----

They told me to bring the kids in. They told me to bring the kids in. It’s over and I, I, I just ….

I
feel
nothing.

The hardest part about this... No wait, the right now hardest part about this is watching them grieve. My heart is in shards, little sharp deadly pieces.

Doctors and then Dr. Lill, Art’s doctor, comes in. He used the word

die.

Finally SOMEONE used that word!

Death, even in a hospital is whispered, in euphemisms – passed, gone, left, not there. None of those words speaks the truth. My husband is going to die.

Soon.

And when he does, he will be DEAD. Period.

No euphemizing that!

There will be no one to check my spelling. No one to wait for my call, saying I’m on my way home.

Oh God, I don’t want to be one of those single mothers whose kids are out of control!

There is a Sarah McGloughlin song. Only lyrics I can remember are:

"Hold on
Hold on to yourself
This is gonna hurt like hell."

She’s right. And I know I don’t know what I’m doing.

I stand at this place, knowing I must fall into the gorge. I’ll survive, it’s just right now, I don’t want to go.

Oh shit fuck, shit fuck OW_@+#*(@#*()#*)%n .

I just want to vomit.

---

When I read it, it's like I am reading a story
about someone else.

Only I know something the character doesn't know
that even though I did not want to move, I would.

The movement was
so imperceptibly at times
that I would
swear
my grief was
going
backwards.

I move at a snails pace
with my protective shell
from one side of the road to ....

I learned the trick to getting through a day was the "I wills."
I will put my feet on the floor.
I will stand up.
I will brush my teeth, or not.
I will feed the kids.
I will get dressed.
I will cry.
I may not do my hair.
I will get them to school.

And after that,
I will work.
I will call clients.
I will ask my assistant to do....
I will get my kids from school.
I will feed them dinner.
I will put them to bed.
I will put my pjs on.
I will cry.
I will go to bed.

Rising from loss requires no
bravery.
Only a simply thought:
"Right now, I will...."

As I approach the two year anniversary of his death,
poke my head out of my shell
and look back,
I see where I
started so long away
from
where I am
now.

I look up,
and know...

I will
keep moving.

Dreaming

I dreamed of him last night. My dreams aren't too off from the real world. In them I know he is dead. And yet, in this Inception like reality, I still think maybe there is someway his world and mine can merge, if only for a couple of hours in my sleep.

In the dream, there was one moment that stood out more than any other.

I was walking beside my love, both of us aware of each others presence. I looked down at his hand which I so greatly wanted to grasp, but hesitated almost in fear that my dream world would start collapsing for not following some code. I looked down at his hand, looked up seeking some mighty voice to say it would be ok, and then he grabbed it, and in that moment I felt something that I haven't felt in nearly four years.

Bliss. Pure bliss in knowing my hand was locked in the one place it will one day be locked into for eternity. Ahead of us in my dream was my sister and her husband, and I just remember her turning around, looking at me and Michael, and saying, "You look so happy (the exclusive kind of Michael happy).". Which was followed by me smiling the way only those who witnessed our love together could remember the sight of.

From there, things start getting a little loco and then I awoke. I laid there knowing the feelings I had felt that night had taken me over in my unconscious and soaked through to my conscience, and I found myself trying to fall back asleep a bit longer in order to search or remember any other bits.

I've always loved my dreams that he's in (minus the ones where he feels so far away...which over the years I've learned to shrug off), and I felt like last night's dream was him reminding me that those feelings will always be there when I need them the most. The feelings of untouchable love, that may be tested and torn by the winds of time, but will always stand tall and guiding like a beacon of light.

This is my life and our life together. I cannot change its course, but it's always nice to reminded I'm on the right one.

SO in love with you, baby.

I have had dreams and I have had nightmares, but I have conquered my nightmares because of my dreams.

- Jonas Salk

someone to watch over me

Photo from here...

Recently, I was told of a widowed father who was married within one year of losing his wife. The story was told with the tones of scandal and betrayal. It was insinuated that if this poor man had truly loved his wife, he wouldn't have remarried so quickly or 'easily'.


I have heard stories such as this a few times since Jeff died. I have understood the implications of people not in our shoes that remaining single after losing your mate to death shows the outside world something of your feelings surrounding the loss of your mate.


But none of us widowed people seem to stand up very often and say, "Hold on a minute! I understand the impetus that propelled that person."


We are all too ashamed or embarassed by the memories of our own desires and hopes that finding someone to love us or fill the gap of the parent that our children/families would soothe our hearts.


I remember that before Jeff died we'd occasionally talk about what we'd do if/when the other person died. I SWORE I would never want to physically share a bed with another man. I truly believed it.


But when Jeff died, I longed to have someone hold me. I most certainly wished it could be Jeff....but since he was dead, I would cast my eyes about searching, hoping, needing the comfort that another body can provide. I would take inventory of my single male friends and wonder if they could/would protect me and my kids. If any of them would touch me and hold me and love me.


Of course, the people that I spent most of my time with wouldn't have understood this need - so I kept quiet.


But now when I speak to other widow/ers, those dark, early days are sometimes dredged up into conversation. And it seems to be pretty universal. We all long to have someone to hold us. To smooth down our hair. To love us. To watch over us.


And in the absence of the one we truly want, I am sure that occasionally the "stand-in" can fall into a small space made where the huge void developed. And maybe that is love. A new love.


I know that no one should judge this. It just is. And if it brings comfort and soothes a broken heart, who is anyone to say if it is "right" or "wrong".

slowing down.

i think a lot

about how madeline

helped get me through

those first horrible

days/weeks/months,

and almost three

years later,

she's still doing it.

i'd be nowhere

without her,

still stuck in

the moment that happened

the day after

she was born.

without consciously

doing so,

she's has convinced

me of the need

to slow

down and enjoy

the little things

in life.

like vacations...

my vacations used

to be all about adventure

and exploration,

but with madeline

i find myself mixing

adventure with time

spent sitting

on the beach



or at the pool, listening

to her laugh,

watching my everything

enjoy her life.

and that's more fun than

i imagined it would be.











and i enjoy it

more than i ever

thought i would

or could.

This Time ....

.... I chose it.
Yep, this time I chose grief.
Although, in my defense ..... I really didn't know I'd be experiencing grief.
I thought it might be more cut and dried ..... but considering the amount of tears I've shed since Friday, it's anything but dried.

I ended our relationship.
We ended our relationship.
I instigated the "talk", but it was mutual.

I love him.
In fact, I now realize that I love him more than I thought I did.
He loves me.
I don't know what he's realized.
I only know that it's over.
It didn't work.
We just weren't right for each other.

I found out that I can love someone, but not be meant for him.
Or he for me.

I am sad.
I am beyond sad, though I've done much better these past two days.
And yes, I chose this.

Who knew?
Definitely not me.
Well, I didn't really, REALLY know that it would end, but if I'm honest (and you guys know that I always try to be truly honest with you) I'd have to say that I've been .... "questioning" the relationship for several months now.
I've innately known that something wasn't quite right.
But .... and here's the problem ..... I have only loved one other man.  In my whole life. Really.
Three guesses as to who that man was .... and the first two guesses don't count.

So I've considered myself "inexperienced".  And thus, I questioned my feelings.  And my thoughts.  And my intuition.
I questioned my innateness.

I thought that maybe, at this age and stage of life, I had to settle for companionship and not expect to feel crazy in love with someone.
Or expect someone to be crazy in love with me.
Thankfully, I now know that there's no way in hell I'm going to settle.
I'd rather be single for the rest of my life, than to wish that someone loved me the way I want to be loved.
I've had that love.
And I'm good with how much that love filled me.

So yay for me.
And yay for the experience of this relationship.
We both learned something.
We learned that we can love again.
And that we can be loved again.
And that, my friends, is a true gift that I feel God blessed us with.

I'm thankful for him and for the gifts he gave me.
I'm thankful for the love he gave me.
And the knowledge that I'm capable of love.
And the knowledge that it's OK for me to want to be loved the way I need to be loved.

I'm most thankful for his friendship.
We are still friends.
I hope that we will always be very good friends.
I want the best for him.
Whoever she is.

So ..... I chose this.
I chose grief.
I chose to not settle.
I chose crazy love .... or no love.

I chose to believe everything that Jim, and God, taught me.
I am special.
I am worthwhile.
I am deserving of love.  Lots and lots of love.
I am a woman who can love deeply, strongly and crazily.
I am blessed with an amazing group of family and friends who love me.
Very much.

Yes .... this time .... I chose.

I chose me.

Man Stuff

Funny how time flies. G was 2 months old in this picture with his Dad, and 5 years later he lost his Dad to cancer. Five years with your dad is not enough time. In the 5 years since Daniel died, I've tried to be both mom and dad to him...dusting him off when he falls, being sympathetic, being supportive, being harsh when it was needed...it's tough to be good cop and bad cop in the same conversation....sometimes I think I have a personality disorder! ;-)

When conversations about girls or puberty have come up over the past two years, I have relied on a couple of fantastic uncles to give the man's perspective and I am thankful to have them to call on. G and I talk about everything, but there is a limit to my technical knowledge. I mean, I am a GIRL!

In the past few months as my relationship with Carl has become more serious, G has started to turn to Carl for manly advice. As a result, I've overheard or taken part in a few interesting conversations. About a month ago, G asked Carl for advice on how to talk to girls. Carl responded to G that he wasn't an expert in that area, but he'd be happy to talk to him about it anytime. G laughed at Carl, pointed to me and said "yes you are, you got my mom...." I laughed out loud, and Carl admitted to the truth in that comment. More recently, G served as a page for a state senator for a day. In that role, he was required to wear a coat and tie. I tied his tie for him (with the assistance of internet instructions), and after a day of being dressed like a little man we met Carl for dinner. During dinner Carl quietly leaned over to G, whispered something in his ear and indicated to him that he should unbutton his jacket while he was seated. It was very subtle, and if I'd not been paying attention I would have missed it completely. It was a sweet gesture and it tugged at my heart strings. Carl took the time to give G a little "man coaching", and did it in such a way as to not draw attention to it or make it seem like criticism. I loved seeing it, and G loved getting the input. He quickly unbuttoned his jacket and smiled at Carl like they shared a special secret. It was the cutest damn thing.

I try to be all things to my little guy, but clearly there will always be gaps. We are so very lucky to have a few willing men to step in when I'm at a loss, or just clearly the wrong person to talk to about an issue. Thanks to all the men in G's life who help to fill in those gaps. You guys rock!