Comfort Zone

Two widows in a convertible

I just got home from a fun widow's trip to California. Just two young widowed women on the road, balancing carefree silliness with conversations about things most people our age never have to consider.

I can never fully prepare myself for the onslaught of sadness that is waiting for me back home.

As is true every time, arriving home after being away is a minefield of grief triggers for me. It's back to reality and a vivid reminder of who is missing in the crowd, waiting to greet me when I walk off the plane.

On the drive home, I was so lost in thought I missed my exit and had to drive nearly a half hour out of my way to get home.

I thought about why it feels so good to come back home after even the most wonderful trips.

It feels good because you're back in your comfort zone. That's your car with all your junk (in my case) scattered in the passenger seat. That's your route home you can (usually) drive with your eyes closed. That's your neighborhood, with the familiar people strolling down the sidewalks under those trees you have memorized from walking under them a million times. That's your pet greeting you, your bed that smells like you, your night sounds that settle into you and make you feel at ease enough to drift off.

What made me start to cry on the way home was that it dawned on me that although I did feel this way about my new home, it's Dave who was the person I felt that way about.

I had known him nearly half my life and stared into his eyes millions of times. I'd heard his voice over the phone and across the room so many times I knew it better than my own. I'd pressed my cheek against his chest so many times that I was sure there was a dent there shaped just like my profile. The shape of his hand in mine was something my skin had memorized. I'd known him intimately for so many years that no matter where I was, if he was near, I was home.

There is no one else on earth for whom I feel that way. I have known this all along, but it's almost as though I rediscover it every few months and it is able to sink into my psyche a little more each time.

I've learned that in order to keep myself from slowly drowning in the suction of a grief whirlpool I need to comfort myself, even if at first it feels hollow to do so.

So, I tell myself things. I tell myself that I will feel that way again. Maybe not that exact way, but I will, some day, feel at peace. I will feel a level of comfort and intimacy with another human being again. Maybe, if all my hard work pays off, I'll feel that way with myself, too.

So, after I took my little grief detour (literally and figuratively) I began to quell the tears and think of the life spread before me.

While on the trip I had a moment, overlooking elephant seals sprawled out in the sand in Big Sur, when I realigned with what I knew to be my greatest passion - wildlife. I told myself right then that I'd go back to school to get a degree in zoology. I told myself I'd do it even though I wasn't yet sure of anything else.

Elephant seals on the beach at Big Sur, California

All I know is I want to find a way to learn as much as I can about, and to be surrounded by, wildlife. Since I can remember it's the one thing that has lit me up from the inside out.

So, I have that to plot and dream about. I have today. Every day I wake up is a good day, because I can try again.

I'll always grieve the loss of my comfort zone in the form of a quiet, steadfast man named Dave who loved me till the ends of this world, but every day I get to be here, I get to make my new dreams come true. Hopefully, one of them will be a career in wildlife and the other will be a new but different comfort zone.

To Be Proud? That Is The Question

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For some reason, this memory was lost in the chaos of my mind.

And for some reason I remembered it this week and have been thinking a lot about it.

When I went to Camp Widow West in August, I went to host the suicide round table and to spread word about my FMLA petition.

I’ve written about both before, so I will skip forward to my forgotten memory.

As I was flying home from Camp Widow, Ironically sitting a crossed the isle from me was Supa Freshwidow,

“Your name is Melinda right? You are here for your petition, right?”

Taken a little a back, I say “Yes”.

She introduces herself. Even though I have followed her facebook and blog for a couple years now, I didn't recognize her. I somehow missed her through the weekend at Camp Widow.

And here we were, flying from CA to UT, sitting a crossed from each other.

She asked me how the suicide round table went, and I explained that it went really well, and I was proud of myself. That hosting the round table helped me more than I expected it would.

She asked me about my petition, and if I was proud of myself.

I had to actually think about that one. “Am I proud of myself?”

After some thought, my response was “no”.

She looked at me like I was kinda crazy. And said something along the lines of “How can you not be proud of your petition? You can potentially help a lot of people!”

I again had to think about it. “I guess I’m not proud, because it’s something that just has to be done. The laws have to be changed.  It’s hard to be proud of myself when it’s just something that has to be done. It’s not like I came up with the cure for cancer. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

She again looks at me like I’m crazy, and then says “You know it’s OK to be proud of yourself, right? You know it’s OK to toot your own horn, right?”

Me “I guess I don’t realize it’s OK to be proud of myself.”

This memory was locked away in my brain. I don’t know why.

I have thought a lot about this memory this week, and found myself asking “Are you proud now?”

The answer is no. (Yep, I said it).

I still feel like I’m just doing what needs to be done. I don’t feel like I have made some major change or discovery that will help all mankind.

Sometimes things just need to be done.

Like if I saw someone in distress, I would help them, just because it needs to be done. It’s something I wouldn't put much thought into; I would just reach out and help the person in distress.

I guess I’m not proud, because my job isn't done.

The petition is exhausting.

When I started it, I never thought it would be as hard as it is. I never thought I would be so emotionally involved with it that I would lose mass amounts of sleep over it.

It is mentally and physically exhausting.

Especially when I see someone who is newly widowed, having to go back to work immediately.

The laws haven’t been changed. I still have a long road ahead of me. And as long as I am on this road, I have to watch newly widowed people struggle with the exact laws I am trying to change.

It’s like a kick in the teeth. Knowing that the laws are flat out wrong and I can’t get the laws changed fast enough to protect newly widowed people.

I realized that not feeling proud of my petition is kind of like grief.

I don’t see the progress I have made. I just see that I haven’t reached the finish line.

Same goes for grief. I sometimes see small glimpses of my grief progress, but often times feel stuck and ashamed that I’m not “further along” in my grief. I haven’t reached the finish line in my grief.

I’m starting to realize with grief, there is no finish line. It will never end and my grieving will never suddenly reach the finish line.

Even if you can only see small glimpses of your progress, it’s OK to be proud of yourself.

It’s OK to toot your own horn. And to shout from the roof tops “Look, it’s been 29 months, and the monthly anniversary almost slipped by without me noticing!”

Be proud of where you are. Because if you are reading this blog, you have made progress.

You have stepped out, and looked for support.

That is a huge step.

Be proud of that.

Be proud of yourself!

(You can read my petition here and you can follow the faceboook petition page here - I post where the petition is heading and what support I need.)

Less

“The happier you are, the less you need.” -Francesca Lia Block

I'm writing this in nothing but my underwear in a tent in a park while sipping on my ramen....

Ok....not really...but if I was, I know I'd make it work...

On New Year's day I backed into my sister's car. In the beginning, I would have been shattered....my material things were all I used to feel I had left after Michael died. Instead I couldn't stop laughing and smiling and grasping how little all of it mattered!

Little by little over the past 5 years, I've been challenged with facing whether or not the physical or material actually would be the connection to memories and happiness.

Floods, wrecks, lost items, donated things, etc. etc....and the transition continues to happen daily.

The love and memories are no less.

My life and soul are just better.

And like the quote says, I guess that when that mixture of forced, realized, learned, and tortured comes together...you end up with the potion, the combination, that equates to something that seemed as foreign as a leprechaun riding a unicorn down a rainbow to reach its pot of gold....

You end up with the realization that you are happy.

The Occasional Landmine (part 3,566)

So glad to see 2013, although it's hard to believe it.  Carl is celebrating his 30th high school reunion this year...how the heck is that possible?  Old people have 30th reunions....wait, what?  I guess we're either old or having to redefine old.  We're definitely not old.

New Year's was a quiet one.  G was unexpectedly sick and running a very high fever.  Our party plans cancelled, we settled in for a quiet night.  G's fever escalated over the course of the day and was peaking.  A last recorded temp of 103.7 accompanied by a pretty horrific cough had me worried and seeking the internet for medical advice.  There was nothing to be done except have him take a cool shower, continue his anti-fever meds, and make sure he stayed hydrated.  Incredibly frustrating. 

At one point, a hard unexpected cough caused him to run to the bathroom and choke on his pflegm.  His face turned purple, he gagged and choked into the sink and when the blockage was cleared he started to cry in relief.  I stood there and held him for a moment in a gentle hug - but I was hit with such a strong wave of horror and relief myself that I wanted to squeeze him tight.  In the brief seconds of his horrible coughing fit, my almost man-size boy in his man-size bathrobe looked almost identical to his Dad in a similar fit 8 years ago.  It was a punch in the gut I wasn't prepared for and it was hard for me to hide it from him.  Clearly I didn't want him to see my wild-eyed panic - he'd be so much more scared himself.  Instead - I marginally sucked it up, got him resettled on the couch with a cool drink and left the room for a moment to settle myself.

Seeing him look so much like Daniel when his cancer was so painful for him was a horrible parallel I wasn't ready for.  The fear and physical response was immediate.  Fortunately, G was feeling too terrible to tune into my response and was blissfully unaware.   It sucked.  The fear was completely irrational - G had a fever not cancer, but the whole situation had such a clear resemblance to the earlier one that I had to really talk myself down - it took a little while for my rational brain to take the driver's seat again.

Of the many gifts of widowhood - this is not one I'd count as a positive.  Irrational fear sucks.  Intense worry sucks.  I'm glad it happens only rarely, but geez, a five-minute warning would sure be nice!  The good news is that G is on the mend and his cough is almost gone.  Thank goodness for that.

A year with no regret

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I always admire people who can say they live life with no regrets. Maybe I'm a little cynical, but I don't believe most people have no regrets from their past. I sure do. There are a lot of things I wish I could go back and do differently. But I know those are the things that make us who we are, help shape us into the people we become.

After coming out of intense grief, one of the few things it teaches me is to move forward with no regrets. I'm not so naive to think I won't make mistakes or forget to embrace life - I'm human. But I have loved and lost and I don't like wasting time in this life not using it to let the people around me know how much I love them. Perhaps if I lose someone I love again, I'll never feel like I said enough, did enough, embraced enough....but I will keep trying.

I love that starting a new year brings about hope for so many people. A hope for change, a hope for something new. So many possibilities on the horizon for the year that lies ahead. For those who are in suffering, though, grief can be a reminder that the world moves forward while theirs is ending, and they have to drag over into a new year kicking and screaming. Two years ago, I couldn't escape the horror I felt watching time tick into a year that Jeremy would never see. I cried myself to sleep long before midnight because I couldn't bare the thought of celebrating....and I prayed I wouldn't have to see the year either. What a year can change. Last year, I went on a first date palms sweaty and heart racing, so unsure of where my life was headed....but I had hope. This year, I will do my best to pay that hope forward by living with no regret. Of loving when I know I should, of speaking up when I feel the need, or keeping my mouth shut when it's necessary, of soaking up every day moments with my children, of putting myself and my health as a priority, of loving every bit of the second chance I've been given.....no regrets.

This is not an easy task. I'm constantly in shock by the hurt that few people can cause. On my personal blog, I have gotten some pretty awful comments - hurtful, accusing, demeaning. I don't post them anymore, as they have gotten progressively worse, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction. In fact, they don't upset me anymore because there is no weight in them for me. The only upsetting piece is that it's someone I know. I just feel pity for people who live in such pain that they feel the need to impose the pain and hurt and misunderstanding onto others....especially others who have already been through so much (and I'm not just talking about me here.) I've heard the ridiculous things that people have said to widows, you can add to that the things people try to tell that same widow when she tries to date or remarry....it's enough to make anyone go mad!

I will no longer tolerate such negativity to weigh me down. I'm human, and words can be especially hurtful, but I lived through my worst hell, what can one person's opinion really do to me? Not any more pain than I've already suffered. This year, I move forward. No regrets. Leaving behind my mistakes, but bringing the lessons I've learned from them and the good pieces along with me.

The life lessons I've learned from grief will not be in vain.

And So Time ......

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...... moves forward.
Despite what we want.
Despite how we feel.
Despite who we've lost.

So it's now 2013.
Wow.
It's interesting how my concept of time has changed since Jim died.
I mean, I was always aware of how fast time seems to go.  When you've got children you're more than aware of that.
But back then, in my "before", if someone asked about when an event happened, and I had to figure out the year, I'd try to think how old the kids were then.  Or how many we had.  My children were always the ruler for how I measured time.

But in the last 5 years, here in my "after", if I have to figure out a year ...... I first have to remember if Jim was alive ...... or dead, when an event occurred.
And for some reason, that's getting harder to do.  I don't know if it's due to "widda brain", or if it's because it seems like a thousand years ...... and yesterday, all at the same time.

Today Son #1 and I were watching Jeopardy and a question was asked about something that happened in 2003.  Once I knew the answer my thoughts turned to this:  "How long did Jim have left when that occurred?"
His death, and his life, are now my ruler for measuring time.
It's either, how long had Jim been dead when that happened, or how long did he have left before that night that came out of nowhere.  The night that changed my life, and my children's lives, forever.

Of course, once I figure out how many years, or months, or days we had until our world as we knew it ended, I then wonder what, if anything, we would've done differently ...... had we known.

I haven't come up with a firm answer ......  yet.
Of course we would've spent more time together as a family, but would things have changed drastically?  Some widowed people, many of you who are reading this now, had a certain amount of knowledge, or estimations, on how long you had left.  Did that cause the two of you to change things in your lives?

We had no knowledge, nor forewarning ...... no matter how much we should've had.  So I can only speculate.  I can only guess.
My first thought is that Jim would've quit his job and all 8 of us would have traveled together, spent time doing exactly what we wanted, or maybe have moved somewhere tranquil and beautiful all by ourselves.
And then I come to my senses and know, with certainty, that had we done that, we (ironically) would've killed each other.
Because families can stand only so much "togetherness" all by themselves ...... before someone breaks. And goes off on someone else.
Really, it's only a matter of time.
Time.

If we had decided to run away from it all to a place of beauty and tranquility, we would've had to take 2 of our daughters out of college and all three sons out of school (Son #1 was in his senior year when Jim died).
I think that, though the kids would've appreciated that thought, they would also have been a bit tense about the thought of interrupting their educations.  Well, all except for the youngest two (Sons 2 & 3), who would've been overjoyed at leaving school behind, with the thought to never return again.

And then I also realize that Jim made a good living.  Good enough to pay our bills, own our home, and send our kids to college.
But if he had quit his job to just hang out with us, it wouldn't have been long before we'd all been hanging out under a bridge somewhere.  I think tranquility and beauty can get pretty expensive.  Especially for 8 people.

So, had we known, I have no idea what we would've done, if anything,  to change our lives.
Years ago, Oprah asked a question of her studio audience:  "If you only had 2 weeks to live, what would you do?"
One man stood up and said, "I'd have my mother-in-law move in with us, because she can make two weeks seem to last forever."
Which of course is hilarious ...... and yet something to ponder.
If you had the chance to change your lives, knowing that your spouse would die in _____ (fill in the blank), would you try to live normally, or change things up so much that time would seem to last forever (meaning you, or someone, would be miserable)?

Time moves forward.
And while it takes us a while to get used to that, in our "after", and we many times have no control over what we are handed, we sometimes do have the ability to make the most of it.  While it's here.
It took me a long while to be able to do that, to grasp it.
I knew it, but I couldn't do it.
Neither can many of you.
But the day will come ...... that you will.
You will not only know it, but desire it.  You'll want to make the most of what you have.
And that's exactly what your loved one would've wanted.
As you would want for him/her if the person who died had been you.

That day will come.
You may not believe that today.
That's ok.
Just try not to get upset when I say, "I told you so."
:)

Just Keep Swimming....

Just Keep Swimming is what my lovely friend Kim says to me when she knows things are a bit rough.  ...and it helps in a number of ways.

Figuratively of course, it means to keep going, one breath at a time. 

.....and then .... DORY! 
Who doesn't smile when they think of her?

But there is a far more literal comfort I take from that phrase too....

My facebook friends know that I love to swim.
It has become a private joke which is probably only funny to me that I update my status with some cheesy line about loving to swim at least a few times each summer.

Not in public swimming pools where my propensity to suddenly flip over and just float whilst gazing up into the sky seems to irritate the other swimmers. 
Sometimes at the beach when the weather and water are perfect, but an allergy to sunscreen usually curtails such swims. 
But always in our friend's shady pool which they graciously let us use any time while they are away on holidays.
...and currently, they are away on holidays.

I am not a strong swimmer. 
I am also not a fast swimmer. 
But I can swim (at a slow pace) for hours. 
Just stroke after stroke, up and down the pool. 
Aware of each breath.


Peaceful.
Quiet.
Floating.
Happy.
Calm.


So as you wake into the new year, my wish for you all is that you are able to Just Keep Swimming through all the rough patches you encounter in 2013 ....  whether you have been grieving for days or years.  My wish is that you will find a spot of calm when needed ... and joy wherever you can find it ( if its a struggle, ask yourself  'What Would Dory Say?').

Just Keep Swimming  ......