Compare

“We envy others, for we see their lives in broad outline, while forced to live ours in every detail.”

— Robert Brault

I'm leading a weekend with a group of widows for our organization and there was one commonality within the group:

All had felt that their life, choices, look, path was less than when they compared it to others. Even more so, that it was magnified after losing their stake in ground (i.e. spouse).

Having no where else to compare, they turned to the internet/social media (the route many of us take to seek out fellow grief travelers), to feel connected.

I think for many, we find those connections and they are undoubtedly solid and lasting, but comparison may have or find a way to creep into our lives.

My wish for you all is that you never feel the need to compare. Heck, if you had me read my own blogs 5 years ago, I'd become more depressed! Mostly because I could never envision the positivity that has ensued over the last few years, and I was at a place where I'd feel 'less than' on my journey.

There were even moments where I thought I was failing at being a widow because I wasn't following in the footsteps of many others or found myself going from grief stage 4 with a sudden drop to stage 1.

It was in doing a "Robert Frost" and never turned around to see if or how others were taking the route, that my journey through widow-hood, and life, became a much more pleasant one.

Know that your journey is yours alone. One that you do not have the right to compare to others. One that others should never compare to yours. You'll thank yourself for it.

Comparison has a way of being a thief of joy.

Zip up your purse and hold it close to your side. ;)

Toolbox

I don't do drugs of any kind. 

I rarely drink. Wine gives me headaches and makes me fall asleep, I think beer tastes like gasoline (not that I've ever consumed gasoline, but if I did, I know it would taste like beer), and I'm way too wimpy for hard liquor type-stuff. 

So, two and a half years ago, when life pushed me at 100 mph onto this freight train called grief, it was never even a thought in my brain to use alcohol or drugs as part of my coping mechanisms. This is not a judgement on anyone who has - it is just a statement of fact. 

I did, however, find other ways to cope. I latched on to other addictions, and used them as my crutches to hold me up when I couldn't walk. And in the beginning of this nightmare, walking felt like something I had never done before. My legs were jello and they felt shaky and foreign, like they belonged to someone else. 

In the beginning, and today, there were 3 things that became and remain my ways of coping. Three things, more or less, that I hold onto and use as the tools inside my toolbox, to help me get through each day:

1. WRITING - Two nights after my husband's sudden death, late, somewhere around 4am, I was furiously typing away at the computer at my parent's house. I was staying with them for the night in Massachusetts, and we had to be up in 3 hours to drive back from there to New Jersey, where my husband and I had lived for 7 years, for his funeral services. I remember my dad coming into the room saying: "Are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to, you know." I was writing his Eulogy, which I would deliver the next morning to that huge crowd of family, friends, and loved ones. And yes, I did have to. 

And from that day on, writing was never a choice. It was never something that I logically decided to do. It just came to me. It fell out of me. It let my soul free itself, and I could say whatever the hell I wanted. It felt awful and wonderful and scary and intoxicating. I started writing down everything. First on Facebook, then in my personal blog (www.ripthelifeiknew.com), then in the form of a one-woman play about his death, then in Widow's Voice, then in Modern Widow's Club, then - and now - in the form of my book, which has a tentative goal release date for late spring 2014. It started out as being a way to cope, to get things out of me that needed to come out. It became so much more, when other people starting reading my words and responding to them, and thanking me for simply writing the brutal truths about death and grief. Writing gave me a reason to breathe again, and everytime some new person tells me that something I wrote helped them or moved them in some way, it makes me want to take just a few more breaths, and then maybe a couple more. 

2. HUMOR - Whenever someone implies or asks the question of: "How can you laugh at something so serious and sad and horrible like death?", my response is usually: "How can you not?" I have always had a pretty twisted sense of humor. My husband had a very sick sense of humor. He was hilarious. He found humor in both silly things and dark things. He served in the Air Force, in Desert Storm. He was also a paramedic the entire time I knew him. He witnessed and experienced a lot of trauma in his short 46 years of life. Him and his EMS partners would cope with things like pulling little kids out of a car wreck,or watching a person die right in front of them - with humor. Everyone he worked with had that same sense of humor. Honest. Brutal. Funny. Him and I used to laugh probably more than we did just about anything else. So when he died so abruptly and unfairly, my humor kicked in right away, and I could literally hear him laughing his huge laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Taking my pain and making it funny became a way of life. First I brought it to the stage, with my stand-up comedy. Then I brought that stand-up comedy to Camp Widow, where I presented my comedy workshop, and will again in 2014. I am always finding ways to make the pain funny, and when I do, I can feel him laughing with me. If I didn't laugh, I would probably die. 

3. SUPPORT - Before losing my husband, I didnt really have much experience with death. Sure, like most people, I had lost grandparents and a few other significant people  in my life. But nothing that was even in the same universe as the magnitude of this. So I didn't know much about grief. Even so, some sort of weird inner-instinct kicked in when it happened, and I immediately knew that I was going to need help. A lot of help. I knew that I would need to reach out, and find support in any way that I could. Family. Friends. Grief-counseling. Widowed Support Groups. Social Groups. Facebook Widowed Online Groups. Connecting with widowed people from all over the world. Attending Camp Widow. Saying yes to everything that was offered to me. Searching for more, and taking it all in. Because even with all that support, you can and you DO still feel alone. So alone. But sometimes if you are feeling very, very alone - and you can go to a place like Facebook and say it out loud and then have other people tell you: "Yes. I get it. I feel that way too" - sometimes, that can save your life. At least for today. 

So what is in your survival toolbox?

(Pictured: me and my husband Don, acting incredibly silly together.)

....and breathe ....

Today was school break-up day.  Party Day.  Unofficial last day of the school year (except for tomorrow which is clean and scrub every single thing in the classroom day).
I have been counting down to this day for the past month. 
My class are tired.
I am exhausted (and for those non-teachers who scoff, don't until you've done it.  I used to work in a "normal" job as a research scientist and I thought deadlines were annoying.  It's like that but with the entire emotional health of everyone you work with thrown in as well).


But, as always, I pulled myself together to make today awesome for my class .... and I got talking to a wonderful Grandmother who has helped out in our classroom this year.

We all call her "Bumma" and I am sad to say that I don't know her real name, just the nickname her Grandson gave her when he was little.

Turns out that Bumma is a widow too.

An older widow, that's for sure, but she KNOWS and talking to her was just what I needed today. 
We talked about how it is so good to keep busy and feel like your have a reason to wake up and get moving each day.
We talked about how much we miss them ALL the time and especially during the holidays.
We talked about it not getting easier, but that we have just learned to live next to the grief.

...and it felt so good to have that conversation.

I have one more day of school before we break for Summer holidays ... and my flagging energy has been restored by a little lady whos real name I still don't konw.

Thank you Bumma!

Tears Amongst Happiness ......

                                                                          source


...... is what I've experienced this week.
Yes, this is the time of year when I usually experience my annual "death march".  The time that my body marks, better than any earthly calendar.  The days leading up to Jim's unexpected death on December 18, 2007.

This has been a good year.  In many ways.
And yet, it seems unbelievable that I am coming up on 6 years.

It seems even more unbelievable that I'm not experiencing the usual depression and hatred of all thing Christmas-related.

But that doesn't mean that there haven't been tears.

The other night I was writing to a friend, telling her how happy I was that she was able to be traveling all over the world with her husband right now, with her kids in college.  As I started to write those words, the tears began to flow.  And I admitted to her that I am envious.
Envious because that is what I should be doing right now, with Jim.
But I'm not.

I'm still able to be happy for her, and to smile through the tears.

Tonight, I took my mom to see Billy Crystal's one-man show, entitled "700 Sunday's".
I had no idea what the title meant, I only knew that it was about his life.
And that he's incredibly talented.
And that I truly enjoy him.

But ...... here's what I found out:  "700 Sundays" refers to how many Sundays he estimates that he had (his favorite family day of the week) with his dad ...... before he died when Billy was 15.

He had a great childhood, to say the least, until his father died.
In the show, he talks about the night his father died, and how his mother came home to tell him about it, when he was in bed, asleep.

And as he talked about this point in his life, time seemed to swirl around me ...... and then it took me back to the wee hours of December 18th, 2007.
The night I climbed into bed with my 15 year old (and then my 13 year old) ...... and had to tell him that, in spite of what I had been told, what I had believed, what I had told him ...... his dad had died.

The tears would not stop flowing.  He talked about how his father's death affected his life, emotionally, physically and financially.  And suddenly, I could see December 18, 2007 ...... and its aftermath ...... through the eyes of my 15 year old.

I wish I could have seen it that way then ...... but I could not.  And, truth be told, if it were to happen all over again, I believe I'd react the same way.  I lost my husband, my first love, my best friend, my protector, my supporter, my cheerleader, my moral compass, the father of my children ...... my future, in one unexpected moment.
I doubt that I'd react any differently now, though I wish I could've.
It was what it was.

So tonight I laughed.  And laughed and laughed and laughed.
And I cried, and cried and cried.
It was a great show.  It was very moving and very emotional, which I did not expect.

Two years ago, this show would've done me in.
I would've been depressed for weeks.

But tonight ...... tonight I can see it for what it was.  A true story, with many, many laughs over happy memories.
A true story with many, many tears ...... because that's what life is.
Tears amongst happiness.

It used to be smiles amongst sadness ...... but that's changed.
I'm mostly happy.
Tears still come, as they have this week ...... and as I'm sure they will continue to come at this time of year.
But I am happy.  And I know that the tears will not come in waves that will pull me under.
Like they used to.

Everyone has happy memories.
And everyone has sad memories.
Which makes me ...... normal.

I thank God for normal.
Now.
:)

Hi...

 

I’m Kerryl.  In 4 days I’ll be 18 months into my journey as a widow and single mum.  And you may note from my spelling, I’m an Australian blogger. 

I’ve read Widow’s Voice since I joined the ranks, and am honoured that Michele has asked me to now write about my life as a widow.

Ian and I first met on a dating website.  I liked that he actually used complete words and sentences in his profile - a rarity in my experience.  After a few emails, we met face to face for the first time on 11 June, 2009.  I walked into the bar, saw him and my immediate reaction was “that’s him” – and not that I’d identified the person I was meant to be meeting, but as the man I knew would be my husband. 

As our conversation progressed that evening, Ian invited me to move on to a fundraising event for a friend’s kid’s band.  I figured why not.  Apparently his friend was on the phone saying ‘no, no, this is NOT a first date type of event!!’  The event can only be classified as being so bad, it was a great evening!  And I agreed to see Ian again – much to the surprise of his mate. 

Four months later, Ian proposed, with a cactus rather than the traditional roses.   And we started trying for a family.  Quick, yes, but in hindsight…

We welcomed our son John in February 2011, and married at our church on 4 June that year. 

I returned to work and Ian stayed with our son as a stay at home dad.  Being a father was something he’d wanted so badly and Ian was determined to spend as much time as possible with John.  Many of Ian’s friends who had experienced fatherhood before him had said they regretted not spending more time with their children when they were young – perspective he was grateful for. 

Ian had an extensive history of heart problems including two prior open heart surgeries, all bizarrely un-related.  As confident he was, I was always concerned about what would happen in the future.  Rightfully so, it turns out.

In early 2010 Ian started getting a rapid heart-beat – a resting rate in the range of 120 beats per minute. We spent a bit of time bouncing in and out of emergency at our city’s main hospital getting it set to rights. He was referred to a cardiologist who scheduled a radio frequency ablation to correct this issue for 22 February, 2012.  After 12 months waiting, the surgery, by all reports at the time, went well.

On 17 March 2012, Ian’s 46^th birthday, he became really unwell at his birthday lunch.  He asked me to take him to the hospital and I made a one hour plus drive from the restaurant to the hospital in about 40 minutes.  He collapsed in the foyer, freaking me, our 13 month old son, and the medicos as there was blood everywhere.  He broke his nose on the floor, and being on blood thinners, he made a bit of a mess.

This was just the start of our journey...

 

Photo: One of the many wedding photos with Ian's cheeky smile - he'd just bitten the end of my nose, something he did regularly.

 

Infusion

But true gratitude can't be forced! (source)

Oh, it's back.

Some of my previous silliness, joy and ease is back.

Sleeping and I are friends again, but it's a tentative relationship. We're afraid to like each other too much, lest we get too attached. But it's working for now. And for that I am so grateful I want to throw a party.

I'm eating TOO well, and I'm exercising and working more without feeling overwhelmed physically and mentally. I feel more capable than I have since Dave died, because my energy and concentration are a bit better. And of course, when I'm not out in the world glowering and sending everyone vibes of doom and fear, I'm meeting more people and making more connections with the ones already in my life. Shocker.

It's another peak after a valley and it feels so good that I want to bottle it.

The valleys don't last as long and though they feel nearly as deep and hard to claw my way out of, I have better coping skills. I'm guessing that we grieving people will build the biggest coping muscles to get through this. We have to.

But anyway, I'm here now, on this peak. It feels higher than any previous peak because for the first time, I can look around me and feel true gratitude and appreciation and even joy. For the first time the veil that seemed to descend between me and the experiences that used to bring me great happiness has lifted enough to feel. To feel things I haven't felt since before Dave died.

I was driving somewhere the other day and I had a flash of a feeling I thought had maybe died with Dave.

It was this visceral feeling I'd get, say, on a Friday afternoon, when I'd realize that in a few hours, I'd be home, full of good food and ready to sleep in the next morning (I was always so tired after a full day of teaching). I'd feel the weekend stretch out before me in my mind and that would lead to a thought of the next trip we'd planned, or summer break coming up (we were both teachers) and then I'd think of how lucky we were to have each other and how lucky we were to be able to take trips together and have lazy weekends together and a warmth would spread up from my middle. It would fill me until it felt like it ran out of room and built up pressure until it exploded out of my chest. I'd feel a jolt of joy that was almost painful. A wordless gratitude that felt far too big to contain or to begin to verbalize.

I've assumed that maybe that feeling was only possible when Dave was in my life and before I'd suffered this loss that had turned everything upside down, before my mind and heart were damaged by this trauma.

But no, there it was again. Just for a flash. Just for a moment. But it was there. It wasn't quite as powerful but I recognized it. It was the realization that I had amazing friends and family (one and the same to me) to spend time with, money to support me, work that makes me happy, two goofy sweet cats at home who are blessedly still healthy at this point, a choir, my health, a future. A future, for God's sake! It hit me like a lovely, jubilant smack to the back of my head. I felt it. I didn't have to TRY to feel it. I just felt it. No effort needed. It wasn't the knowledge of these things, it was the access to the feeling. The absence of a numbness.

Side note - there is nothing quite as frustrating as trying to make a gratitude list when you're just going through the motions. You know you're grateful, you know things could be even worse, you know certain people you hang out with might say "You just need to be more grateful!" and you'd feel slightly guilty and grinch-like for thinking "I would if I could, but I can't. And I loathe you right now." You repeat your list to yourself in the car or the bathroom, and you wait for the warmth to fill you but there's nothing. Nothing. Except your brain screaming "BUT I DON'T HAVE HIM! And if a forced gratitude list worked, I'd be doing it ALL FUCKING DAY!!!".

And so, as we know well, life will throw more pain in front of me and I'll find myself back in a dark place, but this hopeful, joyful, effortless state is something I know I will come back to me, somehow, even after the very worst has happened. After I'm sure it's impossible to find my way back. It might last for one second, but it's possible.

There's so much comfort in knowing that it's possible. It will never be exactly the same because that life is over. That person who felt that way is gone. But it is possible to feel it in a new way and to experience it in a different life. It's a different version. It's tinged with deep sadness and has no more naivete, but it's a wonderful thing, regardless. It is beautiful enough to keep me going until the next infusion.

Where We Began

A big hello to everyone here at Soaring Spirits and Widow's Voice on my debut post. I'm incredibly honored and humbled to have been asked to join this team. I hope that we can help each other to feel heard, honored, and loved for exactly where we are in these years of tears. I've been a writer all my life in some form, but this is the first time I've ever written anywhere but my own pages. It means a great deal to me. So I thank you for reading! With that said, I will begin...

Last year, I was supposed to be standing at the altar – marrying my best friend. Instead, I was standing at that altar trying to tell a church full of loved ones who this man was in my life and what he had meant to me. Striving to articulate the sheer magnitude of this person was like trying to hold the all the world's oceans in my hands – an impossible task to ever fully contain him... and not something a twenty-nine year old woman should ever be faced with, or anyone for that matter. But there we were.

Drew and I met in Dallas in the fall of 2008. He was in flight school working toward his dream to be a commercial helicopter pilot. I was a web designer at the headquarters for a global fashion company. He was analytical, I was creative. He liked guns, flying, beer and war movies. I liked art, beauty, nature, writing… I was terrified of guns and hated war movies. On the surface, it sure seemed like we couldn't be more different, but underneath all that we shared deep passion and curiosity for life and a seriously goofy sense of humor. We both loved to learn, laugh and explore almost anything. I'd say that's a pretty good basis for the start of something awesome.

We became best friends over the course of the next year and in June of 2009, we started dating. As it turns out, all those differences are incredibly fun when you have two really curious people who love to explore anything new. He taught me how to shoot guns, build fires, and fly planes on the simulator. I taught him about design and how to look for beauty and art in everything around you. He introduced me to delicious dark beers and aerodynamics, to camping and Texas country music, and I took him to art museums and festivals and exposed him to incredible art he'd have never otherwise seen. There was skydiving, parasailing, hot air ballooning, race car driving and so much more. I was his first flight student – letting him practice his lesson plans each night with me while he worked toward his flight instructor certification. And of course.. he took me up for a few helicopter rides. These are by far some of the most special memories – watching him in his element – living his passion and sharing it with me. The war movies though… I never got on board there!

It wasn't always clear skies of course, but for 3 years, we built something strong and good together. There was always, above all else, an unspoken agreement from the beginning that we would be kind with each other's hearts. Neither of us had had a particularly sugar-coated life thus far, so we had our insecurities and issues. But somehow together, we never clashed. Instead we learned how to help each other to become more aware, heal some of the past, and choose new and better ways to cope with life's challenges. I have often said that it was as if I could see the little boy in him, the one that was good and pure and hadn't been hurt or made insecure by the world yet... and he could see that little girl in me, too. It was as though we grabbed the very core of each other and pulled it right to the surface where it could breathe. Together, we were more who we were always supposed to have been.  

It's amazing to look back and see how much impact just one person could have on my life in just three short years together. On any given day, I can look at myself and see a whole list of things about me that feel as though they've always been there... but they haven't. They were the things he brought out, the things he exposed me to and shared with me and taught me, the parts of myself that he saw and encouraged that no one ever had before. I cannot hardly imagine who I was before I met him. Before beer and western boots. Before a passion for flight, which he passed on to me. Before the camera he got me on my 27th birthday – and my love affair with photography that is still going strong today. Who was I then? Surely me, but so much more myself because of him. 

And then of course, it all ended. And everything… as you well know, changed. I changed. And that part, my newfound friends, is a story for next week.