The little things

....  that annoy me (and drive me to drink).

Hello Mr Baileys...

Warning - disorganised tiredness and general whining follows.....

Somedays I think being a widow has taught me patience, but there are other days when I realise my fuse is very short and I have no time for pedants and things that make my life harder.

I question why, instead of helping to simplify my life, so many different things are trying to take another piece of me that I just don't have to give.

Why can't my son's school accept my e-mailed "OK, please bill me" as an acceptance of a fee?  Why does it require a signature for $3.50?  Why does it send me five invoices totallying about $20 instead of one single invoice?

Or why the Department of Transport is only open during office hours making it hard for me to get my driver's license renewal photo.

Or why my boss is insisting I set personal goals as a way of modelling to my students that we all have goals:  if I have been taught anything from being suddenly widowed, it is that living day to day and rolling with the punches is the only way to cope with life. (I have made up a goal that I will fluff my way  through and they will know I am faking it.   It will suck but my boss will be appeased.)

I wonder if these petty little things would still get to me if I had Greg here..... letting me talk things over or letting me deal with the bills and the school issues and doing one of the other eleventy million jobs that I have on my plate right now
... hmmmm ....... plate ... that reminds me that I must go and cook my children dinner.  But maybe I can have a little wine with my whine while I make it.....

Am I just turning into a cranky person, or does anyone else have days like this?

Random Thoughts from a Disorganized Mind~

Each morning I wake up, knowing I slept, so I'm glad for that, but not feeling rested at all.  By the evening, after a day spent getting through, well, the day, I'm done in.  I take melatonin when I remember and that helps sometimes.

Since my husband's death, I've taken my wedding ring off entirely, along with my engagement ring, put them back on, changed from one finger to another, put on a chain around my neck, considered having them melted together into a new piece of jewelry, and every other possibility. They are currently all on my ring finger of my left hand:  my 2 rings, his one.  I'll know what to do when the time is right to do it.

I don't see color any longer.  I don't even see black and white.  Life is gray.  Which saddens me greatly because I've always loved color.  Except for pink.  Pink is all around me.  Chuck said to mourn for him in pink because that's very much my color.  So now its my armor.  But I don't really see it. And I don't feel it.

As he and I traveled this country in our 4 years of adventuring, we took thousands of pictures of where we were and of each other.  He loved taking pictures of me. I'm on the road full-time in the months since he died and I rarely take a picture.  I don't really care what I'm seeing.  Nor are there many pictures of me any longer.  I don't care to see how unlike me I look, with the sparkle gone from my eyes.  I do like looking at pictures of him because when I took the pictures he was alive and gazing right back at me, smiling right into my eyes.  So I can kind of, sorta, take myself back to that time.  Which is surreal because then my mind has to struggle with the jarring reality that he's no longer here.

How does one adjust to the permanent absence of someone who brought such joy to your life, who challenged you to push your comfort zones, who loved you so much, who brought color to your life?

I'm in awe of people who partner up again after grieving the death of their husband/wife.  What kind of courage does it take to do that when you know what lies in store for you?  Unless you die first and then he/she will mourn for you.  But who would wish this on anyone?  I salute each and every one of you who has this courage.

At some point, if life happens and the right man drops down right in front of me, I'm open to the idea of loving again.  Chuck and I spoke of such a thing often and determined that we wanted whomever was left behind to find another to love.  Love is beautiful and we each believed life is made fuller by having a partner (the right partner, of course).   It will be completely weird for me though, if it happens.  I haven't kissed a man other than Chuck for 24 years.  Wow.  Very weird to even contemplate.

My body is starving for Chuck's touch-for our hands linked together as we walk, for his smile when he looks at me, for his kiss, for his energy next to me, for his love for me next to my love for him and for our love story to still be an active and living energy.

I'm a mess, really,  I don't tell the world how much of a mess I am but I'm a real, emotional, mess.

So how's your day?

Luck 'o the Irish

Us at the family birthday lunch for both Ian and my sister,

the week before Ian got sick. I have a clearer photo, but I look like a doofus in it.

Ian loved celebrating his birthday with his friends, so last year, on his birthday, we marked the one year anniversary of him getting sick by going back to the restaurant we had to leave so quickly in 2012.

Earlier this week I got a call from one his mates looking to see if I was planning to repeat the lunch for the second anniversary on St Patrick's Day, March 17 (Ian was very proud of his Irish heritage, and his birthdate).  We did it for the first anniversary, and it was a nice way of marking the day.  Many people were not up to attending as it was too raw for them, and others that couldn't come for Ian's lunch in 2012, came last year.

But this year, I opted not to repeat.  It's a great opportunity for his mates to get together and remember Ian if they choose to, but it just didn't feel right for me.  

So instead of me joining them, a couple of his friends chose to come to church with us over the weekend, and the anniversary of Ian's birth (which I suppose is the technically correct way of putting it) was acknowledged by the community.    The pews are not overly comfortable, and during the sermon one friend had to step out to stretch his back.  And found a stray dog wandering around, at risk of getting run over.  It had no collar, no id. 

They took this as a sign, as this particular group of friends called Ian by is nickname "Doggy".  I've had a couple of instances where Ian has come out of my mouth, not me, but no real signs like this. 

This morning was filled with medical appointments for John and I, and we went for a play in a playground, which John loved.  The day's gotten harder as it's progressed, but it's not been unbearable, just 'there'.  So the other grand plans for today, homework and housework are even less appealing than usual (and the housework never appeals highly!).

I did contemplate calling the church to find out if they found the owner of that dog, but if they haven't, I'd be tempted to take it in.  The other reason I didn't call was I also don't want to find out what sort of mess it made of the Minister's office - the only place staff could think of to put it where it would be safe!

Loss

source

I was stuck for ideas the other day in art class and the teacher was trying to help me brainstorm. Make it autobiographical, he said, in his cheery 20-something voice, about the movie poster I was assigned to create.

Autobiographical? I thought. Huh. Yeah. I began to sort through my life events. Lost my mom (and my dad, too, if we're talking about psychologically), then I had a trying childhood, full of sadness and pain. Then, my dad died too. Then I went to school, got a degree, got a job, got married. Then my husband died. No kids. No new job yet. No clear direction for school again. I'm a sufferer of depression and anxiety.

I know damn well I've survived a lot and in some ways triumphed. I also realized I define myself by loss. I didn't want to make my poster about loss, but defining your life by loss means not having much else to make your fictional autobiographical movie poster about. I don't want to define my life by the losses. I want to define it by all of it. The losses, the triumphs, the pain and the joy.

But right now the losses show up starkly  in my mind, leaving the rest to fade into blurry half-imagined memories. I know there were good days in my childhood, I just don't clearly remember them or feel them. I know there were good days in my marriage. Those I remember and feel. But they're still painful to recreate. They represent more loss. I lost all of it. My husband, my home, my job, my LIFE. Starting over is my life now. And there's beauty in that, yes. There's also so much fucking loss.

I know life is about loss and pain and rebuilding and getting your feet under you only to find that there was never a solid ground there anyway. I know life is about the good and the bad. I know the dark makes the light more beautiful. And maybe that's my story. Simply that I've been through hell and so I now know what makes life worth living. I know it's not money or status or degrees or a career. I know it's not facebook or tv or shopping or any of the millions of things we numb ourselves with. I know that it's only love that matters and that every moment really might be our last.

But how do I stop defining myself by loss? It's my experience. Loss. Lots of it. How do I move on, not using it as an excuse? How do I look back with a different filter? One that allows me to see the good and the bad, not just the bad? How do I look at the present moment without my loss filter?

I see it all as impermanent now. Those cats who've been by my side through it all? Who he adored? They're going to be gone one day. This home? This body? Gone. The ones I love? Gone. It's all about loss and I know it. You know it.

 That makes things more precious, yes, but the impermanence is rattling. It's chased me my whole life. I'm sick of its hot breath on the back of my neck. I'm sick of thinking of my life as one loss after another.

I'll be honest. When my teacher mentioned his idea, I thought for a moment how desperately I wanted to smile and say "Ooooh, I have so many great stories about my adventures and loves and accomplishments". I wanted to think back fondly on travels and children and love stories and funny moments. But all that came to mind was loss. It should be called loss I thought. The movie about loss.
Is this the black cloud of a minor depression I'm experiencing right now, coloring everything a shade of dull gray? A victim mentality? Should I just pull up my big girl britches and find the positives? Soldier on? Or should I maybe give a nod to this pain? Let it have its voice? Is there a point? Is there an end to this pain? What if I find that there's nothing on the other side of giving in to this pain, other than more pain? (As I'm rereading this, it occurs to me that maybe I should stop asking so many damn questions!)

All probably without answers. All probably projections of the place I'm in right now, emotionally. I'm feeling let down by life. I want to wake up tomorrow with a new past. Siblings and parents and extended family members with whom I had trips and picnics and birthday parties. Christmases, Easters, Fourth of Julys. Participation in life, instead of hiding from that which could hurt me. I can't have those things. I didn't live those things. All that I can do is make each moment now worth living. But I long for what I can't have. Don't we all?

So, I squeeze what I can out of each moment I'm given. I cling to the love I have been given. Those childhood friends whose houses were more home than mine. Those chosen family members who weren't around when I was a kid, but are even more precious because I've just recently found them. I think of the love Dave and I shared and the love I get to share now, with someone new. I think of the beauty I might get to experience if I might get lucky enough to bring a life into this world. I think of my chances to see beauty in the chaos. I see it more now. I see it when I used to be oblivious to it.

Camp Widow

Since I lost my fiancé almost 2 years ago, I have been acutely aware of how uncomfortable my very presence makes people at times. I talk about it less and less on Facebook, and even with my closest friends and family. It turns out people really don't like being reminded of death. Who knew? I've started to feel like I am carrying around some bad omen on my back - like some I'm some messenger of death now that brings a black aura everywhere I go. It's definitely a shitty part of this journey - feeling like my very identity upsets people or makes them uncomfortable. Which is made to suck even more by the fact that I am one of those people too - I also don't want to be around my own pain and this new unwanted identity of "widow". It is a constant battle for me to try and make peace with this new part of who I am that reminds me of everything I do not have.

Not entirely sure of what to expect or how it will help me with this identity crisis, last Friday I hopped on a plan to go to Camp Widow for the first time. If its new to you, this is a conference for widowed people held three times a year - the only one of its kind. Upon arrival I am surrounded by a few hundred others just like me. I even meet a few close friends for the first time in person. These people are incredible. They are not famous, they are not peace prize winners or hollywood actors, they are just you and me - all of us regular people - deciding to show up even though life has completely broken us. There we all are… still trying to find hope and healing and something good in life. Despite it all… Still fucking trying!

I meet Tanya, who's fiancé died in the 9/11 attacks and whose story both drops me to my knees and simultaneously fills me with so much hope and strength that my soul overflows. I meet a woman who lost her husband just three weeks ago - and somehow she managed to get out of bed AND get on a plane AND show up at this massive event. And Jennifer - the warrior - who is only 32 and has already been widowed twice and is raising six kids now on her own. I meet a woman who traveled alone all the way from Australia just to be there - knowing no one when she got there, and her husband died less than a year ago. I watch my dear friend Kelley do an incredible stand-up comedy act all about death and the death of her husband - getting widowed people to laugh harder than they probably have since their partner died. I mean wow people. Who needs Oprah when we've got all these widowed people around?! And somehow we are all just opening our hearts fully - with tears and with laughter. SO much laughter. So much understanding and kindness.

There are moments that I just stand there in this great big ocean of courage and take it all in. The unfathomable pain of everyone there crashes into me like a ten foot wave, but the love… the love and the extraordinary strength of so many willing to share themselves fully changes my entire perspective on what it means to be widowed….

I leave the conference on Sunday and head for the airport… I am wearing my "Hope Matters" shirt, and I realize… I am different. I am changed and I can feel it. No longer am I a woman who is fighting with all her might against the idea of being a widow… suddenly, I AM a widow - and no part of me is fighting it inside. I am walking around a crowded airport literally wearing my identity, and for the first time in this whole horrible, excruciating, exhausting, terrifying, earth-shattering journey… I am PROUD.

I am proud to call myself a widow. I am proud that anyone around me can read it right there on my shirt. I don't want to hide it away. I don't want to hide myself away. I don't care if I make every single person in a five mile radius uncomfortable. Because the thing is… there will be someone in that crowd who is hurting just as bad as me. And if I can be honest about my pain, it helps them be honest about theirs too. That is what all these brave people taught me - they were honest about their pain, and they allowed me to let my guard down and be honest about mine (and it turns out, I am still SO NOT OKAY with ANY of this and have been putting on a really good brave face for a long time). Everyone there helped me to realize that I really am strong, even in my most broken moments - we all are.

I don't think I even realized how much of a wall I had built up over the past 2 years, it's so easy to do and happens so gradually. This life may not be pretty a lot of the time, and everyone may not want to look at it or hear about it, but I have been reminded that hiding myself and my truth away does not help me - or anyone else - to heal. I need to be who I am, where I am, exactly how I am and to keep letting people into my life who can support that. I also need to make sure I am sitting with my pain and honestly seeing it too. I guess I just needed an army of other widowed people to help me remember that.

This experience definitely opened my eyes and made me realize that now, in my new life, this is a club I DO want to be a part of. And I plan to be, for a very very long time, coming back to Camp Widow each year. And I hope that next year - if it feels right for you - you will join me too.

Related Links:
Camp Widow

Happy

This past Saturday night, while at Camp Widow East in Tampa, Florida - I was sitting at one of the tables at the fancy banquet that Soaring Spirits throws for us during each of the camp events. I was talking to my friend Sarah (who writes in here each Sunday), whom I had been talking with in regular phone calls and online for months and months now, sharing our grief and our pain and our love for our partners with each other. She is someone I have cried with over the phone more than once, and there we were - sitting at the same table, in person, finally. The D.J. was playing music, and widowed people were starting to get on the dance floor. Sarah looked at me and said: "I think I'm going to request Happy by Pharrell Williams." My logical and cynical side went to my normal place of thinking I hate that song, and I began to cringe and roll my eyes, out of pure habit - but suddenly my mouth opened and I was saying words instead, and the words were: "I love that song!" Seconds later, when the song was being played, I found myself out on the dance floor, with Sarah and others, clapping along to the lyrics: clap along if you feel like happiness is for you. 

Here's the thing: the everyday me that has to live each breath with the loss of my husband in a world that seems to be surrounded by marriage and couples and love, truly hates that song. I hate the many, many people who tell me constantly, and nonchalantly, to just "Be Happy!" Every time someone says that to me, I want to punch them in their eyeball and then hit them in the groin with a piece of plywood, just for fun. It annoys me when people try and tell me how to feel. It annoys me even more when those people have no clue of what they speak. They have no idea of the complexities behind that statement. They have not a clue, what it takes in my new world, to simply just "Be Happy."

But in Florida, at Camp Widow, with my fellow widowed friends, dancing and singing and laughing and crying and not having to explain any of it ever - I was happy. I didn't even have to think about it. It just existed, and it was simple, and I was clapping to the idea of happiness being for me. It was for me at that time, and in that moment - happiness, like the song says, was the truth.

And that is the thing about being surrounded by a couple hundred widowed people at a place called Camp Widow - everything feels natural. Nothing is forced. Emotions happen the same way that breathing happens. We go to grief workshops or Round Table discussions, and we open up with complete strangers who seem like intimate friends. We have cocktails and sit by the pool and laugh and joke around together, and we sit inside each other's pain, and learn and grow and change from looking into the story of someone else and what they lost. We see ourselves more clearly and with better eyes, because those around us are willing to stare into the darkness with us. They get it. They see it, and they aren't running away.

This was my 3rd time attending and presenting my Comedy Workshop at Camp Widow. Each time I go, I come away with something new. Each time I leave, hope follows me like a shadow, and guides me back to my home. Each time I hear a widowed person laugh while I'm creating comedy out of my pain, I heal just a little bit more.

There are so many moments I could point to as highlights of the camp experience - endless, life-changing moments. But life is short, and this blog is getting too long; so for now, I will just say this:

It feels amazing to know that when surrounded by the right people, at the right time, in the right space - happiness is for me.

Pictured: me with Sarah Treanor. Our glass hearts, representing the love that we get to keep and take with us forever. 

Lesser Losses

When the children were small, I convinced Greg that we should get some pets so that the children could learn about life cycles early in life.  They would experience the love and  loss of a pet and understand that everything that lives must die.

So Greg captured some pullets from themany of chooks at the farm back in 2006.
These were hardy farm birds whose toughness was only matched by their wiliness in egg-laying.

Then we rescued a couple of extra chicks from a school hatching program who proved to be eggselent layers.  They formed our egg-laying flock who have been Queens of the yard for the past seven years.

Today, the second of those less-hardy younger hens was found dead in her pen.

The children found her and  cried, and to my surprise ... prayed. 
Their grief was so much more real than I could have expected given the losses they have already endured.

and I cried . ...... and swore.

Maybe its irrational, but I cried and swore that instead of being the soft-entry to the knowledge of life and death for our children that I had planned, so many beloved family members died in stark, brutal, heart-breaking ways before any of our pets.

My previously fit, healthy Father-in-law died from cancer in 2007.

My Mother-in-law died in 2009, also of cancer.  ..... and a broken heart.

Exactly one year to the day after his mother left us, Greg died.

Then my very elderly Nan died (not unexpectedly) in 2011.

So while today  I mourn the loss of a much-loved family pet*, it has brought back those memories of a time when the idea that any of our family could possibly die before a short-lived pet was unthinkable.

The irony.  Oh, the irony of it all.




* - I am not saying the loss of a pet is equal to that of a human. I love animals, but I love people more.