Stormy Weather

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Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain't together,
Keeps rainin' all the time

- Stormy Weather, Billie Holliday

As I type this, not one, but two hurricanes are barreling their way towards the Big Island of Hawaii, where I live. Honestly, I really just found out about all of this on Tuesday. Since Mike died, I don't get the newspaper anymore, nor have I been watching much television news. I'm not sure exactly why. When he was alive, we were both on top of happenings and events, both worldwide and local. Without him around to share it with, it all just seems...meaningless. Or maybe, just too much to handle on top of everything else.  Maybe the additional burden of the possibility of having to survive a long emergency without him is something I just haven't had the mental stamina to anticipate. But suddenly, I am reminded that the storms will come whether I'm ready for them or not.

It makes me think too...people die, whether we're ready for them to or not.

Mike was super into disaster preparation. And when he was alive, I was too. Especially after the tsunami hit here, we carefully prepared for any other possible ensuing emergency. My garage is still full of all kinds of things - food, water, camping gear... together, we felt like we could weather whatever might come. With him, anything seemed like an adventure. I felt safe with him. I trusted he would take care of me, no matter what. Yes, I do have family and friends, both old and new, and good neighbors I can rely on if need be. But there was just no one like Mike. Anyone who knew him, or even knew of him, knows that as well. He himself was a force of nature. He was like a one man army, and that is no joke.

So it seems like the ways to miss him just keep coming. But thanks to his support and my own work the years before he died, I am physically prepared for these hurricanes, as much as I can be. I have plenty of stored materials to survive far longer than the one week they suggest. And historically, hurricanes like this tend to weaken considerably once they near the island because our tall mountains break them apart relatively quickly. But a lot remains to be seen from these two incoming tempests, as I'm writing this. I just hope the concern on the faces of our state officials is unwarranted. O.O 

Being psychologically prepared for disaster without Mike is another matter entirely, especially given how I've stuck my head in the sand since he died. But I remember that when he was alive, we would have anticipated the storms on high alert and with a sort of adventuresome spirit, setting out our solar lanterns and tarps, and getting our backgammon game ready. So after much thought the past few days, I've decided I will do just the same. In a sense, I've been weathering a storm already. These coming hurricanes have made me realize that I've spent the past nearly 18 months gathering the psychological and spiritual supplies to survive a personal disaster I hadn't anticipated. 

So bring it on, storms. I'm already weathered, tarped, prepped, tested, waterproofed and bolted down. You cannot move me, and I'm not afraid of you.

Yes, You~

to those of us left behind
standing amidst the ashes that remain
atop the skeletons of our lives and ourselves.

to those of us left behind
who struggle with unseeing eyes blinded by grief
and limbs made heavy with exhaustion
and shattered souls
uncertain about...everything.

to those of us left behind
who must learn to live in the without
and open our hearts to life
when all that is in us begs to close those very hearts.

to those of us left behind
who loved so deeply and so passionately
whose lips whisper names into the darkness
of the soul and heart and body
and hear only an echo.

to those of us left behind
who stagger through each moment and each hour
of every day and night
as the months pass by and the sharp blades of a love gone
cut and shred.

to you, to me, to us
left behind but left behind
with the love that can and will and must
become bigger than the absence of those who
have gone beyond our reach.

to we who grieve the grief of a lover gone
and slowly dance our spirit dances and speak their names in our hearts
as our hands and souls entwine with theirs 
and our bodies search and our minds question and the deepest part of ourselves
burn and become determined and we become Love in remembrance of the love 
we once held close.

to those of us left behind
searching the heavens, finding our footing, seeking,
gasping, breathing, 
being.

Chicken and Lime

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Some of the things I regret around Ian's death feel exceedingly odd.

Nothing about how we managed his care, death or funeral.

But not getting his chicken, lime and coconut milk curry recipe out of him...  THAT has bugged me beyond belief.

That was his signature dish,  the one he pulled out when we had company.  It's what he made me the first time he invited me over for dinner.  I didn't need to know the recipe - it was his thing.  I actually doubt he would have given it to me.

Here's the thing.  I can't actually remember what Ian's version tasted like.  He'd not made it for quite a while before he got sick, so that memory has faded.

During the week, a friend gave me some limes of her tree. And I'd already been thinking about this recipe more and more recently, as John can now handle those more liquid curries without making too much mess. 

So on the very, very limited information I had... I gave it a crack, even though I was quite scared to.

Chicken, lime juice, fresh chili, coconut milk, spring onion.  That's all I had to go on.

Seeing as though I don't remember what it actually tasted like, I added some other Thai herbs, some fish sauce and palm sugar, since they seemed to fit the profile.

And it worked.  It rang some taste-bud bells. Not one hundred percent because a three year old would not accept Ian's degree of heat (neither did I, quite frankly), and it was a different variety of lime than Ian used so I think that's part of it, but what I tried was a good start and something else from Ian I can pass on to John as he gets older.

What now?

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My brain is still more disorganized than it was before Dave died. I marvel in an almost morbid way, at the dementia-like symptoms I still exhibit. They'd be funny if they weren't so embarrassing and worrisome. I wish I could laugh them off but I feel shame about them. I feel like there's something wrong with me. I feel like I'm in a state of mild to moderate disorientation WAY too often.

I was talking with my guy the other day about a friend of his, Charlie, who was coming to town and how we'd go out to dinner with him when he was here. In the pause between that conversation and the next, I looked at my calendar to confirm that evening was free and saw "Charlie" in my calendar as an appointment for that day. "Who's Charlie?" I said "And why is his/her name in my calendar?" In a matter of seconds, I'd forgotten what we were just talking about.

Poor guy must've thought he was losing his mind too, hearing me say that. Turns out I had added his name to my calendar when we first discussed this dinner a week or two ago and forgot about it. Then, I was actually able to not make the ends meet up in my mind RIGHT after discussing it again. It was like a completely clean slate.

How frightening. A good friend of mine said that in the year or so after his wife died, he told his therapist he thought he might have brain damage to which his therapist responded that it was completely normal.

It is a form of damage to the brain. Trauma is. It's what happens when our brains try to comprehend that which simply doesn't make a bit of sense. We have to make sense of something we can never make sense of.

Maybe my symptoms are more about low blood sugar, a ditzy brain in general, lack of sleep, or too much on my mind (I am an introvert after all), but I suspect I still have some damage from the trauma. There's still a part of my mind trying to make sense of something when I'll never be able to.

After experiencing too many deaths of my most important people, I've had enough trauma to the brain to warrant some episodes, but they don't cease to worry me.

I feel I can't trust my mind. I've taken to writing most things down, but I forget to write them down sometimes. So I forget to write down what I'm afraid I'll forget. Awesome.

I've considered just writing a daily record of where I went and what I did with accompanying reminders and to-dos so I can go back to it to find the threads and tie them up, but that hasn't happened yet. I'm too scattered and not disciplined enough.

I'm prepared for the fact that my brain might never be the same, but I hope I find some relief in the years to come. For now, it's a chance for me to work on accepting myself with all my flaws and allowing myself room to be forgetful and confused without feeling unworthy or shameful.

I'm intelligent AND forgetful. I'm bright and disorganized. I'm capable and I fuck up. It's not either or.
And anyway, I provide some entertainment for those who get to witness my "moments".

People who spend time with me get to learn to be patient with people with memory problems. You're welcome.

The Away Letters: Finding a Way

When he left for the trip he never returned from, we began writing letters to each other. Despite the fact that we also talked on the phone every night, we wanted to have the letters as a reminder of these times. Neither of us ever knew that he'd not make it back from that first flying contract. Neither of us knew we would only exchange three away letters between us before the accident happened. But I’ve been writing to him still, for the past two years, all along. Most of the time in my journal. But every now and again, I share them...

"Today was one of those days I really wished you were here for all number of reasons. Around noon, I realized suddenly that I had completely forgotten about the deadline for an art show I was entering. I rushed to get my three photos matted and framed, shoved them in the back seat of your truck, and took off to New Braunfels. I got them there in time. I did. In fact with an hour to spare. But I was so beside myself by the fact that I had been planning to get this done today for days in advance and then somehow, as I woke up in the morning it was completely wiped from my memory. It reminded me of how my mind still doesn’t work as well as it used to when you were alive and around. It’s so frustrating. I never know when or what I will forget. And it reminded me how – if you were here – you would have remembered for me just in case. You always held me accountable like that, and always cared enough to make note of the important things in my life. I really miss that, you know. I do.

The other big thing about today was that it was the last day to hear back from the Badlands National Park about the artist residency I applied for. And I heard no word back. I was so very hopeful and have waited almost two months now to hear about this opportunity. It’s been such a long time to wait in anticipation. I know you would understand, because you know it’s been a dream of mine for many years to work in one of the parks. I hate that you aren’t here today – for either side of the outcome. I hate that you aren’t here to congratulate me had it happened… and I really hate that you aren’t here to make me feel better about not getting accepted. I know you, and you’d have taken me out for a nice dinner either way – rejected or accepted – to celebrate me. To make me feel special, and to remind me to just keep trying and never give up.

No one else in my life even realizes what a hard day it has been to not hear back about this opportunity. Most of them don’t even know today was an important date for me to begin with… because they aren’t part of the “us” that was you and I. I don’t hold that against anyone, it isn’t their job to remember all these things. It was our job to remember them about each other. It’s just really hard not having you here sometimes to pick me up the way you always did so well. I keep trying, and I keep pushing and I keep living. But it's really hard not being part of a team anymore like we were.

On my drive home, I tried to think of what I could do since you aren’t here. How I could make myself feel special tonight. I didn’t very well want to go out to a fancy dinner alone! So instead, I bought myself flowers at the store, and some sushi, and okay… I admit it, my own personal and delicious piece of cookie cake. Because who can be upset when you are stuffing your face with cookie cake right? And even if I do sit and cry all over it… well, at least I am freaking eating cookie cake! I can feel you smiling already. Patting me on the back a bit, for finding some way through it "like you always do" you'd say. I tell ya, it’s sure not easy without you. But somehow, I find a way. "

Running on empty

Do you know that saying 'running on the smell of an oily rag'? Maybe it's an Australian thing, but it's the best description I can think of to explain how I'm feeling today.  I'm exhausted and my tank is low. My 'refuel' light is flashing and I need to pull up and refuel.

So, I'm trying to lay low this weekend and as much as I want to pour my heart out here and write about this past week, the first anniversary of Dan's funeral and what it's been like to creep into my second year, I just don't have the energy to scrape it together. I'm sorry, I take my commitment to Widow's Voice very seriously and I promise I'll be back next week, pushing the limits of my word count.

In the mean time I thought I'd share an extract from my personal blog that still applies to how I feel today. Thank you for checking in and remember - it's ok to put your own needs first sometimes, in fact, it's essential. I know you guys get it. 

"Most days I don't really think about HOW my husband died anymore. The shock of his suicide has eased and now my pain is mainly focused around the loss of him, how much I miss him and my sadness for the life we should be living.

There are still days, however, where it creeps in to my mind or I find myself needed to share my story and as I get to 'that' bit... the uneasiness in my stomach grows again.

This morning I saw a health professional and as we discussed the stress I've been under due to my personal circumstances, it became relevant to explain the trauma around his death.

After all this time, I still stumble with the details and struggle to deliver it gracefully. 

It seems so inadequate to just say 'he took his own life'. 

He deserves more than this, he was so much more than 'just' a victim of suicide and I feel compelled to try and explain his actions. 

The most adequate explanation (short of spending a good 20 minutes going through what a brilliant, good-hearted, thoughtful, caring man he was) seems to be along the lines of: 'he had depression, we had no idea how badly... His symptoms were predominantly memory loss and inability to focus, so he became convinced he was developing dementia and, during a suspected psychotic episode, took his life to save us from having to care for him.'

But the truth is, this is merely the picture I ended up with from the prices of the puzzle that I could pull together. Pieces like: the beautiful, heart-felt note he left me; conversations we had about how scared he was by his symptoms, as well as those he had with his doctor; the assumption by police that his death was not planned or pre-meditated, but carried out in a state of detachment; and the undeniable fact that he adored me, and would never have wanted to willingly cause me this pain.

However I will never truly know what happened in his head that day. There will always be questions that creep in when I let my guard down. I will never fully understand the 'why's, no matter how much I try to help others understand and accept.

Maybe the best I can hope for is to find peace in knowing I will never know, and one day I won't need to ask the questions anymore."

Boomerang

I feel honored to be a part of this special writer's club that gets to speak and type my voice on this blog.
I really do.
I am one of seven voices, and that feels really nice, that people would even be interested in hearing or reading what I have to say.

But sometimes,
Sometimes I feel as if I am typing into a great big void of nothingness.
Sometimes I put my heart and soul into this blog, and then I notice that nobody has commented.
Or maybe three days go by and only one or two comments, after I painstakingly spent hours trying to formulate how to use my words, and what to say in just the way it needs to be said.
In my mind, which is constantly in panic mode and on fast-forward, this lack of comments means that nobody cares at all what I write or say. It means that I am talking to a wall, which I do a lot of anyway. I just don't type it out. It means that I start doubting myself and questioning myself and my validity. Who the hell do I think I am anyway? Why am I writing about this stuff - as if Im some authority on grief emotions or being a widow? Why would anybody stop to read my silly words? 

It's a dangerous cycle, and it all starts and ends inside my own brain.
I am a writer.
I am a comedian.
Us creative types, we tend to get our feelings hurt very easily. We tend to assume things. We tend to care way too much about what other people think of us. We tend to have a tough exterior, but often feel like we are cracking open on the inside. All of these traits are brought forth and multiplied by ten thousand, when you lose your life partner to death. No longer do I have that person who loved every single thing I wrote, acted in, or performed onstage. No longer do I have my biggest fan, waiting for me with flowers and a card and lots of long warm hugs. No longer do I have that person who would sit and ead every article, blog post, or review I ever wrote - and then quote me back to me, reciting out loud to me all his favorite parts of what I had just written. No longer do I have my boomerang. Now? I put something out there, I'm taking the very big chance that nothing comes back.

It hurts.
Hurts my ego. Hurts my soul. Makes me doubt.
But that is all on me. These are my own issues. I realize this.
I'm working on it. I really am.
I'm working on being really, totally, really, actually okay with just knowing that what I wrote was good and truthful, and if nobody responds, that is okay.
I'm working on it.
But I don't feel it  yet.
Not yet.
I still miss my boomerang.