We Survived!

Whew! The march is finally over and G and I survived it.  I won't say it went with flying colors, but it went...just as it does every year.  Random sadness and grumpiness in the midst of the general happiness of our everyday lives.  I will admit it was easier because the backdrop is so happy...but it still hurt and it still sucked. 

The redeeming beauty of this year's march can be pinpointed to two specific moments in time. I was driving with G and we were talking about the last time he saw Daniel.  He'd forgotten some of the details, and seeing his smile as I described our last night together as a family was a beautiful, if more than a little heart breaking sight. 

Moment number two:  sitting with Carl on the back porch on the actual date of the last night before Daniel died.  I described the whole night to Carl and what we'd done (hospital dinner, watched Pimp My Ride...maybe we'd have watched something cooler in the hospital if we'd only known it was the last show...).  Carl listened to me and tried to understand my recollection and obvious angst over the date.  Most importantly, he really listened.  He sat with me.  He loved me anyway while I was sharing my sadness and bewilderment with him about another man he's never met.  He is amazing.

The march sucked.  It always does.  What didn't suck was how it reminds me of what is important.  How it illuminates for me the beauty of the people in my life.  It shows me how blessed I have been in spite of it all.

It's over, it will happen again next year.  I will not say I'm looking forward to it.  But I hope I find something positive in it again next year.

A song in my heart

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2 years.

Ugh. You'd think I would be getting used to this by now, but there is something so utterly wrong about those two words when they're in the context of death. The death of the man I loved more than anything. The death of my dreams. The death of a girl who would never be again.

This week I have felt the distance. I have felt the length of time. I have also felt the still very raw heartache that comes no matter how much time will pass. At least a hundred times a day, I'm trying to remember what I was doing exactly 2 years ago, trying to hold on to all the pieces leading up to Jeremy's death. 

Don't get me wrong, I've picked up a lot of pieces. My grief is no longer inward and isolated (most of the time), and I am able to smile when I see his face. I am thankful for the opportunity to still make Jeremy proud in this life and carry on his legacy through his stories and the lives of the three beautiful children he brought into the world. But there are some parts that just still hurt. 

One part I've noticed this in is singing. Singing was what brought Jeremy and I together (we met at an audition for an Acapella group in college) and it was something we were both passionate about. The night before he died, we had been at rehearsal for an instrumental worship service he and I were going to lead two days later. We never got to sing that night together and I can't remember the last time we were on stage singing together before that (in was likely the week or two before that, I just can't remember specifically). This kills me for some reason. 

This weekend, I was able to travel with friends to lead worship at a youth rally in Kentucky. It's been such a long time since I've been able to do that, I forgot how much I missed it. How much it ignites in me. How much I feel Jer's presence (and God's presence) when I go. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to get back up at our church to sing. It's too hard. Because Jeremy should be up there leading worship, and I should be standing next to him. It feels too different without him there.

That same night after rehearsal, we drove home for what would be the last time together. Tired and stressed from a 14 hour day for us both, way past the kids' bedtime, and ready to crawl into bed and call it a day, Jeremy reached over and grabbed my hand...

"I love to hear you sing. And I love getting to sing with you."

I will never forget that moment. It's a moment that I now look back at with foresight - a gift that Jeremy gave me to continue to pursue that passion even when it was hard, even when it hurt. I sang for him until I could sing for me again.  

Now I sing for us both, and I carry Jeremy in my heart whenever I do. Because he's a part of me, and now he's a song in my heart. There will be no singing this week, for my heart is heavy with the memory of my last moments with him 2 short years ago.

But the song is there, and it will return.

P.S. I would like to ask you all to pray for Jessica Woods, who became a widow today after her husband, Ryan, lost his battle with terminal brain cancer. They are a young family with young children, and they have lived an incredible story that will touch your heart. Please visit http://www.grassrootsconspiracy.com/blog/ and read about them and send some encouragement to Jessica and her family. 

Small Words ......

...... can add up to one powerful sentence.

Or two.

Monday I went to lunch with several friends.  We decided on Chinese.  The food was good.  The company was better.

At the end of the meal came the traditional passing around of the fortune cookies.  We always open our cookies and then take turns reading the "fortune" out loud to the others.  

This time there was one difference:  I didn't read mine and no one seemed to notice, for which I was glad.

It was a simple strip of paper.  With ten simple words.

Those ten words made two very powerful sentences:

I was stunned when I read those words.
And suddenly felt overwhelmed.
But in a good way.

And that surprised me.

If I had read those words in the first two years of my "after", I most likely would've felt stunned, overwhelmed and very, very grieved.
I could not have dealt with the thought that my happiness was not behind me.
Because behind me is where Jim is.
As is the happiness we had.
And that was all the happiness I would ever have.
Or so I thought.

But I was wrong.
Back then ...... so fresh in my "after".
And, even if it hurts to read this ...... so are you, if you think that all of your happiness is behind you.
I'd like for those words to give you hope, and not hurt.
But in the beginning ..... which lasts as long as it lasts for each person ...... just about everything hurts.

Even ten small words.

But now ...... now at almost 5 years in my "after", those ten words made me smile ..... not cry.
They reinforced the hope that has been planted in my heart.
Yes, they are only words.
No, I don't truly believe that fortune cookies hold the truth to my future ...... or anyone else's.

But I do believe in the power of those words.
And I believe there's a reason that they were in the cookie that I opened ...... and not in the eight others that were opened.

But what's more important, at least to me, is that that little slip of paper was powerful ...... but only partly true.
I do have happiness behind me.
And I treasure it.

But I also believe that I have much happiness before me.  I don't know what that looks like, but I do know that it's my choice.  If I choose to spend all of my time looking behind me, I'll miss out on all that is before me.
That doesn't mean that in order to be happy I have to stop looking behind me completely.  I don't.
I know that I can glance behind me, and yet stretch my hands out in front ..... to catch hold of the happiness that's there.
I can remember what I had, and yet look forward to what is yet to come ...... whatever that is.
I don't have to forget Jim ...... that's just physically impossible.  He's part of me, and will always be.
But I can take him forward with me ....... because he helped make the woman I am today.  And the woman I'll be tomorrow.

I am happy.
Now.
Where I am.

And I'll be happy in the future.
Because of the happiness and love I had in the past.
I know what's possible.

And I know that ten little words can pack a lot of power.
If I choose to believe them.

And I do.

Maybe I need a badge

Given the opportunity, I tell everyone I meet that I am a widow.
I'm not exactly sure why.

I've told family members, friends, workmates,  medical professionals, solicitors, ministers and all the obvious people normal people would tell straight away. 

But I've also been compelled to tell complete strangers that the love of my life has died and the light has gone out in my universe.

In the past week, I've felt the need to tell a bloke who had come to repair the front door , a woman who was looking over the hard garbage on our footpath and someone I struck up a conversation with while in the queue at the Woolies checkout.
 
Maybe I need them to know that I am suffering.
Maybe I want them to know I am suffering, but I am still standing.
Maybe I need them to know that I am incredibly strong, just because I didn't dive into that hole they put his coffin in.
Maybe I just need to tell me story over and over again just in case someone looks at me and says "Yeah - me too.  I thought I was the only one".

So I go on, telling my story to anyone who will listen. 
Hoping (but dreading) that I see that flicker of recognition in the eyes of someone else.
...and I can tell them they are not alone.
...and I can truly know that I am not alone either.

Plug-Ins

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The last few days have been a bit rocky, with a little depression and uncontrolled tears. It's a spiral down into a dark place. I can feel the shift happening in my brain, the language goes from "maybe, hope so, it's possible" to "never, it's hopeless, impossible".

It's not just missing the love of my life. That's bad enough.

It's a story I start telling myself about how lonely I am and how maybe I'll always be this lonely and that I'm not worthy of love and soon I'm imagining myself homeless and dead, alone.

I call it the death spiral and I think I stole that name from one of my favorite bloggers, Heather Armstrong from Dooce.com. She believes she has the fastest death spiral in the west, but I think mine might be a close second.

The way to stop my death spiral is to plug into life in some way: make plans with someone to do something fun, sign up for a class I've always wanted to take, drive somewhere I've never been, watch a ridiculous movie, even simply take a walk.

I have to snap myself out of a death spiral before it can take me to the very bottom, which is a scary, dark place to be. Even if I return to the death spiral a little after trying to plug in, usually the plug-in has already led me somewhere slightly better. It's reminded me of the bigger story - that there's life out there to live, beauty to see, and what's happened to me doesn't mean I died too.

I was rereading a post I wrote a while ago during another one of these spirals I had. I wrote about how I'd joined a choir, signed up for a cooking class and started a grief recovery class. I realize now that all three of those plug-ins helped draw me up and out of that black place.

And even better, they now continue to deliver little rewards, but I love going to choir practice most of all.

I have always adored choir music. There is something about many voices blending together beautifully that stirs my soul like nothing else.

The moment a choir begins to sing in the middle of a popular song (think Madonna's Like a Prayer or Pat Benatar's We Belong) the goosebumps break out all over me as my soul lifts right out of my chest and floats up out of me. Seriously, that's the best way I can describe how it feels.

I had always wished to sing in a choir but hadn't made it happen yet.

Suddenly, while in that particular death spiral, I felt my heart search for something that would lift it and "join a choir" popped into my mind. I see now how instinct took over and got me to where I needed to be for my own healing.

My heart needed to sing in a choir. Who knew?

Now, I look forward to Monday nights because that's when I find myself sitting alongside dozens of other women, blending my voice with theirs while all of our souls rise up together in harmony. It feels like my heart's been carbonated.

Every time I plug in to life again, the death spiral's hold loosens and I find reasons to live, a moment of joy or wonder, or a reminder of the ways I've actually got it good, despite my loss.

Sometimes the plug in has to be something very basic, like watching a 30 Rock marathon while snuggling with the cats and other times it's something a little more adventurous like joining a choir.

Either way, it gives my broken heart what it needs to heal and it short circuits the death spiral long enough to get my feet under me again.

My Birthday + Halloween = Life Insurance

Halloween 2004, two months after we got engaged

Today is my 32^nd birthday.

Its official, my birthday is the hardest event or holiday I go through without Seth.

Seth’s birthday is on the 24^th, so we always did a big, combined party.

It’s my 3^rd birthday without my husband.

My friends and family threw me an amazing party at my favorite bar.

The bar Seth and I always celebrated both of our parties at.

And even with it being my 3^rd birthday without Seth, I still expected to walk into the bar, and see his smiling face.

I walked into the bar, and was smacked with the reality, all over again, that my husband is dead.

He’s not here to celebrate with me.

I can’t throw him a huge party and spoil him with his favorite candy and beer.

Seth was always 2 years and 20 days older than me.

I am now 1 year older than him.

It’s so weird when I think about Seth’s age. He will always be 31 years old.

And I will always get older with each passing year.

We got our first snow fall in Utah. I walked outside at 6am, saw the snow, breathed in the cold air and let out a huge sigh of relief.

I have never been so happy to see snow and winter.

Summer was always my favorite time of year. Seth and I were always off doing something. Camping, backpacking, boating, playing at the lake for days.

Now summer is the hardest, most depressing time for me. Everything about summer reminds me of Seth. Reminds me of the times lost.

Winter has now become my favorite time of year. I guess it’s because I don’t have to deal with the death date, going camping without Seth, going to summer parties without him.

Winter doesn't remind me a whole lot of Seth. Sure, Christmas and Thanksgiving does, but nothing like summer time.

Halloween got me thinking about all the people that have passed. It got me thinking about what’s left in the wake of someone’s death.

It got me thinking about life insurance, and how badly I struggle financially.

I know what you are thinking. “Oh, I have $20k” in life insurance, we are fine!”

“We are too young to worry about life insurance”.

You are wrong. Dead wrong.

If you are married or have children, you need life insurance. And far more than $20k.

Please check your policies. Most of them have a suicide, drug or alcohol rider on them. Seth’s did.

Even if you think you or your loved one won’t die from suicide, drugs or alcohol, I would have your policy reviewed and possibly get a new one.

When I took out the policy on Seth, I didn't expect his death to be suicide. I also didn't think I would be widowed at 29 years old.

I never thought I would find myself in a position where when people ask me what I want for my birthday, I say “food”.

It was embarrassing and heart breaking. Despite my best efforts, financially, it’s a juggling act.

I wasn't prepared for a pipe to break and flood my neighbor’s basement. Leaving me scrapping together any cash I can find.

Looking back, I wish I knew. I wish I knew I would REALLY need that life insurance policy. I wish I wasn't naive enough to think that $20k was enough and that I wouldn't need that money any time soon.

Boy could I use that money now!

Please don’t leave your spouse or children in a position of where they have to ask for food as their birthday present.

Please.

Facing my birthday without my husband, scraping together money I don’t have to fix my neighbors basement, and having to ask for food for my birthday, add it all on top of each other, and it was a lot more then I could handle.

I have been in tears all week. Waiting for my party to arrive. The anticipation of knowing Seth wouldn't be there was extreme.

Knowing I would be walking into a party with friends and family, showing me pure love, but knowing the one person I wanted to see most, wouldn't be there.

Another birthday passed without my love.

Another night of fully enjoying myself, only to come home to an empty house and bed.

I have learned the difference between feeling alone and being alone.

Assume

"Assumptions bind us to the past, obscure the present, limit our sense of what's possible, 

and elbow out joy."~Sharon Salzberg

Assuming...ahhh what hell you have brought with thee...

Or should I say, I have brought myself.

It's in the assumptions that I have made of how things would be before Michael died, after he died, and in day to day life in general, that I, in retrospect, see that the core of my suffering has been rooted.

You assume certain people will always be there for you. You assume that as time goes by it would get easier (though it has...just not on my timeline). You assume that you can go forth on your journey without criticism. You assume...and you assume.

But then people fall to the wayside. It gets harder at moments as life goes forward. You receive unrelenting criticism...

The assumptions have caused me to not observe the now, the is, the way may be...so I'm taking a vacay from assuming...hand me the pina colada...it's a much needed vacation that I may never leave...

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