Safe Place

A view I got to see this weekend because I left my safe place

After Dave died and the shock wore off, the big world became a scarier place.

If he could be snatched away, what else could?

 If I stay close to home, says this fear-logic, I can somehow make sure the last remnants of that life won't disappear too. My cats will be safe, my home will be intact and no one can hurt me more than I've already been hurting.

I've pushed against those fears all along, though. In the beginning, it was easier. I had this wild the-worst-has-already-happened attitude until the shock wore off. Then, the fears began to fill the spaces in my mind, crowding themselves in, arguing over space.

What should I worry about now? Money? Being alone, possibly forever? Having no identity? Losing my in-laws, too? The cats dying too? My friends abandoning me? Hard to pick. How about I worry about them all at once? Yes, that's what we'll do. And then we'll never sleep again! Good plan.

It's as though the worrying alone might somehow keep me safe.

And yet, I've kept pushing, moving inexorably toward the scary stuff, though staying put would've been so much more comforting.

The problem is that the safety of my little microcosm - home, cats, my neighborhood - becomes a breeding ground for my insecurities. I get comfortable and I have my eye on everything I know. Nothing new. Nothing scary. I've got it all under control. I also don't make new friends, discover new talents or desires, or have new experiences.

I need my safe haven desperately, but using it to avoid real life can't be good. Sometimes it takes someone else to invite me out, but at least I'm getting out. Sometimes it takes a ton of discomfort, but I do it. I try out new things, meet  new people and go to new places, even though I almost need to be dragged.

I spend the first hour of any social gathering feeling completely out of place and painfully self-conscious. I imagine the worst possible outcomes of every new thing I want to try. Those art lessons will expose that I'm really not talented. That master's degree will be too hard for me, or it'll be the wrong field and I'll end up hating it. I'm always the one who knows the least number of people at these gatherings and I'll feel like a weirdo.

The doubts are illogical, unreasonable and just plain wrong, but they still crop up and whisper convincingly "stay safe, stay home, don't risk". Acting anyway is my strategy. Giving those whispers a gentle "fuck you, I'm doing it anyway", seems to be the way to go.

I'm not able to jump into every new experience that comes my way. I say no sometimes. I go all hermit-style for a few days here and there. But, eventually, I push back again and claim what's mine - a life. A life I get to continue to live when he doesn't get that opportunity.

I'll keep taking leaps despite my strangling fears and doubts. And then sometimes, I'll stay home where I feel really safe.

I just can't give in to the fears all the time. I'm bigger than them. I'm more real than them. And beyond those fears is a whole world waiting for me.

Survivors' Guilt

Source - I took this picture of the Tra Vigne winery, CA.

A couple of weeks ago I traveled to California to spend time with my best friend.

On one of the days I was there we went to tour a winery.

The winery was so beautiful. Of course the wine was amazing. The day was filled with love and laughter.

On the drive back to our hotel I was looking out the window.. taking in the beauty around me.

And it hit me..

It hits me every time..

The tears started falling.

Once again, my husband missed out on an amazing experience.

When I think about all the fun I had and all the fun my husband missed out on.. it leaves me in tears.

Every time.

It feels like every time I have an amazing day it is followed by pain.

Followed by a slap in the face that he is still dead.

Pain that my husband can’t experience these things.

Pain that I am having such an amazing time without my husband.

I've thought a lot about it. How come when an amazing day is winding down, night is setting in, my brain goes there?

It seems like I have some version of survivor’s guilt.

Guilt that I can actually live and love life.

Guilt that my husband couldn't see a reason to live another day.

Guilt that I am enjoying my life while my husband is dead.

It hurts. It bothers me that I have to have a melt down after an amazing day.

Three years out, when does the quilt subside?

When can I enjoy life without feeling guilty about it?

When can I stop feeling sorry for my husband?

After all, my husband decided to leave this life.. I did not make that decision for him. So why do I feel guilty for having fun?

Times like this I wish I could tell him "Do you see all the amazing things you are missing out on?? What the hell were you thinking??"

Survivor’s guilt. Three years out I am still learning about all the bumps in this road called widowhood.

Canary in a Coal Mine

Filling in for Taryn today is a post from Kim Hamer, who used to be our regular Sunday writer...this post she wrote in 2010 is so beautiful, I thought it was worth sharing again. ~M

I feel like a canary in a coal mine.

The sadness being the air that I sometimes think will kill me.

All week long the sadness has been spillozing out of me: hovering above me like my own personal little dampener, echoing at the end of my laughter, pushing through my sighs, sealing my senses shut for moments. It sneaks up on me, shouting “Boo!” or knocks gently on my bedroom door, “Can I come in?” (as if I said no, it would go away!) Or announces its presence with callers, trumpeters and confetti!

It shows up at Trader Joes as I reach for the milk, in the conversation with the Apple Care person or as I blow cool air over my hot tea. It shows itself when I find the hairbrush … in the refrigerator.

It is thick and … indescribable. My smiles come slower and never reach the normal height.

I remember when it arrived. It’s been longer than a week. It was a few days before Pallas’s birthday. I suddenly found the planning for her birthday to be not so hard as it was last year. There was surprise, pride and joy! I’m functioning! I turn to him to say “Hey, this birthday throwing thing isn’t so hard!”

Only he didn’t answer.

Later I look at Pallas. A low, heavy moan rose from my belly. “Oh honey. Damn it Honey. You’re missing this. You’re missing all of this! ….and everything else.”

That is when sadness slipped in, started to get thicker than it had been for months. The difference between now and last year is that I know there is no outrunning it. So I sit down and let it come. It finds me in places.

At Pallas and Ezra’s school holiday celebration,

When a tall man moved passed me and

for a brief moment

I thought

“Hi Honey.”

And like going directly to jail in Monopoly, I went directly to sobbing. (I didn’t know I could do that!)

It found me in an email from my mother-in-law

Acting as if everything was fine between us

Like nothing had happened at all.

It found me when I called after our mailman, running to give him his Christmas gift. “Arthur, wait!” I sang. I never called Art Arthur but the sadness didn’t care.

It found me at the ranch, where the kids and I are now

When I was walking by myself, from the main house to the house off the garage. I turned the corner and walked right into it’s soft, cushy, familiar, frightening deafness.

It found me in another email, this one from a neighbor reminiscing about seeing Art and the kids heading down the side walk towards his house for a swim.

That is where I am right now. Stuck in this sadness. It’s socked me in, layering around me. There is no escaping this. So I don't even try. I sit with it. I nod my head, I sigh, I cry. I have learned to keep walking. The direction I walk is not important. The sadness always has an end. I just need to get there.

----

My Person

My thoughts are all over the place tonight. Scattered in the air, like confetti. Sometimes I come in here, to this blog site, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to say. I want to say everything - and nothing. Tonight is one of those nights. So here are a few random thoughts that are on my mind right this minute. If I'm lucky, they will end up connecting to one another in some sort of mixed up, grief-hazed way.

It has become difficult for me to feel grounded. Ever. I think sudden death will do that to a person. Always feeling like something is about to happen. Something awful. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop ...

Finally found a doctor's office in NYC that takes new patients who don't have insurance. Because when you lose your husband with absolutely no warning, and you were on HIS health insurance - guess what? You lose your insurance. There goes that shoe dropping...

So I saw a doctor for the first time in almost 2 years. I got bloodwork done. Thyroid test, blood sugar test, Vitamin D test, cholesterol test - every test known to man. Everything came back normal. I showed the test results to my brilliant doctor friend Dave and asked him to give me a more detailed report, and he basically told me that all my numbers are outstanding. A normal person would be relieved and happy with this news. And I am. Partly. The other part of me is confused and stressed out. Everything is normal. So why do I feel like shit all the time? Why do my joints hurt like I'm 85 years old? Why does it feel difficult to climb stairs without labored breathing? Why do I get weird little pings and quick, sharp pains in and around my heart and chest? Why do my ribs always ache? Why do I never feel good? Why? 

People tell me "it's the grief" or "it's your weight". I am sure both of those things are true. Even so, I stress all the time that something is wrong with me. That I will have a heart-attack like he did, with no notice. No warning. No people around me when it happens. And then I stress some more, and then the stress causes other health issues to occur, and then that stresses me out more, and then people tell me not to stress about things beyond my control, and then I stress about trying not to stress, with the end result being that I'm very, very stressed.

So I saw the doctor. Other stuff happened too. I went on an audition for a TV role that I really, really want. I found out this week that an interview I went on to direct and help write/create a local theatre production that will be a huge Fundraiser for Cancercare, resulted in me getting the job.  Spent the last 2 days being sick with the flu at home, calling out of work from my teaching job, and living on peppermint tea, soup, and vitamin C tablets. My roommate is away for a week on a business trip, so I'm alone here. But even if she was here, she is not my husband, who was a paramedic by day, and the best "home nurse" to me by night, whenever I didn't feel well. Yesterday, when I just wanted to curl up in a ball and stay there until I stop coughing - I had to instead put some clothes on and walk down the street to spend money on cold medicine, tea, orange juice, cough drops, and other annoying items I didnt have in the apartment. And then later, last night, I had to pull my own blanket over myself and curl up in that ball alone and just cry.

The amount of times that my husband would run to the store for me - for something I needed - so I wouldn't have to - countless. How many nights he would gently cover me in a blanket and then lay down beside me and stroke my hair. Now - it's just me. And it sucks.

Tonight I watched the episode of Glee where they honored the late Cory Monteith, who played Finn on the show. The show's star, Lea Michele, plays the character Rachel on the show, who dated and almost married the character Finn. In real life, the actors Cory and Lea were together as a couple, and were to be married. And then he died this summer, of an apparent drug overdose. Watching that show tonight - and watching Lea Michele, the actor, play her scenes in the episode where she comes back to honor her love - I could see and feel that she wasn't acting at all. She was grieving. And it was so raw and so real, and right there on the TV screen for everyone to see. And lying there in my bed, alone and feeling sick with the flu and missing my husband with such intensity - and watching those characters, those real people who had lost their very real friend, sharing their vulnerable souls with the world - I caved. I sobbed. Then I sobbed some more. Been doing a lot of sobbing lately, and then I sob some more. I just miss him so damn much.

That is really what it comes down to sometimes. I just miss him, and there's not a damn thing I can do about that. It sucks when good things happen. It sucks when bad things happen. It sucks to be sick and not have your love here to make your tea, or to give you a kiss goodnight anyway because he "doesnt care if Im contagious." Like Lea Michele's character Rachel said in tonight's episode: "He was my 'person.'" Life is just not the same without my person.

I guess I will go to bed now, and hope that tomorrow feels better than today. Although if something good happens and I do feel better, he wont be here to share it with, so that will suck too. Maybe I'll just eat a bag of Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips and call it a day.

You see? I told you my thoughts were all over the place tonight. I warned you. And so now you know.

The End.

I can't remember if I remember

I wrote this post on my personal blog back in April of 2012, but it was ringing in my ears this week, as I was trying to remember details and was getting frustrated about the pieces I couldn't recover. 

source

I had a horrifying experience this week:

I couldn't remember.

It started with a drive to meet my sister-in-law in Canada. The drive was a familiar one that I've taken with Jer hundreds of times through the years. Suddenly and unexpectedly, but like a familiar wave of grief, I was struck with tears realizing I would never take the drive again with him. Then I started to try and remember all the different drives I had taken with Jeremy over the years on that road. I remembered very little, which bothered me, but that wasn't the problem.

I then started trying to think about what it felt like to hold Jeremy's hand in the car like I had so many times before. But instead, all I could remember for that little while was holding my brother's hand in the hospital as he slipped away from us, and the second I noticed a change in his hands and knew that he was gone. And like the wave, I was covered in tears. Tears for my brother, who I've been missing so much the last few days (well, ever since I saw my nephew last weekend and his resemblence to my brother was so eery and heartbreaking for me) and tears for the fact that I couldn't get myself to remember was it was like to hold my husband's hand.

I started to go back to all those familiar moments that I think about often. Like the night before he died - him holding my hand on the way home, telling me how much he loved to hear me sing....I tried to remember past what I normally thought about, maybe some other details I missed before and I couldn't. Then I started to doubt the memory. It feels so distant - did that really happen? Do I actually remember it or is it just because I thought about it so many millions of times that it has become a habit instead of a memory? It was truly horrifying to feel like my memories were slipping further away from me just like Jeremy was.

Luckily, it was fleeting. Sometimes, all it takes is a picture of his jaw line or crooked smile to bring all those things back. Or a random hot day where the smell of sweat suddenly made me miss his salty kisses in the middle of the afternoon on a lunch break. Or sitting with Steve, playing with his ears, and remembering how different it felt to play with Jeremy's. I remember with such detail praying every day that I never forget.

I'm a Professional ......

...... Griever.  No kidding.  It seems that I can reach into someone's deep, dark and cold grief and speak to them.  I can tell them what I see in that blackness, which is really telling them what I see.
Or more precisely, what I saw.
I know that I'm not the only one who can do this.  I've seen, and read, many of you doing it for others, too.  I guess it comes with the territory.

I'm certain that if someone would've told me 6 years ago that I would have this "gift", I would've either ran in the opposite direction to get away from the crazy person ...... or I would've called the men in the white coats to come take her away.
Because seriously?
Who wants to be a professional griever??

While I may not like that role, or the reason I have it, I'm starting to recognize that this role is more of a blessing than it is a drain on me.
It blesses others, which blesses me.

And today I found out that I don't need to limit it to widowed people.
Other people grieve, too.

One such person is my 21 year old middle son.  He has just found out that a relationship he thought he'd have for the rest of his life ...... is over, never to be started up again.

This child has always been challenging to raise, and challenged by life.  Nothing has come easy for him, especially since his dad died.  He has fought fiercely to walk to the beat of a different drummer ...... which has sometimes caused our relationship to be fierce.
Fiercely strained and yet fiercely loving.
And he has fiercely struggled.

I think most mothers are strong people.  Parenting is not for the faint of heart.  When your child is hurting, physically as well as psychologically, the pain you feel is excruciating. Your job has always been to help your child, and to keep them from getting hurt when they're small.
When they're older and they hurt in a way that we cannot fix, we struggle with feeling like we've failed them.

Since Jim's death, it has slowly become clear (to me at least) that this child is depressed.
Over the last several years,  I have broached the subject of medication with him.
He has consistently resisted my thoughts and advice about looking into anti-depressants.
And that has been infuriatingly frustrating.
Frustrating for an only parent who hurts for her child ...... and who knows that had Jim not died that Christmas season ......  my son would not have struggled quite so fiercely.

He has been beyond depressed this week.  Yesterday was the first time he allowed me to sit and talk with him about it.
You all know the signs.  He can't eat, and if he tries to force himself to eat something, it doesn't stay down.
He can't focus on anything, other than the pain he's feeling and the future that dissolved in a moment.
The tears and the anger come in waves, sometimes crashing down on him at the same time.
This has brought back the cold, dark memories that I hate to remember ...... the days of feeling those waves and the strength of the undertow and barely managing to get enough air to breathe, or strength to keep swimming.

His grief is different than mine, and yours, in many ways.  The loss is not the same.
But at the age of 21 he can't see that.
And really, grief is grief.
And loss brings grief.

Today I sat next to him as he lay on his bed in a fetal position, crying.
It was awful.
I knew that he thought I couldn't understand.
So I began to tell him exactly where he was.
"Son, you are in the deepest, darkest cave you've ever been in.  It's very cold and it's beyond dark.  It's inky black.  You can't see your hand in front of your face, let alone the future you had planned.  No one is with you in that cave.  You're in the very deepest part of it, alone.  You can't see any light, so of course you can't see any way out of it.  You think that this is always where you'll be......always how you'll feel.
Does that sum it up for you?", I asked him.

He had slowly calmed down as I spoke.  When I asked that last question, he looked into my eyes and I could see a glimmer of relief in there.
"Yes.", he said.  "That's where I am and that's how I feel."

I looked at him for a moment or two, and then whispered, "Honey, I was in that cave."
Those words seemed to reach him.  He looked at me with different eyes.  Or maybe he looked at me like I was a different person.  But in that moment, he knew that I had, indeed, been in the inky-black cave of grief ...... and that I had made it out.

I started telling him all of the things I've told so many of you,
"You will NOT always feel this way."
"This is grief.  I can't carry you out of it, but I will be here to walk beside you, no matter how long it takes."
"Put one foot in front of the other and before long, you'll be in the middle of the cave and then you'll be able to see that it's lighter there.  And that discovery gives you energy to keep walking forward."

For the first time ever, he really heard me as I talked about grief.  And for the first time EVER, he agreed to start anti-depressants, which he did.
One day at a time.

I pray that he's able to keep moving forward.  His young life has been full of so much hurt, the biggest hurt being the death of his dad.
And while he and I both know that there's nothing I can say or do to take the pain away, he now knows that I "get it".  He's daring to hope that this dark cave will not always be his home.
And he knows that I'm here and will do my best to always be here to give him strength and to remind him that things will get better and life will get easier.

I know that my passion, here in my "After", is to help other widowed people know that they aren't crazy, but just very normal.
I never expected (or wanted) to be able to share that passion with one of my children.
But I'm glad I did.  His grief and my grief helped us grow closer today.  He knows that I get it and he knows that I know what I'm talking about (a feat that sometimes takes many, many years, and a couple of grandchildren(!), for our children to find out for themselves).

Who would've thought that my grief, my time in a deep, black, cold cave, would turn me into a professional griever?  And one who may be able show her children (though I hope that none of them know the grief that we know here) that she "gets it".

I'm just glad that I do have the ability to relate to others who grieve and to help them feel hope is out there.
Because when that happens, it's like Jim is here with me, encouraging me to use what I went through to help others.
And when that happens, I know that his death has not only brought about deep, dark grief, but it's also brought goodness.  Any time I can reach someone down in that cold, dark cave ...... I feel blessed.

And close to professional.
:)

What I Still Believe

Sorry friends, me again!! 

Since I am filling in for Amanda today, I thought I'd share with you the remarks I plan to make today at the Ventura County Board of Supervisors meeting. Supervisor Peter Foy has asked me to speak at the beginning of the meeting to summarize why I founded Soaring Spirits, and share the work we do. I love the opportunity to share our mission with a new group of people (another chance to change the way widowhood is viewed by the general public), but rather than just talk about what we do, I think I will share with them why I do it, and also a bit about how becoming widowed changed the way I view my life. It seems to me that death violently shakes our belief system, whether we follow a specific religion, adhere to a certain code of ethics, or don't believe in an afterlife at all, grief asks questions for which there are no answers, and each of us has to find our own way to making peace with the uncertainty that follows the loss of someone we love. 

What I share here are the guiding principles that have been filtered through my grief experience. These are the ideas and values that have stood the test of losing the man who was supposed to be my forever. In sharing these thoughts my hope is not to convince anyone to believe what I believe, but rather to encourage those who hear (or read) these words to spend some time thinking about what they value most, and then live their lives accordingly.

So, wish me luck, friends. I should be delivering the remarks below at about the time many of you are reading this blog!

                                     *****************************************

As a young woman entering into adulthood with lofty goals, sterling ideals, and great hope for the future I could have easily created a long list of my personal beliefs. This list would have included ideas about both the tangible and the intangible; broad concepts and specific ideals; God and mortal beings. There would probably even have been a mention of death and eternity...but only in the abstract because my beliefs about death were untested until August 31, 2005.

My husband’s untimely death in a tragic accident turned my personal credo upside down. The day I lost my husband was the same day that theory became reality, and faith became more than just a concept to which I paid lip service. Grief is the ultimate test of faith. Faith requires trust. Death robbed me of the sense of security on which trust is so often based, making the idea of trust incomprehensible. And the whole vicious circle renewed itself daily as I tried in vain to determine why I was living a sorrow filled nightmare. My inability to escape the reality of widowhood forced me to evaluate my idealistic beliefs and determine whether they could withstand the blinding glare of grief.

As the reality of my husband’s death set in, I began to imagine the following personal truths as tall pillars that I view through a cloud of dust and rubble created by a major earthquake. Though everything around these support beams has fallen, they miraculously remain. I rub my eyes to look again, because for any structure to survive an earth shattering experience of this magnitude seems impossible...and yet these columns stand tall amongst the debris of loss and grief.

I believe in everlasting love. I believe that God is not a being who resides in a structure, but a spirit who lives in the hearts, and hands, of loving people. I believe that the length of your life is not an indication of your impact on the world. I believe that time is indeed a gift. I believe that human beings have the power to heal each other. I believe that shared experience can bond individuals in a unique and life changing way. I believe that our lives are a tapestry and each experience, wonderful or terrible, adds richness to the final fabric. I believe that tomorrow is only a dream. I believe that life is too short to hold grudges. I believe that people are inherently good. I believe that buying lemonade from my daughter at her new job is more important than spending an extra hour at my own work. I believe that the people who come into my life do so for a reason. I believe that kindness changes lives. I believe that this too shall pass. I believe that life is a gift, but like all gifts must be opened to be appreciated.

These are a few of the pillars that have survived my personal earth quake. I lean on them when I feel unable to stand. When grief occasionally stirs the dust of sorrow, I look for them to steady my course. My widowhood experience has taught me that when faith requires me to walk forward blindly; those pillars will guide the way.