Too busy

I have report cards due in the next few weeks. 
Work is hectic as we finish up assessing where the kids are at. 
Home is stressful as my own kids finish off assessments that their teacher need to assess (but DON'T get me started on teachers who allow assessments to be done at home in primary school and just how many parent's are earning their kids' grades).

I am busy pretty much all of the time right now.

....and while I am not stressed (at this stage), I am also so busy that I have not had any time to just sit and miss him.

I feel distant from him, when I had been feeling like he was so connected to us that I could almost feel him next to me.  I had been just starting conversations with him when I was alone, feeling like it was not a one-sided thing.

....and I need to get that feeling back before I crash and burn later....

I need to remind myself that I was (am) loved by the most remarkable man. 
A man who I trusted with my heart and soul. 
A man whose love for me was bigger than anything I can imagine.

So on the weekend, I will make a time between marking report cards and cleaning the house where I can go outside, sit in the sunshine and just be with my memories of Greg.
Where I can feel his hand on my shoulder and his whisper in my ear and remind myself that I am still loved.

Power

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In my experience front loading washing machines are pieces of shit. The one I inherited from the previous homeowners was leaking water from the door the other day (obviously). When are these things not being problems? 

Maybe it was my recent return to single-land or maybe it was my stubborn streak, but I decided I would NOT hire someone (most likely a man) to fix that machine. I would do it MYSELF, dammit.

So, I used the internet to find out what was wrong, order the new part and replace the old one. It took several trips to Home Depot for the right clamps to get one component of the new part installed and tons of cursing, smashing fingers, a few tears of utter frustration and maybe $150. I probably wouldn't have paid much more if I'd hired someone and I'd have had it done faster and with no struggle on my part, but I did it myself and no amount of money can buy me that kind of power.

Losing Dave has threatened my sense of power in so many ways. It felt powerless to watch him die. It felt powerless to start a life without him. It felt powerless to call out for him when I most needed him, only to realize, a thousand times a day, that he was never coming back.

To feel power again is so important. To feel in control of something when so much is completely out of my control is a big deal. It's worth it and I don't feel it that often. I miss it.

But when I closed that washer door, turned on a cycle and sat back to watch my handiwork do its thing, I felt it. I felt the power of fixing something broken and making it right again. It's a washing machine, but I'll take what I can get.

I think this power thing is at the root of a lot of my struggles right now. Instead of righteous anger or a feeling of powerful strength within, I feel helpless and frustrated. And what do I do when I feel that way? I cry.

While I get that crying is not a sign of weakness, it does sometimes get old. Being flooded with emotions that force buckets of tears from my eyes makes me feel powerless and beyond rational thought. I'm all raw emotion and can't think straight.

Taking back some power might be nice. I don't quite know the path to this yet, but I imagine it's small triumphs like this one that will slowly slowly get me there.

Saying Goodbye.. Again

The last picture taken of me and my best friend.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my dog being diagnosed with cancer (I wrote about it here)

Tuesday, the day after my birthday I had to kill put my best friend to sleep.

I am in shock. I am devastated. Three weeks after his diagnoses he went from being fine to not eating and his eyes rolling back in his head.

Nine years and one day after my husband gave me Clifford for my birthday..  I had to let go.

I had to say goodbye.. again.

I wasn't ready to let go.. again.

Yet no matter how much I fought it or how much it hurt, I had no say in it.. again.

Piece by piece, day by day, moment by moment, I lose another piece of my husband. I lose another piece of my before life.

Step by step I walk through a more than ever empty home.

Just when it feels like I have nothing else to lose, I lose my best friend.

The friend that never cared what I look like. Never cared if I can’t manage to get out of bed or not. Never cared if I was deep in grief. He always loved me. Loved me more than he loved himself.

Three years later I am saying goodbye all over again.

Three years later I feel like I am starting all over.. again.

My husband dying piece by piece never gets easier.

Saying goodbye and moving forward never gets easier.

Pain

“Which do you want: the pain of staying where you are, or the pain of growth?”- Judith Lasater

 

I know that pain is inevitable.

In a way, it is something to be looked forward to.

But, damn, it still hurts.

Causes stress.

Doubt.

Fear.

But like building muscles, we must first be broken down to have the ability to come back stronger than we were before.

I've been reminded of that this past week, not so much in myself (though it is a ever-occurring thing), but in the externals.

With that discomfort has come moments of feeling drained, irritable, and STRESSED.

Basically, not feeling like the me I've acclimated to since turning the corner in my journey.

It's been a time where I've had to remind myself of what all of this "breaking down" is "building up" for in my life and endeavors.

It's painfully exciting.

Exhaustively necessary.

Overwhelmingly due.

Sometimes just typing it out is all I need to remember those facts.

I Didnt Know

I did not know that it was possible to miss someone this much. 
I mean - I actually, really, honestly, did not know.

I had no idea that I would go see a production of the hilarious play Noises Off tonight, put on by the Theatre Department at the University I teach at; and laugh so hard that my ribs hurt, and then get in my car just a few minutes later, and suddenly be sobbing.

Sobbing because I used to take that ride back home with my husband, and he would be the one driving, and he would pull up the car to the performing arts building for me so I wouldn't have to walk in the rain to the far away parking lot, and then we would talk excitedly all the way home about how much we loved that play.

I did not know that the silence inside that car, and the absence of those conversations and those late-night theater reviews, would be so haunting and so painful and so unbelievably present. That the rain and the drive home alone would depress me so much, or that hearing one of my colleagues say: "That was great. I'm coming back again tomorrow with my wife" would feel like a knife twisting inside of my soul.

Innocent moments. Tiny things. Ginormous things. Small fragments. Friends. Phrases. Movies. Sporting Events. Food. A scent or a look or a weather pattern - I did not know that any or all of these things plus many many more, endless things - would have such a deep and profound effect on me, all the time, everyday that I live. I didn't know.

Why didn't anyone tell me? Shouldn't that be included in the "So You're A Widow" pamphlet? Might I have received some sort of directions or input on what to expect of some of the things that would be unexpected? No. Nobody thought of that. Nobody knew.

If I only knew, before I knew, sooner than I knew, what I now know today - I know this would be a lot easier to crawl through. Wouldn't it?

Maybe not. Probably not. Who the hell knows? Do you know? I don't know. And if I did know, I might not even tell you, because you wouldn't get it. Until, of course, you did get it. And then we would both know, more than we knew, back when we didn't know.

I miss the days of not knowing, all the many things, I did not know.
You know?

When words are not enough

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This Saturday marks 3 years since Jeremy took his last breath.
How can that possibly be?

Every year, I am in awe of how crazy it seems that so much time has passed, and yet how far away it seems when so much life has been lived in between. I have truly experienced more in the past 3 years than most people do in a lifetime. Since Jer died, I've bought 2 houses, purchased a new vehicle, traveled all over the country, lost and gained friends, dated and remarried, blended a large family, moved out of state, had a baby without his daddy, and am preparing to have another child with another man. Surely these things couldn't possibly describe MY life...

And yet, no matter how much life has been lived since I've seen Jeremy, the weight of the hole he has left in my life is still so evident, and still a very painful reality I face daily. The last several weeks have been especially hard for me. Part of it is because I now grieve so far away from his family and friends, far away from the life I shared with him, and far away from where I can feel his presence. I feel so far removed. I ache to hold on to pieces of him during this season. Part of it also is from the fact that the closer I get to delivering, the more terrified I feel. Pregnancy hormones alone could do me in, but the sleepless nights remembering a piece of my grief that I never thought I'd have to face again is sometimes too much. My anxiety level is high, to say the least.

I was texting with a friend this weekend just about how crazy it is that it's already been 3 years. And I realized how much I ached just to talk to someone about it. To let it out. To have someone actually ask me. I confessed that it's been hard to feel like I have no outlet lately. She asked me if writing was no longer an outlet. I had to think about that for a minute....

Writing has always been my way of expressing emotion. Words are my ally and my weapon of choice. They help me sort through my own head when things don't make sense. And being able to write about my grief journey has brought me more healing than I could have ever imagined. But I found myself at a crossroads of guilt. Guilt for feeling like I couldn't talk about the depths of my pain without somehow sounding ungrateful for the life I have now and the blessings that come with it. And guilt for being too grateful for the life I have now and feeling like people think it means I'm just ok and don't need to talk about Jeremy anymore. I also just don't like feeling like I'm seeking out attention. Writing makes people think they know me and therefore the personal connections are lacking because they think they know where I'm at. They can watch from a distance.

The truth is that words sometimes are not enough. Most of the time, I really don't have much NEW to say. I've run out of ways to express how much I miss Jeremy, how much my heart longs for him, how hard it is to watch my kids grow up without knowing him.......it really never changes, just evolves. I want to scream from the top of my lungs just how much grief sucks still sometimes. I want the world to know what an incredible husband I have now, and that how deeply I cherish him has no impact on the amount of grief I have and will continue to carry through the rest of this life. I wish I could find the right words....words that connect with everyone. But like Janelle said, we can't reach everyone. All we can do is write what we know, what we are living.

I keep going back to an analogy I heard shortly after Jeremy died, I think in a book I read somewhere. It painted a picture of train tracks, one track representing grief and one representing joy: both running side by side on the same path. They both exist together.

This week, I don't have the right words. Just a jumbled mess of emotions that seem to represent my heart these days. My words are not enough. But just remembering to put one foot in front of the other is sometimes all I need to do.

Finding A Balance ......

                                                              source
                 

...... is sometimes difficult to do.
In all areas of life.
And on this blog.

It's difficult to write posts that will connect with everyone.  If we write about how horribly dark and depressing and hard-to-survive those first days, weeks and months are ...... we don't connect with those who've been in this "club" for quite a while.

If we write about finding happiness again (albeit a different happiness) and that life is once again worth living, we don't connect with those who are drowning in grief.

We can't always reach everyone.
So what do we do?
We write what we know.
We write what we're living.
That's all we can do.
It won't always be enough, but that's why there are seven of us.  Hopefully at least one writer will write something that will make you feel less alone, less crazy, less ...... lesser.

There's no doubt about it ...... having a reason to be here, reading this ...... sucks.
And that's putting it mildly.
I came kicking and screaming into this club.  I didn't want to be here, I didn't think I belonged here, and I hated being associated with anyone who was here.
And while I still hate that I have a reason to be here, I've come to accept that ...... here is where I am.
No amount of kicking or screaming, or hating that Jim is dead ...... will bring him back.

That acceptance did not come easily, and it did not come quickly.
At least not for me.
I grieved hard.
But then, I loved hard.
I had him for a long time.
Not long enough, to be sure.
But long enough to ensure that I was going to grieve a long time.

I'm not dumb enough to believe that I will reach a point where I'll never grieve.  I will always miss him.
Always.
But I have arrived at the point where I am no longer sitting in the bottom of that deep, dark, cold cave that is grief.  I slowly managed to walk out of that cave.  And I do mean slowly.
In the beginning, I thought I'd never get out of that cave.  I imagined I'd die in there.
And I almost did.
Almost.

But I was stronger than I thought I was.  I made it out.
It took longer than I wish it had, but hey ...... out is out.

So what's my point?
Just this:
We are all grieving.  Yet we all grieve on our own time line.  There's no right way ...... or wrong way.
We grieve the way we grieve.
For as long as it takes.

But hopefully, once we get past those oh, so very hard first months ...... or years ...... one day we look forward, and notice that the air around us is a little lighter.  The future has turned from coal black, to dark grey.  And for the first time, we feel hope.
Hope that the sky will become lighter still.
Hope that we'll one day be able to take that last step which will take us, finally, out of the cave.
Hope that one day we'll smile again ...... and feel it.

So even though you may not believe it, or want to hear it, hope is out there.
You don't have to believe it ...... yet.
Some of us will believe it for you.
And we'll be here ...... when you're ready.

So while my words won't connect with all of you, I want you to know that I was there.
In that cave.
And if I could make my way out ...... anyone can.
I promise.