Valentine's Day: The Best Way To Acknowledge It...Is To Acknowledge Others

It’s time to address it.  The day that has widows all over the world saying, “Shit.  It’s here again already?”

Valentine’s Day.

Now, as I said last year, I am of the opinion that Valentine’s Day is not a day that should just be considered romantic.  In fact, since the moment I had kids, Cupid took one look at my messy house and decided that he would come back in about 20 years when things had settled down a bit.

Wait.  Now that I think about it…since I had a husband who loathed Valentine’s Day and now a significant other who is never in town for it…I don’t think I’ve had a “romantic” Valentine’s Day since I was about 7-years-old and the little boy sitting across from me in class gave me an extra sucker.

Valentine’s Day is a family holiday now and one, I will admit, I’m not too crazy about.  This year will be better since all of my kids are now old enough to write and I don’t have to address 75 Sponge Bob cards all by myself.  Now, I just have to hand them a class list and a pen and hope that the candy to card ratio comes out right.  And if it doesn’t, I’ll have to go around the table, checking hands for stickiness to see who ate the two packs of Nerds that we needed.

My mom and I were talking the other day about the lost art of the hand-written note (I promise you this is all related…just stick with me) and how nice it is to get something unexpected like that. 

She said, “You know, I read something the other day about how it just makes you feel good to let others know how much you appreciate them.  Maybe that’s what you should put out to your widow’s group:  Have them just send a card to someone to say ‘Thank you and I’m glad I have you in my life.’”

Being a good daughter with a good mother who is always coming up with good ideas…that is what I’m doing right now:  Encouraging you to send a Valentine’s Day card to someone…not because it’s romantic.  But because you love them and, believe me, it will not only make their day when they receive it, I’m betting it will make you feel pretty darn good too.

Along those same lines, I wanted to share this story with you that I found this morning on the West Seattle Blog website.  It’s what happens when kindness, in the memory of someone we love, touches a stranger.  It moved me so much…and I know that this, of all groups, will appreciate this story:

Reader report: Teen finds ‘mystery gift’ on West Seattle bench

February 2, 2012 at 10:05 pm | In West Seattle news, West Seattle people | 76 Comments

My name is Gabriella and I am 15 years old. I wanted to share my experience because I found it touching and very sweet.

While on a bike ride to take photos today, I found a gift sitting on a bench with a note attached that read “To the finder of this gift” overlooking the Seattle skyline near Salty’s.

I sat on the bench and opened the card, which was from a woman remembering her younger sister today, which would have been her 59th birthday. The woman shared her younger sister’s interests, accomplishments and love of life, and how she died suddenly in 2001 due to a pulmonary embolism from a foot injury. The gift was left at this location because her sister’s ashes were scattered on Alki and she loved the view of the skyline.

In the letter, the writer asked the finder of the gift to please express their love to those they care about. She also said that she learned that “all our love, memories, and connections are still there as true and strong as ever” even after death. The writer expressed her deep love for her sister and that the best parts of her are still with her.

I hope the writer of this letter sees this and knows how much it touched me.

P.S. The gift was a LED head lamp for riding and was with a card that read, “May a luminous dream light the way.”

Thank you, Gabriella

Happy Upcoming Valentine’s Day to you all.

I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

Becoming Your Own Grief Expert

A book is a version of the world.   

If you do not like it, ignore it; 

or offer your own version in return.

~Salman Rushdie~

I read this quote this morning.  Which was incredibly timely, considering what I had decided to attempt to write about.

Becoming your own grief expert.

I’m no grief expert.  I would never pretend to be.  I’ve read a lot, gone through a lot of counseling, and been through a few mediums.  But I’m still not a grief expert.

What I am an expert on…is my own grief.

I’ll never forget, going into my counselor’s office about a year after my husband died.  I had read books, become well-versed on the stages of grief, and thought I knew enough to determine one thing:

I was grieving the wrong way.

“I’m grieving backwards!”  I cried to my therapist.  “I’ve spent months running around at a break-neck pace when it seems like every other widow I’ve read about spends the entire first year in bed.  I’ve just hit the 1 year mark and now I don’t want to get out of bed!  I’ve spent months convincing myself that my marriage wasn’t so great and that I can do better and now I think it was so amazing I’ll never find anything like it again.  I didn’t feel like life had ended the moment he died…it took me an entire year to feel that way.  I’m doing this all wrong.”

My counselor spent the next hour trying to convince me that there was no wrong way to go about what I was attempting to do:  Deal with the loss of my husband.  But it took years – and a lot of soul searching - for that to really sink in.

You see, I had spent so long “studying” what other people were saying…that I forgot to listen to myself.  I was scrambling for black and white information and forgetting to apply what I’d learned to me and how I cope…which makes that black and white information a lot grayer and a lot more helpful.  Some of the things I read would make me feel less alone…and some of it would make me feel worse because I couldn’t relate to it and thought that since this person had sold a ton of books…they knew me better than I did.  And while clinical experts have their place in the world, acknowledging phases of grief that we will all go through, they were not educated in the one thing that made all of their theories come together.

Me.

I was taking all of that information so literally that it made me feel like a failure.  I was listening to so many outside sources – who were saying that certain years were the worst or that I shouldn’t be ready to date until a certain amount of time had passed – that when I felt differently (and kept it to myself because I was worried that others would think I didn’t love my husband enough to grieve by the book), I felt that much worse.  I forgot to take myself into account.  I forgot to put myself into the equation.  And when I did…it changed everything.

Of course I started dating early.  I’ve never liked to be alone.  Why would that have changed after my husband’s death?

Of course, some years were harder than others.  But it wasn’t the year that had been specified to me.  My hardest year was different…and in different ways.  And if I can be honest…my hardest times were also the most eye-opening for me as far as who I was and who I was becoming.

It suddenly made perfect sense why I was trying to convince myself that my marriage wasn’t so great.  I was trying to cope.  I was trying to tell myself that maybe there were better things ahead.  I wasn’t a bad person.  I was just trying to give myself hope for the future.

It wasn’t until I turned inward and really started listening to myself – the best expert on my own grief that I know – that I began to understand what I was truly going through.  That I can read books about grief…but until I actually apply them to my life and who I am…they really won’t help at all.

Education is key.  Just don’t forget to learn about the most important element when it comes to dealing with grief.

You.

Dealing With the Mother of All Milestones: My Grief...It Is A-Changin'....

So, I feel like there is plenty of gloom and doom on widow blogs and, usually, as milestones approach, I’m one of those widows who’s gloomin’ and doomin’.

But not this year.

I always think it’s important to write about the things that we’re all trying to overcome because it usually makes at least one person out there sigh with relief and think, “Thank God it’s not just me.”

But as milestones approach, I know that some widows out there read these blogs with a little apprehension because they’re only a year out and the person writing is 10 years out, still talking about how hard Mondays are because that’s the day of the week her husband died.  And it worries the “newbies” because they’re still just trying to remember to put on deodorant in the morning and they live in fear that they'll still be that way in a decade.

I’ve never hidden the fact that my husband’s birthday is usually the hardest day of the year for me.  I have been known to go completely crazy, cry, yell, wallow, break up with perfectly nice people, and generally go around the bend for a good month before it happens.  November 19^th is right before the holidays get into full swing and usually by the time it’s done…I am in no mood for eating turkey, being thankful, or yuletiding a few weeks later.

Last year was more of the same.  I dreaded it, feared it, and generally just wanted it to go away.  I have spent the last 4 of my husband’s birthdays, creating a “Daddy Day” for my kids, taking them out of school for a day of junk food and frivolous activities…with a trip to the cemetery up in the mountains where he’s buried thrown in for good measure.  Of anything I have done, trying to raise my kids in theWiddahood…this is what I’m most proud of.  Daddy’s birthday is nothing to dread (for them) and something to look forward to.  Sure, they don’t have a dad like everyone else…but everyone else doesn’t get to have a Daddy Day.

So for one day out of the year…we can one-up the rest of the “normal” world.

I usually spend the day holding back tears and trying to curb my crankiness while they run around on a sugar high and thank God for a Dad who gets them out of school one day out of the year.

But this year has been different.

It’s the 5^th birthday he’s been gone…and I don’t feel all of the crankiness.  I’m not feeling the usual build up.  It may be hard that day…but I can honestly say that I feel pretty good right now.  What has been most interesting to me this year is that I now know that my kids really do understand the significance of that day.  Before I was trying to do so many things to distract them while also trying to commemorate the day (we do all of the things their dad enjoyed doing) and I really didn’t think they completely understood what it all meant.

Silly, Mom.  We’re getting older and we’re not as clueless as we might seem.

My son has a birthday party on Saturday in the middle of the day.  And at one point, he really considered not going.

“Am I going to miss Daddy Day?”  He asked.

“No,” I said.  “We’ll just go get pizza, let our balloons go, and maybe go to the movies that night when the party is done.  The girls and I won’t do anything without you.”

“But what about going to the mountains?”  He asked, looking concerned.

“Oh sweetie, we won’t have time to do that on Saturday since the party is in the middle of the day.”

Long pause.

“Do you want to go on Sunday?”  I asked.

“Yes.”

I was pretty damn proud of us all that moment.  That I had created a day that we can spend together doing something as a family…my husband would have loved that.  And that, 4 years later, beyond the pizza, the bowling, the movies, or whatever else we might do…that the most important thing about Daddy Day to his 7-year-old son is that we go and visit him…even if it means missing out on a birthday party.

On my husband’s 39^th birthday, our 5^th without him…I can honestly say that life is good.

That the kids are thriving.

That every time one of them accidentally lets a balloon go when we leave Red Robin…there are no tears because it means it’s going to Dad.

That even though he died when they were just babies…they seem determined that he will never be forgotten.

Heartbreak at Home Depot

My bathroom has been diligently working on a leak for a while.  I’ve tried to ignore it, but when my children came running upstairs from the breakfast room the other day screaming, “The ceiling is LEAKING!!” (which, incidentally, I thought they were saying my dog was leaking…I never before realized how closely her name rhymes with “ceiling”), I decided that my method of just not making eye contact with the leak was not going to fix it.

(And I don’t know which is worse…a leaky ceiling or a leaky dog.)

As we all know, one leak can turn into gutting your entire house, which is where I find myself right now.  My house was built in 1979 and has original EVERYTHING.  It’s not just due for a face lift…it needs a boob tuck, lip filler, and could probably stand to have a few joints replaced.

In other words…we’re going to be in recovery for a while.

Which is how I found myself at Home Depot today, trying to envision (again…not my strongest area) the custom cabinets I would so like to have, but probably can’t afford.  This has happened to me a couple of times since my husband died and always leads to the question:  “Should I just do the basics for possible re-sale someday…or should I just do it all because I’m going to stay here?”

So, now my little leak has me worried about where I will be in the next 10 years.

I hate working on these details.  I don’t like measuring, I don’t like looking at one million cabinet knobs, and I don’t like looking at 50 different versions of white.  I would like to point to a picture, pack my bags for a 2 month cruise, and have it all done with a big bow tied to my bathroom door when I get home.

Okay, fine.  I can do without the bow.

I’ve really been trying to focus on the positive side with this whole bathroom thing.  My husband was one of those detail people which is how I spent about ¾ of our marriage in some sort of furniture or home improvement store.  I actually think he did it on purpose.  We had very different tastes and I think he knew that if he just kept me in there long enough, with 3 small children, eventually I would just say, “Get whatever you want!  I don’t care.  Just get me the hell out of here!!!!”

Which is how we ended up with a sofa I still haven’t warmed to 13 years later.

But today I was missing him.  I didn’t want to pick everything out on my own.  I wanted to fight.  I wanted to have his opinion.  I wanted him to look at me funny when I picked out a 72” cabinet for a 60” space.

After sitting with a very nice woman who was patiently trying to piece together something that might work using a computer program I couldn’t see how anyone could understand, I had just about hit my breaking point.  I was just about to tell her, “My husband is dead and he’s the person who should be doing this” (something that I try not to spring on people, but Home Depot brings out the worst in me), when I took a deep breath and decided to distract my widow mouth by paying her a compliment.

“Wow,” I said.  “That’s a beautiful ring.”

Her face lit up and she said, “Thank you so much!  I just got it last week!  We’re getting married in April!”

I don’t know if it was how happy she was, or just my home improvement depression, but I felt that old familiar lump start to form and wondered if anyone else but me had a nervous breakdown every time they walked into Home Depot.

“Now,” she continued, “Let’s save these plans so that when you come back we can pull them right up.  What’s your phone number?”

She typed it in, pointed to the computer monitor, and said, “Is this your information?”

Pause.  “No.  That’s my husband’s.”

Now, we all go through these times of indecision about correcting this stuff.  You either have to tell them to take your spouse’s name off and go through a very uncomfortable moment as you explain why…or you just let it go.  Which means the next time you come, it will pop up again.  And no one understands this but another widow…it’s painful when that happens.

I didn’t have it in me to correct her.  I didn’t want to explain to this cute, newly engaged girl that bad, tragic things can happen…and then you find yourself pouring out your heart and soul to a stranger in the Kitchen & Bath section of Home Depot.  I wanted out.  Out of the whole thing.  Out of making all of the decisions.  Out of dealing with the house by myself.  Out of trying to figure out how to pay for it on my own.

And I wanted to get the hell out of Home Depot.

I grabbed my plans and bolted.  I put my sunglasses on before I even hit the door and felt my face crumble as I shut myself into the safe cocoon of my car.  And right before I turned the ignition, my cell phone went off and I saw that I had an email.

It was a newsletter.  From the company my husband worked for when he died.  Something that in all of the years he’s been gone, I have never received.  And I took that email to mean one thing.

“I’m here.”

Of course it could have also meant something else.

“What the hell are you thinking with those cabinets??  That will never look right!”