What Was She THINKING?

I posted an article earlier this week (I think.  What day is it???) that struck a chord with so many. And it really was a great piece. If you missed it, check out 10 Contradictory and Bull-shitty Scraps of Advice Given to Widows. It really details so well the contrary opinions we get so often - and usually by the same person.


But, be careful.  People in glass houses shouldn't throw bad advice or judgments or in any way make those of us in the widow community feel bad about the decisions they make.

Do you think I can fit that on a bumper sticker?

While that article does point out a very specific problem, it mainly points to those people outside of our circle who have no idea what it's like to be us.

But...what about those of us who do?

I'm guilty of it (but less so now than I used to be).  I wasn't very vocal about it, but there have been times during my widowhood when I've silently judged a fellow griever and questioned the decisions he or she has made.  And I've probably done it for the same reason as the rest of the world, widowed or not, and that is to make myself feel better about my own questionable decisions.

After all...aren't most decisions questionable?  That's why they are decisions.  If there was a hard and fast rule to living any life, we wouldn't have to make any.

Huh.  I had no idea I was going to say that before I typed it.

Anyway,  I've found that usually when people give unwanted advice or feel that their opinions are so right they have to be heard, it's usually in an area where they feel insecure about what's going on in their own lives.

People in unhappy relationships can't wait to tell you if you should or should not be dating.

People who hate their jobs can't wait to give you professional advice.

People who have juvenile delinquents for kids are the first to tell you how to parent.

You get my drift.

~

So, I'm going to take a guess and say that where we widows suffer the most judgment is in the world of relationships.  And I'm betting that most of the judgment we feel is actually from others in The Widowhood, especially when we've decided to bravely accept a new person into our lives.  We can sympathize with others when it comes to changing jobs or moving or the hardships of single parenting.

But if one of us starts dating or - gasp - gets remarried...you never know what people are going to say.

Oh, sure. Most people will publicly announce that they're happy and maybe some of them are. But many don't understand, don't want to understand, or...okay, I'm just going to say it...are jealous of someone else who's found happiness again.

I feel like I can say that because I've been on both sides of that coin.

I've had friends who have been widowed a lot less longer than I have who have married or have been in long-term relationships longer than the failed one I attempted a couple of years ago.  And while 95% of me is happy for them...the other 5% is wailing, "Why not ME?" 

On the other hand, while I was in the previously stated failed relationship, I had several people in the widowed community tell me I couldn't possibly understand what they were going through because I had a boyfriend.

Really?  One doesn't cancel out the other, people.

I know that because while I was in a relationship that didn't diminish how much I missed my husband.  And I have heard from MANY of you who have bravely wandered this path into New Relaionshipdom who email me and tell me how much you still miss your late spouse.

The difference is that the people who have stayed solidly single feel more comfortable with admitting it than those who have embarked on a new relationship.  Their grief is usually held silently, afraid of the judgments of widowed  and non, and they'd rather be perceived as someone who has "moved on" to the rest of the world rather than someone who is still "stuck" on someone else, even though they're with someone new. 

Some of the bravest people I know are those who put their lives right out there in public and take whatever criticism comes their way.  Those bloggers and leaders in the widow community who have worked so hard to just be happy, whether it's through work or a relationship or both, have put up with a lot of judgment, mainly from the communities they've tried to serve. 

~

Do you know what I wish for?  (Other than the winning PowerBall ticket.)

I wish that every person on the planet would just admit they don't know what in the hell they're doing.  Because do any of us really?  I don't.  While I've had "what was she thinking" flash through my brain many times these last eight years when I hear about another person's life decisions, I've come to realize that whomever it is that I'm judging probably doesn't know what they're thinking either - and they really don't need my input.

I was scared to death when I moved, even though I tried to assure everyone I knew exactly what I was doing.  I'm scared to be single, scared to be in a relationship.  I started a new job and was scared that I wouldn't be able to carry the burden of work and parenting all on my own, but if you had asked me when I started I would have said, "I'm so excited."

Any decision we make has a 50/50 chance of working out.  And I can guarantee you that as you're judging someone else for the choices they're making, no one is being harder on themselves than the person in question.

I mean, do you really think that a widow getting ready to walk down the aisle isn't thinking to herself just a little bit, "I hope I'm doing the right thing"?

She doesn't know that what she's doing is 100% right.

And guess what?

Neither do you.

Where the Hell are you Going?

Do you ever have one of those moments that jolts you awake...even though you're not sleeping?

I do.

I love it when that happens.  There's just something that clicks in my head and lets me knows that it's something important and I suddenly feel awake.

And both the feeling of something important happening and feeling truly awake are kind of rare occurrences.

I enjoy my laziness and my sleep.  Especially at the same time.

Anyway, I was sitting with my family the other night, enjoying the Lyle Lovett concert at Red Rocks (I don't care what your musical tastes are...that man is a song-writing genius) when he introduced his fiddle player and asked him to play a song on his own.

Luke Bulla took over the microphone and in a voice as clear as a bell began to sing while strumming his fiddle.  For the life of me, I can't remember the name of the song, but one line made me sit up straighter. And it went something like....

I won't know where I'm going until I know where I've been.

And I don't think one sentence could have summed up this summer for me better than that.

~

Here's the hard part.  You have to embrace your past in order to get on with the future.  But sometimes the past is like the person you're trying to save in the deep end of the pool:  You can either allow it to take you both down or you can smack it in the face and take control in order to save you both.

Okay.  That was a weird analogy.  I just came up with it.  So roll with me.

I didn't realize until recently what a strangle-hold my past has had on me.  How paralyzed I was.  How it took making major changes, personally and professionally, to find the release I needed.

But you can't completely escape your past.  I know that and I don't want to.  It's just a matter of deciding how much power I'm going to allow it to have.

Am I going to sink or swim?

~

It's been eight years.  And I know exactly what's happened to me.  I can tell you the story of how my husband died.  I can tell you how the kids and I have survived. 

I see it now and I understand it more.  And I get it.  I really can't know where I'm going until I know where I've been.  And that takes perspective.  And in many ways...it has nothing to do with widowhood.
 

I can see my past as a mother and I can appreciate where that experience is sending me.

I can see who I've dated and can understand their places (not too many places, Mom) in my life.

I can see all of the memories I thought were so unimportant when they happened as the pieces of my life that I should appreciate the most.

Because those memories aren't just my past.  

They're where I've been.

How the Grinch Stole Easter

I feel like I don’t usually expect much out of Easter and therefore it expects very little out of me.  And since we expect so little from each other...I shouldn’t have been surprised that both of our low expectations were met this year.

First of all, I don’t know what in the hell was up with my kids.  All I know is that I didn’t wake up cranky, so this time I can’t possibly blame their mood on my own, as I usually do.  My mom tried to blame it on the donuts they ate later that morning, but I don’t think one donut per child has enough sugar in it to turn all 3 kids into a whiny, sulky herd for 12 hours.

I usually try and give my kids a few inexpensive, outdoor toys for their baskets since nice weather is (hopefully) around the corner.  I look at their Easter toys as more of a gift to me:  False hope that I’m giving them things that might occupy them and keep them from fighting with each other for about 5 minutes on a sunny day.

This year, as I was shopping for Easter, I had also been shopping for summer clothes for my kids.  So everything was lumped into several garbage-sized bags that I had hidden not-so-discreetly in the back of my mini-van.  This meant that on Easter Eve, I was rummaging around, trying to find the little things that I had bought my kids for their baskets.

Never again.

Anyway, the rabbit poop hit the fan then next morning as my kids were taking a look at what they had gotten and my 9-year-old daughter just about had a nervous breakdown because the Easter Bunny had apparently given her brother and sister a Pez dispenser and not her.  And that’s because E.B. didn’t notice that the Pez dispenser had gotten tangled up in a pair of $3 shorts somewhere in the Target bag.

Now...when one of my kids gets upset about something little, I look at it one of two ways:  Either I get irritated beyond reason because I know in my adult brain that in the grand scheme of things a candy holder with a creepy bunny head on it is really not that big of a deal.  There are times I want to shake them and say, “Your dad is gone...and this is what you’re upset about???”

It’s the bad little mom in me that wants to do that.

The good mom stands there and is so proud of the fact that she has done such a great job of keeping the lives of her children up and running so that they can just be kids and get upset about stupid stuff like a Pez dispenser. 

It’s a toss up on which mom shows up during any given situation.

But Easter morning, as I watched my daughter’s face go from partly cloudy to possible hurricane, I decided a change needed to happen.  I’m not in the business of raising children who focus on what they don’t have, rather than what they do. 

Mama don’t play that game. 

And if that’s the point we’ve gotten to...it may be time that my 9-year-old learns that the Easter Bunny (aka, Me) has a lot going on, mistakes can happen, and it’s time for her to give my little bunny ass a break.

(Now, if you don’t know the truth about the Easter Bunny...please do not continue reading.)

The truth is...I have been dreading this moment since she was born.  If you ask anyone in my immediate family, they’ll tell you that the day I found out about Santa and good ol’ E.B. was one of the most traumatic moments in my life (death of husband included).  Despite what my dad says...it was not when I was 25-years-old.  It was at an age when I should have been told anyway.  Rumors had been circling in my 3^rd grade classroom right before winter break and I remember a friend of mine and I getting into a heated debate about Real vs. Not.  It wasn’t pretty.

(If there is a guy I went to elementary school with named Ryan out there reading this...I apologize.) 

My parents decided to tell me after that 3^rd grade Christmas and...really...I had it coming.  We were driving home after spending the holidays in Louisiana and I remember that being one of the best Christmases I had ever had.  I had asked Santa for a teddy bear that was as big as I was and that’s exactly what I found under the tree.

As we drove home, I came to the conclusion that if Santa could bring me that...he could bring me anything.  So on December 27^th, I began planning my Christmas list for the next year which, if I remember correctly, involved a professional ice-skating dress (even though I didn’t ice skate) and a cash register set-up similar to the one they had at the local grocery store, complete with scanner and stocked cash drawer.

After working on my list (out loud) for about 12 hours in the backseat of the family station wagon, I remember my parents slowly turning to look at each other in the car.  And then the truth came out.

I was so mortified at what they were saying that at the next stop, I angrily got my 9-year-old self out of the car, looked at them and shouted, “I guess the next thing you’re going to tell me is there’s no Tooth Fairy either!!!”

I was locked in the bathroom at the Conoco before I reality really set in.

There was no Tooth Fairy.

I haven’t yet talked about this day with my therapist, but as you can see...it will forever be implanted in my memory.  So as I sat down to tell my daughter about the Easter Bunny, I prepared myself for a similar scene.  Instead, she just gave me a hug and said, “I’m sorry I was so rude downstairs.”

Obviously she’s a little more aware of how the world works than I was at that age.  Either that or maybe Ryan gave her a call.

Once again, I went through a moment that was a helluva lot more traumatic for me than it was for my kid and the last few days...I’ve been feeling a little blue.  I think that it’s just that I’ve hit another parenting milestone alone and having to admit to my daughter that there isn’t as much magic in the world as she thought...it was kind of hard.

The only comfort I have about the fact that I had to do this alone is that if her father had seen the way she was carrying on about a Pez dispenser, I don’t think he would have been as delicate in his truth-telling as I had been.

Daddy didn’t play that either.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

In Case of Emergency

Yesterday was somewhat of a milestone for me.  Although it may not seem like much to the outside world, it’s something that I know my widda peeps will understand.

I went to a doctor’s appointment with my boyfriend (I hate using that word...it makes me sound like a 12-year-old) to find out whether he was really sick...or just in excruciating pain.  The appointment wasn’t IN the hospital but it was in an office within a block of the hospital, an area I’ve avoided for the past 4 years.

The good news was...the doctor really thinks that whatever he has going on is benign, which is what I tried to focus on as she explained that screws, metal plates, and painful surgery will be necessary to fix the problem that he has.

I know it’s not me going through it...but I’ll take that over the alternative any day.

We’ve spent the last couple of weeks, wondering and worrying how what the doctor was going to tell us yesterday would affect the future.  Before his initial appointment 2 weeks ago, I remember sitting down to dinner and wondering if this would be the last “normal” evening we would spend together.

Because, as we all know...once you hear certain news...you can never go back.

Before the appointment yesterday, we busied ourselves with the small home improvement project of painting my son’s room.  Or I should say...I kept him busy painting my son’s room because my shaky hand and impatient nature usually makes painting projects come out looking like some sort of abstract drippy, blotchy piece of art.

As he rolled, brushed, and filled in holes, trying to cover up the disastrous paint job I had done 6 years ago (with red paint, no less), I said, “Aren’t you grateful that we have this project today that’s mindless but keeps us busy until your appointment?”

He gave me kind of a deadpan stare and said, “Yeah.  Thanks.”

What can I say?  I’m always thinking of others.

As I showered and got ready to leave, I felt that familiar tightening of stomach muscles that I didn’t know I had and tried not to think about what might be coming.  But I couldn’t help it.

A million scenarios ran through my mind.  What if they wanted him to stay for tests?  What if they said they wanted to admit him immediately?  What if the tests involve surgery?

I started thinking about when I went to the hospital after my husband’s accident.  When the nurse called that morning...she assured me that my husband would be fine.  I packed clothes for him to come home in (a bag that is still packed and sitting in my closet...one of the “mysterious widow things” I can’t seem to get rid of).  And I packed a bag for myself.  But after the shit hit the fan at the hospital later that day, it became apparent that I had packed the wrong things.

Since the accident had happened in July, I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, unaware of how hot and cold the hospital gets.  Nothing in that bag was even remotely helpful to me through the next 3 days.  Now that I think about it...I don’t know what in the hell I packed (I do remember having my all-important People magazine).  And I wasn’t going to make that mistake twice.

I dressed very carefully yesterday, wearing layers and comfortable shoes.  I didn’t wear my favorite jeans...I wore jeans I thought I could sleep in if I had to.  I packed my purse full with a book, phone charger...anything I thought I might have to have for the next 24-hours in case I couldn’t come home.  I debated on whether or not I should wear a scarf that would look cute with what I was wearing...and could double as a pillow later if I needed it.

I tried to discreetly prepare myself as much as possible...without scaring the crap out of him.

It didn’t occur to me until this morning how weird and kind of sad that was.  That I couldn’t take someone to a doctor’s appointment without worrying that we might not come home for awhile.

But we did.  We left.  Just like a normal appointment that a normal person would have on a normal day.  Well...except for the upcoming screws and plates and stuff.

I will tell you that our relationship hit a new level yesterday that my widow friends will understand.  As I was driving him to his appointment and he was filling out paperwork, he asked me a question that I consider a big step.  A new level of commitment that really says where we are.  It’s not something I was sure I was ready for, but sometimes...you just have to take the plunge.

“Can I put you down as my emergency contact?”

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

My Worst Year Was ______.

You know...I always hesitate before I write about something hard I’m going through.  There is always a fear that a new widow will read it and think, “My gosh...I’m just trying to get through today.  This woman has been at it for almost four years and she’s still having a hard time???”

I’m always worried about it because when I was newly widowed, I became friends with this woman I had an instant connection with who was about a year ahead of me in the Grief Game.  As I neared my 1 year mark, so proud of myself that I had actually made it, she made a comment to me that just about shattered my world.

“The second year is the hardest.”

I hate to sound like a 16-year-old, but...WTF???  I had waded through birthdays, tread water through holidays, just about drowned in the every day...and now you’re telling me it’s going to get hard?

Yeah.  Thanks.

I swore that when I started the Widow Chick support group on Facebook and later launched www.theWiddahood.com...I would never say that.  Because the truth is...it may not be true.  Grief is different for everyone.  For some, the first year is the hardest.  For others...they may sail through until the 10^th.  You may have very well had your worst year and it's behind you.  But if you think that the worst is in front of you...it might be.  Because that's what you're expecting.

Bottom line:   

You should never listen to or read about what another widow is going through and think it’s absolutely going to happen to you.

Because they’re not you.

Our hardest times are as different as we are.  I don’t share your birthday.  And even if I did...that may not be the hardest day for you.  You may have more memories on New Years Eve or President’s Day or...Monday.  All of these things are different. 

We’re all different.

As I’ve always said...grief is a tricky bitch.  Just when you think you’ve pummeled her into the ground, she sometimes sticks out her foot with her gross, gnarly toes and trips you up. 

I know I should put it in a more poetic way, but I’m tired so that’s all I got.

Being widowed...it’s not who you are.  It’s where you are right now.  And some days, you’re more widowed than others.   Some days, you can actually function like a normal human being.

And others...well...you’re tripping some stranger at Wal-Mart with your own gnarly toes.  Just ‘cause you feel like it.

Yup.  I get it.

Widowhood...it’s something to get used to. 

It’s kind of like a new relationship. 

I’m pretty sure you didn’t move in with your significant other the moment you said “hello.”  They took some getting used to.  Even if it was a quick courtship...you eventually figured out what life was going to be like from day to day.

I mean, really.  Remember when you were first together with your significant other?  And the feelings were so intense?  What you were experiencing was so new.  It was all you thought about.  It just completely consumed you.

Then...you dated for awhile.  You got to know each other.  You were more comfortable.

Finally the relationship part of it settled in.  You didn’t really think about it...you were just in it.  Occasionally, feelings from when you were first together would pop up and surprise you.

Well...flip it.

When the loss first happens, it’s there.  It’s in your face.  It’s all you can think about.  Every decision you make is based on that new relationship.

Then it settles in a little.  You start figuring out its quirks and how it operates.  But instead of bringing you roses, it’s playing songs on the radio at inopportune times.  It sneaks up behind you to give you a “hug” when you least expect it.  And even though it never did the dishes, you’ve figured out by now that it never will. 

Sooner or later, it stops shaving and you don’t really think about it.  It farts in bed, tells you what it doesn’t want for dinner but doesn’t offer a solution, and goes out with its friends without clearing it with you.

It’s kind of here to stay.

Eventually the newness wears off.  And just like any relationship...that happens it its own time.  Could be a year.  Could be a week.  Could be a decade.  Or for some...it may always seem new.  It’s just all about where you are.

Where my analogy fails to help is with the mortgage.  ‘Cause Grief never stepped in and offered to pay half.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

The I's Have It: Has Widowhood Made Me Selfish?

I had no idea that when I became a widow, I would become more selfish.  And believe me when I say that I’m not writing this as a statement about widows in general...there is a very good chance that this just applies to me.

I’ve been having a bad case of selfishness lately and it’s really bothering me.  I don’t remember being this way before I was widowed.  But then again...maybe I was.

I’ve been dating someone for awhile and it’s about as serious as my little widowed brain can handle at this point.  We see each other as much as possible and in my work and my personal life, he has become one of my greatest champions.  If I have a problem or joy, he’s usually the first person I tell.  I have complete confidence that when something is bothering me, all I have to do is talk through it with him and I will reach the right conclusion.  What’s even better is that when my kids are on me constantly and I feel like I just can’t take it anymore...he defends me and asks gently that they give me a break.

I know.  He’s polishing off his halo as we speak.

But this last week we hit a speed bump.  A medical speed bump.  And it’s just about made me want to throw my car into reverse and go in the opposite direction.

He’s been having hip pain, due to a fall at work.  He fell awhile back but the pain has been increasing, so this week he went to the doctor who ordered an MRI.

And there was something on it.

Now, my husband didn’t die of an illness.  He was in an accident so I’m not sitting here having flashbacks to something I’ve been through before.

What I’m having are flash-forwards and worrying 6 months ahead to something that is probably not going to happen.  And all of these thoughts are completely about me.  My head is filled with, “What am I going to do??” instead of my mouth saying, “It’s okay.  I’m sure everything will be all right.”  All I can think about is how something, even surgery to correct the problem or remove a cyst, might affect me.

Instead of focusing on what might lie ahead for him...even if it’s something minor...I can’t stop thinking, “I can’t go sit at the hospital.  I just can’t do it.”

Me.  My.  I.

I know that I’m feeling this way because of my previous experience.  If I hadn’t gone through the unbearable pain of losing someone before, I would have no problem sitting in a room, patiently waiting for someone to come out of surgery.  If my husband had come home, years ago, with the same problems that my boyfriend is experiencing now...I probably would have just said, “Well, all right!  Let’s get in there and fix this!”

Instead, all I can think about are hospital smells and sounds and I want to bury myself under the covers and pretend like it’s not happening at all.

I’ve been trying to keep this mental belly-flop to myself as much as possible.  I mean...how screwed up is it that whatever is going on is happening to him...and yet he’s reassuring me?  I feel so terrible every time he gives me a hug and says, “It’s going to be fine.”

I mean...shouldn’t I be saying that to him?  What’s wrong with me??? 

Believe me, I’m well aware of how much time and energy I have wasted in my life, worrying like I do.  There seemed to be a brief moment in my life, after my husband died, where I just felt like life was a crapshoot and I didn’t worry about anything.    But now it seems like I’m constantly “borrowing trouble.”  It’s hard to not picture the bottom dropping out of your life.  Especially when it’s happened before.

But honestly...this whole way of thinking and my apparent inability to support this person...any person...because of what’s happened to me is just unacceptable.  I’m so angry with myself.  Even when my dad had knee surgery, my mom was telling me, “You don’t have to come down the hospital!  We’ll be fine!” because she was worried about me.  Really??  The man had just gotten over a major infection and had to have his knee replaced again...and they’re worried about me???

I don’t want to be that person.

The other day I thought, “Maybe I’m not ready to be in a relationship.  If I can’t take the bad with the good, I probably shouldn’t be here.”

Well.  That’s great.  Then I guess I should stop interacting with all of my friends and family and resign myself to a life of complete and utter solitude.  ‘Cause you never know when something might happen.  And I just can’t take it and, therefore, am unable to be there for anyone else.

Is this what widowhood has taught me?  To actually have less compassion for other people?  I could be wrong, but if there was a lesson here in all of this...I’m pretty sure that’s not it.

Life’s too short to live in a state of “I.” 

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

Had a Good Day...Wish You Were Here

One of the hardest things to get used to as a widow is how good days come with mixed emotions.  I’m having one of those moments.

Today was good, which really surprised me.  I was up most of the night with a sick little girl (who is still feeling pretty puny today) so I expected to be exhausted and get nothing done.

As we all know...sick kid + single parent = tired parent.

In spite of my exhaustion, I was able to get a few things done on www.theWiddahood.com and since writing code and working on “the back end” have never been my strengths...anything I can get accomplished is...well...an accomplishment.

My afternoon was pretty normal...running around, picking everyone up, and getting them where they needed to go.  I had a parent/teacher conference this afternoon for my son, which I wasn’t worried about because he always seems to do pretty well.  But for some reason, I always forget how emotionally draining those conferences are...especially when they have to do with my son.

He’s like his dad in so many ways...just super, super smart (and I can promise you that he did not get that from me).  I was mid-way through listening to the teacher tell me that he is in not one, but two accelerated math groups and that he is already halfway into the next grade level in reading and writing when it hit me.

I have no one to tell.

I mean, I have people I can tell.  My parents will be excited.  I have friends who will say, “That’s great!”  But that person who is the other half of my son isn’t here.  So that great news...came with a little hurt.

I hate it when that happens.

I heard from a newspaper today that wants to do a story on theWiddahood.com, thanks to a friend of mine who put in a good word for me.  And by the time I had gotten home from the parent/teacher conference...I had heard from another newspaper, not only interested in doing a story on the website, but also praising my writing.

Believe me...no one could possibly be more shocked about that than I am. 

I was so excited I could barely contain myself.  It was like getting an A in a class you thought you’d be lucky to get a C in.  And then I sat down in front of my computer with a thud and realized, once again...there’s nobody to tell.

I hate to say that the good things in life are tainted by one bad thing that happened...but it’s true.  I long for the days when I experienced “great”...without experiencing “loss.”  My disappointment in being forced to internalize good news is lessoning...but I doubt that it will ever go away.  Because even as a kid...I couldn’t wait to share everything that was going on my life.  And now I have no one to burst through the door and tell.

So I’m going to look on the positive side.  I can always tell you.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

Dear Social Security....

I am writing you this letter in response to the call I received on February 14, 2011 at 10 AM from a gentleman with the Social Security Administration, asking me to suddenly justify every expense I have had on behalf of my children in 2010.

On a personal note:  I apologize that I did not happen to be sitting in front of my bank statement, my credit card statement, my investment portfolio, and my receipts for 2010 when I received this unexpected call.  The representative seemed to imply that, because of my hesitant responses to his invasive questions, I had somehow squandered or misused the funds.  I don’t know if I could have answered those unanticipated questions on a good day and, frankly, if your office feels it’s appropriate to call widow(er)s with children on Valentine’s Day and ask them to suddenly list their expenses for an entire year...I’m afraid you are probably not going to get the response you are looking for. 

I will justify my expenses to you for the year with the money that my deceased husband had taken out of his hard-earned paycheck his entire adult life (although I am still unclear as to how that is relevant to you...this is the Social Security that we have paid for).   I am running a house.  I am paying for maintenance on a 7-year-old car that has 120,000 miles on it from running my kids to all of their activities.  I am now solely responsible for a home and maintenance to that home, as well as increased electric, gas, and water bills. 

I am paying for healthcare and taxes that have been raised even though my benefits have not. 

I encourage you, who are so concerned with how I spend my children’s Social Security benefits, to really get an understanding of where my money goes.  Come with me to their counseling appointments.  Take a drive with us when we spend the gas money to go to their father’s grave.  Watch me hand over the babysitting money I now have to pay because I am a single mother.

I help support a community of almost 1000 widows who are baffled daily by how Social Security benefits affect them.  For those people who chose not to or were unable to have children (or for those who fall into some arbitrary age window)...they are handed a one-time check for $250 and are left confused about where all of the money that their spouses put into the system went.  For those of us who have children and who are trying to keep their lives “business as usual”...it’s hard to explain why you can’t write a check (because you may not be able to justify it to a stranger behind a desk) for a school fundraiser that’s trying to raise money to buy paper because the budget has been cut.

All I ask is that, when you call a widow, demanding answers to complicated questions, remember that you are usually speaking to someone who has been devastated by a loss that has left their life completely broken and they are doing the best they can to pick up the pieces.  Half (or all) of their household income is gone but most of the time the same expenses are there.  And for those of us with children...we are doing the best we can with little lives that will never be the same with the limited benefits we are receiving.

I realize that it is probably not up to you, the person reading this letter, to fix this system.  Just remember...there is a good chance you will be on the other end of this phone call some day. 

Thank you.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

Love the One(s) You're With

Well, here it is.  The dreaded V-Day.

I know there are a lot of people who are having a hard day today.  And as much as I would love to be able to fix that in Widow World...my magic wand is in the shop.  I’m hoping to have it back by Spring.

As I watched 2 of my kids get ready for school today, so excited about their Valentine’s Day parties, it really got me thinking about how this day changes for us throughout our lives.

They left with bags full of $2.00-a-box Valentine’s with Littlest Pet shop and Spiderman on them, lollipops and chocolates taped to the back.  Great care had been taken with their Valentine’s boxes and I’m preparing myself for the little Sugar-Highs I will be picking up this afternoon.

By the time they’re teenagers they’ll be wishing less for a box full of Valentine’s and more for one from someone really special.  Maybe by the time they will be able to drive, my daughter will be going out on a date with someone who shows up with a pink carnation and my son will be taking that special girl to a romantic dinner at Chili’s.

Eventually, with any luck, they will be as lucky as I was and meet someone who will complain about Valentine’s Day, but who will pick up flowers on his/her way home from work anyway because they don’t want the phrase “long dry spell” to apply to them.

And, if there’s any justice in the world, they will never know what it’s like from that moment on...to spend a Valentine’s Day alone.

The first Valentine’s Day I spent without my husband felt painful because he wasn’t here and it was just a huge reminder that I was alone.  At first, I didn’t even remember it that was Valentine’s Day until I went to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and saw all of these men exiting with bouquets of flowers.

Which caused me to give up on the milk and head for the wine.

The following years, Valentine’s Day didn’t seem quite as painful and this year I can honestly say...I’m doing okay.  And that’s because I’m changing how Valentine’s Day is defined in our house.

It’s not about being a “couple” for me anymore.  It’s just about telling someone you love them.

I’m learning this lesson from my children who, at this age, are not concerned with romance and couldn’t wait to wake their mom up with home-made cards with hearts and a big hug.  I thought about how I spent this last weekend, Saturday night with one of my best friends, in sweats and no make-up, eating gumbo and a box of mixed chocolates that I’d bought for her because she was the closest thing I would have to a Valentine’s date this year.

And I had a great time.

So...how am I spending Valentine’s Day this year?  Well, right now I’m laying in my bed, with the cutest 5-year-old girl I know, watching “Ramona & Beezus.”  We’ve just painted our toenails red and we’re not quite sure if we’re even going to get dressed today.

I didn’t have to shave my legs.

I’m not going to have to wait an hour for a table for dinner (because I’ll probably be at McDonald’s).

My biggest pressure today? 

Making sure the people in my life know they are loved.  And reminding myself that I’m loved in return.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

After

“A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.”

--Unknown

My friend’s husband died last night after a long battle with cancer.  But as we all know...it doesn’t matter how long you’ve “known”...it’s always a shock when that moment comes.

We were always meant to be friends and I think we were always meant to have a place in each others lives.  Our friendship is unusual because in the two years we’ve known each other...I’ve never once met her husband. 

He has been sick the entire time I’ve known her, but since I had never met him, that made me 100% her friend.  Someone who knew her and her struggles and could be there completely for her...without feeling disloyal to her husband.

He knew about our friendship and at times I got the feeling that he wasn’t crazy about it.  My presence in her life probably reminded him that terrible things were possible.  And that there was a chance I might be here to help her when he couldn’t be.

We met 2 years ago at a church fundraiser.  I had been looking for a photographer to take pictures of my kids and she had a booth in the Narthex.  My sister told me later that it was strange how I went straight to her booth without looking anywhere else.  But when I saw the pictures and the magic she could create...I had no doubt that she was the person who was meant capture my children at that playful age.

As we were setting up our appointment and emailing back and forth, she asked me if the session was going to be all about the kids or if there would be some family pictures taken.  I emailed her back and told her that I mainly wanted the pictures to be taken of the kids, but that I’d like a few taken of me with them.  I told her that these would be the first pictures we would have taken as a family since I lost my husband.

The response I received from her later that evening gave me chills and somehow cemented our friendship right away.  She told me that her husband was battling cancer, but that they knew it was terminal.  And that she had two small children.

We made our session appointment and I enjoyed watching her work and interact with my kids...she really worked magic and had all kinds of tricks up her sleeve.  But I think we were both anxious to get that initial meeting out of the way so that we could make plans to get margaritas and really get to what would be the meat of our relationship.

During our first dinner, she asked me a million questions about benefits and raising children alone and after every question, she apologized and told me that she felt terrible for asking me these questions before her husband was even gone.

I finally said, “You have to quit apologizing.  We’re women and we’re mothers.  You think that if I had known my husband was going to die, I wouldn’t have asked someone questions who had already been through it so that I could be as prepared as possible?”

During the last couple of years, we’ve talked, texted, and gotten together when we can.  A 4-year-old and a 2-year-old along with a business and a terminally ill husband kept her beyond busy and single parenting and my own projects kept me on my toes.  In the last few months, knowing that the end was probably near, I would leave her messages, reminding her that I was here if she ever needed me. 

More often than not, her response would be, “I’m going to need you.  I’m going to need you after.”

And so here we are.  After.

As I deal with loss after my husband’s death, I find myself less sad about the person who is gone and more affected when I think about the people who are left behind.  I don’t necessarily always mourn the loss, I mourn the loss of the life that they thought they would have and the memories that will never be.

While I read her blog, something that I’m jealous that she had the presence of mind to keep up so well while she dealt the many things she had going on, I am instantly reminded of my own moments, telling my children and making arrangements.  Knowing what a blur it will be in the upcoming days, weeks, and months...I cry with the knowledge that there will be some things I will be able to ease.  And some things she will have to go through alone.

The first day we met at that photo session, I asked her to do me a favor.  As a tribute to my husband, I asked her to take pictures of my kids releasing balloons.  I wanted to remember them at that age and have something to remind me that such a simple act provided the four of us some peace for a moment.

She teared up for a minute and then aimed her camera at my children.  She took those pictures knowing that some day, it would be her standing there with a little fist in one hand and some curly ribbon in the other.

Waiting for the right moment to release.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

Your First February Quote. This One's Gonna Make You Think

So here it is.  February.  The month of quotes.  And I’ve decided to mess us all up by taking the same quote and phrasing it 3 different ways. 

I would love for you to choose which one means something to you.  Think about it.  Write about it if you wish.  And I’ll do the same.

“Sometimes you have to give yourself...what you want from him.”

“Sometimes you have to give yourself.  What you want from Him.”

“Sometimes you have to give.  Yourself.  What you want from him.”

Think about it.  Three different ways.  Each one is so different. 

One speaks of the past.

One speaks of eternity.

One speaks of the future.

I would love to go into what each one means to me.  But I since I try to keep my blogs as short as a widow’s attention span...I’ll only go into one.

First of all...it was sheer luck that I stumbled upon this quote.  It’s from Dr. Phil and I never watch Dr. Phil.  I tuned into my local channel to catch Oprah’s show on the Oscar nominees a little early the other day so that I wouldn’t miss the beginning.  It’s extremely rare that I have any time to watch any TV and I was treating myself.

So there I was...at the tail end of the Dr. Phil show...carting in loads of firewood because, like most of the U.S....I’m freezing my ass off...and I hear him talking to a man trying to forgive his father for (I think) killing his mother (like I said...I only caught the last few minutes).

As I’m stumbling through my living room in slip-on shoes, sweats, and unwashed hair, I hear that statement.

Well, shit.  That was good.

Sometimes I have to give myself...what I want from him.

What did I want from him?

I wanted a good life.  I had the beginnings of one but it wasn’t finished.  So what do I still want?

A good life.  And if he could be here, that’s what he would have given me.  But just because he’s not here doesn’t mean I don’t want it.

I wanted love.  I had love and comfort and I still want that from him.  But he’s not here.  The problem is...I still want it.  And I truly believe he wants me to have it.

I still want love.

I want good parenting.  And part of that “parenting” is gone.  But part of that parenting is here.  And doing the best damn job she can.  And part of her parenting is thinking about how the other parent would feel/do/act if he was here.

I am a good parent.

I want to dream.  That anything is possible.  And if he were here, he’d be giving me that, too.  But he’s not.  But I know that he would want me to shoot for the moon.

My list could go on and on. 

Sometimes I have to give myself what I wish from him.

I will remember that when I wake up tomorrow.

Dating And The Overthinker: Not The Best Combo

Isn’t it interesting how the idea of dating seems to send our little widowed brains into overdrive???

Dating earlier in life...I never gave it a second thought.  I never wondered, “Am I ready?  Can I do this?  What do I have to offer?  What if I say something I shouldn’t and the conversation just...stops????”

Back then I just wondered if I should order Miller High Life or if my date had enough cash in his wallet to spring for a Bud Light.

It seems like as we get older and our experiences change, evolve, and sometimes explode...we get more and more worried about entering the dating world.  I mean, I will admit...after I was married, I debated a little more about whether or not I should date.

That was a joke.

Do you think we overthink it?  I know I do...but I am an overthinker by nature.  I overthink about dishwashing detergent I should use.  It was not a stretch for me to overthink about putting myself “out there.” 

There are obvious concerns about dating as a widow.  Now we don’t care as much about having lipstick on our teeth as much as we worry about starting too many sentences with, “So my late husband...” and making our dinner companion uncomfortable.  We’re not quite as concerned about wearing “the good underwear” as we are about bursting into tears when our date orders the same exact dinner our spouse would have.  And...you know you do this too ladies...there is that moment when the appetizer is served and we’re already starting to wonder where this is going to go.

Even non-widowed people do that.  The problem with our situation is that we can now picture the future wedding, house...and then a long, drawn out illness or the phone call that no one ever wants to get.  Because that’s been our previous experience.

Before we were married or committed, we knew the risks that came with dating.  We knew it was possible to get hurt.  We knew there was a possibility that it just wouldn’t work out.  But in that pre-married, pre-widowed world, we knew we had the confidence and stamina to get right back on that horse.

Most of us had no idea that one of those “bad things” that other people talk about quietly to each other at dinner parties would some day become part of our own personal resume.  That not only would that horse buck us off...it would kick us in the gut and step on us as it walked away.

That makes it a little harder to crawl back up there and ride off into the sunset.

It’s weird, isn’t it?  I know that we all have our own experiences tied up with our late spouses.  We all had our ups and downs.  But for a lot of us...it’s not like our spouses left us because of some normal marital issue.  The hurt runs deeper than that.  They died.

It’s like we were cheated on.  Death cheated us out of life.  And then left us no one here to take it out on.

That’s a lot to overthink.

So...what are our biggest fears about dating?  That we won’t be accepted into someone’s life because we’re widowed?  That it won’t work out with the first person we meet?  Or that it will work out and we will be opening ourselves up to being that vulnerable again?

Okay then. 

Let’s look at this from a practical standpoint.  If for some reason you come across someone who finds you less desirable because you’re widowed...do you really want to have anything to do with them anyway?  That’s not you being rejected...it has nothing to with you.  That’s another person being an ass hole.  And you’ll heal.  He’ll probably be that way for the rest of his life.

See ya.

There is a VERY good possibility that it won’t work out with the first person you meet.  There is a good chance that it didn’t work out with the first person you met the first time around.  And then you kept going.  And eventually you hit paydirt.  If you can...think of it as “networking.”  It may not work out with the first guy...but one of his friends could be exactly who you’re looking for.

Ha ha.

And what if it does work out??  I don’t think there is one widow out there who is not scared of going through the same thing they’ve been through before.  It’s a very real fear.  We’re not the same people we were before we were widowed.  We can’t look at the future with the same rose-colored glasses we wore before.  We’re now looking at the world through scratched up glasses we found in the bargain bin at Kmart.  And the view doesn’t look as pretty as it did before.

And guess what?  There’s a good chance that, because we’re all older and have a little more experience under our belts...the other person’s view of the world isn’t as “rosy” as it once was either. 

Widowed or not, anyone who is taking a chance dating later in life is doing exactly that...taking a chance.  Whether or not they admit it...we’re all a little scared.  We’re all scared of the rejection.  We’re all scared of getting hurt.  We’re all scared of really putting who we are out there.

We’re all overthinking.

What I can’t figure out is...why are we all overthinking about the bad stuff??  Let’s try overthinking about this:

A holiday dinner where someone just leans over and squeezes your hand.

A walk when you’re so comfortable you don’t have to say anything.

Sitting in front of the TV together, blissfully watching The Golden Girls (oh...no...wait.  That was “wishful thinking”).

I don’t know about you.  But overthinking about that stuff makes me a little less nervous about taking the next step to getting there.

If Communicating Is Something That We All Do...Why Can't We All Do It The Same Way?

I often wonder what my relationship would be like with my husband right now.

My “wondering” usually comes at a time when things aren’t going great in my life.  As I sit and stew, trying to figure out what I should do next, I wonder, “Would things be better if he were here?”

I know that sounds like an odd thing and most peoples’ immediate response would be, “Of course it would be better!”  But I always put that question in context with what’s going on with me, how I’ve evolved, and what’s going on in the world.

For example:  I wonder, in this economy, if he would be laid off right now.  What would we have done?  How would we have handled it?  Would it have brought us closer together or further apart? 

I know that a lot of my personal change and growth has happened in the last few years because he died and I was left to pick up the pieces.  But I often wonder if some of that growth would have happened anyway.  And, as many of us think about...what would he think of the person I’ve become?  Would we have been as compatible as we were before? 

Could we have handled this growth together?

I know I’m not the only one who ponders this.  You don’t have to be widowed to grow.  You don’t have to be divorced to have your needs change.  You can very easily be happily married or in a good relationship and then wake up and realize that you’re not who you were 10 years ago when you made that commitment.

Now, my husband and I had a good marriage and a constantly evolving relationship.  We had good times and bad, arguments that could be settled and arguments that could not.  Laughter, joy, and times when we just wanted to poke each other in the eye and be done with it.

In many ways...I think we were a pretty normal couple.

I’ve always said that we grew up together.  We didn’t know, when we got married (me: 20, him: 24) that we weren’t who we were always going to be.  At that age, all we could think of was being together and we were confident that the rest would just fall into place.

Now that I think back on it...I’m pretty sure that we both went into that marriage with our eyes wide shut.

It wasn’t our fault.  We were young and in love and at that point in our lives the divorce rate wasn’t as high as it is now...a blinking neon sign that you better know what the hell you’re doing before you put on that white dress. 

At that age, I never thought about communication at all.  I certainly never thought it would become as important as it was.  I was still in the typical female mindset that if I just looked at him a certain way, he would know exactly what I wanted him to do and say.  And I think he was in the typical male mindset...that he would rather just not make eye contact so that he wouldn’t have to do or say anything.

What I still keep trying to figure out is...if good communication is the key to a successful relationship...any relationship...why do we all communicate so differently?  If nature was going to make us all gain weight after we got married...why couldn’t it give us a better understanding of each other to balance it out?

I was married for 11 years.  I was with him for 13.  And it’s just now occurring to me that the way I became used to communicating with him is the way I communicate now with everyone.  I knew what worked and what didn’t.  I knew that my husband had a short attention span so if I had anything to say to him...it better be in about 5 minutes or less or he would find something shiny to look at.  I knew that our relationship, my comfort zone, would ebb and flow and that there would be times we could communicate and times we couldn’t.  But I also grew comfortable in the knowledge that when things got bad...they would cycle around again and be okay.

This is going to sound incredibly ignorant of me, but it just never really occurred to me how much of an impact my marriage would have on the way I would communicate in the future...without him.  But after 11 years of trying to really understand one specific person...it’s hard to reverse what you know, start all over, and try to successfully communicate with other people. 

It seems like, more often than not, what happens in relationships (and this is true of personal relationships, friendships, and family) is that we don’t clearly state our expectations of each other.  And then we’re bitterly disappointed when those unknown expectations aren’t met.

Saying what you want, what you truly need is so hard.  Because we don’t usually figure that out until things are wrong.  When everything is going well, we don’t usually say, “I’m so happy!  But this is what I think we should work on.”

We wait until we’re in the middle of an argument or a hiccup in a relationship before something suddenly clicks on our heads and screams, “THIS ISN’T WORKING FOR ME!!!!”

Not the best jumping off point for some soul searching.

For all of us to expect each other to communicate in a way that fits our own needs...is pretty unfair.  That is, unless we make those needs known.  Otherwise it’s like playing tennis with a blindfold on...you can keep whacking away and every once in awhile get lucky and hit the ball.

And if that’s the way you want to play the game...you and who you’re trying to play with are going to be pretty damn frustrated.

But when we can successfully say to someone “this is what I need” the blindfold comes off and we have a better chance of successfully playing the game.

Until that happens...it’s not fair to expect anyone to return your serve.

If Life Is Made Up Of Choices...Then How In The Heck Did I Get Here???

When I left the house this morning, I was itching to just turn around, sit down at my computer, and write what was on my mind.  And...this often happens to me...the events of my day sent my mind in a whole different direction.  So my blog about the humorous things I have had happen while internet dating will just have to wait.

But it gives me something to look forward to (tee hee).

When I left this morning, my destination was a luncheon with a group of professional women who meet once a month here in Denver.  I just joined this group (the Alliance for Professional Women of Denver) last fall because I felt like fate was leading me to them.  Not only has my own sister been a longtime member, but my web designer, estate attorney, and writing coach all belong.  So I felt like the planets were telling me to go forth and network.

Never one to question how the planets are aligned, I have gone forthed and lunched.

I signed up for this luncheon because I thought the speaker today sounded interesting.  Her topic today was:  “Is your BUT getting in your way?”  Meaning...what are you doing, what are you telling yourself, that could possibly be keeping you from getting what you want.

The speaker was fabulous...funny, thought-provoking, and had my mind racing.  Some of the things she brought up, I think I have in check and I’m doing the best that I can to set myself up for success.  And...even though I know you alll think I’m perfect (ha ha), some of the things she brought up I know I need to really work on.

But the thing that had me really thinking the entire way home, can really be summed up in one word.

Choices.

I’ve always considered myself a pretty self-aware person.  I mean, it’s not like I go through my entire day thinking about every decision I’ve made on an elevated level.  For example...I don’t sit there in the drive-thru at McDonald’s and ask myself, “Now, why did I choose an iced tea over a Diet Coke?  What does that mean?”

But I do for the most part try and think about what I’m doing and what it has to do with the bigger picture.  So, I guess I could have answered myself, “Because Diet Coke has a higher sodium content and you really don’t need that.”

I know.  I’m weird.

I’m careful about the people I choose to really let in.  I think who your friends are and who you choose to have influence over your life say a lot about who you are and what’s important to you.  I have chosen to keep my circle of friendship small and powerful in a positive way. 

That’s not to say that I only answer the phone when a select 3 people call.  I love people and nothing makes me happier than meeting new people.  And...the truth is...many times you can’t determine your inner circle until you get out and meet a lot of people. 

You can’t find who you need in your life without a little trial and error. 

There will be people who make the cut and people who don’t and there’s nothing wrong with that.  Your life is constantly evolving and choosing those people who can evolve with you is not a decision that happens overnight.

Since my husband died, I have been very aware of my choices in the past.  I have reflected a lot over the last 3 years about my life and what choices I have made that have led me up to this point.  I am a big believer in taking responsibility for my own life and, for better or for worse, dealing with the outcome.

Because, the truth is...no one is responsible for the life I have now more than me.

Now...don’t get me wrong.  I don’t try to rationalize the fact that I’m widowed.  That was a situation that was out of my control and I really had nothing to do with that.  There is a big difference between placing blame and taking responsibility. 

And there is very little time or energy that should be given to placing blame in a situation.  It really doesn’t help anyone.

But if I want to be really honest with myself...I did choose to get married.  I chose to get married at a young age.  I chose to have children and build a family.  And honestly...as benign as that sounds to most people...I chose open myself to love and to be loved. 

Which means that I also chose to accept the possibility of losing it.

At 20...I was not completely aware that I was making that choice.  But now...as I’m dealing with that loss...I am very aware.

As I choose to move forward and date, I realize that I’m choosing to open myself up, yet again.  And as a pretty self-aware person and knowing what I know now...that must mean I’m choosing to risk all over again.

That also means that love was important to me then.  And it must still be important to the “new me.” 

When I think about my professional life, I can think back (again) to when I was really too young to realize what a conscious choice I was making.  I chose to major in English for a very good and valid reason:  I couldn’t take multiple choice questions.

Now, I’ve blown that off for years, saying that I chose to major in something I knew wouldn’t get me flunked out of college.  But now that I think about it...wasn’t I choosing something I knew I would do well in?

I didn’t know, as I was madly punching in numbers on the phone in my dorm room, trying to get into the classes I needed (pre-online scheduling, of course) that I was choosing a path that would dictate how much of my life would be spent.  I didn’t know where it would lead.

And where has it all led?  Here.  Widowed, not by choice, but because of the path I chose to take.  Writing, opening myself and my life up to you...which has completely changed my life and how I look at the world.  And as “random” as I make starting the Widow Chick Facebook page and then theWiddahood.com sound...I was making a choice to help people and be helped in return.

The concept that we can choose our own lives is huge.  And I don’t ever want you to think that I believe we have complete control over what happens to us. 

What I do believe is that we have a choice about what we do next when an out-of-control thing happens.  How do we deal with it?  Where do we go from here?  How do we digest the fact that our lives are completely different...and then move forward so that we can still live? 

Yet again, I feel like we have a choice to make.  We can either be completely overwhelmed with the thought that we always have choices to make.  That alone is a thought big enough to paralyze most people.  Or we make little choices...right now...today...based on who we are now and where we would like to be in the future.  Do we want to be happy (no small task)?  Do we want to start building toward a new dream?  Do we just want to feel good for an hour so that maybe someday we’ll feel good for two?

And how are we going to get there?

I want to leave you with one of the best things the life coach talked about today.  When you’re driving at night...your headlights only allow you to see about 50-100 feet in front of you.  You navigate the road a little at a time.

And then get to your destination.

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011