"Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again." --Peter Pan

I can’t remember growing up.

I don’t mean that the way it sounds.  That sounds like I had some horrific childhood experience that blocked my entire youth from my mind.

What I mean is...I don’t remember the exact time I became a grown up.

I remember times when I thought I had grown up.  When I married my husband at twenty, I expected to wake up the next day transformed (a la Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles), when in reality I woke up to find that I was twenty years old and suddenly a wife.  There were 2 words involved (“I do”) but growing up didn’t seem to be required.

When I had my first child, I thought surely the fact that I was that responsible for another human being made me an adult.  Little did I know that I would make so many mistakes...I would sometimes feel like she was the more mature of the two of us.

When my husband died, I was confident that that would fast forward my growth and put me at a level of wisdom that would surpass my peers.  Little did I know that that experience would leave me floundering and that I would regress right back into infancy...when all I could handle was curling up in the most comfortable position I could find and hope someone would take care of me when I couldn’t express what I really needed.

There was no defining moment when a whiny “why can’t I” became a whiny “how can I.”  It came, as most important moments do, when I wasn’t paying attention.

All of these “important” moments, those “milestones,” have been just stepping stones.  And in between them I’ve been leaping into adulthood.

I know that in reality I’m kidding myself right now.  I think that I know that what’s really happening is that I am becoming who I’m supposed to be.  And I will be doing that until the day I die.  There never be a moment when I sit back and say, “Ahhhh...I’m perfect.  Finally...it’s happened.” 

I’m assuming that when I’m 85, I’ll be laughing about the things I didn’t know in my 70s.

We all try to do what’s best.  We have all had moments that have been posed and preserved.  And as we get older, we understand that it’s the moments that sneak up on us...those are what we will really remember.  There is magic in spontaneity.  There is true laughter in many of the mistakes we make.  There is growth in the times we defy what’s expected of us.

When I think of life that way...I hope I never grow up.  Being a grown up seems to sometimes block what’s still magic inside.  It seems to admit defeat and acknowledge that an ordinary life is okay.  And whatever we do in life...whatever moves us...it should be extraordinary.  To us.


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


© Catherine Tidd 2010

I Thought I Could....

Since I blogged this morning about my intention to have a good day today, my husband’s birthday, I felt like it was only fair to bookend it with how the day actually went.

I’ll give you a hint...I’m sitting here with a vodka/orange juice in my hand because on top of what happened today...I feel like I’m coming down with a cold. 

This beverage is the only way I can figure out how to combat both my day and my cold at the same time.

The morning started out okay.  We left the house full of hope and optimism, setting out for the grocery store to buy balloons before we headed up to the mountains.  All the kids decided to get the same color balloon (which was a miracle in itself) and having this decision made would save me at least an hour in the Helium Section.  

As we walked to the floral department, I decided at the last minute to buy my husband one single yellow rose (like he used to give to me) as a birthday present if they had one.  I looked up at the “single” bouquets and there it was...a single yellow rose right smack in the middle of a bunch of white ones.  It was the only one they had.

All good signs, right?

We left the store, all holding a Starbucks cup (hot cocoa for them, caffeine for me) ready to conquer the day!

Apparently that was when Good Karma decided to leave early for Thanksgiving to beat the holiday rush.

We were about 30 minutes out of town, driving in the old minivan, when my oldest suddenly screamed out, “MOM!!!!!  She drew on the seat with marker!!!” 

Sure enough, I would find out later...my 4 year old had decided to make her own permanent seat covers by doing some sort of abstract drawing of a “zebra playing catch with a fish while driving a semi” creation on the third row seat of my car.

Now...what I was expected to do about it while going 75 miles an hour on the highway...I still do not know.

The most interesting thing about this was that it sent my son into a frenzy of reprimanding her.  Never mind that he had actually stamped his own name (in permanent marker) on the back seat last year.

Anyway.  Still determined that this would not get me down, I took a deep breath and just decided to get over it then and there.  I could wash it off, right?  In the grand scheme of things...what’s a little marker (or mural) in a minivan anyhow?  That child could be famous some day!  She probably just raised the value of this car by thousands.

Yeah!  That’s it!

As we started getting closer to the “last stop” before we really got to the middle of nowhere, I thought I should be proactive and stop for a potty/lunch break, even though my son had assured me that if he had to go to the bathroom, he could find an obliging tree.  Feeling like peeing in the middle of a cemetery might be frowned upon, I pulled off the highway and spotted the only restaurant in town that didn’t involve fries (Qdoba).

Once inside, my 9 year old daughter very politely asked if she could sit next to me in the booth and I (not seeing the shit storm ahead) said yes.

At that moment, for some reason, my 6 year old son suddenly decided that sitting next to my 4 year old daughter was akin to sitting next to 50 pounds of plutonium and proceeded to throw a complete fit.  And I mean...a fit.

I learned a very valuable lesson today.  My desire and determination to “make it a good day” is no match for the temper of my 6 year old boy. 

I gave him “the look.”  I gave him that scary mommy-angry-under-the-breath voice.  Finally I dragged his 6 year old butt over to the check out where I was standing, just trying to buy quesadillas in peace.

The very sweet people working there asked if they could help me to my table and I calmly replied, “No, thank you.  He can carry his lunch and I’ve got the rest.”

At which point my son stomped his feet and his lunch slid to the floor.

Seeing what I’m sure looked like my eyes spinning around and smoke coming out of my ears, the wonderful woman at the cash register looked at me and said cheerfully, “We can clean this up!  Here’s a free quesadilla!  And here...chips and guacamole!  It’s okay...I have children!”

It was like she was trying to convince me that, with enough greasy Mexican food, I would have the strength to raise this child to adulthood.  I was about ready to hug her and take her home with me.

I sat at the table, a lump in my throat so big I couldn’t even eat.  What was I doing???  Were the “powers that be” trying to tell me that I couldn’t do this alone???  Why didn’t I pick a restaurant that served wine??????

Once back in the car, tears rolling down my face (and my kids blissfully unaware of my nervous breakdown thanks to Scooby Doo on DVD), we finally made it up to my husband’s final resting place.  I placed the rose on his headstone.  The kids and I sang “Happy Birthday,” made a wish, and let the balloons go.  We were having such a nice time, we decided to scrap our original plan for the second half of the day...wandering around the Museum of Nature and Science.  We thought we’d just catch the IMAX on the Hubble Telescope so that we could hang out by the creek a little longer.

For about 30 minutes...everyone was happy.

I finally called the 5 minute warning so that we could get to the movie downtown on time.  I had left us plenty of time and even worried about what I would do to keep them occupied when we got there too early.  As some of you may know...the IMAX doesn’t let people in early.  And, at the appointed time, the doors close and NO ONE can get in.

We were 2 minutes late.

Still determined that I could beat this day into submission, I checked my phone for other movie listings.  And...what’s this????  Another IMAX that’s showing the Hubble movie???  And it’s closer to my house????

Choosing to ignore the fact that I was dumb enough to not check this in the first place, I rushed the kids into the car and went as fast as I could (in rush hour traffic) to get to the theater.  For the first time, I felt like Fate was offering me her hand and saying, “Here.  Let me help you.  I’ll even get you there early.  And you can grab some pizza with the kids before the movie starts.  In fact...let me buy you a Bud Light for your trouble.”

As we waited for our pizza, the man at the next table leaned over and asked, “Excuse me?  Do you know where the IMAX is?”

And I said, “Yes!  It’s right across the street!  We’re headed there ourselves to see the movie on the Hubble Telescope.  Is that what you’re seeing?”

He said, “No.  There’s a movie about migration.  Gosh...I didn’t know they had so many theaters.”

Now wait...I couldn’t have this wrong could I???  I dug out my phone and checked trusty old Yahoo! movies and sure enough...Hubble Telescope.  November 19th.  Six PM.

We finished our pizza and made it there right on time.  I parked the car in front, flipped on the hazards, and told the kids, “Wait here.  I’m going to double check and make sure it’s playing.”

Sure enough.  I walk into the theater and what do I see?

Migration.

I plop myself back into the car, ram the gear shift into drive, and yell, “HOME!  Pay Per View Movie!” 

This declaration was met with noisy applause from the backseat.

I almost make it home when it hits.  Complete hysteria.  I’m laughing.  I’m crying.  I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.  I’m afraid I may have snorted a couple of times.

The kids are suddenly very quiet in the backseat.  Finally, my oldest says quietly, “Mom?  What’s so funny?”

Still laughing uncontrollably, I answer, “Oh sweetie.  This was just a bad day.  I mean, not all parts of it were bad.  We did some fun things.  But sometimes things get so bad they’re funny.  Remember how I always tell you if you’re getting bullied the best thing you can do is laugh right in their face?  Well, today bullied me.”

HA.


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


© Catherine Tidd 2010

I Think I Can, I Think I Can, I Think I Can....

The dreaded day has finally knocked on my door and made itself at home today.  Yup.  My husband’s birthday just walked right in, grabbed a beer, stole my remote, and made itself comfortable on my couch.

Now you know why I dread it so much.  It never lets me watch “The View.”

Yesterday I finally told myself that it’s time to practice what I preach.  I’ve spent the last week with a constant lump in my throat and a really bad attitude.  And yesterday I decided that it was enough.  I know I can’t control my grief, but today, my husband’s birthday, I am going to take many deep breaths, cry a little (I’m sure), and make a conscious decision to have a good day.

I’m a big believer that the way we live our lives and the things we can make happen are something that we can, on a certain level, decide.  I’m not delusional enough to think I can control everything.  But I believe that if I want to get going with my life, whether it’s with my job, or finding a new relationship, or making life better for my kids...that I can’t just sit around and wait for things to happen.  Sometimes life will happen to you.  But sometimes you make life happen. 

And today that’s what I’m going to do.

As I sit here and type this, I’m taking my famous 4 deep breaths (thanks, hubby), and making a conscious decision to have a good family day with the kids.

I’ll let you know how it works out.

As many of you know, I had to give a speech yesterday, and I spent the week cursing myself for scheduling it the day before my husband’s birthday.  I tried to tell myself that it was perfect timing...a great way to honor a great guy.  But the truth is...it was just really damn hard.  To talk about what an amazing guy he was without him here to say to me with a smug look on his face, “See???  I knew you liked me!” was pretty tough.

But it was a small and appreciative group and I really enjoyed meeting the people who were attending.  Especially one woman who had lost her husband around the same time I had lost mine and who has been following the blog for a little while.  It always shocks me that anyone is following it, so to meet someone in person was a little surreal.  And, as most of you may already know, to hug someone who knows what you’ve been through is truly a gift.

This week has been part of that widow lesson that we all learn sooner or later.  That as much as we dread the things that are coming up, the days do pass and the milestones do come.  We can kick and scream and try and push time away as hard as possible, but the sun always sets and a new day dawns.  And before you know it...the days we fight the most have been and gone and we start dreading the next one.

I always hesitate before I post a blog when I’m having a tough time.  On one hand, I think it’s important for people to know that I am human and that I’m not immune to the fact that grief sneaks up on all of us when we least expect it.  On the other, I worry that someone who is 3 months out is reading it and thinking, “OMG.  She’s three years out and she’s a total wreck!  How am I ever going to make it?”

I’ll let you in on a little secret.

When you hear people say, “The second year was the worst!” or “I thought I’d never get through that third year” that means that it was difficult...for them.  We all grieve at our own pace.  We’re all leading different lives.  People who haven’t had time or can’t allow themselves to really grieve for awhile...they’re probably going to have a harder time later on.  People who tried their best to meet this as head-on as possible, may have the worst behind them in the first year. 

Who knows????

So, when I say that I’ve had a hard time this year with my husband’s birthday...that means that it’s been tough...for me.  Please don’t assume that the 4^th birthday your spouse will miss will have you diving back under the covers as I did this year.  There’s a good chance that you’ll get through it just fine.

I guess now I’ll leave you so that I can go buy the birthday balloons, pack the kids up, and head up the mountain to visit my husband.  I know that I’ll stand there, looking at his grave and still, four years later, feel utter disbelief that this is the way we’re celebrating his birthday.

But then I’ll look up.  Watch the kids let their balloons go with the complete certainty that those balloons will find their dad.  Drink in the blue sky and listen to the river below us.  I know that this day too will end.  Tomorrow will come.

And I will try my hardest to make it a good day.

WHY???

Going through a loss like this has us all asking the same question:

Why?

To be honest...I try not to ask it too often.  But it’s really not something you can help.  And when I really think about it...I’m not sure I really want to know the answer. 

If I really asked the question, “Why was my husband taken away from his children when they were just babies?” and got an answer...it would still be incomprehensible to me.

If I asked the question, “Why did my husband have to leave me to deal with this all on my own?” and got an answer...I would still be angry.

If I asked the question, “Why did this happen?” and got an answer...I don’t think I’d be any further along than I am now.

So I really just try not to ask.

The truth is...death makes no sense.  How many of us have spent years with someone who was the picture of health...only to be shocked by how random death can be?  How many of us survived the dangerous teenage years with someone who drove too fast and constantly tested fate...only to lose them on their commute to work?  How many of us did everything the doctors told us to do...only to find out that our loved one only had weeks left?

And Keith Richards is still alive?  Again...makes no sense.

Going through something like this makes most of us doubt what we thought were “sure things” our entire lives.  That if we worked hard, loved each other, and were just generally good people...we would be rewarded by a long, happy, boring life together.

We all have our ways of rationalizing what has happened.  Some turn to God and get comfort in the belief that He has a master plan and that plan will lead us to a point where we’ll all meet again.  Some turn away from God, angry that a spirit so in control of what happens here and who they have put all of their trust and hope into...should suddenly turn on them in this way.  And some have never given religion a second thought and believe that it plays no part in how or why this happened.

I’m betting at this point...most of you are trying to figure out which way I’m leaning.  But I don’t write to persuade anyone to go the same direction I’m going.  In reality...I understand all points of view...the comfort that comes with believing, the anger that comes with disappointment, and the lack of believing in anything at all.

No matter what your beliefs, the question of “why” will have you running in circles for the rest of your life, if you don’t get a handle on it.  On our darkest days, of course we’re going to ask that question into the thin air that won’t answer back.  Just don’t let the question of “why” paralyze you.  You may know the answer some day.  You may not.  Until then, you have to do your best to live the life you have now.  Be good to people.  Do a few things your old self wouldn’t do.  Go out and have fun every once in awhile.

I mean...why not?

The Weather Is Gray. And So Am I.

I’m not exactly sad enough to be blue. I’m not depressed enough to be black. I’m falling somewhere in between the two.

Next week is my husband’s birthday. I know I’ve mentioned this before...but his birthday is really my hardest day (I think...it’s really hard to narrow that down, isn’t it?).

What’s interesting is that I don’t think most people know that. The holidays are obvious grief triggers, so people are watching me closely then. I’m fortunate to have friends who will always remember the anniversary of his death and really take care of me then. But his birthday is something that most people don’t remember...and it’s hard for me to explain to others why it’s Milestone Mountain for me.

I’ve started to think of his birthday as the start of “the next year.” Instead of thinking of his anniversary as a huge milestone, I sit around and think, “This is the 4th birthday he’s missed.”

My husband is the same age as my sister and her husband, as well as a lot of my friends, so that always makes it interesting. I look at them and wonder what he would be doing now. Would he be advancing his career like some of them are? Would he be taking my son to golf lessons? What kinds of changes would we have gone through together?

I’ve learned enough about myself, in the last few years, to know that the week before the actual day is the worst for me. I get tired. I feel drained all of the time. I snap at my children because the slightest request suddenly seems overwhelming to me. I cry for no reason (usually in the car). And since most people don’t realize how hard his birthday is...they have no idea what the hell is wrong with me.

What compounds the problem is...I don’t like to tell them. At least, not when I’m actually going through it. It’s hard to believe that someone who started a support page can get pretty bad about talking about her grief with others...but that’s the truth. I retreat back into what I think of as “my cave.”

Most of the time, I write about how I hope that people start to have a better and more positive attitude about life because I want them to know that a happy life is very possible, even in our situation. And don’t get me wrong...I like my life. I can do my life. I’m starting to get to a pretty good place.

But this is one of those times when I truly understand that we sometimes just need to wallow. So, just so you know...when you tell me that you’re just feeling sad...I get it.

I don’t need anyone to fix this. I don’t need anyone to take me out for a spa day (but if you offer...I won’t argue). I don’t need anyone to try and make me feel better.

I need to feel what I’m going to feel for a few days.

I know I’m making it sound simple. It’s really not. It’s not easy for me or the people who care about me. I don’t like to talk about what’s going on. I would rather turn inward. And for someone who lives her life so...outward...when I get like this, it’s very confusing to those around me.

The feelings I have are indescribable...I could never do them justice with words. If I tried, it would never make sense to someone who isn’t...me. There is a cloud in my soul and I just have to be patient with myself until it dissipates.

Usually, on the actual day of my husband’s birthday...I’m fine. I can talk about what a great guy he was. My feelings will have come to the surface once again...and I can actually explain what’s going on.

Until then...be patient. I’ll be a different color in a few days.

I'm Afraid Of Death. Great. NOW What Do I Do???

The whole concept of death scares the crap out of me. That should be no surprise, given what I’ve been through.

What’s weird is that right after my husband died...I didn’t feel that way.

For at least a good year after he was gone...I really felt like life was just a big crap-shoot. I mean...my husband was in an accident on his way to work. So I spent a good part of my time thinking, “Well. My mailbox is across the street. I could bite the dust just checking my mail.”

I wouldn’t say that I didn’t care about life. I just really understood the concept that it didn’t matter how “in control” I’d like to be...life could throw me a curveball at any time.

And death is like a speedy curveball with a twist.

When I was well into year 2, my sister and I were on the phone talking about all of the people we knew who were sick or who were dealing with the impending death of a loved one and I started to wonder...when did we become 90 years old?

My sister said, “Ugh. Do we just know people with the worst luck or something? What is going on?”

I thought about it for awhile and I realized...that really wasn’t the case. It was just that as we got older...our social circles were widening and, as I had already figured out...life could strike without any warning.

As good friends and somewhat good family members, my sister and I don’t shy away from what needs to be done. And that has made us the “go to” people for the people we know.

This is because my mother trained us so well. If someone is sick...we’re there. If someone is having surgery...you check and see if their spouse or relative has someone to sit with them in the waiting room. If they don’t...you better find a sitter and get your ass down there to keep them company. If things are going on in our own immediate family...we divide and conquer. One person makes sure that the paperwork is done and the people are okay at the hospital...the other makes sure that there is food and clean sheets waiting for them when they get home.

I’m still waiting for an award in our honor: “The Family That Gets Shit Done.”

It’ll look prettier with a swirly font.

I have the perfect example of this. A few weeks ago, my mom and I were just catching up on every day stuff when she said, “Did I tell you what happened last Friday?”

I said “no,” wondering what she was getting ready to throw at me.

Her neighbor’s cousin, who lives way up in the mountains, had given birth to a premature baby and her neighbor (the cousin’s closest relative in CO) was out of town. Now, this girl’s husband couldn’t be with her because he couldn’t leave their ranch (their only income) and she was living in the Ronald McDonald house here in Denver so that she could take care of the baby until they could, hopefully, take her home.

Never one to just let people sit alone in a hospital, my mother happened to call this girl, who she didn’t know, and ask her, “Would you like me to come down and sit with you?”

She told me the weak 23 year old voice on the other end of the phone said, “Yes. Please. If you could.”

My mother left her house and by the time she got down to the hospital...the baby had passed away. She sat there, with this girl she didn’t really know, who was holding this precious baby...until the hospital staff thought to ask, “Now...who are you?”

While my mom told me that story that day, and we both cried together, she said, “I’m just glad I remembered to call.”

And all I could think was, “I come from damn good people.”

We all know by now...that with life...comes death. With happiness comes sadness. Without one...you can’t know the other. But there are times when I just want to hole up in my house...stay away from everyone. The further I can stay away from people...the further I can stay away from tragedy.

Right?

There’s one thing that is really wrong with that theory. The further I stay away from people...the further I stay away from...life. If I stay away from sadness...there’s no way I’ll ever really know happiness. If I don’t take any chances...because, after all...that’s what life is...

...I won’t live.

I’ve been dealt a shitty hand. No...don’t argue with me (as if you would)...I really have. I’ve learned a lesson I shouldn’t have until I was 100 with dementia so bad that my husband could have easily been replaced with the orderly that gives an exceptional sponge bath. I’ve figured out, first-hand, what it’s like to be without. And I’m not talking about money or tangible things.

I’m talking about something I just can’t replace.

But I can’t turn back now. I’m in it. The powers that be must have asked Life and me, “til death do you part?” and in my apparent drunken Vegas before-life...I must have agreed.

I worry about the realities of life. “What if” used to just be something I thought of like, “What if I won the lottery? What would I do??” But after what I’ve been through the “what if” turns into, “What if I meet someone, a friend or a future significant other...and the same thing happens all over again???”

But.

What if I am the person who reaches out to someone when no one else will?

What if there’s happiness waiting for me but I won’t know until I look for it?

What if there are a few more years of a good life left in this old girl?

What if?

The Holidays Come Early for Widows: Shopping for the Perfect Nervous Breakdown

I had a pretty good day today. Which is shocking because I was starting in on my Christmas shopping.

I think what made it okay was that first of all, I got to spend the day with my mom (and Dad...if you’re reading this, shoot me an email. I’ve got some ideas for you. And don’t call me on December 23rd ‘cause I’m not going to the mall for you then).

The other thing though...the true miracle...was that I was doing it at all.

For the past 3 Christmases (this will be my 4th without my husband), I think I have been in such denial that Christmas was going to actually happen that I left my shopping until the very last minute. This little practice made me feel so overwhelmed and exhausted by the time the actual day rolled around...it just compounded my anti-Christmas mood.

Now, before my husband died, I was always the girl who got her shopping done by September. I would keep my eye out all year round for things that I thought my friends and family would like. When people would say on December 15th, “Man...I really need to get started on my shopping” I would answer, “Really? I’m already wrapped and ready to go!”

Yes, I know. It annoyed the rest of my friends too.

But I’m kind of thinking that this year...the fog has lifted a little bit. No...I wasn’t done by Labor Day, but the fact that I’m doing it now is pretty miraculous. Two years ago, I would have never seen myself get to this point. In fact, last year I was still picking stuff up at Walgreens on Christmas morning.

Don’t judge me. You can get a George Foreman and a smokin’ deal on t-shirts.

I think to most of the outside world, it’s pretty obvious some of the things that we struggle with during the holidays after the loss of a spouse. We’re lonely. We miss the family time. There isn’t anyone here to take the guts out of the turkey (I know I mentioned that in my last blog, but I really hate doing it. It may be a reoccurring theme until the first of the year).

What most people don’t understand is how early the difficulties of the holidays start. When we walk into Macy’s in August and they’re hanging snowflakes and lights...I’m sure anyone paying attention can see us turn ghostly pale and suddenly seem rooted to a spot in the accessories department.

(I just came in for socks dammit! Now I’m walking away with a nervous breakdown!)

Gift giving changes a lot when your spouse is gone. And I mean...a lot. When my husband was here, I still did most of the shopping. But I knew that if I needed “Santa Claus” to assemble something, he would be right there with me at 3 AM, ignoring the directions and looking for that one missing screw that seemed to hold the whole damn thing together.

Now, not only do I have to find things that are already put together, I have no one to bounce ideas off of. And since I don’t think that my son really wants anything from Justice or the American Girl store...this puts me in a pickle.

My dad is stuck with getting a shirt and a book every year now, but he’s a really good sport about it and shakes each one like he’s not sure what he’s going to get. “Does it sound like a red shirt, or a green shirt? Does this feel like a spy novel or a biography??”

I’m sure he misses shaking something that actually sounds like it has pieces and hardware.

And what to buy the in-laws??? I mean...sure...realistically he was no help in that department. But at least when I got frustrated with it, I could turn to him with a deadly glare and say, “I don’t care if you think your mom will never wear that sweater. What’s your solution? A welding helmet?”

Gawd...I miss that.

And don’t even get me started on the “couples” gifts. My husband may have blown it on most birthdays and anniversaries. He hated Valentine’s Day and didn’t put anything in my Easter basket. But he made up for it at Christmas. Since he’s been gone...well...these past few years have been when I’ve really digested the fact that I’m an adult. Because around the holidays...he always made me feel like a kid.

The funny thing is...I always felt like I was the opposite. I was a champ at birthdays and nothing makes a man feel guiltier than when you get him something nice on Valentine’s Day and he hands you a packet of seeds instead of flowers (and yes...he did do that one year), so I always capitalized on it. But he always seemed to outshine me at Christmas.

It’s hard shopping for everyone else and everywhere you turn you see something for him. All of those years I felt the pressure of his Christmas present...who would have thought I would miss that?? But I do. Last week, as I was walking through Sear’s with the kids, I passed through the tool section and nearly had a panic attack.

What’s weird is that years ago, I probably walked through the same section and felt something similar. (All those tools...spinning around me....no air...oh the pressure...where the hell are the gift cards???)

The truth is...nothing makes us feel more like our spouse is missing than the present we didn’t buy. To me...that’s harder than the present I’m not getting. And this has been the first year I’ve been able to even start on this process without constantly asking myself, “What would he have wanted? If he were here, what would he be giving everyone else?”

I’m not going to lie to you...it’s still hard. And I expect it always will be. But since the holidays only roll around once a year, I guess it takes a lot of extra time for us to digest our new “special occasion” normal. At least at this point I’ve gotten to expect a little extra heart pounding at Home Depot. I know my hands will get sweaty when I pass by the auto parts store all decorated in tinsel and tools. And now I circle the jewelry ads with a pencil instead of a big, fat, red Sharpie.

What can I say? I’m still a work in progress.

I'm Fallin'. How About You?

The mood has changed.

Not just my mood (although that can change every second thanks to fluctuating hormone levels and no husband to yell at when I’m cranky for no reason). It seems like everyone’s mood has changed.

You know...we’re pretty funny. We can’t just give ourselves a time to adjust to the fact that the days are getting shorter and the weather is getting cooler. We can’t just sit back and relax and accept it for what it is.

Nope. Because thanks to Target and Hobby Lobby breaking out the Autumn decorations in June and Christmas stuff in July, we now feel like we’re way behind on holidays we’d really just rather fast-forward through.

I mean...c’mon...our spouses are dead. Can’t we just get a bye? (Yes Dad...I watch ESPN every once in awhile. During the commercial breaks on E!.)

I think we, as widows and widowers, really feel the pressure of the holidays. There are many reasons for this, most of which are obvious and that I will blog about later. But right now, I’d like to focus on one thing: Our tasks are doubled.

For the non-shopper who lost his shopper...he now feels the pressure of the holidays looming before him and panic sets in early (which you should really stop worrying about. Don’t you know that Walgreens is open on Christmas day??? Found that out last year). For the person who lost the more responsible one of the couple who would always remember to “fall back” and change the clocks when it was time...it’s on Sunday the 7th, so don’t forget (you’re welcome). And for the cook who could tackle all of the side dishes but never had to personally take the guts out of the turkey...well...I have no advice for you. You’re just going to have to suck it up.

Bottom line...you’re dealing with tasks for two. And it really blows.

Before my husband died, Fall was my favorite time of the year. The leaves would be beautiful. There would be a sudden nip in the air. And it meant that it was time to cover up the grill and start cooking gumbo again.

Now it means that the leaves fall (and I have to rake them up). It’s damn cold (and I have to pay the heating bill). And it’s time to start cooking gumbo again. For 3 children who would rather I just grill up some hot dogs.

The first year he was gone, I came up with a brilliant plan of combining my need for leaf-raking and my friends’ need for gumbo into one “fun” little party. How about...a LEAF RAKING PARTY!!! That’s right! I’ll cook, you guys come over, rake my leaves, and then all of the kids can jump in them and play and have a great time!

My friends learned a hard lesson that year. That just because the word “party” is at the end of a phrase, doesn’t make it fun. And a bowl of gumbo doesn’t quite make up for the 18 bags of leaves they stuffed and hauled to the curb while all of our children watched with interest from the porch.

Fast forward to me the next year, out in the yard, alone, trying to get leaves stuffed in bags in hurricane-like winds. While my kids watched with interest from the cozy innards of the house.

I know I should be out of the “angry” phase of my grief by now, but every year, as I stack 1800 pounds of firewood, I curse my husband with every splinter, every blister, every smashed thumb (well, technically I only have 2 but you know what I mean).

The first year he was gone, I was still in my “I can do this!” phase and nothing was going to stop me (especially since my friends wouldn’t call me back when I invited them to a Firewood Stacking Party). I eyed that mountain of wood, strapped on my MP3 player, and got to work, loading it onto a cart (because my gate is too small to fit a wheelbarrow through, of course) and stacking it neatly on the side of the house.

I felt a huge sense of accomplishment when I was done. That is...until I had my parents over for dinner that night and bragged to my dad that I had stacked all 1800 pounds by myself.

He went outside, took a look at my stack and said, “Huh. Looks like only 1400 pounds to me.”

Smart ass.

Now, a little less optimistic and a helluva lot lazier, I look at that mound and wonder if the 10 year old kid down the street would like to make some extra cash. I proved I could do it that first year. I’m over it.

I miss that “can do” attitude. Never mind that I was delusional...it was really helpful back then. It was what made me think I could tackle the snowblower for the first time. It didn’t occur to me, my first go around, that I had actually blown the snow twice because I had no idea how to aim that damn blower-thingy. The point was...I did it on my own.

Now, I just count on my southwest exposure to help me out. And if we have enough snow and I can’t get out for a few days...I really didn’t need to go anywhere that badly anyway.

I know you’re wondering what my point is to these stories. I don’t have one. At this point I’d be surprised if you’re still reading this.

I mean...shouldn’t you be out shopping?

If There's Such A Thing As A Good "Beach Read"...Can We Have A Good "Grief Read"?

A few weeks ago, I received an email from this very nice guy named Mike (and before you get all excited...this is NOT a dating post). He was contacting me to let me know that his wife, Irene, had written a book called Two Chai Day, about her experience dealing with her first/late husband’s battle with lymphoma. He asked if he could send me the book.

Never one to turn down a free book, I happily agreed and sent him my address.

I have to say, the reason I really wanted to read this book was because it was Mike who was contacting me. That right there told me that this woman had made it out of the wild jungle we call grief. Or at least saw enough daylight to remarry a person who not only accepted her late husband into his own life, but is also her champion in getting her story told.

At this stage in the game...I’m always looking for some encouragement that there is life after this.

Now, I will admit to you...I’m not the biggest reader of “grief” books. I try, but most of them are too clinical. They’re too busy telling me what I’m supposed to do. And a lot of them seem to gloss over the story a little bit and don’t dive in deep enough to make me feel less alone.

This is not that book.

Irene McGoldrick is a social worker and mother (among many other things) who found out simultaneously that she was pregnant with her second child...and that her husband was very ill.

Now, some of you may think, “Well, my spouse wasn’t sick...the death was very sudden.” Or, “I don’t have kids, so this book won’t apply to me.”

I can say, with complete confidence, that a piece of this book will apply to just about everyone who has suffered the death of a partner.

The exhaustion. The anger. The fear. The guilt that comes with the occasional good day. The urge to yell at a stranger at the grocery store. The need for intimacy after the death and the confusion that comes with it. Irene tells you like it is and doesn’t leave anything out. I tell you...for those of you who have sent me your own stories to publish and found them hard to write...you will really appreciate the courage it takes to write something like this.

The most amazing part about this book is that Irene’s late husband, Bob, liked to keep journals (I appreciate that because I’m pretty big on that too). Irene wasn’t sure about whether or not she should read them after he was gone (which I admire her for because I think I would have ripped right into them as soon as I got home from the funeral. I’m just nosy like that).

I have to say, Irene...from the reader’s perspective...you made a good call.

To read what was going on with him during all of this turmoil...from being bored with treatment and inactivity to his determination that this was not going to beat him...Bob’s own raw insight into his illness and how it was affecting his wife and family, while also reading Irene’s perspective...let’s just say...they both gave us all a gift.

I mentioned earlier in this post about how a piece of this book will speak to any of us who have lost a significant other. There were many that made me stop and say, “Me too!” But the moment that hit me the hardest and a piece of advice I will never forget is when Irene is trying so hard to be both parents, after Bob has passed.

I remember shortly after my husband died, I tried relentlessly to be just like him. I felt like it was my duty to the kids to keep up with the same things my husband would have. I wanted to know everything he did so that I could teach them the things he knew. Pretty tall order for an English major who was married to a rocket scientist, eh?

I even tried to learn the ins and outs of car maintenance.

(If my dad read that...he’s laughing pretty hard right now.)

At one point, Irene is doing the same thing...she’s determined to be more like Bob. She’s desperately trying to do the things he would have and, in the wake of her grief, she’s getting more and more discouraged.

She goes to her support group and tries to explain why she feels like she’s failing all over the place and the facilitator brings up a really good point: That if she “spends so much time and energy being Bob – who was being Irene?”

The facilitator then drives the point home when she says, “You don’t want your children to lose both of you, do you?”

I actually have that section bookmarked, highlighted, and underlined.

For that piece of wisdom alone (but many more I could mention), I thank you, Irene, for writing this. Not only did I feel less alone...I felt a little less crazy (which if you knew me is a feat in itself). You didn’t leave anything out. You didn’t sugarcoat it. You let me see side of you and Bob that was so extremely personal...I feel like I know you both well and that I’m the better for it.

And to your husband Mike...thanks for sending this. You are the person I keep telling everyone is out there...someone who invites our late spouse into their own life and sees what we still have to offer.

Life.




For more information about Irene, visit her website at http://www.ms-dh.com/.  You can also catch her widow blog at http://www.mysaintedeadhusband.blogspot.com/.  And as if she's not busy enough, you can read her blog about becoming a stepparent at http://www.milwaukeemoms.com/blogs/kitchentable/Plan_B.html.

Irene's book, Two Chai Day, can be found on Amazon, Barnesandnoble.com, and iuniverse.com

The Truth About Friendship: The Before and After

Last night I posted a question on Facebook about whether or not people feel like they have “before” and “after” friends, mainly because I was thinking about my own week. I know you all haven’t heard from me much this week, and that’s because I was lucky enough to have a friend of mine (who I hadn’t seen in a very long time) stay with me while she was in town on business.

First of all…I forgot how fun it was just to have a girlfriend in the house. I would get the kids to bed and we would talk and talk about life, marriage, kids, and…most importantly…how I should treat this zit on my chin that has its own zip code. It was nice to have a chick-flick companion and someone who didn’t roll their eyes at me when I placed a salad before them.

Second…it was just flat-out nice to have another adult in the house. You don’t realize how much you miss that until someone is there, helping you do dishes while you give the kids a bath. Something like that is more valuable to me than jewelry these days.

We talked, and talked, and talked some more. We talked about my late husband and what’s different about my life now (other than the obvious). We talked about her life…the things she loves and the things she would change. No subject was off-limits and no topic too sensitive.

Sigh. It was nice.

At some point in the last few days it really hit me how much I had changed. There’s something about talking about your life and saying things out loud…you realize how different things really are.

One of the things we talked about was what each year of loss has meant to me. I was explaining to her how I really thought that once I hit that first year mark, things would magically get better. That suddenly the loss wouldn’t be there. That people wouldn’t refer to me as “the widow” anymore. I was surprised, disappointed, and somewhat devastated that that wasn’t the case. The realization that I would always carry this loss with me just about brought me to my knees.

By the middle of the second year, Loss and I had developed a truce. I agreed to not fight him anymore, if he would let me have a normal day every once in awhile. That was the beginning of us learning to co-exist.

I just wish he wouldn’t steal the covers all of the time.

I started talking about year 3 as “The Year of Change.” That was the year that I fully realized that I would never be the same and embraced it. I started calling myself “the widow”…I owned it and accepted it as part of who I am. I knew that I would always miss my husband, but I would never want to give up who I had become. Because before this loss, I had no idea what I was capable of. And now…the sky was the limit. If I could dream it…I could do it. And I alone would have to make it happen.

Which as you know…is an exciting and absolutely terrifying thought.

A lot of our conversation turned to the support I’ve had through this online community. How the people I’ve met encourage me every day and let me know that things can get better. How everyone shares stories and opinions and the most intimate parts of their souls with strangers who are constantly inspired by how they are living with their loss. How even though I may meet someone whose pain is new and raw, I always see a glimmer of what could be in that person.

And how getting to know everyone…it’s like Christmas morning to me every day.

The most interesting thing about spending time with this friend is that she’s not someone I see or talk to every day. She moved about a year before my husband passed away. We lost touch and grew apart, as friends do, and the next time I saw her was at his funeral.

So, looking at myself through her eyes really gave me a different perspective. Since I hadn’t seen her in three years…it was kind of like seeing a 7 year old you hadn’t seen for that long. Think of how much they grow. You might not even recognize them.

But it was such a comfort to me that I could pick up with her just as we would have in the “before” days. Yes, I’d “grown” a foot, but she could see that it’s still me under all of these changes.

It made me wonder about “before” and “after” friends. I know I certainly have people who fall into those categories…the ones who know me and the ones who knew us. And the ones who just walked away.

For those who have walked away…I’d like to think that that would have happened anyway. That those friendships were probably a little shallower than I originally thought and that as I got older, with or without my husband, those relationships probably would not have held up to the test of…life.

And frankly…as I get older, with or without my husband, I don’t have time for that shit anyway.

For those friends who have stuck with me…I think I needed to give them the time and the room to evolve just as I have. I guess realistically…I thought of me as “us” for a long time too. It’s taken me a few years to think of me as just…me. And just as they have tried to be as understanding as possible about the changes that I’ve made, I guess I needed to give them the time and space to adjust to those changes.

Because the truth is…for my close friends, my online friends, and the ones who can just pick up where we left off…

…I wouldn’t be me without them.

A Small Accomplishment on Widow Road

I accomplished something this weekend that has been hanging over my head since I lost my husband.

An entire weekend…overnights included…with just my children. No extra adult help. Just us.

I know this may not sound like much, but for someone who is a paranoid planner…taking 3 small children away from the old comfort zone is something I’m pretty damn proud of. And I’m beyond thankful that it went so well.

Don’t get me wrong…we have gone places. I haven’t restricted us to the Denver-metro area. But every time we’ve gone on an “overnight” there’s always been another adult involved. And I really wanted to know that I could do this on my own. I wanted to have a couple of days of just us…without having to worry about anyone else’s agenda.

In reality, I’m just starting to get to the point where traveling with the kids sounds at all appealing. When my sister told me a few years ago that she and her husband were going to take her 1 year old and 3 year old to Hawaii for 9 days…I have to say…that sounded like hell with a cocktail umbrella thrown in. So, even if my husband were here, I think we’d still be sticking to more local attractions.

For this trip, I felt like I had pretty much set us up for success. I chose a place only an hour and a half (or one DVD) away, booked a hotel with an indoor pool, and made a plan to take the kids to a little amusement park we had never been to up in the mountains that has a Christmas theme.

I know that sounds odd…but the fact that it’s this close to Halloween meant that there were no lines and that my kids could spin in little ornament-shaped cars on a giant Christmas tree until they themselves were green. Trust me…I was a hero this weekend. And I would personally like to write a letter to the designer of that place (who I’m sure is probably with my husband by now since the park is so old), thanking him for giving me the empowering feeling of providing this raging success of a weekend. Not only could I manage this place on my own…every “big kid” ride had a “little kid” ride right next to it. So while my 2 oldest sat strapped into a Tilt-A-Whirl designed to make them throw up the $5 ice cream I had just bought them, my youngest could mosey around on a plastic horse that went in a slow circle and feel like a champ.

Genius.

We had the usual arguments (“No, son, we are not going to eat McDonalds at every single meal”) and, once we got to the hotel, countless trips to the car. But for the most part, we just had a fantastic time. I think this is because my kids are at that golden age when, really, their expectations are low (Nick Jr. is much more exciting on a hotel T.V. that’s, in reality, much smaller than the one we have at home) and their excitement levels are high (“What do you mean we get to eat Subway in our hotel room????”). I should do this more often before they hit the age when a big trip to the Comfort Inn is met with an eye-roll and jacked-up volume on the iPod.

Going new places after a loss (I would imagine any loss, but I only know this one) is filled with heart-catching moments. You’re either passing by things that remind you of something you did with your spouse, or you’re passing by things wishing your spouse could be there to enjoy them with you.

This little road trip not only made me wish my husband could be here to see the delight on the faces of his children while they raced around on a mini roller coaster, but the trip down was a short ride through memory lane for me. From passing by his alma mater (where we first met) to riding past restaurants where I remembered we liked the margarita glasses As I drove past the hotel where I got ready for his graduation ball and he surprised me with the most beautiful bouquet of roses I have ever received (before or since), I had the temptation to just pull off the highway and stare.

But whether doing something I’d done before (with him) or something new (without), remembering him or wishing he was with us, I felt like he was there. Just along for the ride (but, unfortunately not able to help with any of the luggage). I felt like I grew a little bit this weekend, in my own little widowed world, and confirmed what I’ve been thinking these last few years: That life has changed, but I’ve changed with it. And that even though he’s not here, there is still joy to be had.

And now that I’ve figured out that I can be a big girl and actually get from point A to point B without someone yelling at me because I can’t read a map, there is just one thing I keep thinking over and over.

Look out Disneyland. We’re gettin’ ready for ya.

Dating: Why ME?????

I’m going to admit something to you that may sound a little odd, but…when do I not???

The main reason I started dating after my husband died was just to see if I could do it.

I mean, the last time I was “out there” was when I was a freshman in college. Don’t even get me started on the things that had changed since I had been swimming in the dating pool. Now I had to worry about whether or not my date would wonder why I had to take an extra 20 minutes in the bathroom (thank you, Spanx). I had to meet a date in a luxury minivan instead of a cute little beater of a car (although, I did once hear that guys like girls who drive vans. But I think the guy who told me that was envisioning shag carpet and a lava lamp. Not Cheerio crumbs and carseats that would take 2 hours to remove before the party could get started).

And Gravity and I had had a falling out a few years ago when I yelled at her for what she did to me after nursing 3 kids. She can be a real bitch sometimes.

At the time that I started dating, I wasn’t really thinking long-term. I wasn’t thinking that I wanted to get remarried. I wasn’t even thinking about a…let us say…less “shallow” relationship (remember…my mom reads these).

I just wanted to see if this old girl had it in her to get a free drink every once in awhile.

I had no goals when I first started dating, which I actually think was a huge mistake. I hear from a lot of people that they’re unsure of when to start, if they should start, or if they’ll ever start. And the best advice I can give you is…if you think you’d like to start dating…know what you want first and then test the waters. You need ask yourself if you’re looking for something deeper than happy hour…or if you’re more on the “shallow” end.

I did not do that.

I can envision myself now…like Dorothy walking through that scary forest trying to get to the Emerald City, I tip-toed into the world of dating seeking a good conversation and someone who would be at least willing to go dutch. Instead of the Tin Man and Scarecrow by her side, I only had lipstick and a prayer. And instead of meeting up with the Cowardly Lion, I ended up sitting across from a series of finance geeks who never tired of talking about how horrible their ex was/is.

The body hair was about right, though.

By the end of the first year, I was done. No…I mean D-U-N…DONE. Really…once you’ve exhausted the “ex” topic and they’ve asked you enough insensitive questions about your situation…what’s left to talk about? And why are you making me buy my own wine?

This is when I hit a very bitter patch. Why am I doing this???? I am supposed to be happily married, in bed by 9, listening to my husband snore. Not sitting across from some stranger over cheese fries wondering why in the hell anyone would buy a shirt that looks like that.

But, never the quitter, I decided I wouldn’t join the convent just yet. I would just slow down and take my time.

After that, I noticed a pattern that I seemed to develop. I would not date for about a month, get my bearings, and then go out on ONE date. That was good enough for me for about a month. Then I’d get my bearings and go out on another one.

Not only that, but I decided that I would stop dating what seemed like the same guy, over and over again. I would try something new. If I met someone who had a hobby or profession I knew nothing about, I would agree to a date. My hope was that then we wouldn’t be short on conversation.

I once told a friend of mine that I was doing this, and she replied, “Well, it’s nice that you’re now treating your dating life like trading cards. I don’t have one of those so I guess I’ll go out with him.”

I hate to say it…but she was just about right.

The good news is…I loved it. I really didn’t go on any of these dates expecting anything more than conversation about something new and different. I’d got out, meet new people, and usually have a good time. Not only that…it was a good way to steer clear of the landmines that are the “previous relationships.” This meant that there was less of a chance of someone saying to me, “You are soooo lucky you don’t have an ex to deal with!”

I guess what I’m suggesting is…if you’re thinking about venturing into the wide world of dating…don’t take it too seriously. Look at it as the potential to meet someone new. Suggest a restaurant that you’ve never been to before and that way, if it’s a total bust, you’ll at least have tried something different. And…if it’s completely horrible…you’ll walk away with a funny story to tell your friends (nothing entertains my married friends more than when I start off a story with, “You will not believe the guy I went out with the other night!”).

Not every date has to have you thinking, “Could he be the one??” In my opinion, if you get through dinner and ask for the dessert menu, you’re doing pretty good.

And before I wrap this up, there is one more helpful tip that I’d like to leave you with.

If at any point during the date, you start feeling sorry for the other person’s ex-spouse, just walk away. That’s never a good sign.

Don't Bite The Hand That Supports You

Whew.

What a day.

I really hesitate to even post a blog right now because…I gotta be honest…I don’t know what’s with everyone today.

At first I thought it was just me. I woke up this morning after being up all night with a plumber who informed me that my upstairs toilet had decided to pay a friendly visit to my downstairs dining room by forming a “hello leak.”

Writing a check to a plumber at 2 AM and then getting up with tired, cranky kids at 6 AM does not make for a fun night at the Widow Chick Bed, Breakfast, and Bawl.

After getting my youngest to school 20 minutes late because my middle child decided it would be more fun to start dressing 2 minutes before the bus was scheduled to come, my day was off to a decidedly rough start.

At this point, I tried to take a deep breath and try and get on with my day. And where should I go to get a little pick-me-up before things really get rolling?

All of my favorite support pages, of course.

So, imagine my surprise, when I logged in and checked out what’s going on with everyone, hoping to get a friendly “eye” and some words of encouragement, and I happened to notice that everyone is in a mood.

And I don’t just mean a mood. I mean a MOOD.

This seemed to be across the board. Most places I turned to had people in some kind of funk, having a bad day (as we all do), and somehow taking it out on the people they should be turning to.

To tell you the truth…it made me crawl back into my bed and hide under the covers for a little while.

I know a lot of us are in a transition. The holidays are coming up. The days are getting shorter…today it was so dark when I woke up, I couldn’t believe it was morning already. And I know more people who have “milestones” in October and November I think than any other months.

I certainly don’t expect everyone to be perky every day. That’s not what these pages are for. They’re mainly for times when we’re not…perking.

But what scared me today were the emails I received. People saying they were thinking of dropping out of support groups altogether (and not just mine) because of things that were said to them. Looking at comments on other pages that were flat-out disrespectful and hurtful and realizing that on the receiving end of those comments were people who were already hurting. I’ve been seriously worried all day about the people who might be checking out online support for the first time and seeing these things. Because, if that were me, I might think twice before I started sharing my deepest thoughts.

For the first time in 6 months I noticed some people weren’t being supported. They were getting beaten down.

And you know what? That’s not us.

These pages are where I turn when I need someone. These are the people who understand what I’m going through when no one else does. This is where I know it’s okay to agree to disagree…because our specific situations are different and have made us different people. And that’s okay.

As we move into the next few months, we need to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we are there for each other. No matter what. We need to take 2 seconds and tell a stranger, “It’s okay. I’m here for you now.” We need to know that whatever comments are being made, they come from a place of love and support and that whatever comments we are making are sensitive to what someone else is going through…even though we may not specifically know what it is.

We need to always think for just a second before we hit that “comment” button about what kind of a day the other person is having. And before we get upset about what someone else has written, we need to really consider what they are saying. Is it really argumentative? Or is it possible it could be taken a different way?

Frankly, when I think about grief support I really don’t see where there is any room for argument at all. Discussion…of course. We all want our voices to be heard and our experiences to be recognized. 

But there is no reason I can see to tell anyone on these pages that they’re wrong. Or that what they’re feeling isn’t valid. We’re not here to prove a point. We’re not trying to convince someone to come to “our side.” We’re all on the same side.

And there are some days when that is the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning.

My Middle Place

I’ve been reading this book called “The Middle Place” by Kelly Corrigan. It’s a memoir about her fight against breast cancer while her own father (an amazing “character”) battles his own bladder cancer.

I love this book. It’s been sad, of course, but funny and very real.

Kelly describes “the middle place” as a “sliver of time when childhood and parenthood overlap….The middle place is also hallmarked by endless, irresistible, often exasperating comparisons between your family of origin and the family you’ve made.”

I totally get that. It makes me think of the many times, even before my husband died, that when something good or bad happened, I couldn’t wait to tell my husband (that’s the adult in me…she’s still in there somewhere), but I also couldn’t wait to tell my parents (that’s the kid part of me that will never go away). It’s what made our first few years of marriage so difficult while we both argued our points about how the way we were each brought up was the better way…until we figured out that blending the two would be the best way. It’s that kind of grey area between adulthood and childhood that a lot of us fluctuate between, no matter how old we are.

I realize that my upbringing was not like everyone else’s. We had our share of fights, but for the most part, my family was incredibly close. They were always my safe port in the storm. The place I could go to and hear commiserating words of anger on my behalf, or laughter at the ridiculousness of life. And of course, they were the first people to drop everything and be at my side at the hospital when my life had gone so quickly and inexplicably wrong.

I’ll never forget sitting on the floor of the hospital waiting room in ICU (that we had somehow commandeered and had all to ourselves) because sitting on a chair was just too precarious. Every time I “perched” I thought that surely gravity would take over and slam me to the floor. So I decided to outsmart it and just stay down there.

Anyway, somehow, in all of the comings and goings of everyone I knew, it ended up being just the 4 of us sitting in that room. I’ll never forget looking up and seeing the pale concern, which was all directed at me, and a doctor coming in to tell me that my husband’s brain was swelling and I only had one option. And that was to remove part of his skull to let the brain swell.

Of course, anyone’s immediate reaction would be to do it. I mean, if this is possibly the difference between him making it and not…it’s a no-brainer, right (no pun intended)? But I looked over at my favorite nurse and I said, “What does this mean?”

And she quietly said, “Honey…if you do this he will never know you. He will never know your children. He will never be able to feed himself.”

I knew that was not something my husband would want me to do. But when you’ve been awake for days and you’re faced with a life-changing decision, it can cloud your judgment, to say the least. At that moment, I was tired of making the decisions. I was tired of the doctors looking to me, asking me to be the final signature. I was ready to leave the whole damn mess. And I looked at my family and longed for someone to just take care of this. Take care of me.

They stared at me until I looked up and said, “I don’t think we should do this. Do you think we should do this?”

Notice the word “we.”

And collectively they said, “No, we shouldn’t.”

I will always remember that moment. The moment when they didn’t just pass the buck and say, “This is your decision” which would have been the easier thing for them to do. How they didn’t just stand behind me, they stood with me. How they would have supported me either way I went, but when asked, they took the responsibility with me.

There has never been a moment in my life when I felt more like we were in this together. And never a moment that I needed to feel more “together” with someone else.

Since then, I (of course) have had those times when I feel utterly alone. I know that they will never know what I’ve gone through, what I continue to go through, just as I will never really know about the defining moments that have impacted them, in their own way. The things we call “character builders” because the phrase “shit storm” doesn’t sound as eloquent.

But there’s a part of me that thinks I will always be in this “middle place.” And that’s not so bad…especially now that I’m doing this on my own. There are times when I feel strong and ready to take on the world. And there are moments when all I want to do is run to my family and just ask them to make it all better.

And, together, we will do both.

Widows: Are We Just One Weird Hair-Do Away From Being A Cult?

Okay.  You guys are going to think I’m crazy (how many blogs have I started this way???), but I always really think about the comments I make on the Facebook page and the responses that I email back to people. Because, sometimes, the thing that I initially write sounds…well….

Creepy.

I am lucky enough to be in touch with a lot of you. I love that you trust me enough, as a friend you’ve never met, to share your stories of loss and triumph. It makes me so grateful when new people join the page and make a comment introducing themselves, telling us why they’re with us. And I love how we all rally around each other, offering support, laughing through our tears, and sometimes throwing out the odd sick joke.

But sometimes when I’m writing a comment or corresponding with someone, I’ll catch myself right before I hit “send” and change what I’ve written. Because when I read, “We’re so glad that you’re with us,” sometimes I wonder if the person on the other end is envisioning some cult leader who is ready to make them sign over their mortgages and adopt 50 cats (our chosen God).

I catch myself, especially, when I’m responding to someone on Open to Hope or Hello Grief (two wonderful websites who occasionally publish what I’ve written). Because usually when someone writes how heartbroken they are about their loss and how they don’t know who to turn to, I’ll want to say, “Come join us. We’re here waiting for you.”

Now seriously. Look at my picture. Imagine me with my eyes popping out saying that. See? It IS creepy!

We have our own language (how many people do you know type (((hugs))) on a regular basis?). We recognize people who are not “one of us.” We’re ready to take on the world if it means defending one of our fellow grievers.

Throw in a crazy dress code and we’re just itching for a compound in the mountains somewhere.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I kind of like all of these things about us. We’ve formed a group and a bond that will probably never be broken. Thanks to the wonders of technology, I can now say that I have people all over the world supporting me unconditionally. And so do you.

Awhile back on the Widow Chick page, we did kind of come up with a wacky scenario about what would happen if we all lived together. If you haven’t checked it out, you really should:

http://www.facebook.com/notes.php?id=114854541866999¬es_tab=app_2347471856#!/note.php?note_id=146156368733223

Okay…now doesn’t that sound fabulous? I mean who wouldn’t want all of those perks? I bet if we really set that up, we’d be beating widows away with a stick.

Well, maybe not. We’re really not that kind of a crowd.

I guess, the point is…if we’re turning into some weird, Kleenex-carrying, chocolate-munching, wine-drinking cult, I guess I’m okay with it. I’ll still try and keep what I think of as creepy comments to a minimum, so as not to freak out the new people. And if we ever do all get together someday, I can promise you one thing.

I won’t make you eat a live chicken and burn down the compound. ‘Cause that would just be taking things a little too far.

Weddings and Funerals: More Alike Than You Might Think

Has anyone else other than me noticed that there are frightening parallels between funerals and weddings?

(If you haven’t noticed this, you may think that my love of wine has finally burned off my last, useful brain cells. But stick with me.)

Now, this isn’t meant to be a punchline. I don’t mean that your wedding was the “death” of your single life or anything else my husband would be laughing about right now. I just mean that these two events are very closely related. Let’s examine the facts:

1. There are flowers
2. Everyone you know is there (and some people you don’t)
3. People bring cards with money in them
4. Your mother-in-law is dressed in black

Well…maybe that was just my wedding.

The main thing I’ve noticed is that, just as weddings are very rarely actually about the blissful couple, funerals are very rarely about the deceased. We all usually have (at both events) someone dictating how things should go. And most of the time, both events leave us thinking, “How did that flower arrangement end up there??? That’s the tackiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Unless you were a “Bridezilla” who was able to tell off every relative you know, using your purple speaker phone, while weaving through traffic in a town of about 100 people, yelling every expletive you know...you probably had at least one portion of your wedding that was influenced by the opinions of others.

(I’m embarrassed to say I’m addicted to that show. I really need to find a hobby.)

Maybe we need to come up with a “Widowzilla” show with someone who yells at people when they bring a sympathy card she’s already seen 15 times, throws a platter of supermarket fried chicken across the front yard, and tells her in-laws and distant relatives that if they don’t sing every word of the song she picked out for the funeral, they will no longer be a part of her family.

I think I’m onto something here.

Anyway…

How many of you actually did what you wanted for the funeral? Have you even thought of what that would be? I have. You know why? Because all of the funerals I’ve attended since my husband died have left me thinking, “Now, why didn’t I do that?”

Just like my wedding.

Why are we so damned polite? Why do we do things to appease other people when we, in our hearts, know what our spouses would actually want?

Because…unfortunately…funerals are not as much about the person who is gone as they are about the people who are left behind to deal with it.

Everyone thinks they know your spouse better than you do. That guy who used to ride tricycles with your husband when they were 5 years old? He’s got an opinion about this. Your in-laws, who were never as close to your wife as they would like to think? Here’s their 2 cents. The people who you are paying to run the show? They have a pretty good idea of what “needs” to be done.

Those of you who were the “Widowzillas”…frankly…I applaud you. I talk a good game now, 3 years after my husband passed, about what people should do when they’re losing a loved one. “Stand up to them!” I say. “Do what your spouse would have wanted!”

But the truth is (and this will sound not very "Widow Chick" of me)…sometimes it’s better to just let them have their say. Let the whole public memorial be about them. And then do what your spouse would have wanted you to do. In private.

Because…just like your wedding…your most intimate moment didn’t happen when everyone else was there. It happened when no one else was looking.

Life Goes On...Right???

Does anyone else remember the moment when they realized that life was still going to happen even though we thought it had come to a stand-still? I’ve had several moments like that, but I distinctly remember the first time it happened.

Not long after my husband’s death, my best friend called to tell me that she was pregnant. I was so happy for her…over the moon. But after thinking about it for a bit, I realized that my best friend was going to have a baby. A whole new person. And my husband was never going to meet him. My friend’s son might hear stories and “know” him in an abstract way, but he would never be tickled by him. Never hear him laugh. That child would never get to see my husband act like a jackass with his own dad.

Really…he’s going to miss out on a lot.

I can’t tell you what a disturbing feeling that was for me. Actually, it still is a little. And it’s not that I’m so egocentric that I can’t believe the world doesn’t revolve around me and my needs (okay…maybe I am. But I’m working on it). It was just so unbelievable to me that new things would happen…that my husband would never see.

A lot of us have talked about the movie P.S I Love You (which if you haven’t seen it and you’re new to this journey…caution, caution, warning ahead…possible nervous breakdown inducer). One of the most memorable moments in that movie for me was when the widow was sitting in a little rowboat in Ireland with her 2 best friends. One of the friends lets it slip that she’s pregnant and the other blurts out that she’s engaged. I’ll never forget the crestfallen look on the widow’s face the moment she realizes that life was going to go on…even though she thought it had stopped.

At that point, that character kind of retreats from her friends. And her friends mistake that for her being selfish. But I can relate to that feeling. Knowing that life is going to go on for everyone else whether you like it or not is an overwhelming feeling. And having that moment when you realize you better get on the boat or it’s going to leave without you, is a hard thing to wrap your mind around.

It’s actually the little things that really hit me. Songs that I hear on the radio and think, “He never heard this one. I wonder if it would have gotten on his nerves?” He would never see Modern Family. Never get to meet all of the wonderful people I’ve met since he’s been gone.

One of the most confusing times I’ve had with this was when I started dating someone new…who I just knew my husband would like. How weird is that?? To be dating someone and think, “Awww shoot!  My husband will never meet him! They would have loved each other!”

Now that I think about it…the fact that this guy is dating his wife…that introduction probably wouldn’t have gone over so well.

I know everyone goes through this when they’re dealing with loss and no one knows about it until that day comes. And our friends aren’t being insensitive when they get on with their lives…they just don’t know.

But that time will come for everyone. That same friend who had the baby is now dealing with her mother who has terminal cancer. And one of the first things she said to me was, “My son will never really know her.” And I know that she’s starting to go through the motions of realizing that life will go on…whether she's ready for it or not.

I’m just glad that I can be there, cry with her, and say, “I know. I know.”

Feels Like Home To Me

We all go through different stages in our lives. And all of those stages affect us differently. And how we deal with those stages shape the people we become.

For some reason tonight, I started thinking about when my husband and I were first married. I’ve already told you all that I got married at the ripe, old age of 20. What you don’t know is that I got married 3 weeks after I turned 20 because I refused to get married as a teenager.

Well. You know. The younger you are, the more 3 weeks makes a difference.

Whatever.

So, at the beginning of my marriage…we had no money. Like…I-felt-guilty-about-buying-a-pair-of-socks-no-money. My husband had a good, steady job, but I was still in college. So my contribution was minimal.

Okay. Fine. So my contribution came when he could claim me as a dependent on his taxes.

Anyway.

You should also know that at the beginning of my marriage…I followed my husband 1500 miles away from my home to that steady job.  Away from everyone I knew and everything that was familiar. From mountains to beach. From heavy sweatshirts to bikini wear (and even at that age I didn’t have the abs for it). From sweaty Birkenstocks at the grocery store, to shirtless/shoeless men with ferrets in the meat department.

Lovely.

Knowing that I was completely out of my element, my husband did his very best to make me feel at home. Now, I realize that for most men, feeling at home involves a good bean-bag chair and a six pack of Miller High Life. But my husband went above and beyond the manly/husbandly call of duty.

(Especially for an Engineer.)

He bought me a piano.

I’ve played the piano since I was five. I’ve sung since I can remember. I even went so far as to get a music scholarship to college (which I promptly dumped because…frankly…it was just too damn hard). Music was my stress reliever. My outlet. My way to get back at the world in an out-of-tune way when it just pissed me off.

When I married my husband, I realized that I would be giving up my childhood piano and I had no idea when we would ever be able to afford to actually buy one ourselves. And that was okay. I loved him and I just couldn’t wait to be with him. So giving up something that was so much a part of me and replacing it with something that I couldn’t wait to be with every waking minute...seemed like a pretty fair trade.

But one day…at an estate sale…my husband saw a piano for $200. And he looked at me and said, “Let’s get that.”

Knowing that we really didn’t have $200 to spend on it, I said, “Why? It’s not necessary.”

And he replied, “Because you need it. And I want you to feel like you’re home.”

Okay. I know all you girls are feeling all “melty.” But I really hesitated. Ummmm…water bill…piano? Car payment…piano?

Busch Lite money…piano?

I looked at him (in my divine 20-year-old wisdom) and said, “I don’t care what I have. I don’t care where we are. You’re home. And I can take you with me wherever I go.”

I didn’t realize until later, how that moment, that realization, would affect me.

At 20, I possessed the naïve belief that nothing bad would ever happen. That he would always be with me. That even if we ended up in a cardboard box…we’d still be home.

At that age, I never thought I would be without him. I didn’t know that I could afford to have my kids involved in the activities they wanted to be in. That we could eat out some times and not have to worry. That I could have the material things that I needed.

But that without him...I'd still feel homeless.

I had a big family day today. I had a lot of personal tears because a huge fraction of my family was gone. No one else knew. No one else saw.

But every once in awhile…I would have a feeling. I would smile into thin air. I would laugh when nothing was funny. I would be inspired by a blank wall.

And there was something in me that knew. I could take him with me.

I was home.

Tired of Ripping Off the Big Grief Band-Aid

Once again, I’m grieving the pending loss of an inanimate object.

What is with me??? I mean, it’s not like it got up and kissed me good morning every day. It’s not like it comforted me when I was blue. It hasn’t even bought me any jewelry worth mentioning.

But it was something my husband put together years ago.

My oldest daughter’s birthday is coming up and my big surprise for her is that when she comes home from school, her room will have been magically changed from a little girl’s room…to a space more fitting for a pre-teen.

Now, I’m really excited to do this. It involves everything that I love: Shopping, decorating, and…well…shopping.

But in my attempt to make this miraculous transformation…something’s got to go in order to make more room. And that something would be the dresser my husband put together for her years ago.

In what seems like a lifetime ago, my 2 ½ year old daughter was promoted from the nursery to her own “big girl room” because her brother was on the way. I happily decorated a very girly space for her and I can still see my husband grunting and groaning over the cheap piece of furniture that I’d bought for her room. And I’ll never forget the look of delight on her face when she walked into her new space.

Now, I know that, realistically speaking, I’m really kind of grieving two things: The loss of the dresser and the fact that my daughter is no longer a little girl. A transformation that my husband has missed.

But it got me to thinking last night.

Sometimes I feel like as I slowly get rid of all of these things from my past, things that were here when my husband was here…well…I feel like I’m slowly ripping off a band-aid. I mourn every piece that goes, every pad of paper that I throw away that might have one page with his handwriting on it, every pillow that has gone flat, but he may have slept on it at some point.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the changes I have made to my house. I wouldn’t want to be a bedroom with the wallpaper falling down around me. I realize that, while getting rid of the dryer was sad, I don’t have the time to line dry everything. I’m happy with the new exterior paint color.

But as I was sitting on my bed feeling a little blue last night, I asked myself, “If you could do anything...and money was no object…what would you want to do?  Would you have left this house already?  Or will you never be able to leave this house?”

Here’s what I decided.

If my husband had to go, what I wish I could have done was have the unlimited funds to pick up and leave this house right away. Just kind of make a clean break. Move into someplace completely new with new everything…furniture, pictures…everything. No more slowly taking off that band-aid. Just rip it off, arm hairs and all, and be done with it.

But I’d want to be able to keep my house and leave it exactly the way it was when he was here.

(I don’t know if there is such a thing as a “house hoarder” but I’d like to give it a shot.)

Wouldn’t that be amazing? To kind of move forward a little, but to know that if you wanted to, you could walk right back into your old house and remember things exactly how they were. When you start feeling sad, it could be kind of like your “Grief Clubhouse” and you could just drive over, walk in, and bawl your eyes out. No reason to get rid of any of the stuff you don’t use…because you’re already in a new and energy efficient place (with a maid. Hey…if I’m going to daydream, I might as well go all the way). You don’t have to get rid of that dryer…the one at your new house works great. Who cares if your kids don’t fit in those little beds anymore? They’ve got new stuff at the new house.

I have visions of myself as I am now, walking into this house as it was then, like it’s a museum. Just walking through the rooms and seeing things as he left them. His clothes still in the closet. Our bed unmade ‘cause we just didn’t have time. His coffee pot still on the counter. His shoes thrown some place where I’m sure to trip over them.

There’s just one thing that keeps this scenario from being perfect.

Him.