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?