Today Is Your Day

This morning when I woke up at the crack of 6:30, the following saying flashed in my head:

January 7, 2014.  The day I have been waiting for for years.  The day my book actually comes out.

This may sound cheesy, but I just want to document this moment here.  This blog has really become my diary, mainly because I lose all of my diaries, then write in another one, then find the old one and start writing in it.  When I leave all of this to my children someday, it will be a headache for them to decipher.  But the mean little mother in me likes that just a little bit.

So at least I can write here and know that I won't lose it.

I love that saying "it takes ten years to become an overnight success" and that's the way I feel.  Not that I've made this gigantic leap to the best-seller list my first day (I'm no Robertson, for crying out loud), but getting Confessions of a Mediocre Widow to this point has been a long road. 

It's weird that this day is here.  It's been "in the future" in my mind for so long I think a part of me thought it would never come.  So the whole day has been kind of a blur.

This morning I left on a secret mission to my closest Barnes & Noble.  I just wanted to see if it was there.  And then I found it - right smack in the middle of the Biography section, next to a David McCullough book, no less - and I couldn't help but stare.

I'm sure the people around me thought I was crazy and it didn't help that I took out my phone and snapped a picture of my book on the shelf.  I even thought about buying one just to know what it felt like, but I held back (as you can imagine, I have quite a few at home).  I almost couldn't breathe as I looked at it.  Then I walked out of the store, got into my car....

And bawled like a baby.

I had no idea that today would be so emotional and I sure as hell hope I got it all out before I have to speak at my book signing tonight.  Honestly the thing that I kept crying about over and over again was what always brings us widows to tears.

"I wish my husband could be here to see this."

Six years ago, I had no idea I had it in me to do this.  And here I am.  I wish he could be here because I do feel like this book was a collaboration between the two of us - that he wrote this book just as much as I did (okay, maybe not quite.  I mean, the man was an engineer and his grammar was not always the best).

But I did do it.  I saw it through. Just like Dr. Seuss said...today is my day.  I don't want to forget it.  And I don't want it to get lost in one of the 30 diaries I have scattered through my house.

Hang on. I just need to write myself a note for later:

Remember this moment.  Remember what you've done.  This is big and it's okay to be proud of yourself.

Sorry.  Sometimes we all just need to remind ourselves about stuff like that.

 

The Widow Awards

I don't know about you, but when I make through certain milestones...I feel like I've accomplished something monumental.

I think I was prouder of myself when I got through the first anniversary of my husband's death than I was when I got my college diploma.  I want to jump up and down every year on the day after his birthday because I'm so excited to be on the other side.  And, frankly, I think I deserve a trophy every year on December 26th.

I'm actually cheating and writing this on Christmas Day.  But I can feel it mounting - that jubilation that only getting through the holidays can bring.  I've gotten through the build-up and what is sometimes the forced merriment of the holiday season.  Christmas Eve, and all of the stress that comes with it, is over.  I'm halfway through what I consider a successful Christmas Day (meaning nothing catastrophic has happened) and can already feel the relief that comes with getting closure on another December 25th.

I know that so many of us are sad that, not only are we missing our spouses, but some of the magic of the season is gone as well.  And I totally get that.  Even if you're fortunate to be with people during the holidays, there is still a loneliness that can't be explained to others.  The best way I can think of phrasing it is that even if you're with people you love...there is still a connection that's missing.  There's a separateness.  There is a caution that we didn't feel before, a worry that if we feel too much - whether it's sadness or happiness - that emotion might just be too overwhelming.

This is the reason why I love widow(er)s.  No one gets that like we do.  I can guarantee that tomorrow I will wake up to many messages from my comrades in loss, celebrating the fact that they've made it through yet another milestone (or maybe even their first).

How I wish we could get all together!  We need a big giant ballroom with an elaborate stage - even bigger than the Oscars!  We will all be nominated for different categories like Best Meltdown or Most Elaborate Comfort Food Creator or Most Realistic - Coping Category.  We will all applaud each other as we take the stage in our most comfortable sweats and each accept an award that we will proudly display in our homes that will remind us - and everyone we know - that we made it through another day.

Because it's big.  It's a huge accomplishment that most people don't understand.  I don't know one person in our situation who hasn't woken up one morning and thought, "I did it.  I made it through."  Others in our circles don't understand the energy, emotional control, and fierce concentration it takes to sometimes just live through a day.

But we do.

I read a quote the other day that I love (of course now I can't find it).  It went something like "I know I'm having a hard day, but so far my success rate at getting through tough moments is 100%."  And that's true.  I've done it before.  And I will have to do it again.  But I've proven to myself that I can.  And so have you.

So, I raise my glass you, my fellow widdas.  If you were here, I'd be handing you a tacky trophy probably made out of an abandoned Barbie doll and whatever craft supplies I have laying around.  But I would be giving it to you with pride, smiling at you, and congratulating you for making it through the day.

Because as we all know...that's huge.

Missing Santa Claus

So, I’ve seen this on the Widow Chick page, I’ve seen it on theWiddahood.com, and I’ve seen it pop up in my own writing.

“I know this sounds selfish, but I hate that there will be nothing under the tree this year for me.”

Many of us are thinking it, but very few people actually say it out loud.  It makes us sound petty.  It makes us sound immature.  And it makes us sound whiny.

But I get it.  I totally do.  Because my husband was the best about Christmas (I’m choosing to ignore the year that he gave me an Oral B toothbrush and focus on the year he gave me a car).  He might have screwed up my birthday every once in a while, our anniversary about every other year, and every Mother’s Day…but he made up for it at Christmas.

Probably hoping that he wouldn’t have to start the New Year off sleeping on the couch.

After giving it some thought, I’ve decided something:  We’re not whiny and we’re not immature.  We’re not selfish and we’re not petty.

We’re sad.

If you and your spouse were anything like me and mine, you know that it was that person who knew you best.  It was that person who knew exactly what you wanted for the holidays and tried their best to deliver.  It was that person you could be the most honest with and say, “This is great, but I really wanted a different color.  Do you mind if I exchange it?” without hurting their feelings.  It was that person who thought of you and your wants, needs, and wishes above anyone else.

And now they’re gone.

The truth is, it wasn’t about the present – it never was.  I mean, if I really wanted a piece of jewelry…I could go out and buy it.  It was the fact that someone else was thinking of me, wanting me to be happy, and putting so much thought into a gift (except that whole toothbrush debacle)…wanting nothing more than to see joy on my face Christmas morning.

I don’t think I truly felt like an adult at Christmas until after my husband died.  Sure, we had three small children and the focus was almost entirely on them, but I always knew that my husband would surprise me with something.  So in that way…I was still pretty child-like around the holidays until my early 30s.

Now I do feel like the Christmas season is entirely about the kids.  I’m just there to wrap the presents and cook the food.  I know that’s a pathetic thing to say, but it’s true.  And, yes, it does make me extremely happy when I see their anticipation build the weeks before Christmas and how excited they are on Christmas morning.

But the child in me misses that, too.

I have no solution to this – you know me, I always try and come up with one.  I can’t fix it and I can’t make it go away.  All I can think is that it’s part of the grieving process and since we only really deal with it once a year, it would make sense that it’s just going to take longer to work through it.  

But it’s not selfish of me to want those presents under the tree.

It doesn’t make me a bad person to want something special to unwrap.

And it doesn’t mean that I’m wallowing when I say I just miss my Santa Claus.