Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts

Friday, February 19, 2021

Just Breathe

 It occurred to me a few weeks ago that for the first time in 12 years I wasn't dragged into a pit of memories and grief over the course of November, December, and January. I admit it was a surprising realization. 

When the journey began, more like a train wreck than a journey, they told me the average time to recover from the death of a spouse was about 6 years. Obviously, I am an underachiever. I took twice as long. I can only attribute that to the accompanying PTSD that resulted from my experience. 

Maybe you could have done better. Maybe you know someone who did. I'm truly happy for them. I wish.

It took me a bit to understand what was going on with me. Apparently, my brain doesn't release trauma as easily as other folks do. I have memories from my childhood that can destroy my day in an instant. I've controlled this stuff over the years, but not without extreme efforts. Jerry's death nearly destroyed me, and even today, I don't handle stress with the same ease I once did. I break easily now, something that shocks my closest family members when it happens.

And I still have days when a memory can pop up and just wreck my composure. I sit and cry but it isn't the soul shredding of early days and the intense sadness that follows, I can cope with. 

Am I "over it"? No. That won't happen. I remember all the times I should have been nicer, more understanding, not taken part in an argument, and said "I love you" more. I remember every moment of the last 24 hours of his life. And I can't think about it. Ever. It is a nightmare I try very hard to avoid at all cost, sometimes failing. I remember the sound of his wedding ring striking the post of the headboard of our bed as he struggled with a massive coronary, and the deathly silence that followed. For months I heard that sound. And if I try very hard, I can still hear it. Just writing these words makes it hard to breathe. 

Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe!

The cliche is that time heals all wounds. Maybe. I'm not sure. I carry massive scars that no one but I can see. And believe me, they are deep and painful. I often ask myself if I'll ever stop hurting from it. I have no answer to that. Some folks find a new spouse in a few years. I haven't even considered it. I've met death once, up close and personal. He won that fight. The next time, maybe I'll win and Jerry will walk me home.

For now, I just try to breathe. 

Friday, December 6, 2019

Echos

This will be my 10th Christmas without Jerry. It is still painful to look at his photo and realize he's not coming home. No, I'm not over it. It is unlikely I'll ever be over it. No, I don't have a boyfriend and I haven't remarried. I can't even imagine that. That man in the photo is what I see if I even consider meeting someone else.

Ten years. So long to be away from someone you shared your whole life with. I met and married him when I was 17 and he died when I was 52. A whole life.

You know, he wasn't perfect, and he made me furious at times. But he was so very good to me. I always felt like I mattered, that someone loved me and cared about me. There would always be someone to catch me if I fell and set me back on my feet. If the car broke down, I knew who to call. There was always someone to help with the heavy lifting.

Oh, but that's not the worst of it. There were things to do and new places to go and he'd be there with me. We shared memories and even fears. At least, I did. He never wanted to worry me. I hate that because that's what makes the marriage. You both have to share the bad along with the good. He wanted nothing to darken my days.

How much he'd suffer if he knew how dark my life became with his leaving. Sarah was the only light I had to light my way.

This year, that light is gone. For the first time in 13 years, my beautiful Sarah will not be with me for Christmas. She has gone to live with her dad and I will probably never have Christmas with her again unless I live to see her grown. She is far away, and they never come here for Christmas and I've never been there for it.

Sarah was the light that kept me focused and the joy that kept me laughing. So this week has been very hard. There will be no lights, no tree, no presents, no decorations, and no excited laughter. No peaking at packages, no Christmas stories, no special meals. It will be just another dark day in an empty house filled with the echos.

The old year is dying and day by day I do too. I haven't been sorry to see a year end in 10 years. I will not care this year either. I do not look forward to a new one. Why should I?



Tuesday, February 5, 2019

The Hell I See and Hear

It is February 5 and I'm officially over the worst of the holidays. All that remains is Valentine's Day, and that doesn't really matter, anyway. Jerry usually forgot such things. It isn't the day, rather it is the images and atmosphere that are troubling. But so are normal days.

This morning, as I was on my way home from dropping Sarah off at school, I was thinking about something related to a story element. It was unrelated to anything I am working on so I can't tell you why I thought about it. I suspect, in hindsight, that I was just messing around in my head. I should never do that. I know better. 

As I cruised along at 35 mph, I suddenly had a horrific flashback. Really, I don't have them often anymore but I still get them occasionally. I could see Jerry in the bathroom, in the middle of the nightwhen I got up to see about him. He was in the dark and said he was all right. He wasn't, but I didn't know. Then, remember waking up to him thrashing around on the bed, his wedding ring hitting the headboard railing and making that horrible sound. I saw myself jumping out of bed, running around the bed, calling him and then the room goes horribly quiet. By the time I got the light on and saw him I knew. But 10 years later I still try to wake him. I pat his cheek, call him, scream for help. 

It is all so vivid but I'm sitting in my car, driving down Virginia Street at 7:30 a.m. in 2019. It isn't January 29, 2009 at 3 a.m. in the middle of the ice storm of the century. I keep driving and I shout, over and over. "STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP" When that fails to stop the scenes, I pray for it to stop. Miraculously, it does as I pull into my street. 

My firm opinion is that hell is reliving all the horrible things you've seen, done, and thought in your entire life. My brain doesn't let go of trauma so I fervently hope I've served my time. I'm trying to be faithful so that something better is waiting and the hell I see and hear won't follow me.

Someone once told me it gets better. They lied. I don't relive it as often.



  

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Vanished Into the Dark



Tomorrow will be the 29th. Seven years ago tomorrow my whole world turned upside down. Every day I stare at this tableau there is a stab of pain and a flood of memories.

This morning I was wondering this morning how I was going to address tomorrow. Since 2009 I can't approach January 29 as if it were any other day. I remember the first few years the number 29 drove me crazy. Every time the number came up in any context I experienced anxiety.  That faded eventually but the day is still a difficult day to approach.

In fact, beginning January 29, 2009, every major holiday and special occasion has been painful. Starting in August, with Jerry's birthday, until February there are six days that have nearly wrecked me: his birthday on August 6th, Thanksgiving, Christmas, our wedding anniversary on January 11th, his death on the 29th, and Valentine's Day. For nearly half the year, since 2009, I've clinched my teeth, straightened my spine, and struggled not to think about Jerry not being here. I rarely succeeded in being stoic. Each month I'd have at least one day where I just fell apart.

This year, I totally forgot Jerry's birthday. I was stunned and upset with myself the day after when I realized it. Sarah and I were sick. I always take flowers but I forgot him. In November, I was away from home for the holiday and things were very busy and filled with people I love so I didn't brood over Thanksgivings Past. Christmas the house was bulging for three weeks. More people I love, my family and some friends, filled the house up and there was no time to really brood over anything but the lack of time alone, which they gave me at intervals. It is probably the first time since he died that I didn't feel bereft or make myself sick crying. With so much coming and going, there were few opportunities to wallow in self-pity. You know there's folks who think that way after 7 years. There were people who thought that way after the first 6 months.

But tomorrow is the 29th. Today there is a pressure in my chest and a sadness hangs over me. I'm not distraught. I'm not prostrate. I don't feel like crying. There is this heaviness in my gut and I feel as if I have lost something, and I need to get up and look for it. Maybe tomorrow I'll find it?

I should go to the cemetery. I should take flowers. I should tell him I haven't really forgotten, that every day, at some point, I see him, hear him, and feel him. Sometimes only for a moment, sometimes for hours. I should remind him that when I see his picture, sitting there on that shelf, a flood of memories rushes over me. They're funny, happy, silly, angry, and sad all at once.

And sometimes, I get angry because he's not here. He left me with an upside down world and no one to help me clean up the mess. I have to figure out everything myself. I have to take care of every problem alone. If I get afraid, there is no one to hold my hand or wrap me in strong arms. No one to tell me everything is going to be fine. No one to fix the car, the toilet leak, the floor, or take out the trash.

Tomorrow is the 29th. Perhaps, the wheels will begin to turn again and the world will right itself. No. No, it won't. Because it is the 29th and on that day, I died, too. I won't find the things I've lost. Who I am now is not who I was on January 29, 2009. Everything I was and was supposed to be was gone in a moment. I watched it vanish into the dark. Maybe that is why it still feels like I've lost something. I didn't lose Jerry. I lost me.

I love you, Jerry Maddox. I'll always love you.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Out of the Ashes

Nearly every mother faces an identity crisis when our children grow up. And believe me, it is every bit as profound as that faced by our children when they cross the threshold to maturity. I'm not sure it isn't worse.

My friend, Chris D. made a poignant post in her blog, A Parent Spectrum Disorder, today. She still has adolescents at home but the day is fast approaching when she will have an empty nest. As I wrote my comment to her, I realized it was not just meant for Chris. There was something in it that tickled my ear and I was forced to think about it.

"It is the tragedy of motherhood that we sacrifice ourselves on that altar. We make ourselves literal burnt offerings. They grow up, leave, and we lie in the ashes, forgotten. We have to resurrect ourselves. And when your spouse dies, it is even worse because there is no one to help lend a hand if you need it. Grab your husband and make your life what it was before children. You can. You must. It ends too soon to waste time."

Resurrection. I'm not God. I have no real idea of how to do that. My children left home years ago. They've come back a couple of times since but that was different. I was dealing with adults who didn't want anything but a place to sleep, eat, and no rules. Once on their feet, they were gone again. At first it was hard to deal with adult children but after a few months things balanced out, rules were established in spite of them, and we were fine. It helps if your kids like you a little but that's another post. It is nice to know mine actually like me a lot.

I think even when they come back you fall back into the Mom role. You aren't yourself. You're the person you became when you heard that first cry. You're the healer, comforter, protector, accountant, landlord, chief cook and bottle washer. When they're born your world became this tiny place initially filled with dirty diapers and regular feedings. It expanded to regular bedtime battles and legos in the dark. From there it expanded to managing multiple schedules and shuttle duty, with binding up the bloodless wounds of teenagers. Then, rather sooner than you were prepared for, it was over. The house was empty, the laundry manageable, and you have no idea what to eat or how to cook for two. And when you looked, you didn't recognize yourself in the mirror.

My husband died and we had never really figured it out. How could we go back 30 years and be the fun loving duo who looked for exciting things to keep us interested in one another. We were looking but ill health and death interrupted us and before we truly got a chance to find that place again, he was gone, forever altering my perception and my world. 

Resurrection is no different for me than for any other mother. If anything, it is harder. Not only do we mold our personality around children, before them, if you were fortunate enough to have a spouse, we molded it around a spouse. The "two become one" is no joke. In a good relationship, you do become a single unit. Children further cement this and your identity shifts farther away from who you were single. 

So here we are, sans children. And we look in that mirror and we see lines that weren't there, shoulders that used to be straighter, necks that were once slender, too many chins, bags under eyes that once sparkled in laughter and now... well, sometimes they glitter in anger. We look...and a total stranger stares back.

I thought, once past the worst of the grief, I'd find ways to put the past behind me. I just knew... was positive... if I survived it, I'd be me again. I didn't realize that it would be impossible. Today, when I read my own comment to Chris the truth dawned on me. That girl, the one who laughed so easily, found excitement in everything she did, and was so creative... she was long gone. I am suddenly faced with the realization that I have to recreate myself. I have to become someone else. 

Who am I? What am I supposed to do now? For five years I've tried to figure this out. At first I thought I knew but with half of me missing, nothing fit. I no longer had an identity. The stranger in my mirror is truly someone I do not know. 

I forced myself to find ways to become involved in things I loved. I started crocheting again. I started sewing but neck problems put a crimp in that. I became a local Municipal Liaison for National Novel Writing Month and I started a local writing group and I connected with dozens of people online who loved writing. I began to write more. There was a sense that I was moving toward something. I had no idea what.

The last three years I've been too sick to care much who I am. Each day has been pretty much a struggle to get up, put in 8 hours and come home. The sense of forward motion stopped dead. There is still this woman who stares back at me from the mirror. Her eyes still glitter. I realize she's fairly angry that life is throwing painful things at her. She still lies in ashes.

So, although I can't prevent the slings and arrows of life, I must keep trying to find who I am. Stopping now is unacceptable because ... well, in truth, that is who I am. And maybe, one day, I'll wake up and look in that mirror find that, like the Phoenix, I have emerge from the ashes a completely new person.


Thursday, February 27, 2014

A Letter to the Lost One

Hi,

Not many people know this about me. I don't talk about it. I have only mentioned it in passing a few times in my whole life, when the subject came up. 

In 1978 Jerry and I were living in Germany. We had been married five years. We'd never managed to get pregnant during that time and since we suddenly had insurance, we went to have tests run. We were thinking about adopting but wanted to be sure first. One of my test was a God-awful biopsy. My doctor was a nice Indian man named Abrol. I liked him. Just as he was about to preform the test. He said, "This will be like a bee sting." 

That was a lie. It hurt so bad that I couldn't even scream. I just gasped. I remember that so clearly.

Shortly after the test was run, within weeks, I actually became pregnant. When I went back to my doctor and he said, "I hope your husband doesn't blame me for this." I cracked up, he blushed when he realize how it sounded, and the nurse gasped and said, "DR. ABROL!" Then we all laughed. I was so happy.

I had the usual sick feeling, no vomiting. I also got clumsy, actually fell a couple of times, and I had vision issues when I tried to read. The text would go blurry. I went for an exam and it didn't reveal anything wrong. Ten weeks later, they put me in the hospital because they thought I was going to miscarry.

I was so scared. Everyday they came to do a test to see if you were still alive. And every day I was frightened they'd come in and say, "No." Finally, about a week after my admission, they came in and said you were dead. 

I was devastated. Five years I'd waited and then, you were snatched away. 

I remember the Catholic chaplain coming into the ward and stopping by my bed. I was staring out the window, with silent tears running down my face. He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders and talked to me. I do not remember what he said to me. I only remember how grateful I was for his presence.

They told me that they had to preform a D & C because you did not leave willingly. Afterward, I remember waking up and seeing your dad and asking, "Is it over?" He caught my hand and said, "Yes." I wept. I see it clear as a picture. Now that he's gone, I see a lot of things clear as day. 

For a long time I wondered if you were really dead at that point. Had they made a mistake?Did I actually have an abortion. And I cringe at the thought. Crazy, huh?

I always thought you were a girl. I don't know why. It just felt right. It still does. I don't know if you had blue eyes or green ones, if you would be left handed like me or right handed like him. For a long time I wondered such things. From time to time, I still do. Would you be a tomboy, like me? Or would you be a fine princess?

After I went home I cried for days and I had nightmares about losing you. In my dreams I'd be looking everywhere for you. For weeks. They gave me pills to help. I ended up flushing them down the toilet one day when I found myself considering taking the whole bottle. I decided if I could't get through it without pills then it wouldn't be worth the effort.

Never, in all these years have I stopped thinking about you. Oh, not like I did at first. But you come to my mind now and then and I wonder all over again, what kind of person you would have become. A doctor? A teacher? A famous author? Who would you have married? How many children would you have had? So many questions I would love to have answers to but you never had the chance to even form them.

Recently it occurred to me that at last he got to meet you. He knows the color of your hair, your eyes, and if you have dimples. I had no doubt that that would have been a joyous reunion. And I was jealous. Jealous that I never had the chance to hold you and rock you and sing to you. Jealous that I didn't get to see his face when you met for the first time. 

I hope they have photos in heaven and someone remembered to take that one.







Thursday, December 5, 2013

Slaying Dragons

St. George Slaying the Dragon
by Hans Von Aachen
I'm in that place that I live each year around this time of year. The Dead Zone is a good title for it. It starts mid-November and doesn't end until sometime around the end of February. I hate four months of the year. Isn't that crazy? I never get over the feeling that part of me has disappeared, probably the best part of me.

During these four months, the sensation of being broken in half is stronger, the edges seem sharper and more jagged. Even my personality feels as if part of it is missing. I am a whole person in the mirror. I can see a whole person but there's that gaping hole that I can sense.

I've analyzed this repeatedly and find it is no easier to understand. I was and continue to be very individualistic and independent. I handled international moves, the demands of the military on my family, a disabled child, and finally a disabled spouse. I should be able to handled life now that I'm alone. But I can't seem to function as whole person either.

Five years later life decisions are still nightmare to deal with and just the thought of them can cause severe anxiety. Crises throw me into a panic. Disrupted schedules and clutter send me reeling. They're all dragons before me. The final insult is that I get sick and there is absolutely no one to call. No one will be there to check on me if I need help. I spend time wondering what happens if I can't call for help? It is a question I have late in the night, the very time you don't want such questions. Just another dragon.

What I'm really hoping for is that there is this magic hour, day, week, month, or year when I'll wake up, open my eyes and find that the feeling of something missing won't be there. There won't be the feeling of a gaping wound that never heals. Instead, I'll be strong and competent and able to slay my own dragons.




Friday, October 4, 2013

Lost & Found

Last night I pulled out my pill minder and poured my Thursday night pills in to my palm. I do this every night, refilling the minder once a week. I have a method to this. I take the numerous supplements and the five prescriptions I have and I sit down with the minder. I take all the lids off and one by one, bottle by bottle, and I put the pills in their appropriate day and time - morning, evening, and bed. I recap each bottle, put it in the storage box I use. Cap all the minder slots and put it back in my nightstand drawer.

The pills last night were the last for this week. Meaning, I refilled it last Thursday. As I poured out the pills, something fell into my hand. I looked and screamed, not once but several times. My blue topaz ring lay on my palm. I'm surprised that I didn't drop the pills but apparently, I don't do stupid things all the time. I put them in the small dish I use so I can take them one at a time. My lost ring was found.

I was beside myself, both overjoyed and confused. How was that possible? I have a method to putting the pills in the minder.  I'm left handed so I hold the bottle in my right hand, pour out pills into my left hand, switch them to my right hand, and then, with my left hand put a pill in the tiny boxes with my left. I have to be careful because I've put double doses in at times. Some of the pills are similar. You don't want to take a double dose of those because they cause blindness. So, I'm careful.

I tell you this because I wear the blue ring on my right hand. I have no idea how it could possible get into the pill minder. I would have had to take it off with my left hand and drop it into the Thursday bedtime slot. Why? It wasn't in a bottle. It was on my finger.

Alternatively, I could have held my hand over that slot and let the ring slide off my finger and into it, put the pills in, and then close the cap. Really?

Or, did I, at some point that night or the next, open the minder and drop the ring in and say, I'll just store my ring here for now? Why?

I have no idea. There is no logical scenario to account for the ring being just there. I'm only glad that it has returned. And I'm  thankful to all those friends who have been praying sincerely for its return.

Just before I took my pills I was drying off from my shower. It's been a rough week with negative things happening. In my frustration, I happened to say a prayer that included this statement. "Lord, my ring is gone and I'm heartbroken over it. I need you to help me accept that and help me get over it."

Moments, later my ring lay in my palm.




Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Too Deep to Plumb

There are depths of despair that I would not wish anyone to ever plumb. I've been to depths I never thought it possible to descend and had I considered it, I'd have thought it impossible to return alive. And yet, I'm still here.

You think, during the grief process, that it will never end. In a sense, it never does. You do resurface but you don't ever really reach land. At least, I haven't. You learn to tread water. You must or you drown. You know what lies beneath and you never want to try that descent again. So, you just keep paddling. You get tired but you never stop.

I've gotten better in many ways at treading water. In fact, sometimes I can actually swim. There's no land in sight but I dare not stop.

This summer has been lighter, as if someone opened a window. The weather was beautiful for moths. Since June, I've felt better for much of that time. I was sick from a virus for the six month prior to that. I began walking in July, something I thought would be impossible with my joint problems and pain. I started with 10 minutes and managed to work up to half an hour in which I knock out a just over a mile and a half.

Last week, I messed up. On Wednesday I lost a ring that Jerry bought me when I graduated from college in 1995. It was a blue topaz in a filigree band. It was so pretty, not very expensive but just so lovely. It was $99 when he bought it. It was the most special gift he'd ever bought me. And I lost it. It fell off my hand. I can't figure out how it happened.

I'm pretty sure it was in CVS on First Ave. They won't let me put up a flyer offering a reward. I remember something falling near my foot but I was so distracted and tired I looked around and when I didn't see anything, I just moved on. It took four days to figure out what I'd done. Now, I've sunk to such dark depths and I can't figure out what to do.

It's just a ring. It means nothing to anyone but me. It has no intrinsic value other than the price of gold. You might be able to pawn it for $50. I'd pay twice that to get it back. But it has reopened a crevasse that has taken me years to escape. And as before, I can't do a thing about it. I can only struggle for the surface.  I want my ring back. I want to be able to sit and look at it and remember the day we bought it. I want to pass it to Sarah and watch her try it on, knowing it will be her's someday. I want to tell her the story of looking down in the jewelry case and picking it out and how it felt when he brought it home sized for me. I want to tell her why it is so special and hand it to her they way Jerry handed it to me.

I lost it. And the revelation I had was that life is just one series of losses after another. We're all losers most of the time. Winning at anything pales in comparison to what you have to lose. Ultimately, I think, what you lose is a reflection of who you really are, deep down. Had I lost the ring my mother bought me when I was 15 I'd have been sad. I wouldn't have been devastated. Had I lost even the necklace Jerry bought me for Christmas when we were dating, I would not have been so desolate. What I've lost is more than a simple ring. I've lost dreams. You can't replace that.

The depths to which they fall can't be plumbed.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Just One Touch

Hi....

Why I'm still up is simply beyond my comprehension. I'm so tired. You know how tired I get sometimes. For most of the evening I've been reading blogs and other stuff. I sat and watched .... some show on my computer... I think I only watched one but at the moment, I'm not sure. Then I got up to shut the system down, only to check email and posts one more time... cause we all do that.

Anyway, I just clicked on my Timeline and there you were, smiling out at me, those wonderful blue eyes sparkling just for me. I remember that moment clear as a day. I could read your mind just by looking at your face. It was all there. I remembered. And then, in one blinding flash my whole being screamed with one phrase... I just want touch you. You hands, your arms, you face. Just to put my hands on your cheeks and feel your warm skin and to breath in the scent of you. The sound of that silent scream washed over me like a raging torrent and I was blinded by waves of tears and I gasped for breath with muffled sobs. I buried my face in my hands because I could not bear the flood.

I know...melodramatic. I always was, wasn't I. I'm not so much anymore, except about you. I suppose I should be embarrassed, even though you'd say not.

But you still take my breath away. Every time I see you, I simply can't breath. There is this place between breathing in and breathing out where everything seems to catch. Sometimes, I'm afraid I won't be able start breathing again.  I wonder sometimes... no, I wish that you knew it, before... and now... that you do that to me.

I don't know if you ever knew it.

I only know that I just want to touch you for one moment, one more time.



Thursday, November 22, 2012

Thanksgiving & Ten Feet

Thanksgiving Day 2012 started for me at 8:30 a.m. I more or less crawled out of bed. Well, I was upright but I was able to shuffle, in tiny small sliding steps to the bathroom and then to the kitchen. That is what passes for walking for me for about an hour a day. Gradually, I will be able to pick up my feet and actually move my legs forward from my hips,  hopefully without pain. Normal graceful steps don't arrive until around 10 a.m. every morning. I might or might not be able to put on shoes with a heel. That depends on if my feet don't feel broken. 

Today is sunny and the Weather.Com icon says it is 42 degrees out there. I am supposed to have lunch with my fractured family around 11:30 today at a restaurant. Traditions are gone. There is no family get-together for us anymore. We don't watch parades, play games or sit around laughing at each others antics. We haven't for a long time. I no longer cook lots of food and goodies. We will eat and return to our respective abodes. Becca and Sarah will go to her family for the rest of today and tonight. 

The year 2009, the year Jerry died, was a horrible year and every year since it has only gotten mildly more tolerable. I know everyone thinks, "Good grief, woman, its four years. Get over it already." It is easy for you to say. Unfortunately, the very nature of death is unremitting separation. You can never get back what you lost. For the ignorant and shallow I remind you to remember what it felt like to lose your favorite cell phone and you had no way to replace it for a week? Well, multiply that by a million years and you might come close to feeling what normal people feel when they lose actual people they love. If that is a stretch, you're a sad mess. I digressed there but I know someone will read this that just won't get it. 

I've come to hate holidays in a way I never dreamed possible. I am forced to remember years of family reunions where a hundred people surrounded me in this great big bubble and we laughed, talked and ate and laughed and talked and ate. We all went home and felt connected and we could deal with the next year because we'd do this again. And then they all died and it stopped. 

So, I gathered my small family around me and the bubble shrank but we still got together. Sometimes we went to my siblings and we had a bigger bubble and everyone laughed, talked, and ate and felt connected. And then they all splintered off and moved away. I moved actually. So I gathered my small family and we had our own special holiday with each other. We laughed, watched the parades, I cooked and we ate. We played games while Jerry slept in front of the ball games. And then he died and the world shrank even smaller and I realized I couldn't get through the next year.

We've tried to maintain a holiday tradition. The year before he died we began to go out so I would not spend days preparing and cleaning up. I could have a day off. We continued after Jerry died. My sister misses the old way and every year wants to go back. She even volunteered this year to cook. I realized that I didn't really care anymore. 

This year, my son and his wife have divorced. Three people I love dearly are now splintered and drifting away. I look at Sarah and I realize she will never know those hundred people family reunions. She won't know the smaller ones where my siblings and our families get together and enjoy being a weekend of laughter and good food. She won't even have a small family joining hands to give thanks for a year of good things. Maybe years from now she will have a family and she can read some of my stories about what it was and maybe she can recapture it. I hope so because there is a lot of joy back there. There was much to be thankful for and to celebrate.

Why such a depressing blog? Because I want you to think about what you have surrounding you. I want you to look around that table and think. Turn off the cell phone and think about the faces you see surrounding you. Really look at them. Talk to them. Laugh at unfunny jokes today. Tomorrow it won't matter. 

I realized what was important seconds too late. Thanksgiving weekend 2009 was my epiphany. Every year, I remind myself and I re-post that moment for any who may pass this way.


".....I sit in a room that is approximately 9x10. The realization came to me tonight that all that matters of all that we do or say can be found within ten feet of you. And we usually stay close to what we love. But we don't notice it. It is silent and we don't really notice. Unless at some point it disappears. A void opens up.

I suppose the answer would be to look around and see what is within ten feet of where you sit right now. Reach out and grab it. Don't let go. If you do, it will begin to drift away, beyond your reach. Until you can't reach it anymore."

If you do nothing else today, look around and whisper prayers of thanksgiving for all that you have surrounding you. Give sincere and prolific thanks for the blessings of people who love you. Tell them you love them. Thank them for giving you their time, love, and countless hours of frustration, laughter, and joy...to you. Tomorrow, you can go back to your cell phones and endless shopping for a bargain. Today is the best bargain you'll ever have and once it is gone, you can't get it back.





Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Looking for Answers


I've been looking for sources, particularly weekly newsletters, for widows that are Christian based. Actually, there don't seem to be any. Why is that? Are we less important than a drug addict, an alcoholic, a paralyzed person? Do we have no need for spiritual encouragement? Is our situation of so little concern that it is considered a waste to provide such items? Are they so few of us that it is deemed low priority?

It astounds me to find that this appears to be a common problem. Go look at your favorite support website, whether Christian or not. Come back and tell me how many articles or newsletters you find there that deal with the death of a spouse or other loved one. This is begging the question but I'm willing to bet it is slim to none.

You can google "grief newsletters" and you will find lots of items on grief. But not a single one of the major Christian based sites such as Bible Gateway, Christianity Today and several others has anything remotely resembling these carried any newsletters or devotionals. I know because I looked.

The print industry has mass quantities of books on grief. But I can tell you quite honestly that during the first year and a half, reading is nearly impossible. You can't think. You can barely remember how to put a meal together. Focusing on novel length, self-help manuals is not possible for most people going through this. Planning a strategy to combat the horrible effects of grief are equivalent to scaling Mt Everest. You will eventually get to the summit but the road is through hell. Reading for content is not something most of us can do.

For some reason the items I found on Google that seemed helpful at first glance were in little known, under advertised, and obscure sites solely about grief. They come with many titles and in many guises, some barely related to the healing process. One was called "Creative Funeral Ideas" and the banner was . . . festive. I was totally put off by the flippant sound of that. Why would you need creative funeral ideas? How far in advance do you need to plan such an event? Funeral homes have funeral directors but this title alone would indicate that one would need something far more talented than a simple funeral director, sort of like a wedding planner. It made me angry.

There seems to be a huge number of blogs by widows now. I'm no longer doing something unique, apparently. I read a few and found it odd to read my feelings scattered over the internet, written by strangers. After reading a few, I wondered again why anyone would read about my experience. It is so depressing... particularly if you are on the same train.

This morning I was reading the comments on one such blog and found it surprising how much everyone sounds the same. The stories related were like echos, differing only slightly because of the shape of the lives in which they resonate. All had a similar complaint. There is no support, no resources readily accessible to widows in their cities. Their friends seem to have deserted them. Churches don't see them.

Don't get me wrong, major and some mid-sized cities do have support groups but most groups are geared to seniors. I was 53 when Jerry died. I would have been very uncomfortable in a group of over 60 widows I think. And there seems to be a huge number of young widows, below age 50. We're at war, remember. One place stated that there are over 13,000,000 widowed person in the United States and of these, 11,000,000 are women. The men tend to remarry. Probably younger women.

So with that in mind you would think resources would be fairly prevalent. I suppose the increase in blogs is a defense mechanism we've taken on ourselves because we are dissatisfied with the lack of an effective and inexpensive support system. I mean, consider the cost of counselors, books, and seminars for all kinds of problems. It is an industry. Widowhood is not a mental illness but it can lead to them. It isn't a physical aliment but it can lead to them. There are treatments for the symptoms, just as any other disease, but no cure. Yet, there are very few places one can go for help. Most of them cost something.

I was fortunate to have health insurance that covered a grief counselor. I suspect it was pretty much a waste of money as I don't feel a lot better than I did before. You go because you hope there is a cure. There isn't. You go because you're afraid of monsters only to discover they have no defense against them. There is no armor, no shield, no weapon that will repel them. You simply fight bare fisted and hope you are left standing at the end or at the very least that you can crawl off the field and live to tell it.

Overall, I'm unimpressed with my search for resources. I am not hopeful or comforted. I wonder how the other 10,999,999 feel?