Make it Matter

Today is the three year anniversary of my husband's death. So obviously I have been thinking a lot about Jim, his life, his death. When it was clear Jim was not going to live and the ventilator had stopped breathing for him, we gathered around his bed, holding him up in our hearts.  We cried and talked to him, I held his hand in mine and we all held each other. My brother was on the phone with us from Pittsburg and prayed for Jim with us. I whispered my promise, my love, my life into his ear. Jim was always a scrappy fighter and he held on for about an hour. At one point, I noticed the nurse glancing at her watch. I know she was just doing her job, but it really bothered me. Was she in a rush? Did she have somewhere to go? What in the whole world could be more important that this exact moment?

I don't why that watch, that surreptitious glance, bothered me so much and have thought about it often.  Just the other day I realized ever since that day, I have been looking at my watch.  I know I have chosen life but I have not really chosen to go on living. I've just been going through the motions, waiting for time to run out.  I have been living like I was dying, but not in the Tim McGraw sense of going skydiving and Rocky Mountain climbing. No, more like my dog staring out the window waiting for me to come home. I am waiting for the time when I am in one way or another reunited with the love of my life.

I don't want to wait anymore. I want to live. I know, because we talked about it, Jim wanted me to go on living, and living life to it's fullest. But I don't know how. My heart still aches for him. For us. For who I was when I was with him. Three years ago a part of me died with Jim.

Perhaps because I am reading Murakami, or because of the date, but I dreamt an intriguing  dream last night. Like many of my dreams, it was long, drawn out, and convoluted.  I was living is some sort of idyllic summer camp community. There was a fire or invasion or something devastating. Those of us that escaped joined a new community. But this one had very defined groups without the love, inclusion, and acceptance of our previous home.

After walking for what seemed forever, visiting each group but never becoming part of it, I came across a sparse museum of artifacts from our old community. A man there I knew handed me a folded up piece of paper with a knowing, loving look in his eye. I could tell by the deep creases in the paper that it had been folded for a long time. As I unfolded it, I immediately  recognized the handwriting. I don't remember all it said, but it ended with these words, Make it Matter.

Murakami writes, In dreams begins responsibility. I have been given this life. I've written before about my responsibility to live life to it's fullest, for me and Jim. To live big enough for both of us. It is time for me to do just that. To stop looking at my watch. Time to stop living like I am dying, but live like I am living!  The time is now to live life and make it matter!

I am married to a dead man

It might sound callous to some, but I don't know how else to put it. I am married to a dead man.  I still feel, no, I still am, married. I promised to love Jim for the rest of my life, not his.  As Maddy Paxman writes, "In my head, I still consider myself to be his wife, not his widow. My grief has not yet moved into the past tense." For about six months after Jim died, I couldn't even use the word widow to refer to myself. I am an avid reader and bought stacks of books on grieving, but it took me a year before I could open a book that had Widow in the title.

I still wear my rings. Perhaps it is a form of denial, but it just feels right. And expect to hear me talk about my husband, Jim. I can't just block out the last 20 years of my life experiences. He was so much of my life, a part of me, and continues to be. He, and my grief, will forever be a part of who I am. I still consider myself lucky for loving Jim so much that I grieve him so deeply.

Someday I may write my own book about the lighter side of grief, those who think I am suddenly (well, it's been over a year, they say) in dire need of a man. The strange things that people (including me) say, think and do. But for now let me just say, in my heart, I am married. I am not available, looking or even wishing... for anyone but Jim.


So please don't ask, "have I met someone? Am I seeing someone? Is there someone special" I know it is hard for you to understand how much those questions hurt. I may be ready someday, to look, to feel, to open my heart to love again, but for now, and until I let you know otherwise, I am married...to a dead man.

Paxman writes about introductions at a party, and explains:

‘This is Michael Donaghy’s . . .  what should I call you? His widow? His ex?’ my host asked. I thought about it briefly and answered ‘His wife.’ 

After all, although Michael is dead, I am  not married to anyone else. And nor am I likely to be just yet. 

And we didn’t choose to end the marriage — he was just snatched away from it, and me, by dying suddenly at the age of 50. 

That was ten years ago. In my head, I still consider myself to be his wife, not his widow. My grief has not yet moved into the past tense. And, yes, while ten years may seem like a very long time to be in mourning, I can tell you that in the journey of grieving it really isn’t. 

And so I live in a world where I am still mourning, but those around me seem terribly confused by my emotions. Grief is openly discussed, portrayed regularly on television or in the papers, and now even tweeted about incessantly. 

But we still don’t know how to actually feel it, or to sit quietly with the experience of friends who are grieving. Saying that ‘Time will heal’ is no help at all. And, anyway, I’m not sure it’s true. 

Time moves on, life moves on, but grief, like love, becomes forever part of who you are

Read more: The Daily Mail: Why Can't We Cope with Grief...