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!

Why I Write

My mother really does not like that I blog about my grief journey. She simply cannot understand why I would share my most intimate feelings with strangers. Heck, she barely shares them with her family. Yes, I hold some things back, but my writing for me is a way to explore my feelings, to poke and prod them and try to make sense of the senseless. Exposing them to the light makes them slightly less scary. 

Some of my friends tire of hearing about my grief. They wonder why, after three years, can't I just let it go. And why oh why do you keep writing about it? Fortunately with time, I've been able to figure out who they are, and to control my feelings enough, to save my darker, sadder thoughts for my friends who can handle it. There's a song by Kenny Chesney where he sings, "the sun's too bright, they sky's too blue,the beer's too cold to be thinkin' 'bout you. So I'll take this heartbreak, tuck it away and save it for a rainy day."

Some days I can manage my grief like that, hide it away. Schedule time to cry. Not always. But my writing does help me. It gives a voice to those 3 a.m. fears. It exposes my dark thoughts to the light. I share my burden and lighten my load.

The old saying 'a problem shared is a problem halved' may have been based on scientific fact, according to a new study cited in The Daily Mail. Researchers have proved that the best way to handle stress is to share your feelings - and sharing with someone in the same situation yields the best results. According to the study, this is because sharing a threatening situation with a person in a similar emotional state 'buffers individuals from experiencing the heightened levels of stress that typically accompany threat', 

Maria Shriver wrote in her Sunday paper, "No one likes being blindsided. It leaves you in a place of doubt, fear, confusion. But once you gather yourself — and that takes different people different amounts of time — you have the chance to use your voice, not just for yourself but for others who feel the same way, have experienced the same circumstances and want the same things."

I am no longer so self-absorbed my my grief that I think I am the only one who has or will go through what I have. Everyone everywhere is fighting some battle. I have the chance to use my voice. To heal me, and maybe in the process, help others.  

The Storm

California is finally getting the rain we need, and more. The storms have returned. And I am again in my season of storms. Three years ago today Jim and I walked into El Camino Hospital. He never came home. I am certainly not the same person who walked in. 

Grief, like a storm, is unpredictable. You think the storm has broken, the sun comes out for a respite, the puddles seep slowly into the saturated ground. a bird sings. A tree blossoms. And then the storm returns. Wind strips the blossoms from the tree. Rain pours from the sky. So it is with grief. After exhausting yourself with tears and sleepless nights filled with haunting memories, you wake and feel maybe there is hope. You have a good day, or even a great week. You notice birds singing and have hope that early blossoms signal Spring. Then the grief returns, memories flooding over the spillway that protects your heart. 

I woke this morning with memories of that day three years ago. I never dreamed I would be leaving the hospital alone. I replay the day in my mind.  I was at the bank when Jim called and said that Dr. K was admitting Jim to the hospital. I came home, thinking we were preparing for another round of what were becoming routine procedures. I had no idea it was just a calm before the biggest storm of my life.

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones...   

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. 

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”  ~ Haruki Murakami, Kafka on The Shore

As Murakami writes, this storm is inside me. I am certain it is not over. And it has changed me forever. It has make me stronger, more courageous and  more compassionate. I am more mindful and grateful. I cherish my relationships. I try to find joy in each day. And I dance in the rain.

"I want to go to heaven right now"

There is a grief so painful, so deep, that you just want to die. I've written about it before. If there is a heaven, I'd die and be with Jim there. And if there is no heaven, just blackness, well, that would be better than the darkness of my soul. I've felt it, and I'm not alone. How often we hear of spouses dying within hours of each other? And now, famously, Debbie Reynolds, grieving the sudden death of her daughter, Carrie Fisher, tells her son, "I want to be with Carrie" and hours later, she died. It's heartbreaking. And I totally get it.

When my grandniece was telling me that her beloved Elton, a yellow lab, had died and gone to heaven, she explained he wasn't tired anymore. And then she cried out in anguish, 'I want to go to heaven right now!'  I get it, Emmy.

Until you have lost someone dear, you may not understand. But once you do, you get it.  Anything, even death, seems preferable to the pain of grief. And I'd love to tell you it stops. But honestly I haven't found that to be true. What does change is your ability to function and live with the grief. In the beginning I could not imagine a day where I was not incapacitated by sadness. But time has passed and I have learned how to cope. I can sometimes get through a day without crying. And then other days I just crawl back into bed and cry for hours. But I'm choosing life. Despite my sadness I find joy in life, as well. Grief is like that. It comes in waves. Or maybe seasons.

My grandfather lived a long, healthy life. In his last year though his health declined and he asked me one day, "why am I still here?" I didn't think I was being overly wise, I just wasn't ready to let go, so I told him he clearly had something left to do... to love a child, to make someone laugh, to listen. But looking back, I think I was wise beyond my knowing. Around the same time, my friend Kurt was dying from AIDSs related complications. He taught me the reason we are here is to love and help each other.

So, I'm guessing there is something left to do, for as long as I can do it. And that is to love, laugh, listen and live. Right now.

I must be strong

And carry on

'Cause I know I don't belong

Here in heaven

I'll find my way

Through night and day

'Cause I know I just can't stay

Here in heaven

Time can bring you down

Time can bend your knees

Time can break your heart

Have you begging please, begging please

Beyond the door

There's peace I'm sure

And I know there'll be no more

Tears in heaven

~ Eric Clapton, Will Jennings

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...

Every day unfolds the next step in my journey

Today's meditation centering thought was, every day unfolds the next step in my journey. It's about getting unstuck. This message was about intention and seeking awareness. So I was thinking what is my intention? What do I want? What I want most is Jim. And obviously I know I can't have that. So then, what do I want next most? I think what I want most is peace.

I want to not worry about what was, and what will never be. I want to enjoy the blessings of the present moment.

Merriam Webster defines peace as follows:
Full Definition of peace
1:  a state of tranquility or quiet: as
a :  freedom from civil disturbance
b :  a state of security or order within a community provided for by law or custom <a breach of the peace>
2:  freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions
3:  harmony in personal relations
4a :  a state or period of mutual concord between governments
b :  a pact or agreement to end hostilities between those who have been at war or in a state of enmity

Peace, then, is the absence of tension, freedom from disquieting thoughts. A state of quiet calm.


One of my walking meditation mantras is "why worry if there is something you can do? If there is nothing you can do, why worry?"

I cannot change the fact that Jim is gone. Yet, it continues for disturb my sense of tranquility. When I leave my awareness of the present moment, when I replay the past. or worry about the future, is when I go out of peace.

There was a song I grew up with, "Let There Be Peace on Earth"  written by Jill Jackson Miller and Sy Miller in 1955. In part, the lyrics go like this:

Let this be the moment now;

...

To take each moment and live each moment

In peace eternally.

Let there be peace on earth

And let it begin with me

So how can I work to stay peaceful? Meditation helps.  Allowing space for happy memories and not dwelling in the sad. By allowing the turmoil to go on around me, but to not let it own me or overtake me. By connecting with people, places and activities that help me find a sense of peace... walking on the beach, enjoying the sunset, sitting by the fire chatitng with friends, petting my dog... all done mindfully and with intention. I can create peace making new memories, finding new ways to be content, to feel loved and safe. By making a commitment every day to live more peacefully. And to let it begin with me.

Getting Unstuck. Part 1

Today's meditation mantra or centering thought was "I embrace the newness of each day". The mantra was the wholeness of the universe is my true self. So I've been meditating on getting unstuck with Deepak and Oprah. The thing that I feel stuck in is my grief. It's not that I don't believe that I'm going to grieve forever. I am. I can't help it, it's part of who I am and always will be. Jim will always be a part of who I am and the loss of Jim that was always a part of who I am, as well. And I am okay with that.

But what I do need to figure out is how I go on living with that grief being a part of who I am. I've been putting a pretty good show. I've been keeping busy and doing interesting things and even doing a little bit of traveling. But in my heart I still feel like a charlatan. I feel like I am going through the motions and at some point everybody's going to see through that and see that really I'm just a sad, sad person who's pretending to be happy. So what I have been trying to figure out is: how I move beyond the sadness of grief, and move into the living with grief and eventually the thriving with/despite grief.

What I'm working on now is the revelation that I had today that the wholeness of the universe includes Jim's spirit. I absolutely do not believe that our spirit dies. I don't know what happens after death, I don't know if there's heaven. I don't know if there's reincarnation. But I do believe our spirit lives on.

So if our spirit lives on, then our spirit is part of the universe, And the wholeness of the universe is part of my true self. So Jim will always be a part of me and that's never going to go away! Maybe I am not stuck at all and I am just continuing to integrate this new reality into my consciousness.

It is, I am, A work in progress.

Each day is an opportunity to accept my grief as part of my new normal, and embrace the life that I still have left to live.

I can live, and I do

Recently, a friend of mine posted lyrics from the Harry Nilsson song, "I can't live if living is without you" and it got me thinking. My first response it, yes, damn it, you can, and you will, even when you don't want to.

There were many days and nights when I wished I could die too, after Jim died.  I never was suicidal, I just did not want to be alive. But I didn't die 

I was, for many months, doing the zombie walk. Getting through the necessities of life but not living. 

Eventually I would surprise myself by smiling or even laughing at something. I was able to find hints, slivers of joy peeking through like sunlight through the edge of a curtain. 

Once I realized I wasn't going to die I had to think about how I wanted to live. My husband Jim lived life to the fullest. He was brave and he was vulnerable. He was strong yet soft. He had dreams and sadly, many those dreams would never be realized because his life was cut short by cancer. I honor Jim by living my life, by striving for my dreams, by showing gratitude and compassion every day. By living in the moment. By finding the joy in life. 

I'm not yet ready to say that I can find the gift in my loss. However I can say my grief and loss have made me stronger,more compassionate and yes, more joyful.

Moments

http://www.goluputtar.com/best/life-quotes/

About 20 years ago this month there was a moment when I sat across from the conference table and was introduced to a new colleague named Jim McConnell. What I didn't realize at the time was that we had actually spoken on the phone about a year before. Back then he was an irate customer and my impression of him then was that he was arrogant and annoying. As we started working together, we realized we had a lot in common. We had both relocated to the East Coast from far away for reasons that were similar. And we forged a friendship out of that common bond. Jim's client base was in New York where I was located . One night a group of us were planning to go to a movie and everybody canceled except for Jim. I really didn't want to go to a movie with just this one guy so I agreed to meet for a drink. I figured we'd grab a drink next-door to my office at Bryant Park and then I would quickly get on my train, making my excuses. Funny how life has other plans. That quick drink after work became dinner, dinner became kind of a date. That moment after work turned into a very special evening. He called on Friday to see if he could drive down from Boston and I met his son Bobby and the three of us connected really quickly. We had a  fun weekend in the beautiful Hudson Valley. But at the end of the weekend, I informed him that I was not interested in dating someone from work. Less than 48 hours later he showed up at the office and gave his two  week notice. Jim said "OK I don't work here anymore we can date," so we did.

Six months later I got an offer to move back to California. It was a great job offer that I couldn't refuse so I didn't. I moved and three months after that Jim announced that his boss agreed to transfer Jim to California. He proposed to me at Christmas. Ten months later we were married on a beautiful day at the beach, surrounded by close family and friends, while dolphins played in the surf. I still can't believe how quickly everything progressed.

Seventeen short years later Jim was diagnosed with cancer. And two years ago  he died. What I never realized then, but do now is that what seemed to be seemingly insignificant moments became huge moments that would change my life forever and indeed define me.

I wouldn't have changed one of those moments to give up the others. I'm blessed to have the moments that created our life together and the memories of our love. I'm also blessed by the friends and family that have stood with me and held me up during these extremely difficult last three years.

I have learned be mindful of each moment. To embrace the joy of now.The little things really do become the big things. And you just never know.

http://quotes.viralcreek.com/moments-take-breath-away/

The Ring Theory and Cats

When Jim was still alive and I was still going to work almost every day, I managed tough days with a little help from a little pill - Xanax. I am an elementary school teacher. I was worried about him when I was at school and worried about my students when I was away. Xanax helped just take the edge off my anxiety. When I mentioned this to a colleague, she said, "Oh don't worry about it. When my cat died I had to take Xanax to get through it."

Now, before I start on that, let me just say, when my pets died, I cried. When my current pet seems to be slowing down and I even think about her dying, I cry. So I am not heartless to the impact we feel when a furry member of our family dies. But did she really just compare my husband's terminal illness with her cat dying? Her cat?

Enter, the Ring Theory of Grief. Early in Jim's treatment my dear friend +Mary Thompson shared with me the Ring Theory of Grief and I have called upon it so many times, I decided I should write about it. Susan Silk, a clinical psychologist, developed this theory after dealing with people during her own battle with breast cancer.

The basic idea is that there are a series of concentric rings. When Jim was alive, he was in the center, smallest circle. The next circle out was me, our son, Bobby and,Jim's siblings. In the next larger ring were our closest friends, my parents and my siblings. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Less intimate friends in the larger rings. When you are done, you have what Silk calls the Kvetching order, I am a bit more crass and call it the bitching order.

Now that Jim is dead, I am at the center of my circle, just as Jim's siblings are at the center of theirs and Bobby is at the center of his. What was not helpful to me was when people in my circles would come to me overwhelmed by grief and telling me how they can't handle Jim being gone. I know this sounds ungrateful, perhaps I should enjoy sharing my grief and hearing how much he was loved. And as time has passed, I have mellowed on this, the rings lines have become more permeable. 

But in the beginning, it really was all about me. I had no space to consider the emotions of others. I remember the clarity I felt about a month after I died when I brought some of Jim/James' ashes home to Iowa where his family all live. It hit me that they were grieving the loss of a brother, and Bobby his father. I have not experienced those losses yet and my heart was suddenly filled with a deep compassion for them at that moment. I am a little embarrassed to admit that it took me a full month to get there. 

But when I learn more about the ring theory, this all makes sense. From Silk and Goldman:

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.
Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.
When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.
Comfort IN, dump OUT.

from LA Times How not to say the wrong thing: It's the 'Ring Theory' of kvetching. The first rule is comfort in, dump out April 07, 2013|Susan Silk and Barry Goldman

The authors point out that the theory applies in times of crisis, and as the crisis subsides, it has been my experience that I am more willing to "hold the space" for other people's feelings around Jim's death. But I still get impatient when people try to make sense of my loss by comparing it to theirs. There is no sense to be made.

In her powerful recent memoir The Great Below, Maddy Paxman writes about mourning the death, at age 50, of her husband, the poet Michael Donaghy, and of others' stumbling efforts to help. One well-wisher tried to find common ground by mentioning the death of a cat. What the ex-cat owner didn't grasp is that it's not your job, in such contexts, to try to make things less awful. To use the language of therapy, it's to help "hold the space" in which feeling awful is OK. And if you genuinely feel awful about your cat, and want to talk about it‚ sure. Just perhaps not right this minute. 

from The Guardian 

Death is not the end of love

When I was in my musically formative years, there was a group called Bread and they had a song called Everything I Own. It struck me then and still does now...the longing, the love, the gratitude. According to the book 1000 UK #1 Hits by Jon Kutner and Spencer Leigh, David Gates wrote the song  after his father's funeral, to honor him.

Today I was listening to reggae music while looking at our honeymoon pictures and the song came on, sung by Ken Boothe.

"I would give everything I own, just to have you back again."

This may seem obvious, but for some reason it took almost two years to hit me. On New Years Day, I had a melt down. I can only now write about it...maybe. For some reason, the beginning of a new year triggered in me the complete and profound understanding that my life will never, ever, be the same.

Life will never be the same. There is no going back. Ever. Never. 

It's not that I was in denial, like Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking.

...I knew I was in no way prepared to accept this news as final: there was a level on which I believed that what had happened remained reversible...I needed to be alone so he could come back.

It was in fact the ordinary nature of everything preceding the event that prevented me from truly believing it had happened, absorbing it, incorporating it, getting past it. I recognize now that there was nothing unusual in this: confronted with sudden disaster we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred...

For most of the first year after her husband, John Gregory Dunne, died, Didion thought at some level, he would come back. Unlike her, I never woke up and thought Jim was just "out of town." I knew Jim was dead and would never physically return. However, I do think I was in another form of denial. I'm not really sure my heart grasped that this new reality was forever. Life would never, ever go back to what it was like when I was with Jim.

I know each moment is unique and will never be the same. But there was something oh so comforting in the knowing-ness of our love and life together. 

I would give everything I own, but I can't. 

So I have to find a way to get along with this new normal... Life will never be the same. But I won't always be so consumed by grief. I know this to be true. Life will never be the same, but it can be good, maybe even great, just different. 

A. Powell Davies wrote, "Let us be honest with death. Let us not pretend that it is less than it is. It is separation. It is sorrow. It is grief. But let us neither pretend that death is more than it is. It is not annihilation. As long as memory endures, his influence will be felt. It is not an end to love—humanity’s need for love from each of us is boundless. It is not an end to joy and laughter—nothing would less honor one so vibrant than to make our lives drab in counterfeit respect!"

You sheltered me from harm

Kept me warm, kept me warm

You gave my life to me

Set me free, set me free

The finest years I ever knew

Were all the years I had with you

Is there someone you know

You're loving them so

But taking them all for granted

You may lose them one day

Someone takes them away

And they don't hear the words you long to say

I would give anything I own

Give up my life, my heart, my home

I would give everything I own

Just to have you back again

Just to touch you once again

What, me worry?

I come by my worrying honestly. My mom is a worrier and I am too. But I am working on it. One
of my favorite walking mantras is,

Why worry if there's nothing I can do?

If there's something I can do, why worry?

Worrying...regret over the past or anxiety about the future, only takes us out of the now. And now is all there is.

For most of my life, I'd say almost 50 years, my biggest worry, also a gift from my mother, is 'what would people think?' I'm embarrassed to admit it has been a driving force in many of my (good and bad) decisions. The truth, I know now, is that most people don't notice or care what I do, and even if they do, it doesn't matter, as long as I am true to myself and not intentionally hurting anyone.

Why the switch? I guess I'd have to say it was a gift from grief. When Jim was dying, I really could care less who saw or heard me cry. At one point I was in the hallway outside Jim's hospital room, alone and crouched in a little ball, crying my eyes out. A nurse came up to me and offered the privacy of an empty room. I declined. I wanted to stay close and I was oblivious to how my sobbing might be affecting the other patients in the middle of that darkest night.

That night it was like a switch went off. I really didn't worry about what anyone thought about me. If I wanted to cry, I cried. And I cried a lot. In the middle of the shampoo aisle, in restaurants, in the faculty room. Who was going to judge me? I was a grieving widow!

Blogger Grant Leishman wrote a great post on the silent killer, Worry. He cites the work of self-help 'guru' Andy Shaw.  Leishman writes:

Why do we worry about what others think? You have to ask yourself a simple question. How can what someone thinks about me help me in reaching my goals and dreams in life?
If you are looking for acceptance from your father, mother, partner, friends, or acquaintances, why are you doing it? Just love yourself; don’t ‘try’ to make others give you what you think you want. They can only give you what you allow them to and they can only take from you that which you allow them; others have no power over you unless you give it to them.
If you love yourself, you don't need to seek acceptance, validation or love from others. You can't control other people's thoughts, so don't try - just be the person you need to be...

It has been extremely liberating to stop worrying so much about well - everything! I worry less about what people think. I make choices that are the best for me in this moment. I worry less about the future. There are no guarantees, so I try to make every moment count.  I don't worry about my health or even death. I try to make healthy choices and when my time comes, it comes. I strive for peace, consciousness, mindfulness, gratitude, grace and bliss, for myself and the world.  Worry changes nothing and only takes me out of now.

And now is all there is.

No Death, No Fear

I finally decided I was ready to read the last chapter of No death, No fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life by Thich Nhat Hanh. 

The chapter is entitled accompanying the dying. When I was reading this book a year ago, I knew I didn't have the strength to tackle that yet. As I now read the words, I cry, but am able to understand and accept the teachings. I was so glad to know that much of what my bother-in-law, Mike and I intuitively knew was aligned with a compassionate death. Mike especially sowed seeds of happiness by recounting stories of the life he shared with Jim. I fell asleep, for the first time in days, with the sounds of Mike telling stories of their adventures. Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "Those who are unconscious have a way to hear us if we are truly present and peaceful as we sit at their bedside." I believe this to be true.

The morning Jim died, I read to him a Buddhist prayer for the dead and dying:

Oh Buddhas and Bodhisattvas,...

Oh Compassionate Ones, you who possess
The wisdom of understanding,
The love of compassion,...
James is passing from this world to the next,
He is taking a great leap,
The light of this world has faded for him,
He has entered solitude with their karmic forces,
He has gone into a vast silence,
He is borne away by the great ocean of birth and death ..…

I also read him the 23rd Psalm from The Bible.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

In No Fear, No Death, I especially like the image of birth and death as a game of hide and seek, take my hand and wave goodbye. Death is not permanent.

My friend, Tanya, a budding Buddhist, writes in her blog,

We exist in the soil, in the light and warmth of the sun, in the animals and in each other. …and this isn’t a flowery story. This is science.
I think science would agree that our bodies are made up of elements that are non-specific to being human. ... Those elements will still be here when our bodies are gone. They will become another form, giving life to something else.
When this form is gone, our bodies will be the rich soil, and water feeding the tree, and the fruit that grows from it. We will be the energy given to the life of an animal eating from it, and to its baby who drinks it’s milk. ...
So, we will never disappear into nothingness. Which also means that we haven’t come from nothing either. We have been the sun, and the minerals, and the soil, and the plants, the insects, and each animal, and person in this way. We have existed, and still do exist as every single thing.
We have lived countless lives in infinite connections. Even in this form, we are new from day to day, and from thought to thought.
And this is rebirth.
For me, I find this much more comforting than the idea of an eternal place where my soul will be stored.

I find comfort in this as well. Tomorrow we shall meet again. I have no fear.

Please speak his name

My friend +Peggy Wolf 's mother, Lorry Wolf, died at the age of 88, A few months later, Peggy shared with me something her sister had told her, She said that people die three deaths. The first is their physical death. The second is when they are "laid to rest" either lowered into the ground or, as in Jim's case, cremated. The third and final death is when no one speaks their name anymore. That was almost 9  years ago, but her words really stuck with me.

Recently I watched the movie Book of Life. It is a cute movie with a sweet message about facing your fears and being true to yourself. It also centers around of the celebration that is Dia de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. It is a time for remembering friends, family and ancestors. In the movie, in the afterlife the Day of the Dead is met with great joy, for they are being remembered. Victor Landa, who was raised in Mexico writes, 

In our tradition, people die three deaths. The first death is when our bodies cease to function; when our hearts no longer beat of their own accord, when our gaze no longer has depth or weight, when the space we occupy slowly loses its meaning.
The second death comes when the body is lowered into the ground, returned to mother earth, out of sight.
The third death, the most definitive death, is when there is no one left alive to remember us.

David Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives, writes similarly, “There are three deaths. ... The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”

As Riley's imaginary friend Bing Bong tells Joy in Inside Out, "When Riley doesn't care about memories, they fade." The movie reminds us that when memories that are not accessed, they die. 

People sometime seem taken aback when I use Jim's name so casually and freely in conversation. What they don't know is that it is a comfort to me to say his name, and to hear other's speak it. I love hearing new stories about something Jim did or said, or how he is remembered by others. It makes me feel less alone, more connected.

So please, don't be afraid that by speaking Jim's name, you will remind me he's gone. For heaven's sake, I know that with every cell of my being and couldn't forget if I tried. When you speak of Jim, you keep him alive in your heart and mine.

I am still here

I had a dream one night. I was about to cross a rope bridge over a deep chasm like you see in the movies. Jim was on the other side, waiting for me. I started across to join him but lost my footing and fell. As I fell in slow motion, I rolled onto my back so I could look back up at the bridge, at my connection to Jim. As long as I could see it, I knew I could get back to it. It might take some climbing, but it was still there.

As I fell further, the bridge and Jim appeared smaller and smaller. I kept calling out, "I know you're still there!" This reassurance, that as long as I knew the bridge was there, I could get back. Back to the bridge. Back to Jim. Finally, I fell so far that the bridge couldn't be seen any longer. Yet I still called out, "I know you're still there!" Just because I couldn't see the bridge, or Jim, didn't mean they were gone. My connection remained.

As I woke, I was reassured. My perspective had just changed. No different from turning a corner and looking back over your shoulder, you can't see around the corner, but you are sure, you know whatever was there is still there. Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh explains "Just because we do not perceive something, it is not correct to say it doesn’t exist."

In his book, no death, no fear, Thich Nhat Hanh explains how, after the death of his mother, he realized she lived on in him.

I opened the door and went outside. The entire hillside was bathed in moonlight. It was a hill covered with tea plants, and my hut was set behind the temple halfway up. Walking slowly in the moonlight through the rows of tea plants, I noticed my mother was still with me. She was the moonlight caressing me as she had done so often, very tenderly, very sweet... wonderful! Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with me. I knew this body was not mine along but a living continuation of my mother and father and my grandparents and great-grandparents. Of all my ancestors. These feet that I saw as "my" feet were actually "our" feet. Together my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil....

From that moment on the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time.When you lost a loved one, you suffer. but if you know how to look deeply, you have a chance to realize that his or her nature is truly the nature of no birth, no death.... 

It 's like when you look at a sheet of paper and look deeply, you can see that the paper is made of trees and sunshine and earth and clouds, and even before the manifestation of the sheet of paper in this present form, you can only see the sheet of paper in the non-paper elements that existed before....

Suppose you are impressed with a particular cloud in the sky. When it is time for that cloud to become the rain you won't see that cloud anymore and you will cry. But if you know that the cloud has been transformed into the rain and the rain is calling you, "Darling, I am here, I'm here," if you have that kind of capacity of recognizing the continuation of that manifestation, you don't have to live in despair and grief. That is why for those who have lost someone who is close to him or to her I advise that they look deeply within and see that the one who was close is still there, somehow, and with the practice of deep looking they can recognize his presence very close to her.
Read more at http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Buddhism/2002/09/Long-Live-Impermanence.aspx?p=3#cF9fSFKCUszLpWTA.99

I am grateful for the dream, and the grace and calm it brings me. 

It's okay to laugh

Jim and I loved to laugh together. the trendy plaque, live love laugh, really did fit our lives. We truly enjoyed laughing together. Our lives were richer for being able to laugh  together, at ourselves, at the world, at anything and sometimes everything, even cancer sometimes. 

Some of my earliest memories are of laughter. I remember hearing my uncles and dad outside laughing during family gatherings. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to hang out with them, to find out what was so funny they'd snort. For as long as she could my mother kept me from their jokes, not appreciating their sense of humor. Eventually, though, I was out in the front yard with 'the bothers', laughing  and snorting with them, I used to be embarrassed when something would make me laugh until I snorted, now it's just part of my charm, and a compliment to whoever made me laugh!

After Jim died I suppose I didn't feel much like laughing, after all I was a grieving widow. How could I laugh about anything? What could possibly be funny?  How can I ever find joy in anything? A few days after he died, my friend +Mary Thompson and I were planning songs for his service. We were scouring the internet, YouTube, iTunes, looking at lyrics, listening to songs that would fit Jim's taste in music and be appropriate for the occasion.  We found ourselves crying and laughing. It was just funny, some of the songs that we never thought of as being about death but they really did fit. It felt good to laugh, even if it was dark humor. 

It was hard to find joy in anything despite the occasional laughter when what would be called gallows humor did come in to play. But for the most part I really did think that joy was no longer part of my life. 

As months have passed, I have been able to find laughter again, occasional creeping in. Just a few weekends ago I was with my girlfriends and we got to the point where were laughing to the point of tears. it felt so good. We were wearing tiaras, sitting in a restaurant and just rolling with laughter and the pure joy of life. People around us were't even annoyed, they were caught up in our spirit.

I think people are afraid to have fun in front of someone who is grieving, but at the right time humor can really be the best medicine.

Heather Spohr writes for the Huffington Post about how she dealt with 'crappy things' with gallows humor in the face of her friend Jackie's terminal illness. "It was the kind of stuff most people would drop their jaws over, but it really helped us cope with everything life had thrown at us. One of the things we'd joke about is how there weren't any greeting cards for what we were going through. No one makes cards for cancer! So instead, we'd scratch out the slogans on store-bought cards and write in our own (inappropriate) words. It might have been strange, but I cherish those silly cards now that she's gone." 

(C)@emilymcdowell_ 

After her friend's death, Ms. Spohr discovered , Emily McDowell (whose work appears to the right), an artist, who among other things, creates empathy cards. Spohr writes, "They are mostly for cancer, but a few are non-specific. They are realistic, humorous, and so, so perfect. I laughed and cried when I read them, because Jackie would have loved all of them. I hate that I can't send her any of them. I miss her and her contagious laugh so much." Jim would have loved them, too!

I miss laughing with Jim. And I miss his laughter. I would love to hear his deep, rumbling laugh one more time. But he would not want me to stop laughing, finding joy and humor in the ordinary and ridiculous. I honor his love of life when I enjoy mine.

I am grateful at the occasional glimpses of joy, the moments I laugh until I cry, the times I snort.  They are as much a part of this journey as the tears and sadness. 

Everything happens for a reason??

Um, yeah, no, as my friend Marie would say.

When something bad happens, often people, well meaning people might say, 'everything happens for a reason.' I believe this is just the 10% of our brains we use trying to make sense of a sometimes senseless world. My spouse died from complications of cancer treatment at the age of 53. What is the reason? I've had friends lose a spouse when they had young children at home. Where is the reason in that? I had a miscarriage. Not sure I know the plan there. And people I know have borne the unbearable death of a their child. Certainly no one can see the reason in that, yet, we persist in looking for meaning.

I was raised in deep Baptist tradition. We were taught that everything that happens is part of God's plan. And I believed that. Until I didn't. I learned about free will, if we had a choice, then how did our free will fit into a master plan? And I learned about hunger, hatred, war and abuse. I wasn't sure how any of that could fit into God's plan. See, my god is a loving god. So I searched for a way to make sense of all the bad things in the world and still cling to my belief in a loving God. 

In the early 80s I first read Harold Kushner's When Bad Things Happen to Good People.  His son was diagnosed with a rare disease at about three years old and they knew he would not live past his teens. Kushner, a rabbi, asked many of the same questions I have struggled with. But finally, he writes, We too need to get over the questions that focus on the past and on the pain—“ Why did this happen to me?”—and ask instead the question which opens doors to the future: “Now that this has happened, what shall I do about it?”

I do believe in God. And I think God is really, really busy with really important things. And so he allows us to make choices, and live with those choices. He allows diseases to progress. And he allows us to discover ways to fight and treat them. He allows hatred, just as he allows love. It is our job, in this life, to love one another, to love ourselves, and take care of each other.

Yet, still when I hear that my life is aligned with some cosmic plan, it breaks my heart. Why do I have to go through the sadness, the loss, the grief and loneliness for some cosmic plan to reveal itself? What wonderful plan could possibly be worth it? Even so, in Jim's illness, and since his death, we never asked, "why me?"  Why not me? 

I've often said the few things I regret in life are the things I didn't do. That even bad breakups where I thought my heart would never recover, led me to the life I loved....my life with Jim. Even so, I can't conceive of a time where I will look back on his death and see the cosmic plan. I don't want to think that there could ever be a moment where his death seemed okay, justified or even right.  

Today's meditation manta was, There is a way I can fulfill my true purpose in life. It is still so hard to see how, or maybe why, my true purpose will be fulfilled without Jim. But not living this life to its fullest would be an insult to Jim's memory. He so embraced life and to his last breath, he did not want to give up. I strive to live with the same enthusiastic energy and joy. 

Kushner summarizes,

In the final analysis, the question of why bad things happen to good people translates itself into some very different questions, no longer asking why something happened, but asking how we will respond, what we intend to do now that it has happened. Are you capable of forgiving and accepting in love a world which has disappointed you by not being perfect, a world in which there is so much unfairness and cruelty, disease and crime, earthquake and accident? Can you forgive its imperfections and love it because it is capable of containing great beauty and goodness, and because it is the only world we have?? Are you capable of forgiving and loving God even when you have found out that He is not perfect, even when He has let you down and disappointed you by permitting bad luck and sickness and cruelty in His world, and permitting some of those things to happen to you? Can you learn to love and forgive Him despite His limitations, as Job does, and as you once learned to forgive and love your parents even though they were not as wise, as strong, or as perfect as you needed them to be? And if you can do these things, will you be able to recognize that the ability to forgive and the ability to love are the weapons God has given us to enable us to live fully, bravely, and meaningfully in this less-than-perfect world?

Solstice

For as long as I have known about Winter Solstice, it has been my most favorite holiday. Yes, it is the shortest day, and longest night of the year. But in that darkness is held the promise of light and warmth. Summer is on it's way. The days are now getting longer. I imagine the first humans wondering why the days were getting shorter and shorter. Was time running out? Would their lives be plunged into eternal darkness? Think of the joy they had when the sun once again began to retake the day. Generations since have had simple faith that even in the darkest night, there was hope that the light would return. We now know the science behind the solstices. But for me that does not diminish the faith and hope that I feel in my darkest hours. The belief I must have...that joy and warmth and light will return.

The world keeps turning, and day always follows night.

After the cold, dark, winter, spring returns with cleansing rains and blossoms.

After fire appears to devastate the landscape, seeds released by the heat, burst forth with new, verdant life.

Yes, even after death, life begins again.

At first it might just be a smile, one day without tears. And then like a false spring, the darkness returns. But just as the days after winter solstice become longer, so do the periods where life without you seems possible.

Hope and energy slowly, sometimes falteringly return. The tiny hand of a child, reaching out to hold mine. The sunlight sparking like diamonds on the sea. The kind, knowing compassion of a stranger at the grocery store when I unexpectledly burst out crying. A long drive with the top down through the lush forest. 

I still miss you, Jim, and always will. The grief never leaves, but I learn to live with it. My grief has taught me compassion, patience, and I have a strength within me I never knew was there. The darkness in my heart fades, but still is there. But like the longest,darkest night, I know the light will return.