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 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 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.

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.

You're So Lucky

I returned to work two months after my husband, Jim, died. I am a teacher and returned in April, and then had two months of school then two months off for summer break. I returned to what was arguably the second hardest year in my teaching career. After that I decided I needed a break, and am currently on a 'gap year', trying out retirement at the age of 56.

People say to me how lucky I am that I can take a year off work. Lucky, really??

I started saving 5-10% of my income the day I started working. I have worked hard for almost  40 years to be able to have the choices I have today.  When Jim and I were married, we made a concerted effort to pay off our house and live debt free. No, we didn't take a lot of fancy vacations or buy luxury cars, but we did enjoy life. In fact when we were both in high tech, we lived 'richer' than either of us had ever dreamed possible. We created our own home theater and our back yard is my retreat. We love the beach, the forest, family and found our joy in simplicity.

We planned to retire young, travel more and slow down. And then came the news that would forever change us, BC and AD - Before Cancer and After Diagnosis. Jim always believed he would defy the odds and live 20 years or more. He used to tease that I should document everything I do just in case i got hit by a bus. Despite his optimism, he began to take care of business in ernest. Before his disability payments kicked in, he started selling off car parts and stereo equipment. He was so worried that his disease would deplete our hard earned savings that he even considered selling his car...his other love. Fortunately, the payments came through and he could stop worrying, a little.

After he died, I was informed that his company life insurance policy would be paid. I would gladly give it all back to have Jim, but I know it was his plan that if either of us died, the survivor would not have to work. That first year back to school, I had to work...not for money but for sanity.  But the next year, I called upon Jim's wisdom and took a break.

So, I have saved all my life and my husband died...lucky? No. Not at all.  

You're Not Alone

I found this morning's wake up song was a nice follow up to my post about the dream sequence. There are days when I feel so alone, even if I am with people.  And then other days, even if I am physically alone where I know Jim is close.

I used to, and even sometimes still do, feel that way about my grandmothers, both of whom died before I was a teenager.  Yet to this day, when I call out, they are close, and watching over me.

We all have someone in our heart that we can reach out to in times of need... Some call on a guardian angel, some call on God, some call on a dearly departed others call a friend.  I am blessed to have all of those options.


We all have our days
When nothing goes as planned
Not a soul in the world
Seems to understand
And for someone to talk to
You'd give anything
Well go on and cry out loud
'Cause someone's listenin'

Call it an angel
Call it a muse
And call it karma that you've got comin' to you
What's the difference
What's in name
What matters most is never ever losin' faith
'Cause it's gonna be alright
You're not alone tonight

Writer: Keith Lionel Urban
Copyright: Guitar Monkey Music, Songs Of Universal Inc

Dream Sequence

For the last few nights I've been trying to dream about Jim. A few times in my life I've been able to kind of direct my dreams but it hasn't been successful in bringing Jim to my dreams. I'm just missing him and want to see him so I was hoping for a good dream, but it just hasn't manifested. So this morning I decided rather than wait for a dream I was going to do a sort of guided visualization. Here is what I saw. 

It started with Dharma in her window yelping with delight. She has a different bark for strangers than she does with people she recognizes, and I knew she recognized who was at the door. I opened the door to see Jim standing there. I fell into his arms, knowing it wasn't real, but going with it, knowing how much I needed to feel his arms encircle me. 

I hugged him and held him and held him and held him. Finally, we came inside and we sat down on the couch, our arms around each other. I wanted to sit where I could see him and feel him I just didn't want that moment to go away. There was so much to say, to ask, but all I could do was tell him how much I loved him and how much I missed him. Jim said he was always there, he was always with me, but that he couldn't stay physically here. He wanted me to know that he was always looking out for me. In life and now he would do what he could to  keep me safe. He reassured me he would always be there watching out for me.

He helped me see that he was always with me, in my heart, in my spirit, in the very air around me. Somehow I knew it was time for him to go and I just squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to watch him go, to lose him all over again. All of a sudden light just shattered into 1 million pieces in front of my eyelids and I knew that he was gone, but that his light and the light of his love and the light of the spirit's love is around me always.

Perspective

Early this morning, before dawn, I laid down on the sand and faced the sky. The majesty and enormity of the heavens above, the millions of grains of sand beneath, the unrelenting, pounding surf, the immensity of love, all combined to remind me. They reminded me of my place in the universe. How can something so insignificant, one life, also be so incredibly important? Because we are all connected, man, woman, stars, sky, moon, waves, sand...we are all part of the same whole.

The grandeur of the wee hours reminded me of Jim, my loss, our love. Even though he is not part of this physical world, conservation of matter tells me he is still here, he is with me forever. He is part of the sand, the waves, the sky. I know he loved me more than this world. I am grateful that I loved him so much that I miss him this much. I believe our love is simply transformed. I like to think that I am growing, that I am taking the loss and love and somehow returning it, expanded, to the world around me. That the love we shared will shine though me, in compassion, empathy and yes, even joy.


As the moon shadows danced on the waves, the moon's shining face reminded me of hope. That even in the darkest night, we know dawn will come.

The Reason We're Here

So here is what I have been contemplating: when I look back on my life, for the most part, it's been pretty sweet.  And I can honestly say that all of the big, bad things led me to Jim...so that is good.  My miscarriage led me to New York, which was good then bad, but from that bad, I became friends with Jim and then lovers. So, is it possible that from this horribly sad thing, the death of my husband, that something better will come? Or just different?

Even though I have moments where I think this might be possible, later I cry just changing the sheets and can't imagine how anything good or better would ever possibly come from this. I don't want to imagine anything better than the love I feel for Jim.

I am at a time when I can redefine, refine, reframe the story of my life.  Who do I want to be? I want to be loving, caring, generous, adventurous and indominatable, if that is even a word.  Right now I don't feel any of those things

I was raised in a church-going family, twice on Sundays, Wednesday night Bible study and Thursday night choir practice.  There were pleasantly blurred lines between family and congregation. I was raised American Baptist, which I later learned is quite different from Conservative or Southern Baptist.  My parents were (and are) loving, welcoming, compassionate and have a daily relationship with God. When I was old enough to think for myself, I accepted Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Over the years I learned that for me, organized religion was not my path, however I have a deep and abiding faith and spirituality. 

Years ago I sat at the bedside of a friend in his final days. We talked late into the night about why each of us are here. Kurt believed that God asked special angels to come back to Earth and live with HIV to teach us all compassion. In the middle of the night, as Kurt slept, I must've dozed off because I woke with a start with one thought in my head, Romans 13:9.

As soon as I got home, I looked up the passage in my Bible. 

The commandments, “You shall not commit adultery,” “You shall not murder,” “You shall not steal,” “You shall not covet,” and whatever other command there may be, are summed up in this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” 

That was it, the answer to what is my purpose, to why are we here, to how do I respond to life's curves: the answer is love. I believe that we are put here on Earth for a purpose, and that purpose is simply to love each other. As Chrissie Hynde sang, "now the reason we're here, is to love each other, take care of each other, is to help each other, stand by each other."

Throughout our journey, I have never doubted the presence of a higher power. I have never asked, Where is God? Why me? I believe that God is here and God is everywhere. I do not believe God gave Jim cancer, anymore than God caused a 13 year-old girl to come out of tonsil surgery as brain-dead or God caused a mentally ill man to shoot up a school.  I do believe that everything we have been through in our lives prepares us for everything to come. Thich Nhat Hahn says, in Living Buddha, Living Christ, "To breathe and to know you are alive is wonderful. Because you are alive, everything is possible... Please don't waste a single moment. Every moment is an opportunity to breathe life into the Buddha, the Dharma, the Sangha (the community). Every moment  is an opportunity to manifest the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit."

"We think the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, room for relief, for misery, for joy."

- Pema Chodron

"What we can do that takes best care of us is to trust Life completely. Our part is to 

stay right here, with the breath, paying close attention and moving in the direction 

Life guides us. In that way, we can learn all there is where we are and be ready to 

be somewhere else when that learning is complete."

- Cheri Huber

I am still learning.

You first. No, you go first.

It seems morbid now but on occasion Jim and I would talk, before he got sick, about our own deaths. Perhaps because we lost so many loved ones early in our marriage, I'm not sure, but we never shied away from the fact that life is, in fact, a terminal situation. I used to tell him that I wanted him to live just one minute longer than me. Even after his stage IV cancer diagnosis, he would tease that he was going to outlive me. He would be some sort of miracle of modern science and, despite my family's longevity, I'd end up in some freak accident and he'd be left to sort out bank accounts, when to feed the dog, buying his socks... All the things I'd attended to.

After he died I wanted to join him in death. I just wanted the gripping pain of loss to be over, and death seemed the only release. In time those feelings subsided, but I can't deny they were there. I found myself wishing the tables were turned, that I would've gladly given my life so that he could live.

But tonight it hit me. I would never want Jim to have to go through what I have. I don't really want anyone to have to experience the loss, the pain, the sorrow. I cannot imagine Jim having to go through the intense grief, the deep sadness, the vast loneliness that I have experienced.  My love for him is so great that I'd rather endure this pain and not him.

I believe the one who is left, the survivor, suffers more than the one who dies. Hey, for all I know he's up 'there' fishing with his Dad and telling racy jokes with my uncles. But I am here, alone, figuring out how to go on without him. I don't say this because I'm feeling sorry for myself, or because I'm some martyr.  No, I would just hate for Jim to have to endure the loss of someone he loved so very much. I'd rather take the hit. I love him that much. Still.

I am grateful for the love Jim brought into my life. I am grateful that I love him so much, that I can finally find comfort in the knowledge of that love. I am grateful that I lived. That I live. That I love. That despite his death, the love continues. Love never dies.

Stages, phases, tasks, storms and waves

In the 70's as a sociology major, I studied the research of Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross who had worked with people receiving news of their own impending death. She determined they went through stages, which, she wrote, often overlap, occur together and some reactions are missed altogether. The stages included shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

Later people mis-attributed this stage theory to any loss such as the loss of a parent or spouse, even the loss of a job or the end of vacation (I think far past the point  where the extension has jumped the shark). In his introduction to the re-release of Kubler-Ross', On Death and Dying,  Dr. Alan Kellehar writes, that it is only by overlooking this principle aim of Dr. Kübler-Ross’s book – that of the privileging the voice of the dying – that a whole industry of mythmaking has resulted. On Death and Dying was never a study of bereavement.  It was research and observation of individuals' reactions to the experience of dying Yes, those people grieve, but it is not the same as the grief of those of us who survive the loss of a loved one, and our experiences may not, and likely will not, match those she found in her studies.

Other researchers said no, its not just a series of steps the griever goes through, it's more of a curve.I don't agree with this picture.  I think it is far less linear than stages imply. The curve implies once you are done with shock, you move to numbness, then denial, then later depression, finding hope and finally loss adjustment.

  To me it's more of a squiggly line. I may move from loneliness to depression, then back to numbness and jump over to helping others, and so on again and again.

Others have shown a spiral, where your life entered a kind of tornado, and your new life comes out the other side. I've felt like grief comes in waves. Sometimes a tsunami like surge, other times just a gentle lapping at my ankles. But just like the ocean, you should never turn your back on it.

If you Google "stages of grief" you get over 23 million results. The number of stages range anywhere from 5-20

We all grieve in different ways and there is no one right way. Dr. Alan Wolfelt is an author, educator and grief counselor. His model includes needs, tasks that need to be addressed before reconciling with our new reality can happen. They don't happen in order, and you may need to come back to them again and again. He writes of the mourner's six 'reconciliation needs' which include:

1. The need to acknowledge the reality of the death 
2. The need to embrace the pain of the loss
3. The need to remember the person who died
4. The need to develop a new self identity
5. The need to search or meaning
6. The need for ongoing support from others

This model, for now, make sense to me. 

• Acknowledging the reality - In the beginning, my mind would play and replay the events leading to Jim's death. I was pretty sure I had 'acknowledging the reality' down. I never ever thought that Jim was not dead. I knew at a cellular level he was gone. In the groggy, floaty space of morning I never thought he was next to me. Yet, I sometimes had to remind myself, 'it is always going to be like this, he is never coming home.' And I still look at my phone to see if there is a message.
• Embracing the pain - Although I was raised in a family that did its best not to express emotion, I have been pretty effective in breaking that mold. In fact, even as I child I was teased for being the sensitive one. I discovered it is not a weakness to be sensitive and I am glad I can show my feelings. When I am sad, I cry, I give myself to loss, just as I gave myself to love.
• Remembering - Photos, mementos, even the Car, give testimony to a different form of a continued relationship with my husband. I cherish memories of our life together. Some people may try to avoid talking about him, or want me to put away things that remind me of Jim. They are afraid to bring up his name or his death for fear it will make me sad. As if I am not already. I remember many years ago I was out of the country when a childhood friend died in a motorcycle accident. I was afraid to mention it to his mother when I got back. Silly me, as if she could ever NOT think about it, not remember. When I did share my condolences, my shared memories were a comfort to her. 
• A new self identity - You confront your changed identity every time you do something that used to be done by the person who died. This can be very hard work and can leave you feeling very drained. This is the need that I struggle with the most. I still, in my heart, for now, feel that Jim is my husband and I am still married. I've read several books on grieving but it took me months before I could read one called Widow to Widow. I was not ready to call myself a widow. I am still married, just married to a dead man. Later, I could check the box for widow but when the form only had two choices I was so mad. It was a government form, so I couldn't say married, yet I certainly wasn't single. Who am I going to be? Yeah, this need is not met yet. This task is 'in progress' as they say.
• Search for Meaning - It is natural, when someone dies, to question the meaning of life...why are we here? why did this happen? what is the point? For me this is a life long task, one not necessarily linked to my grief. But really, when I am mindful, I think it is pretty simple.  We are here to love our selves and to love each other. To be happy and to help others be happy.

• Need for Ongoing Support - I am so very fortunate in this area. Despite my childhood's attempts to squelch all talk, or acknowledgement of anything emotional, my support system is amazing. Wolfelt says To be truly helpful, the people in your support system must appreciate the impact this death has had on you. They must understand that in order to heal, you must be allowed—even encouraged—to mourn long after the death. And they must encourage you to see mourning not as an enemy to be vanquished but as a necessity to be experienced as a result of having loved. I am blessed to have love and support from near and far.

Wolfelt tells us what I know to be true, you never 'get over' grief. You don't recover. The intense pangs of grief have subsided, but occasionally sneak up on me still. I will forever hold in my heart my memories of Jim, and I am able to make plans for the future. My journey will never end.  But I do believe, in time, we do (and I will) reconcile with my grief.

I just want to hear your voice.

When Jim died, I never expected to find him in my bed when I woke in the morning.  I did not experience denial, at least in the 'stages of grief' way I'd expected. I did not think he was coming home. When I woke up that first morning after the day he died, and indeed every morning ever since, I just knew he was gone, dead, at least in the physical world.  I knew it in my soul, in my heart, in my very cells.  

As life started to begin around me and our family and friends went back to their routines and jobs, I tried to regain my footing.  It was extremely difficult to leave the house. Every time I drove away, tears would fill my eyes. I felt I was driving away from the place we'd been closest, and the last place he'd really been alive. And every time I came home to only my dog, I'd cry at the emptiness of our, my, home. I would curl up on his spot on the couch, where he'd spent hours during his illness. I felt close to him there. I slept on his side of the bed, on his pillow.  

I tried to imagine him in the bed next to me, but it was no good. I knew he was never going to lie next to me again in this lifetime. So it came as some surprise to me when I first left for a night away and got to where I was going, that I checked my phone, expecting a text from Jim to be there on the screen. When I'm away from home and something makes me think of Jim, I want to text and tell him.  When I am home and walk by my phone on the kitchen counter, I always stop to check to see if he's sent me a text. I know this is impossible, yet I still continue to habitually check. What is it about the phone? In every other way I know he's gone, but I still expect him to call.

When I go away for the weekend with girlfriends and we arrive at our destination, they call or text to let their husbands know they've arrived safely. And I just stare at my blank screen, no one to text to tell him I'm okay. When I get in the car to head home, I grab my phone to text Jim that I'm on my way home, like I did almost every day for 17 years.  And I stare at my phone...what was I thinking?

In the first two years of our marriage, I was traveling 70-90% of the time. A few years later he was gone 2-3 nights a week for work.  It got much better when he decided to work for Slalom and he hoped to wind down his career over the following five years or so. But no matter who was away or for how long, or how far, we would check in with a call or text at least two or three times a day.  Perhaps that's what it is about the phone.  It was always our connection whenever we were physically apart. So at some level I may be hoping that we can connect again. And so I check my phone. And stare, unbelieving, but knowing.

I'd like to say that this has gotten better over time.  Maybe someday.  Until that time....

Second verse, not quite the same as the first, and a lot less worse.

Last year about this time I was coming up on what I called my season of firsts: September ... our wedding anniversary ...October ... my birthday...In November it would be hard to feel thankful when all I wanted to do was be with Jim  ...Christmas … I could not even imagine it...New Year’s...So hard to look ahead with so much left behind ...Finally February 19th would bring the first anniversary of Jim’s death. With the help of time, friends & family, a grief counselor and xanax (in no particular order), I got through it. Of course.  

Our last Christmas, Monterey 2013

As the anniversary of my husband's death neared, Kristina, my grief counselor, and I discussed my fears and my plans for getting through it.  While Jim and I were living through what would be his last month, everything was moving and changing so fast. But in retrospect I could remember and re-live again, and  again, the horrible details of that month. It was like some Kafka-esque slow motion replay of the anguish, suffering and roller coaster ride of the last month  of Jim's life. February 19th came and despite my expectations, of course I survived...What else could I do. Life wants to live. And so, that morning, as I  have every other, I told myself, "if you don't get up now, you never will". And do you know what?  I cannot fully explain it but something magical did happen, after that sad day passed, I did feel lighter! As if a load had lifted off my shoulders. I had lived in such dread of that day, and I survived!

I am still amazed that I have gotten through this past year, and am now in my Season of Seconds.  Our anniversary fell over Labor Day weekend and I knew I was just going to hibernate and be sad. But I also did a lot of meditating and reflecting. Much of my grief work has been focused on mindfulness.  And so, as I approach my birthday and Thanksgiving, it is my intent and my goal to be in the present, to be grateful for the moment I am in now. I have also given myself permission to fully immerse myself in grief, if need be, on days that are specific to Jim - his birthday, our anniversary, and the day of his death. Those are days when being present means being present with my grief, my loss, my loneliness. But days like my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas are all intended to be celebrations filled with happy memories, laughter and love. I know it won’t be easy, but with intention and attention, I have a better chance or not just surviving these milestones, but thriving.

Fake it 'til you make it

"It's so good to see you thriving," exclaimed one of my friends, seeing pictures of a recent trip to Yosemite. If she only knew.

If she only knew the trip was an homage to Jim, a retracing of a drive we made in 2011, one of our happiest days ever. It was his birthday and we drove with a group of S2000 drivers to Yosemite, had lunch and drove home. We laughed, talked and just enjoyed each other's company surrounded by the beauty of nature. I wanted to re-drive that route, to feel a connection to that happy time.

If she only knew a reason for the trip was to leave a little bit of Jim behind. As I looked hopelessly for signs of water in the drought stricken Mirror Lake, I was left to my own reflections... remembering the happy time when we had traveled to Yosemite with my parents and we sneaked away for a little quiet time to that very same spot, loving each other on a granite boulder beneath the towering trees. Now I was retracing that hike, to find no beautiful lake, but a spot as dry as my heart felt. I left a little of Jim at the base of the boulder, and my tears fell. Tears of abject loss mixed with the joy of remembering the love we shared that day.

If she only knew I booked a room at The Ahwahnee lodge because I'd always wanted to stay there with Jim and never got the chance. As I sat on the balcony gazing up at the massive granite wall, I cried at the overwhelming sense of loss that we would never ever share this experience together.

If she only knew how incredibly hard it is for me to even leave the house, and how much harder it is to come home to an empty home. I drive away and feel like I am leaving a part of him behind. I come home to the quiet and long to hear his hearty laugh and a warm, welcoming hug. I curl up on the couch where he used to sit and watch his favorite movies and shows, over and over. I alternate between wanting to clean house and move to wanting to preserve every note he wrote, every object he touched. This does not feel like thriving.

If she only knew that I still cry. I yearn for my husband's arms around me. Some days I hardly feel like I am thriving, I feel like I am barely surviving. I get up and go through the motions. I know I need to eat, so I eat. I know I need human interaction, so I leave the house. And with time, I am able to find joy in these activities, yet there are moments when I still feel an aching emptiness so strong it feels like a punch to the gut.

I know this too shall pass. Just like there are moments where I can't even breathe, I also find the joy in gratitude. Just this morning as I was thinking about our upcoming wedding anniversary I realized, with a full heart, that I would not give up the life we had for anything. The cost of losing him was high, but the love we created lives on.

Paulo Coelho, is a Brazilian lyricist and novelist writes, “You must be the person you have never had the courage to be. Gradually, you will discover that you are that person, but until you can see this clearly, you must pretend and invent.”

Or as I would word it less eloquently, 'fake it 'til you make it.' Wikipedia explains "Fake it 'til you make it" (also called "act as if") as a common catchphrase.

The purpose is to avoid getting caught in a self-fulfilling prophecy related to one's fear of not being confident, ...It is often recommended as a therapy technique for combating depression. In this case, the idea is to go through the routines of life as if one were enjoying them, despite the fact that initially it feels forced, and continue doing this until the happiness becomes real.

There are days I do feel strong, moments of clarity when I can focus on the love we shared and be grateful for the person I have become. But there are also days when I crawl into a little ball and cry and wail for the the death of my husband like it was yesterday. If she only knew.

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