Married to a dead man, part 2

Deepak Chopra M.D., author, public speaker, alternative medicine advocate, and a prominent figure in the New Age movement, says 'what you were yesterday, or an hour ago, you aren't any longer.'

When we married, I promised to love Jim for the rest of my life. I can't just turn that off. There are so many songs about how I will always love you, but what really do we mean when we say always and forever?

Jim told me he wanted me to get on with my life and find someone to love, but he didn't realize how difficult that would be. Not finding someone, but being ready to find someone. The man I love is gone, but the love remains.

Maybe it was going to my 40th high school reunion that got me wondering about all this. In day to day life, we fill out forms where they ask what our marital status. Usually, the choices are single,married or divorced. Facebook added it’s complicated, in a relationship and a few others. Ever since Jim died I have struggled with these forms. The first time I had to check widow I broke down and cried. But then there was a form that didn’t have an option for widow. It was a legal form so I had to check single and that pretty much broke my heart.

As time has passed, almost four years now, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I define myself. It makes me feel sad, but I no longer feel like I’m married, unless you can be married to a dead man. But that is hard to explain on any form. And single is not right because I’m not single!

So with a heavy heart, but a clear mind, I am ready to claim my status as a widow. I feel like this is a huge step, emotionally. I am, at my heart, ready to acknowledge something my brain has known for years. I am not who I was yesterday or an hour ago or four or thirty years ago. And tomorrow I will not be who I was today.

https://fineartamerica.com/art/drawings/alice+in+wonderland

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.

It has GOT to get better than this.

New Year's Day brings mixed emotion, sadness about past loss, uncertainty of the unknown, hope for the future, and renewed resolutions. 32 years ago tomorrow, my friends +Marie Agosta and +Gary Stoy and I sat on a cliff where an artichoke field dropped off to the Pacific Ocean. We popped a bottle of champagne, and before the farmer chased us off, we toasted the new year with, "it's gotta be better than this" which became our mantra throughout the year.

  


Looking back, it did get better. Then worse. Then better, and so on. Life is always going to have its ups and downs, but it's what you make of these events that determine their impact on you.


Liz Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love wrote on her Facebook page today,

But see...here's the thing: They NEVER tell you what's coming. And even if you did see what was coming, you don't GET to dig a hole to hide in. Not while you're still lucky enough to be alive. 

What is coming shall come, and — as long as you live — you will have the enormous privilege and challenge of trying to figure out how to respond to destiny. 

Tomorrow, when you are gifted with a brand new year (and it IS a gift), nobody will sit you down and tell you what's going to happen in the next 12 months, and — as it unfolds — nobody will be able to tell you how to endure it, or how to enjoy it, or how to understand it.
That part will be up to you. 

Life will keep unfolding; you must keep manufacturing your own response. 

So yes, it will get better, and then it might get worse. I already know 2017 will come with its own special challenges, some personal, some global.  But I know, for me, I will not hashtag #fml but will use #17Blessings because it's all in how you manufacture your response. I choose to respond with gratitude, determination, compassion, resilience, hope and love. And love always wins.

"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...