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.

Masquerade

Sometimes I feel like a total fake. People tell me I'm doing so well...having fun, thriving. What they don't see is how I fall apart every night. I miss Jim so much and my heart just aches when the world around me stops and I have time to just be. Now I understand why Aunt Gladys told me to keep busy, because her generation doesn't really want to deal with feelings. And that's what happens at the end of the day, when things are quiet. Or in the shower every morning, where the water masks my tears, and I am literally bare to my emotions. Hidden or not, I have to face my feelings.

It's funny...not haha funny but strange... I know all the right words, 'you don't get over it, you just go through it' and 'it doesn't get easier, you just get stronger'  And I know they are true. But knowing and feeling are two different things.

I expected after a year had passed that "helpful" folks would encourage me to 'get busy living'. What I did not anticipate was that I would have those same expectations for myself. I thought that I would be more joyful, more energetic and more ready to get on with my life. But that's not always the case. I still sometimes just want to stay in bed and cry missing Jim, loving Jim. I find myself getting impatient with me. While I expected, no, demanded, patience, understanding and compassion from my family and friends, for some strange reason I wasn't able to give the same to myself. Why is it easier for us to love others than love ourselves? To be patient and kind with others than it is to be with ourselves?

Grief, Gratitude and Grace: The Journey Continues

It s that time of year, at least in the United States, where we think a lot about gratitude. There are many, many things in my life of which I am extremely grateful. I was raised in a happy, loving home. Yes, we have our dysfunctions, but who doesn't? My parents still live in my childhood home, going strong well into their 80s. My dad was a hard worker, a high school teacher, and my mom very frugal, by nature and necessity. They saved enough for each of us 4 kids to go to college. I earned my degree and worked hard to have a successful career, paired with good timing and luck of geography, in high tech. I travelled the world, bought my own house and have always had a wonderful supportive core group of friends who are like sisters. I love my extended family and have always had an optimistic joy for life. I met and married my husband Jim when i was in my late 30s. We had a happy marriage and he loved me more than life itself. In 2013 he as diagnosed with cancer and he died nine months later.

There are many, many things in my life of which I am extremely grateful. I never thought grief would be one of them.

The first 6 months after Jim died were a fog. The second 6 months were a nightmare. In this, my second year, the fog is lifting. I am waking. I have determined that grief will not kill me. And, to use on of Jim's favorite quotes, 'what doesn't kill me makes me stronger." I began to rebuild, redefine. I knew I could not go back. My life would never, ever be the same. So, I mused, what would it be? Who would I be?

Anne Lamott, writes about the grace of redefining ourselves and redefining okayness when life throws us its merciless curveballs. She considers how people find the grace of making-it-work: 

They are willing to redefine themselves, and life, and okayness. Redefinition is a nightmare — we think we’ve arrived, in our nice Pottery Barn boxes, and that this or that is true. Then something happens that totally sucks, and we are in a new box, and it is like changing into clothes that don’t fit, that we hate. Yet the essence remains. Essence is malleable, fluid. Everything we lose is Buddhist truth — one more thing that you don’t have to grab with your death grip, and protect from theft or decay. It’s gone. We can mourn it, but we don’t have to get down in the grave with it.

No, we don't have to go into the grave with it. We can decide how to respond, finally. In that first year, I felt like i didn't have a choice. But now I do. I can choose to let my grief make me bitter and angry and lonely. Or I can choose to be joyful, be part of the world around me, be grateful.

Grateful? How could I ever be grateful that Jim is dead? I am not. But he is dead. So rather than focus on the loss, I have chosen to focus on all I have gained.

First - his diagnosis. We found out Jim had cancer just days before his 53 birthday. In those first few weeks, he was close to death and we were just going through the motions. But he recovered his ability to breathe, and we were given sweet, sweet time. Never enough, but time. We lived in a cocoon for much of the next 9 months. Doctor visits, tests, treatments, recovery and cycling back though it again. Yet we also made time to fall in love again. To appreciate each other. To value the moment. The now. We saw glaciers and sunsets, we saw CT scans and x-rays. Family visited and so did home health nurses. Yes, I was grateful for those 9 months. Not everyone gets that. They gave us time to tell the other everything important that need to be said. He never told me how to run the sprinklers, but he told me how much he loved me. He died and nothing important had been left unsaid. And for that, I am grateful.

No one really gets to pick how they die. Yes, you can control some variables, but in the end, nature has its own timetable. Jim lost the ability to breathe on his own and he died two days later. I had time to call his siblings, consult with doctors and my minister. I had time to hold his hand, whisper all my love, dance one last song with him, bathe him and hold him in my arms as he left this world. And for that, I am grateful.

During the fog of those first six months, I was lucky enough to not have to work much I was able to fully 'embrace my grief." I sought therapy, I meditated, I journaled, I did yoga, I walked on beaches, I slept, a lot. I also cleaned out the garage, so I could take care of his car, I learned how to maintain the hot tub, I planted a garden and I learned how to control the sprinklers. I took little trips to leave some of Jim's ashes in places that were special to us. I cried. I cried a lot. I remember asking a colleague, a fellow widow (a term, by the way, I was to yet willing to use), "How long did it take you to stop crying every day?" I was relieved when she said it was at least a year. I would continue crying every day, often many times a day. Dr. Earl A Grollman writes, Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.  Yes, I still cry. A lot. But I as also putting one foot in front of the other. Showing courage in the face of fear and uncertainty. I gave myself time to explore my grief, to befriend it. To accept my grief as part of the new me, the new normal. And for that, I am grateful.

Last summer, I participated in the Deepak & Oprah 21 day meditation on Gratitude. Although I was still a bit leery as to how I could find gratitude while living with my grief, I played along and low and behold, I did. I learned that in appreciating all of life's gifts, grace does come.

Oprah: When you have the awareness of how perfectly you fit into creation, how abundant your life is from the level of being, grace changes your perception. Gratitude is like a secret key that shifts your awareness.....Grace is the knowledge that we belong, that we are understood, and that we are a meaningful part of something big, deep and powerful... Be present in gratitude and grace automatically responds, taking us beyond the confines of our own familiar experiences. The little things, the little moments, well, they aren’t little, says Jon Kabat-Zinn, and he couldn’t be more correct because when we are present in gratitude, we awaken the bigness of even the smallest things in life. You see things differently, hear things anew, everything matters and that’s what we’re all seeking. Indeed, that is grace. Let’s listen to the signals of grace within and all around us. ...
Deepak says, "We are responsible for our own life story and the responsibility grows when you decide to take charge of your story, not blaming, projecting or depending on someone else. giving away the responsibility gives away your control over the one thing that should and must belong to you alone. By taking control, you also claim rights to the joy and bliss of your story... In grace, the heart sings. Light is infused into every experience. ...Everything you want to achieve already exists in your own being, waiting for the hidden key to be turned. The path isn’t arduous. The practice of gratitude is a spiritual path of the heart. One experience of joy leads to the next. In time, the heart has space for nothing but love and light."

And for this, I am grateful.

I am grateful for learning how to use the sprinklers, for the love of a wonderful husband, that I loved him so much, I grieve for him daily. I am grateful for the understanding, patient, and compassionate support of friends, family and strangers. I am grateful for long walks on the beach, long drives in the S2000 and the soft fur on my dog's ears. I am grateful that I am present in my gratitude. My heart has space for love and light.  And for this, I am grateful.

Stillness

On the day Jim died, my Aunt Gladys, who had been widowed almost 10 years came and sat by my side. Through tears I asked her how she did it. How she kept going. How she kept breathing. She said to 'keep busy.' I knew right away that wasn't for me, but I accepted the wisdom her experience and her own grief journey had taught her.

In that first year, I fully gave myself to the grieving process. I cried. I cried a lot. I read and wrote. I walked on the beach, I took time off from work. I gave permission to do only what I could and not try to live to other people's expectations of me. I proudly showed off my new tattoo to my disapproving mother. I didn't care. It really was all about me.

As I approached the year anniversary. my grief counselor had warned me that people around me would start expecting me to move on with my life.  What I was unprepared for were my own expectations of myself. Somehow, I think I believed I needed to 'get on with it.' I started busying myself with projects. So much had been put on the back-burner since Jim's diagnosis, there was much to catch up on and repair. I found myself staying up later and later in front of NCIS marathons, just to avoid going to bed... quiet, alone, not wanting to face my tears.

Kiran Sidhu Aldridge writes about the 'dirty little secret' of the grieving. That the world is divided into two parts: there are the grievers and then there are those oblivious to the black hole left in one’s life when someone significant dies. I was trying to fill that hole with activity. Don't get me wrong, I was glad to be traveling a bit, visiting with friends, taking in a ball game. But deep down, that hole was still there. Reminding my of my new found companion, grief.

And so sometimes, I need to just stop. I need to say no. I need to sit in stillness and in silence. I just need to be. Be with my grief, be with my memories, be with joy, be with peace. Today's meditation was on the contentment we can find when we are still. When our core beliefs come from our true selves, when we believe that we are loving, lovable, worthy, safe and whole, there is power and opportunity for life that springs forth. And, as Deepak Chopra says,  If our beliefs are compromised and not having the effect we hoped for, then we need to return to the stillness of our true self to rectify the belief.

Yes, I miss Jim. I always will. That black hole will never be filled.  Like Sidhu Aldridge, I have chosen to examine the open wound of my grief and almost befriend it. It has visited and cast its shadow over my life. I can only live with it. I am open to what it has to teach me, that when those we love die, they leave holes in our lives that can never be filled. This doesn't mean I do not feel joy or love.  Indeed I do, and when I think about my life, I am content. I am indeed blessed. I loved and was loved enough to grieve deeply.

Yes, sometimes I just need to stop. In the stillness of silence, I am pure contentment.

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.

This is Country Music

I was a lifelong Foghead, from the first day KFOG played We Built this City. I listened to classic rock but not hard rock. Sometimes classical. That was about it.  When I married my husband at the age of 37 I was pretty set in my ways. I wasn't very good at compromise. Fortunately Jim had more experience in that department.

He grew up listening to bands like AC/DC but by the time I met him he mostly listened to Country. Luckily we had our own cars, so in his car, the radio presets were country and hard rock, mine were set to KFOG, NPR and KNBR for baseball. I really didn't need the other three buttons. Once in a while we'd switch cars, and I'd usually leave the radio where it was...until some song came on to make me cry.  I distinctly remember the first time. The song was The Little Girl by John Michael Montgomery.

She said, I know that man there on that cross

I don't know His name, but I know He got off
Cause He was there in my old house
And held me close to His side
As I hid there behind our couch 
The night that my parents died.

After I changed the station, I called Jim, and all I yelled into the phone was,  "I hate your country music" and hung up. It became kind of a running joke with us, dubbed 'a country music moment.' I learned to appreciate some country music and when we got married, "our song" was Mary Chapin Carpenter's Shut up and Kiss Me.  My tolerance built up over the years and as KFOG changed their format and became too predictable and commercial, Jim became less tolerant and finally changed the station that piped throughout our home system. Now every morning as we got ready for work, we listened to Gary and Julie on KRTY. When our son got married, we chose Keith Urban's, Memories of Us, as 'our song.'  When Jim got sick, I began to pay more attention to the lyrics and more and more, the songs spoke to me and Memories of Us took on a new significance.

I'm gonna be here for you from now on
This you know somehow
You've been stretched to the limits but it's alright now
And I'm gonna make you a promise
If there's life after this
I'm gonna be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss

I'm counting on that warm wet kiss.

After Jim died, music was a solace, and at times a curse. I found new meaning in lyrics. Songs made me cry - well, everything made me cry. For a while I had to turn off the music altogether.When Linda and I first went to Lima Family to plan my husband's memorial service, our adviser said they have canned, quiet organ music to play as people come into the service. That sounded benign and easy. Then my brother, Rev.Dave, suggested I find one song to play during the service, then one more to start and one to end. Thus started a musical research project. Mary and I spent hours on YouTube and MetroLyrics looking for songs. We cried, we laughed and finally I narrowed down the list, ending up with an hour plus of music I thought would make Jim happy. With iTunes and YouTube, compiling the playlist was pretty easy. Even songs not on the playlist took on new meaning, a song about a break up because a song about death. KRTY became the soundtrack for my Journey Out of the Valley.

Best start putting first things first.
Cause when your hourglass runs out of sand
You can't flip over and start again
Take every breathe God gives you for what it's worth
Don't Blink ~ Kenny Chesney

When Jim lost the ability to breathe, I told him to breathe with me, that I would be his breath. In the months after his death, I kept reminding myself to center my soul with my breath and try to stay present. In those early days, when grief was a raw, fresh wound, I could barely catch my breath. I really didn't know how to go on.

I want to know,

How do I breathe without you?

If you ever go,

How do I ever, ever survive?

How do I, how do I, oh how do I live?

Without you,

There'd be no sun in my sky,

There would be no love in my life,

There'd be no world left for me.

And I,

Baby I don't know what I would do,

I'd be lost if I lost you,

If you ever leave,

Baby you would take away everything real in my life,

~Trisha Yearwood How do I Live?

Drink a Beer by Luke Bryan hit the top 10 charts in the month Jim died. His sister Pat and niece Kelsey suggested we play the song when I brought some of Jim's ashes home to Iowa. Standing at his parents' grave side, we passed around bottles of Jim's standby, MGD, wept and sang along.

Funny how the good ones go
Too soon, but the good Lord knows
The reasons why, I guess
Sometimes the greater plan
Is kinda hard to understand
Right now it don't make sense
I can't make it all make sense
So I'm gonna sit right here
On the edge of this pier
Watch the sunset disappear
And drink a beer

One of those songs that isn't about death but had significance is Home by Blake Shelton.  In it he sings plaintively about wanting to go home. It makes me so sad every time I hear it, because those are the last words Jim was able to say to me. He wanted to go home.  It just breaks my heart every time I think about it.  In the larger sense, he did go home.  And I try to find comfort in this. But the song still reduces me to tears. Every. single. time.

Let me go home
I'm just too far
From where you are
I wanna come home
And I feel just like
I'm living someone else's life
It's like I just stepped outside
When everything was going right
And I know just why you could not
Come along with me
That this was not your dream
But you always believed in me

The grieving process is not a straight line. You move in and out of a whole spectrum of feelings.  Some of them took me into pretty dark places.  Songs like Whiskey Lullaby and Better Dig Two were some of those.  But then, even though it sort of made me feel guilty, I wanna feel better. Guilty because I felt my grief was my connection to Jim and I did not want to ever lose that connection. But still, I knew I needed to LIVE!

There's a bottle on the shelf, talkin' to me
Sayin', "Come over here, you can have a drink"
We can make it through this lonely night together

But that's a road I don't wanna go back down
And I hate myself for what I'm thinkin' now
Hey, it's just one night, it's not like it's forever
I just want to feel better

All these pictures running through my head
From the way he loved to the way he left
Not a single day goes by, I don't miss him

I just want to feel good, feel alright
Feel anything but what I feel tonight
I just want to move on with my life
And put the pieces back together
I just want to feel better

I know there's gonna come a day
When he's still gone and it's okay
~Maggie Rose

Another song that can inspire me, of course, is Live Like You Were Dying, by Tim McGraw

He said I was in my early 40's,
With a lot of life before me,
And a moment came that stopped me on a dime.
I spent most of the next days, lookin' at the x-rays,
Talkin' 'bout the options and talkin' 'bout sweet time.
Asked him when it sank in, that this might really be the real end.
How's it hit ya, when you get that kind of news.
Man what ya do.
And he says,

I went sky divin',
I went rocky mountain climbin',
I went 2.7 seconds on a bull name Fumanchu.
And I loved deeper,
And I spoke sweeter,
And I gave forgiveness I've been denying,
And he said someday I hope you get the chance,
To live like you were dyin'.

I could go on and on but it's late and I need some sleep. I have continued to add to my Out of the Valley playlist as I continue on my journey. So just one more,  and it is so Jim... he did just say Bring it on and he was such a scrappy fighter til the very end.  

Doctor said he ain't got long
He just smiled said bring it on
If you think I'm scared
You got me all wrong
A little cancer can't break me
My heart's right and I believe
We all hit our knees
Started prayin'
Naw he never gave up
Said the Good Lord's waitin'

An' that's One Hell of an Amen
That's the only way to go
Fightin' the good fight
Til the Good Lord calls you home
So be well my friend
Til' I see you again
Yeah this is our last goodbye
But it's a Hell of an Amen

~Brantley Gilbert

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.

Being first is not always best

I would not wish what I have had to go through on anyone. Yet, the likelihood is that at minimum, 50% of my friends will (or have) experience the loss of a spouse. My closest girlfriends are all just a wee bit older than me. In high school they got to drive, date, wear makeup, vote and then later legally drink, all before I did. I've never, ever been the first. Until now. And it breaks my heart. When I think about how my friend +Joni Furlong, widowed for almost 10 years, just showed up at my door the day Jim died, the knowing look in her eyes, her arms and heart wide open... I am grateful yet saddened. When she lost her husband I had no idea what that meant. Now she was comforting me in a way few could, because she knew. We were now sisters.  

After Jim died, I sought out people who had survived the loss of a spouse, and often they sought me out.  In addition to Joni, my Aunt Gladys, widowed over 15 years and never remarried, also showed up on my doorstep that day. 'How," I begged her to tell me, "did you ever survive even this day? How did you keep on breathing?"  A few days later, I visited the beach where Jim and I had married. Another friend, Bob, whose first wife died almost 20 years before, walked and cried with me. He knew what my road ahead would be like and it was a comfort to have him with me. He's been happily remarried for years, but still carried the pain of that loss in his heart. And he was willing to share his experiences with me. You never get over grief, you just get through it.

My sisters and brothers in widowhood were generous with their time, listening and answering my direct, and perhaps even prying questions. I remember blurting out to a colleague in the staff room one day, 'when did you stop crying every day?' I just needed reassurance that somehow I'd get through this. One day I was in the grocery store and I ran into another colleague, Ann.  I hadn't seen her since the funeral, but that day was such a blur, I hardly remember who I saw or what they said. Walking up on her in the shampoo aisle, I just broke down and cried when she asked, 'how are you?'  I knew she really meant it.  She knew the loss I felt, and  just held me and whispered in my ear, 'believe it or not, it will get easier.' These people had somehow survived what seemed impossible to endure... There was hope, even when I felt hopeless.

Someday, I will be the one to stand on a doorstep, tears in my eyes with open heart and arms, ready to be there, to know. And it breaks my heart.