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.

My promise, my love, my life

My birthday was yesterday.  My long time friend, Kathy, agreed to take a road trip with me and drive up to Auburn. I knew I didn't want to stay home and it seemed like a perfect day to pick up a piece of jewelry I'd commissioned.  When I had Jim's wedding band sized down so I could wear it, my jeweler friend, Dave, had to cut out a section of the ring. Before we were married, when I had the ring made I had it engraved with part of my wedding vows, My promise, My love, My life. Dave determined the best place to snip, and the right amount, was the word love. When he made that first cut, I felt the air go out of the room. He made the second cut, and handed me the gold, love. With tears in my eyes, I held love in my hand. And now the ring simply reads, My promise, My life. 

 

Dave said there was enough gold to make another piece, when combined with some other damaged jewelry I had brought him. I also gave him the diamond from the original engagement ring Jim presented to me almost 19 years ago.  I asked Dave to use his artistry to design a pendant, something I could wear every day.  That was back in January, and I knew Dave kept his own time table. So I didn't really fret when I hadn't heard from him. Finally, just a week or so ago, he contacted me, apologetic that he hadn't let me know that the pendant had been done for months. Yet with my birthday approaching, I knew the timing was perfect.

Jim loved giving me jewelry and his one last time, for my birthday I received a beautifully crafted, unique piece, forged from love...in the shape of a teardrop. Priceless.

My promise, my love, my life.

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.

Something yet left to do.

Many years ago, just before my grandfather turned 90 he asked me, "Why am I not dead yet?" I told him 'clearly he had something left to do.'

After my husband died, I wondered the same thing.

At first it seemed inconceivable that I could survive the wrenching hurt that permeated my being. How could anyone? Yet I knew people that had, and did.  But I am not them. I could not imagine living another day without Jim. I suppose like anyone, I'd hoped we would grow old together and die in our sleep on the same night. I knew that wasn't likely. I knew by our family histories that the likelihood was that I would outlive him, yet I never really grasped what that would mean. I could never have imagined the emptiness, the profound sadness, the complete and utter hopelessness of my grief.  So how, when that grief was upon me, could I possibly live through it?

I really did want to be dead. I never wanted to end my life, I just simply did not want to be alive. Why was I not dead? I did not feel life, nor did I want to feel alive. In those first months my numbness probably served as a protective shield from the reality of my life ahead. But in the grey fog of those days, I just wandered, and wondered, 'why am I not dead yet?'  Heaven or not, I wanted this life to be over. If heaven is real, then I knew I'd be reunited with Jim. If the after-life is something where we just exist on another plane, I assumed I'd be on that plane with him. If we are reincarnated, then the sooner I died, the sooner I could start a new life with Jim in another time. And if there is no heaven, no after, then I would be together with him in the black nothing...and at least this pain would end.

I was pretty sure no one wanted to hear about it, and so I never spoke if it. I didn't want friends and family worrying about me any more than they already were. But in my heart there was darkness.

Later, as the searing pain subsided, to be replaced with more of a dull, ever present ache, I didn't want to be dead as much as I just didn't care. I ate because I knew I should, I tried to be social when I felt up to it, I returned to work. I slept. I slept a lot. I wasn't depressed, I have been depressed and this was something different. I was just sad. The life I'd loved, and come to depend on, was gone...over.  I continued to try to bravely put one foot in front of the other. I was in my 'fake it til you make it' phase. I finally did talk to my grief therapist about my feelings, and she assured me they were quite normal. She knew I wasn't suicidal, and so we talked about the sadness and emptiness.

But I still wondered, why am I not dead?  I had reasons to live...I love my family - of choice and of birth. I enjoy my career, although I found facing expectant 10 year olds day after day to be exhausting in those grieving days. I also knew that if Jim would here he'd metaphorically kick me in the ass and say, "why are you wasting your time? I'd give anything to have one more day to enjoy this thing called life! Get out there and LIVE!" We worked hard to save for our future and it has occurred to me that the future we'd dreamed of is now mine, and it is now!

I talk about it now because I think it is important to face up to the whole range of experiences that I had and continue to go through. I also hope that by my naming it, others who are or will go through a profound loss will see that perhaps these feelings are a normal part of grieving. Marc Brackett, of the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence, says, “Labeling your emotions is key. If you can name it, you can tame it.” And Daniel J. Siegel, neuropsychiatrist and co-author Tina Payne Bryson write in their book, The Whole Brain Child:

“When (people) learn to pay attention to and share their own stories, they can respond in healthy ways to everything from a scraped elbow to a major loss or trauma. ...to put things in order and to name these big scary right-brain feelings so they can deal with them effectively…When we give words to our frightening painful experiences—when we literally come to terms with them—they often become much less frightening and painful.”

I no longer wonder why I am not dead. Clearly, I have something left to do. I know I have a lot of life yet to live and strive to live every day to its fullest, no matter how many days I have left. There are some days where all that means is that I just get up and get dressed, Other days, living life to its fullest involves an amazing adventure. And both are okay, it is all part of this journey I am on. My journey out of the valley.