The Best Company to Work For

Jim and I met at work. We had one date that didn't start out as a date, and I told him, "I don't date guys from work (anymore)." He came in the following Monday and gave his notice! He left to work at Coopers and Lybrand, which later became PriceWaterhouseCoopers, +PwC and thus began his career as a consultant. He was really, really good at it. His clients loved him and mostly his bosses 'got him', notably Shirley Bogan and Marc Gallo. He could be, in my observation, arrogant and indignant, but the arrogance came from his drive to do his best, for him, his company and his clients. And he did.  And he had integrity. The thing that would set him off more than any other was someone questioning his integrity. Jim was a good man and a dedicated employee and strove to do right for his company and clients (not always in that order).

At the age of 50, Jim wanted to scale back a bit. His career had him travelling a lot and carried with it inherently a great deal of pressure, which was beginning to take a toll.  One of his colleagues, +Ted Van Huisen had gone to +Slalom Consulting, and he convinced Jim to join their team in 2011.

As much as Jim loved working with Shirley, Marc and the team at C&L all those years ago, I never saw him more content that he was at Slalom.  He was able to take gigs close to home. He was probably one of the oldest employees they had but he was well loved. They respected his experience and wisdom that came with his grey beard and valued his expertise. He loved being able to contribute, do his best, and come home every night. The company treated their employees incredibly well. Every year they hosted a retreat, or Escape, weekend, and I still smile when I use the commemorative wine glass from one of these escapes.

At Escape weekend, Dan and his wife in the background.

When Jim had to go on medical leave, Dan Biaggi (who had been at C&L and was now Jim's manager) and the whole team at Slalom SF, rallied around and supported both of us in every way possible. Becky in HR was just, literally, a godsend.  She walked us through everything we needed to do to ensure benefits and we felt so incredibly supported

At Jim's funeral, his friend and colleague, Ted, gave the eulogy and spoke of Jim's selfless generosity and compassion. He finished with these words: 

So today, I am not here today to say goodbye to Jim, only “see you later.” I will continue to bring him to every tough client meeting that I have, every coaching session, and every long commute. He will always be my comrade, my mentor, and my friend. And some day when I see him on the other side, the first beer is on me.

After Jim died, Becky continued to work with me and help me navigate through some of the process.  I don't think I ever met her but she treated me like a friend.

I still follow Slalom's facebook page and often when people share their "why I work here" stories, I have felt compelled to write in, so I am finally sharing our "why I love Slalom' story.  I hope no one has to experience the end aspects of what we did with the folks at Slalom, but I am so grateful they were there for us. But I am more grateful for the balance they restored to our lives in those last several years of Jim's career. Slalom truly is  one of the best companies to work for, and I don't need Forbes, Fortune or glassdoor to tell me that.

Moments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I just want to hear your voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Car

Anyone who knows me know I am a +Honda girl. Ever since my parents handed down their 1977 Honda wagon to me, I have been a fan. My husband, Jim, knew this when he married me. So many years later when my 50th birthday was creeping up, he decided I needed my dream car, a Honda convertible, and that meant an S2000. But of course, being Jim, he did his research and discovered a special model, the S2000CR, and he determined it was exactly what we needed.

Two things worried me about this. First, CR stands for Club Racer and as Car and Driver stated, “this is a track-day toy.” I am not a race car driver. I don’t want to be. Second, the CR is not an automatic convertible, meaning it has a removable hard top. This was never an easy task for the two of us and usually the removal or replacement of the top led to hurt feelings is not an argument. It quickly became apparent that it was his almost 50 present, not mine. But it made him so happy, I really didn’t mind.

He even went to great lengths to make the car a more comfortable ride for me by changing the suspension to make it less bouncy and adding sound dampening. When he started commuting into the city, he didn’t want to put in the miles so the S, as we’d begun to call it (also known as his baby) became my daily commute car. Every day when I returned home from work he would circle around it checking to see what new damage may have been inflicted. Usually there was none. Finally I’d had enough and we got a third car for commuting and the S was for weekends.

We took some great trips with wonderful memories made in that car; through redwoods, to the beach, to Yosemite. It really was fun and the S grew on me over the years. When Jim was diagnosed with cancer he vowed to drive the S to every doctor appointment and treatment for as long as he could. The staff loved seeing him tool up in his sporty little roadster wearing his Cancer Sucks t-shirt. We tried to attend a CR meet in LA while he was in the midst of radiation treatments. He didn’t want to be taking morphine while driving and the withdrawals made him so sick that we had to go home the morning after we arrived. He was so disappointed.

Car washing at CR Meet

As his illness progressed, bills added up and disability payments were delayed. Jim decided he need to sell the car to make sure we had enough money. I begged him not to. Yes, we had enough money, but more importantly it would have broken my heart to watch him watch that car drive away. Fortunately the disability check came through about a month before he died, so the car was never sold. It brought him such joy to work on, drive and just look at that car. He never had to say goodbye to it. I am so grateful for the happiness that car brought him.

A few months after Jim died, I contacted a friend we’d made through the +S2000 Club of America CR community. Although I was looking for advice on selling the car, he convinced me to not make any quick decisions and helped me understand what I needed to do to keep and take care of the car. First and foremost, I knew if I was going to drive it at all it had to be topless. But in order for that to happen, I needed to take off the roof, not an easy task. In order for that to happen, I needed to build or buy a rack to store to the roof on once it was removed. Once I built the rack out of PVC (taDa), I needed a place to put it, so I cleaned out the shed, making room for the rack and roof. But before that could happen, I needed to be able to park the now topless car in the garage. And in order for that to happen, I needed to clean out the garage. As I silently shook my fist at Jim for the number of saws (or whatever tool) he had, I realized, if the tables were turned and he was cleaning out my ‘cave’, he’d be cursing me out for the number of pairs of shoes I owned. So I sent a silent prayer up thanking him for always making sure we had the right tool for the job. Once there was space, I realized I needed to remove a workbench he had built. Every step led to another, like the house that Jack Built, and this one brought tears as I had to physically break down something he had built. 

Finally I was able to remove and store the hood and park the car in the garage. In the winter I have it on a battery tender and in the summer I still drive it on weekends and short road trips. This weekend, I am making a pilgrimage of sorts, to honor Jim. S2000 drivers from around the world are gathering at #S2KHomecoming to celebrate all things S2000.I will be taking a road trip, this time without him physically there, but always a part of me, and always a part of his baby. It will be bittersweet for me to be there, knowing how happy it would have made him to be a part of such an event. But I know with all my heart he will be the angel smiling at my side the entire time.

It just doesn't matter

Two years later, and it still bugs me, "Did he smoke?" As if his smoking makes cancer so much more justified. I even get the, 'oh now it makes sense' look when people hear my 53 year old husband died of cancer, as that explains why someone so young would die. There is no way to make sense of it, no explanation that makes it okay.  

Do you ask a type-II diabetic , 'why do did you eat so much sugar? Do you ask an overweight person, Did you know your weight could cause heart attacks? '  Do you ask someone with brain tumors, oh did you think too much? Are we really blaming people for getting cancer? Why are they asking? Why does it matter?  My response is, "Yes, he did, but it doesn't make this any easier."  I suppose it is our search for meaning - our desire to explain the unthinkable - to be sure, well, it couldn't happen to me, because I don't ____ (insert vice here).

Do I wish he would have not smoked? yes. Might it have made a difference? yes. Do I hope our loved ones who smoke will quit? Absolutely!

Please understand, whether he smoked or not does not make his death from lung cancer any more bearable. I always knew cancer, and a premature death, were a possibility, always. But it does not make it one bit easier. Not one bit easier. Not. One. Bit.

When someone who is not a health practitioner asks, did you smoke? were you in the sun a lot? did you eat too much fat? There is no action, nothing constructive that can come out of the answer. Charlotte Huff writes in Slate, 

Judgments about behavior not only unsettle and stigmatize the patient, but reflect the interrogator’s own insecurities. Frequently, those disease detectives are attempting to regain a sense of control amid the inherently random and sometimes unjust world that we all reside in, according to researchers who have studied stigma. Psychologists refer to this as the “just-world hypothesis,” a bias in thinking and perception that was first described by psychologist Melvin Lerner and colleagues more than four decades ago ...

“I think that in one part there is a fundamental assumption in our society that the world is a just place, and that bad things don’t happen to good people,” says Gerald Devins, a stigma researcher and senior scientist at the Ontario Cancer Institute in Toronto. “And I think when bad things happen to good people, it’s threatening to everybody.”

“Secondly, you can say knowledge is power in a sense,” Devins says. “If we feel like we understand something, it gives us the illusion of control.”

So instead of asking what caused his death, ask how you can help. Ask if you can cry with me. Ask me to go to a nice dinner with you. Ask if there is anything I need. Don't ask how he got cancer. It just doesn't matter.

Fake it 'til you make it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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It doesn't get better, it just gets different.

This morning I read a blog post by Jessica Denis of the Huffington Post. It had been posted to +The After Loss. Denis was questioning, when does the easier part start? She concludes that it doesn’t get easier, it just gets different.

I completely agree. After the death of my husband 18 months ago, my friend Joni told me, "it doesn't ever get better, we just get better at dealing with it." With tears in her eyes, Joni just showed up on my doorstep the day Jim died. I don’t even know how she knew, she just was there. Joni is a high school friend and her husband had died almost 10 years ago, leaving her alone to raise her two young boys. I knew she wasn’t lying, I had seen her slowly emerge from the depths that grief drags us down. But however much I trusted her, I could not imagine her being right. How could I possibly get better at handling the raw, wrenching pain that I felt? She didn’t push the point and just held me as we cried together.

As the days wore on, others assured me it would get easier. I could not ever imagine that ever being true. I would never stop grieving. It would never be okay. Days became weeks. I still cried every day. I sobbed every Monday, reliving the night Jim stopped breathing. I mourned every Wednesday morning, remembering that sunny Wednesday morning when I said good morning to Jim for the last time.  

Weeks became months. The 19th of every month was the marker of another month I had somehow managed to get through without my husband. I missed him so. Sometimes I could scarcely breathe.

I was coming up what I called “my season of firsts' : September ... our wedding anniversary ...October ... my birthday ...In November it would be hard to feel thankful with so much sadness in my heart  ...Christmas … I could not even imagine it...New Year’s  ...So hard to look ahead with so much left behind ...Finally February 19th would bring the first anniversary of Jim’s death.

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

So as much as I’d like it to be different, to believe that someday it will get better, easier...I don’t buy it. Yes, living will get easier, but the loss, the emptiness, the sadness, will not get better. But I am getting better at living with the grief. The blanket of grief once wrapped around me like a blanket, comforting in some odd way, is now more often laid aside, available when needed. Hickman, in her book, Healing after Loss, writes,

We may be afraid to lose the intensity of love for the one we have lost. At first these two, the grief and the love, are so wedded to each other that we cannot separate them. We may cling to the grief in desperation, so we will be sure not to lose the love. 

My grief is a connection to Jim. A connection I do not want to lose.

We are all on a Journey

In those early months after Jim died, as I did what I call the zombie walk, I wondered how the world could keep turning, how people could continue to go on with their mundane activities. I could scarcely breathe!  Later I realized, people all around us are each on their own journey out of their own valley. We each just have to keep getting up. We are all suffering and so, for me, I have learned to be more forgiving, more accepting. Because of my grief, I am able to feel deeper and have more compassion for all souls. 

Along the way, I may recognize a fellow traveler, still on their way out of the valley. I’m not out of my valley yet, and I may never be. In this second year, I am simply sad. Sometimes I stumble or double back.That blanket of grief is still available to me, but like a child starting their first day of school, I can leave it at home (or stash it in my backpack), secure it the knowledge it is there for me when I need it. Though I did not think it possible, I have moved forward and upward. My load is made lighter by the things I can let go of, by the support I get along the way, and the days are getting brighter. But my journey continues. I wake up every morning, I still have to decide to get up and go on. With the help of my family, friends and my grief support team, I know I am not alone on my journey.

In the fall of 2014, a little over six months after Jim's death, a friend of mine had arranged tickets for us to see Oprah. I was reluctant to go at that time in my life, but decided to embrace the opportunity. We were challenged to write about our own vision of “The Life You Want”.… 

This vision continues to be my goal.  … here's part of my vision statement: My life is filled with joy and I am at peace. I feel and share the love of my family, both my family of choice and my family of birth..... I am mindful and aware... My life has meaning. My grief and loss have made me a stronger, deeper, more compassionate person. My fear is done. I have no anger. I am present. My heart is open and I am connected to the world.  I trust. I matter.  I am truly blessed.  I choose gratitude. I choose happiness. I choose life.


And so, here I am, a short 27 months after my husband was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. I am able to share our story and live my life in a way I never dreamed possible. May you, too, choose gratitude, choose happiness, choose life.

Get Busy Living

It has been 18 months since my husband, Jim, died. We were together 18 years. It is strange how I find solace in number patterns. It takes 9 months for a baby to come into the world. Jim lived for 9 months with his cancer diagnosis, and with his death I was ushered, unwillingly, into a new world. A dear friend recently posted to my Facebook wall, “It's so nice to see you living life to the fullest and enjoying yourself. You deserve it!!!”  And that got me thinking about what has changed.

When Jim was struggling for those last breaths before the ventilator, I told him I would be his breath. That has taken on new meaning for me now as I realize I am living for both of us now. He would not want me to sit and mope. He would want me to seize the day and make the most out of every moment. He would give anything to have a few more days, so I owe it to him, and to me, to make the most out of my time, whether it's just one more day or another thirty years. And so, I choose life.

My encore career is that of an educator. I was teaching 5th grade when Jim was diagnosed and I took some time off when he died. I made the decision to go back and finish the school year. I felt the kids needed a lesson in resilience and I needed some structure during those numbing months. The next year I returned to my classroom and every day was a struggle. During my first career in hi-tech, if I was having a bad day I could stay home or at least just shut the door to my office, not answer the phone. But with 30 little darlings expecting me to be on, I could not easily not show up. Somehow I got through the year, but decided to take this year off. Jim and I worked hard to save for our future and his death brought about an urgency to live life to its fullest.

Unthinking friends say, “how lucky” I am to be able to take a leave from work. They don’t understand I would give it all up in a heartbeat to have Jim back. I would work every day for the rest of my life. But he wouldn’t want that, and doing so would not bring him back. It’s not luck, it was hard work and we made sacrifices all along the way.

In that first year I barely wanted to leave the house. And I still find it difficult, but know it’s time “to get busy living or get busy dying.” (Andy Dufresne, The Shawshank Redemption) Many of my adventures are a tribute to Jim, a trip to Yosemite in his sports car, travelling to the Midwest for his sister’s 50th birthday. But I am, finally, finding joy in my new life. I am doing my best to honor Jim the best way I can, by living life abundantly and with gratitude and grace. We all should be living life to the fullest. We all deserve it!