Make it Matter

Today is the three year anniversary of my husband's death. So obviously I have been thinking a lot about Jim, his life, his death. When it was clear Jim was not going to live and the ventilator had stopped breathing for him, we gathered around his bed, holding him up in our hearts.  We cried and talked to him, I held his hand in mine and we all held each other. My brother was on the phone with us from Pittsburg and prayed for Jim with us. I whispered my promise, my love, my life into his ear. Jim was always a scrappy fighter and he held on for about an hour. At one point, I noticed the nurse glancing at her watch. I know she was just doing her job, but it really bothered me. Was she in a rush? Did she have somewhere to go? What in the whole world could be more important that this exact moment?

I don't why that watch, that surreptitious glance, bothered me so much and have thought about it often.  Just the other day I realized ever since that day, I have been looking at my watch.  I know I have chosen life but I have not really chosen to go on living. I've just been going through the motions, waiting for time to run out.  I have been living like I was dying, but not in the Tim McGraw sense of going skydiving and Rocky Mountain climbing. No, more like my dog staring out the window waiting for me to come home. I am waiting for the time when I am in one way or another reunited with the love of my life.

I don't want to wait anymore. I want to live. I know, because we talked about it, Jim wanted me to go on living, and living life to it's fullest. But I don't know how. My heart still aches for him. For us. For who I was when I was with him. Three years ago a part of me died with Jim.

Perhaps because I am reading Murakami, or because of the date, but I dreamt an intriguing  dream last night. Like many of my dreams, it was long, drawn out, and convoluted.  I was living is some sort of idyllic summer camp community. There was a fire or invasion or something devastating. Those of us that escaped joined a new community. But this one had very defined groups without the love, inclusion, and acceptance of our previous home.

After walking for what seemed forever, visiting each group but never becoming part of it, I came across a sparse museum of artifacts from our old community. A man there I knew handed me a folded up piece of paper with a knowing, loving look in his eye. I could tell by the deep creases in the paper that it had been folded for a long time. As I unfolded it, I immediately  recognized the handwriting. I don't remember all it said, but it ended with these words, Make it Matter.

Murakami writes, In dreams begins responsibility. I have been given this life. I've written before about my responsibility to live life to it's fullest, for me and Jim. To live big enough for both of us. It is time for me to do just that. To stop looking at my watch. Time to stop living like I am dying, but live like I am living!  The time is now to live life and make it matter!

The Storm

California is finally getting the rain we need, and more. The storms have returned. And I am again in my season of storms. Three years ago today Jim and I walked into El Camino Hospital. He never came home. I am certainly not the same person who walked in. 

Grief, like a storm, is unpredictable. You think the storm has broken, the sun comes out for a respite, the puddles seep slowly into the saturated ground. a bird sings. A tree blossoms. And then the storm returns. Wind strips the blossoms from the tree. Rain pours from the sky. So it is with grief. After exhausting yourself with tears and sleepless nights filled with haunting memories, you wake and feel maybe there is hope. You have a good day, or even a great week. You notice birds singing and have hope that early blossoms signal Spring. Then the grief returns, memories flooding over the spillway that protects your heart. 

I woke this morning with memories of that day three years ago. I never dreamed I would be leaving the hospital alone. I replay the day in my mind.  I was at the bank when Jim called and said that Dr. K was admitting Jim to the hospital. I came home, thinking we were preparing for another round of what were becoming routine procedures. I had no idea it was just a calm before the biggest storm of my life.

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones...   

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. 

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”  ~ Haruki Murakami, Kafka on The Shore

As Murakami writes, this storm is inside me. I am certain it is not over. And it has changed me forever. It has make me stronger, more courageous and  more compassionate. I am more mindful and grateful. I cherish my relationships. I try to find joy in each day. And I dance in the rain.

I can live, and I do

Recently, a friend of mine posted lyrics from the Harry Nilsson song, "I can't live if living is without you" and it got me thinking. My first response it, yes, damn it, you can, and you will, even when you don't want to.

There were many days and nights when I wished I could die too, after Jim died.  I never was suicidal, I just did not want to be alive. But I didn't die 

I was, for many months, doing the zombie walk. Getting through the necessities of life but not living. 

Eventually I would surprise myself by smiling or even laughing at something. I was able to find hints, slivers of joy peeking through like sunlight through the edge of a curtain. 

Once I realized I wasn't going to die I had to think about how I wanted to live. My husband Jim lived life to the fullest. He was brave and he was vulnerable. He was strong yet soft. He had dreams and sadly, many those dreams would never be realized because his life was cut short by cancer. I honor Jim by living my life, by striving for my dreams, by showing gratitude and compassion every day. By living in the moment. By finding the joy in life. 

I'm not yet ready to say that I can find the gift in my loss. However I can say my grief and loss have made me stronger,more compassionate and yes, more joyful.

What, me worry?

I come by my worrying honestly. My mom is a worrier and I am too. But I am working on it. One
of my favorite walking mantras is,

Why worry if there's nothing I can do?

If there's something I can do, why worry?

Worrying...regret over the past or anxiety about the future, only takes us out of the now. And now is all there is.

For most of my life, I'd say almost 50 years, my biggest worry, also a gift from my mother, is 'what would people think?' I'm embarrassed to admit it has been a driving force in many of my (good and bad) decisions. The truth, I know now, is that most people don't notice or care what I do, and even if they do, it doesn't matter, as long as I am true to myself and not intentionally hurting anyone.

Why the switch? I guess I'd have to say it was a gift from grief. When Jim was dying, I really could care less who saw or heard me cry. At one point I was in the hallway outside Jim's hospital room, alone and crouched in a little ball, crying my eyes out. A nurse came up to me and offered the privacy of an empty room. I declined. I wanted to stay close and I was oblivious to how my sobbing might be affecting the other patients in the middle of that darkest night.

That night it was like a switch went off. I really didn't worry about what anyone thought about me. If I wanted to cry, I cried. And I cried a lot. In the middle of the shampoo aisle, in restaurants, in the faculty room. Who was going to judge me? I was a grieving widow!

Blogger Grant Leishman wrote a great post on the silent killer, Worry. He cites the work of self-help 'guru' Andy Shaw.  Leishman writes:

Why do we worry about what others think? You have to ask yourself a simple question. How can what someone thinks about me help me in reaching my goals and dreams in life?
If you are looking for acceptance from your father, mother, partner, friends, or acquaintances, why are you doing it? Just love yourself; don’t ‘try’ to make others give you what you think you want. They can only give you what you allow them to and they can only take from you that which you allow them; others have no power over you unless you give it to them.
If you love yourself, you don't need to seek acceptance, validation or love from others. You can't control other people's thoughts, so don't try - just be the person you need to be...

It has been extremely liberating to stop worrying so much about well - everything! I worry less about what people think. I make choices that are the best for me in this moment. I worry less about the future. There are no guarantees, so I try to make every moment count.  I don't worry about my health or even death. I try to make healthy choices and when my time comes, it comes. I strive for peace, consciousness, mindfulness, gratitude, grace and bliss, for myself and the world.  Worry changes nothing and only takes me out of now.

And now is all there is.

I am still here

I had a dream one night. I was about to cross a rope bridge over a deep chasm like you see in the movies. Jim was on the other side, waiting for me. I started across to join him but lost my footing and fell. As I fell in slow motion, I rolled onto my back so I could look back up at the bridge, at my connection to Jim. As long as I could see it, I knew I could get back to it. It might take some climbing, but it was still there.

As I fell further, the bridge and Jim appeared smaller and smaller. I kept calling out, "I know you're still there!" This reassurance, that as long as I knew the bridge was there, I could get back. Back to the bridge. Back to Jim. Finally, I fell so far that the bridge couldn't be seen any longer. Yet I still called out, "I know you're still there!" Just because I couldn't see the bridge, or Jim, didn't mean they were gone. My connection remained.

As I woke, I was reassured. My perspective had just changed. No different from turning a corner and looking back over your shoulder, you can't see around the corner, but you are sure, you know whatever was there is still there. Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh explains "Just because we do not perceive something, it is not correct to say it doesn’t exist."

In his book, no death, no fear, Thich Nhat Hanh explains how, after the death of his mother, he realized she lived on in him.

I opened the door and went outside. The entire hillside was bathed in moonlight. It was a hill covered with tea plants, and my hut was set behind the temple halfway up. Walking slowly in the moonlight through the rows of tea plants, I noticed my mother was still with me. She was the moonlight caressing me as she had done so often, very tenderly, very sweet... wonderful! Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with me. I knew this body was not mine along but a living continuation of my mother and father and my grandparents and great-grandparents. Of all my ancestors. These feet that I saw as "my" feet were actually "our" feet. Together my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil....

From that moment on the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time.When you lost a loved one, you suffer. but if you know how to look deeply, you have a chance to realize that his or her nature is truly the nature of no birth, no death.... 

It 's like when you look at a sheet of paper and look deeply, you can see that the paper is made of trees and sunshine and earth and clouds, and even before the manifestation of the sheet of paper in this present form, you can only see the sheet of paper in the non-paper elements that existed before....

Suppose you are impressed with a particular cloud in the sky. When it is time for that cloud to become the rain you won't see that cloud anymore and you will cry. But if you know that the cloud has been transformed into the rain and the rain is calling you, "Darling, I am here, I'm here," if you have that kind of capacity of recognizing the continuation of that manifestation, you don't have to live in despair and grief. That is why for those who have lost someone who is close to him or to her I advise that they look deeply within and see that the one who was close is still there, somehow, and with the practice of deep looking they can recognize his presence very close to her.
Read more at http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Buddhism/2002/09/Long-Live-Impermanence.aspx?p=3#cF9fSFKCUszLpWTA.99

I am grateful for the dream, and the grace and calm it brings me. 

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Our last Christmas, Monterey 2013

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

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

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.