I am married to a dead man

It might sound callous to some, but I don't know how else to put it. I am married to a dead man.  I still feel, no, I still am, married. I promised to love Jim for the rest of my life, not his.  As Maddy Paxman writes, "In my head, I still consider myself to be his wife, not his widow. My grief has not yet moved into the past tense." For about six months after Jim died, I couldn't even use the word widow to refer to myself. I am an avid reader and bought stacks of books on grieving, but it took me a year before I could open a book that had Widow in the title.

I still wear my rings. Perhaps it is a form of denial, but it just feels right. And expect to hear me talk about my husband, Jim. I can't just block out the last 20 years of my life experiences. He was so much of my life, a part of me, and continues to be. He, and my grief, will forever be a part of who I am. I still consider myself lucky for loving Jim so much that I grieve him so deeply.

Someday I may write my own book about the lighter side of grief, those who think I am suddenly (well, it's been over a year, they say) in dire need of a man. The strange things that people (including me) say, think and do. But for now let me just say, in my heart, I am married. I am not available, looking or even wishing... for anyone but Jim.


So please don't ask, "have I met someone? Am I seeing someone? Is there someone special" I know it is hard for you to understand how much those questions hurt. I may be ready someday, to look, to feel, to open my heart to love again, but for now, and until I let you know otherwise, I am married...to a dead man.

Paxman writes about introductions at a party, and explains:

‘This is Michael Donaghy’s . . .  what should I call you? His widow? His ex?’ my host asked. I thought about it briefly and answered ‘His wife.’ 

After all, although Michael is dead, I am  not married to anyone else. And nor am I likely to be just yet. 

And we didn’t choose to end the marriage — he was just snatched away from it, and me, by dying suddenly at the age of 50. 

That was ten years ago. In my head, I still consider myself to be his wife, not his widow. My grief has not yet moved into the past tense. And, yes, while ten years may seem like a very long time to be in mourning, I can tell you that in the journey of grieving it really isn’t. 

And so I live in a world where I am still mourning, but those around me seem terribly confused by my emotions. Grief is openly discussed, portrayed regularly on television or in the papers, and now even tweeted about incessantly. 

But we still don’t know how to actually feel it, or to sit quietly with the experience of friends who are grieving. Saying that ‘Time will heal’ is no help at all. And, anyway, I’m not sure it’s true. 

Time moves on, life moves on, but grief, like love, becomes forever part of who you are

Read more: The Daily Mail: Why Can't We Cope with Grief...

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

• 
  

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.