Years...

I've just realized that I haven't blogged in three months, and in that time the first year of widowhood has ended. The first anniversary was not easy, all I could think of in the days leading up to it was "At this time last year he was still okay. At this time last year life was still normal. At this time last year I had no idea what was about to happen." And on that day; "This was when it happened. This was when I called 911. This was when I was sitting in the ER. This was the last time I touched his face." The days on either side of that anniversary were like experiencing it all over again.

Three weeks into the second year I know I still have a long way to go. When I look back at things I wrote in the first month or two, here or privately, it seems I thought I should be moving forward quickly. I was reading all about grief and mourning, I was trying to follow all the advice, I was sure there would be some sort of breakthrough that would enable me to handle everything with ease. Other people always seemed to handle things better. If they could cope and function why couldn't I? Was I doing something wrong? Or did they all feel the same way I do, and like me, they were doing their best to put on a brave face so everyone would think they were strong and courageous?

I finally accepted that this is a different journey for everyone, I just have to deal with things in the way that works best for me, and it's not something I can work through in a few months, or even in a year. I still fall apart at the drop of a hat, I still think I should go into the kitchen around the time he'd usually have come home so I can greet him with a hug. When I hear the floor creak upstairs I still think, just for a moment, that it's him. I'm still on the emotional rollercoaster, one moment feeling confident and ready to take on the world, the next moment upset by absolutely everything and unable to focus.

I often feel like I haven't moved forward at all, but when I look at where I am now I see I am slowly starting to rebuild my life. I have made progress. Even if it was so slow that I felt like I was standing still most of the time. For this second year I don't expect breakthroughs, I know there will still be days when it feels too overwhelming and I don't even want to try anymore. But I'll still go on, I'll still face each day and see what happens. I'll still hang in there. I'll still try to be the person that he always knew I could be: confident, strong, positive.

Last year at Thanksgiving I didn't really feel remotely thankful, not for anything. This year I know I have a lot to be thankful for. I would have never made it through the first few months, let alone through the first year, without the support of friends and family. None of them gave up on me, even though I gave up on myself many times. I am so very grateful for all of them. Thank you, my friends.

But most of all, more than anything, thank you Jeffrey for being the best part of my life. I miss you more each day, but I know I'm carrying you with me as I continue wandering into the future.

Moments

Some of the joy of looking through old photos is pulling them up in Light Room and reprocessing them, playing with the light and shadows and hues, and finding a new photo.

I've gone through all of the photos dozens of times, but there are always new things to notice: A look, a smile, a little detail that I hadn't seen before. Sometimes a tiny change seems to highlight the memory of a single moment, and I can experience it for the first time again.

Sometimes I look at these images and feel like he's right here, looking over my shoulder. If I could only turn around fast enough I might find him.

Cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Hugs forever

I came across an old note that Jeff wrote one day. It was just a short good morning, I love you, have a wonderful day note, and he'd taped it somewhere so I'd see it before I left for work.

We left notes like that often, just to make the other smile. I never threw the notes away, but I didn't save them in special places either and it eventually got lost in a stack of other things. When it turned up the other day it was folded and crumpled but readable. It was an instant hug from him, but it was also one of those sudden reminders that he can't leave me new notes and it made me cry.

Maybe I found it because I needed a reminder to have a wonderful day. My days have been distinctly not wonderful lately, the sunny, beautiful days seem to have driven me into hiding in the house. How dare it be sunny and lovely outside! I won't endure it. I won't enjoy it. I won't have a wonderful day.

I suppose Jeff felt like he needed to remind me how he felt.

I immediately found a frame and put it near my bed, so I'd see his wish each day. I don't know if it will remind me to have a  wonderful day, or if I'll continue to rebel against that for a while longer, but it's another little connection.

Hugs forever, my love.

More observations from beyond the timeline

I was looking at some photos from last summer and realized that a little over a year has passed since we saw Rush in concert. That was a show I'd looked forward to for months, and like a little kid waiting for summer vacation to start, it felt like the days leading up to the show lasted forever. And then, like most things you can't wait to experience, it felt like it was over in a flash.

Often when you think back on an event you enjoyed a great deal you feel like it was just yesterday. It's so fresh in your memory that it seems impossible that any time could have passed. I don't get that feeling when I look back at the concert. I can still remember it vividly, and it was enjoyable, but I don't feel like last July was just a few weeks ago.

I wonder why some events are experienced in the moment and pass into memory without a struggle, yet others freeze time. Time was still passing normally last summer, I experienced it just like everyone else. In fact it feels like it has been forever since last July, like so much time has passed that it can't have been just a year ago.

November, on the other hand, that was just last week.

Sometimes

I feel like if I could just scream loud enough that he''d be able to hear me.

Sometimes I feel like if I could just really believe he was going to walk in the door that he really would.

Sometimes I like to let myself believe it really is a dream, and I will wake up.

Sometimes it helps.

Growth

It all started nine years ago. Well, technically nine years and a couple of weeks, but it was nine years ago today was our first date, the first time we’d met in person. Nine years ago at this moment we were walking around a park, and I was probably telling him I'd better get home because I had to take my dog out for her walk. Nine years ago today was a lovely, warm Sunday.

We'd decided to meet at a big bookstore, because it was a public space and because I love bookstores so it seemed natural to me. We sat in the cafe drinking iced coffee and talking for at least three hours, I think, then we wandered around in the bookstore, sharing things we both liked. After that it was off for burritos, then to a park to walk around for another hour or so. We stopped to pick up acorns, and I put a few in my pocket. At the time I had no idea what our date would lead to, but I kept the acorns anyway.

I wanted to draw an analogy between the acorns and what I'm going through as I work my way through the year. I wanted to say that although I still feel small and unformed, that the potential for great things is within me, that like a little acorn I can grow into a strong oak and carry on. I wanted to say these things because they sound positive and optimistic and I like to give myself affirmations. But today I feel more like these particular acorns... plucked out of nature, my potential locked inside forever, now stuck in a glass jar looking out at the world and wondering how this all happened.

That's okay. I don't need to have a personal growth moment every day. Some days I can just be.

For a few years we would recreate our first date, until the bookstore remodeled and did away with the cafe, and the restaurant moved. Today I'll just sit and talk to Jeff, and reminisce about the day, and smile as I remember every moment.

I'll work on growing again tomorrow.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Ups and Downs and Downs and Downs

And more downs.

Sometimes it's just a down kinda week. Summer is a bit depressing. Spring was also. And here I am, still traveling on the outskirts of time, watching it pass.

Eight months later I don't cry every single day. I don't collapse into nausea inducing sobs as often. I think things are just numb now... 

Summer has brought with it a lot of anniversaries, and I am truly happy for my friends who have their happy days. I love them and I want them to celebrate together for many more decades. I don't want to be bitter and resentful. I don't want to be hyper aware of couples when I see them walking hand in hand through a store. I want to be happy and joyful.

That doesn't stop the bitter, sad thoughts. I wouldn't dream of voicing them and ruining someones joy, I would never do that. But I can't shut off the feelings that life is unfair, and it sucks, and I hate that I will never experience that sort of joy again. And so I "like" the happy anniversary posts, and I smile when I hear good news, but then I want to hide away from them. I want to hide from the reality that life is going on all around me.

I want to end on an 'up' note and talk about hope, but sometimes I get tired of pep talking myself and I just want to be sad. So, for now, I will just sit back and experience that.

Meanwhile, time continues to pass.

I Can't Even Imagine...

Lately I've noticed myself thinking of an activity we enjoyed and suddenly realizing we will never share it again. It's not a new thing, but it seems to shake me up more lately. Each time this happens it's as if I'd never realized it before, as if I'm learning it for the first time, and I feel a moment of panic. Maybe I'm emerging from some of the deepest denial and numbness and it's gradually beginning to occur to me, I mean really occur to me, that he's actually gone and I just don't know how to process that information yet.

I sometimes wonder what Jeff would be doing if he were in my place. I always imagined he'd cope much better than me, that he'd have handled this much more logically and he'd be a thousand steps further down the road than I am. But after listening to one of his voice mails I realized that I really don't know how he would have reacted. It was one of the last messages he'd left, a week or so before he died. He'd worked late and was letting me know he was on his way home, and as he often did when leaving voice mails, he talked about how much he loved me and how much our relationship meant to him. And he said "I can't even imagine my life without you."

It was something we said often, although we typically meant that we couldn't imagine what our lives would have been like if we'd not met. On occasion we did talk about what we'd do if the worst happened, but unless you've gone through it you can't even begin to guess at how you'll react. One of the most frequent things I've heard from friends or acquaintances who are married, is some variation of, "You're so strong, I could never handle this." Well, I was absolutely certain I wouldn't either. I would be one of those perfectly healthy widows who died shortly after her husband, not for any unknown physical ailment, but simply of grief, because I couldn't go on any longer with a broken heart.

Some days I feel his loss so strongly that it seems like the air is being sucked out of the room and I'm caught in a vacuum and I'm sure that I'm going up to bed for the last time, but no matter how horrible I feel, emotionally or physically, I'm still here. Honestly, nobody is more surprised that I'm still here and in good health than myself... but I don't think it's strength, or that I've found a way to cope, I think my body is just running on some sort of auto pilot and the rest of me has no choice but to go along for the ride.

This isn't unusual, I find. The more I read up on grief and how people respond to it the more I find that I'm not alone, there are countless other widows and widowers who have felt very similar things. It can be comforting to see that, to know that what I'm going though is normal, and that one day I will move forward and integrate these changes into my life.

Yes, that new normal idea again. I couldn't have begun to imagine.

Creating New Traditions

Tuesday was my wedding anniversary. Well, it should have been, but instead of celebrating eight years of marriage I have faced almost eight months of widowhood.

I wondered what other newly widowed folk do for wedding anniversaries… it occurs to me that in all my research I've never noticed anything about that. Do they celebrate quietly? Spend the day in grief? Try to just go about the day as if it were any other? I expect that if I asked ten different people they’d each have a different answer, so I just went with what felt right for me. I'd make my own little tradition to deal with this day.

I thought I'd create an anniversary that we might have had if he were with me. I started off with lunch at one of “our places." Not a fancy restaurant, we rarely went to those, just a nice, casual place that we'd visited many times. I hadn't been there since he died, it had become one of those places that I just couldn't bring myself to visit on my own, and that was why I chose it for this anniversary. I took the tablet along and sat it across from me with his photo displayed, so he could join me. It wasn't the same, but he was there. Sort of.

After lunch I thought about going for walks through some of the parks we liked, but the heat persuaded me to limit that stroll to one small park, and spend most of the time on a nice shaded bench. There were only a few people around but quite a lot of geese to keep me company. I followed the park up with a stop for a milkshake at another of our spots, then headed home. It was exactly the sort of day we might have spent, the perfect little anniversary outing. I could imagine him with me at every stop but I missed his physical presence more than ever. It was a pleasant day, but it was profoundly lonely.

That evening I watched our wedding video for the first time since he died, and it was easy to remember exactly how I felt that day. I often thought it was a blur, the day went by too fast, but the emotions are still vivid in my memory. I could remember being so happy I couldn't contain myself, smiling so much that I didn't think I would ever stop. My dreams had come true, I'd found the love of my life, someone to grow old with, and I would never be alone again. My fairy tale was getting it's happy ending.

After I watched that I spent a couple of hours crying, then pounding fists on the floor and screaming  until there was nothing left inside me. It's not fair. It's not. But all I can do is try to adapt, and try to find a way to go forward and forge new traditions.  In the end it was another yo-yo day, a bit more extreme than most but not unusual. I guess that's part of my new normal. And now it's onward to the next challenge, whatever that may be...

The day after our wedding we stopped by the church to pick up the decorations and other things. As we were getting ready to go home this song played on the mix cd we'd made for the reception, and I have a vivid memory of him stopping in the parking lot and singing it to me. Someday I may even be able to listen to it without crying my eyes out. Happy Anniversary, Jeff. I love you.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Thoughts From Month Seven

Dear Jeff,

You've been gone for seven months now, Jeff. Seven. It is never going to be easier to accept that.

It's odd that sometimes I can feel okay... I move along through the day, I feel all right. I try to interact with people, I catch up with friends and get things done. Sometimes I feel good, sometimes I'm even really happy. Most of the time I'm all right, at least. Then evening rolls around and the last thing I want to do is go to bed.

Now part of this is my night owl tendencies... I never wanted to go to bed. But a bigger part is that going to bed just reminds me that you aren't there. Sometimes I try to pretend you've already gone up and you're sleeping, sometimes I hear the house creak, as it does, and for a moment I can imagine that it's you, walking to the bathroom. You're here, you're alive, and everything is okay.

Sometimes I never do go up to bed. Sometimes I sit up watching TV and surfing the internet until I'm so tired I feel like I might pass out, and I just sleep on the couch. Not because it's comfortable to sleep on, because it's not. No, I stay on the couch because then, for at least one night, I don't have to go upstairs and face the empty bed, and know once again that you are not here. It's easier to sleep on an uncomfortable couch than to be in a big bed, where I still reach out and hope that I'll feel you laying next to me.

Sometimes I think of the times you'd call when you were on the way home from work, and you'd tell me to meet you out front and we'd go out to eat, or to the store, or somewhere. You knew I had a tendency to take three times as long as I'd estimate, so you'd always remind me of the time, and tell me to be outside and ready. And I'd try to be, I'd try to be there waiting when you pulled up. Now, when I come up to bed, I can't help but whisper to you, that I'm ready. I'm ready whenever you want to come by and pick me up. I won't make you wait. But the universe must not be quite ready to send me on my way yet, because I wake up each day and start the cycle over again.

Sometimes I feel like our entire life together was really just a dream I had, one that was beautiful and wonderful, but that it wasn't real. Sometimes you are so present in my life that I know if I turned my head fast enough I'd see you there beside me. Sometimes you feel as far away as that dream... wispy, ethereal, too good to be true. Sometimes I'm certain I just spun you out of my fantasies.

Sometimes I can't even process the reality that even one day has passed. Seven months? Ha. Not real. I knew without a doubt on that first night that I'd never make it through one month. Seven is out of the question.

But I'm still here, and I'm still moving forward, even if it's just by a fraction of an inch with each step. I guess that's something.

Seven months, Jeff.

I miss you.

The Next Hurdle...

...will be our anniversary in a couple weeks.

I've tried to not think about that. This would have been our eighth anniversary. Only our eighth, still so new.

I've spent the past couple of weeks trying to do various exercises in gratitude, to remind myself of all of the good things that are still in my life. Some days it's easy, others it's hard. As I try to think of good things I still hear that voice that reminds me he's gone.

We should have had an eighth anniversary. And a ninth. And a tenth. We had plans for our tenth, we were going to take a nice vacation. We were thinking about renewing our vows. We were definitely going to be fit and healthy. So many plans.

I'm not through the first year yet, but I've gone through my birthday, his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas... I think I've covered the major milestone events. With the exception of the first time I mark off the anniversary of his death, this will be the last big day I'll have to face for the first time by myself.

It won't be easy, in fact out of every day I've looked at I think this is going to be the hardest to deal with. This will be the day that we officially joined our lives together. This will be the day that I knew, without doubt, that I would never be alone again.

It's gonna be tough.

More random late night observations

There are times when I feel like we were on our journey together, and as we came to a door Jeff went through, but I became trapped on the wrong side of the door. Or, perhaps, he got stuck and I went through, I suppose that depends on one's perspective. The result is the same, I feel like we're standing on opposite sides of the door and I can't figure out how to open it so we can be reunited.

Maybe This Time...

Most nights I walk to the kitchen door and look out at the driveway. I tell myself it's just a routine security check, to make sure all the doors are locked, that everything looks good.

But I hope, each time, that I'll see him getting out of the car. Sometimes I stand there for a moment and ask, "Jeff, where are you? When are you going to get home?"

No, I know. I know.

But it doesn't stop me from thinking that maybe just this once it will be different.

So Here's Today

6 months ago at this moment... I was probably sitting in the living room watching him closely because he'd been feeling way under the weather. I'd been pestering him that he should go to the ER but he was opposed. He assured me he'd make a doctor appointment the next week - he didn't have a regular doctor but he was going to start.

A healthy life was on the way.

Now it's been six months and I am living outside of the regular flow of linear time, I'm pretty sure of that. While the world is zipping past for everyone else, seasons come and go, months go by, people have birthdays and anniversaries and celebrate milestones, it's stood still for me. I'm standing outside of all of it, watching a movie.

I think time stopped six months ago yesterday, on Halloween, at somewhere around five o'clock. Six months ago when he was at work and I was at home, waiting for him to get back. Time is standing still for me. November 1 hasn't happened yet, and he's on his way home. He should be giving me a call anytime now to tell me he's leaving, and so I can think about getting dinner ready for us.

I've lived the entire past six months feeling like he's on his way home and I'm just waiting. Normal day, normal events, all I have to do is be patient. He'll be here. I sometimes tell myself that it's really true.

I know he's not going to walk in the back door. I know.

It's so odd. On one hand time has come to a standstill... on the other, I feel about twenty years older than I did six months ago. And yet, I want it to still be October 31, the last full day of my life that was normal and full of hope and good dreams.

Jeff talked about time travel. About just going through the motions of the day in such a fixed routine that you don't even think of breaking free. You just exist, you don't care about the future, you don't plan, nothing is worthwhile. You just exist. And then six months have somehow passed you by and you haven't even picked up a pair of socks from the floor on his side of the bed.

I've spent the past few days telling myself that in the next six months I'm going to begin my slow climb back to myself. I'm going to begin moving ahead, I'm going to take charge of my life and make things happen for me. I'm going to make my husband proud and emerge from my cocoon and be the person he always believed I could be.

I keep telling myself that, but today it's so hard to imagine any light at the end of the tunnel. Today it feels so dark and so hopeless. Today I just want to curl up under my blanket and cry.

The first six months are almost over, Jeff. I've survived this long, but I don't think I've lived. But I'll do my best to tackle the next six, and remind myself that I can't give up.

I love you.

But What's the Alternative to Being Strong?

Really, what would that be?

I think when people tell me how well I'm doing a big part of me feels like a huge fraud. They all think I'm strong when in fact I spend half the day feeling like I've been kicked in the stomach and I am going to fall apart.

They tell me I'm brave but it has taken me months to do things that should have been taken care of soon after he died, and I'm still so terrified of facing the future without him that it generates panic whenever I think about it and I will plunge into denial to save myself from further pain.

They tell me they don't know how I do it, but in reality what choice do I have?

I didn't live through the past six months because I'm strong and determined and want to live life to the fullest. I'm only here because I just keep waking up every day whether I like it or not. I'm not sure how brave and strong that is.

Perhaps I'm too hard on myself. I think I've based my expectations on how I should be reacting to what I've seen in media, where people always begin to move on within a few months. Of course they have no trouble, they have to get on with their lives to drive the plot forward. I don't have the benefit of writers who will find ways to ease my grief and introduce something fun and exciting into my life to move my storyline forward.

But maybe that's where the theory that I must be brave comes in. It's not easy to face something like this on your own, but I'm doing it. It's not easy to get out of bed every day but I do. Eventually. But I'm not strong or brave because I do this, I'm just going through the motions of the day.

But, as Jeff and every bit of advice out there always suggested, maybe this is a case where I just fake it till I make it. I may not be brave, I may not be strong, but as long as I keep waking up each day I might as well make the best of things. Eventually, after enough time has passed, maybe I'll even believe I'm doing well.

This week as I think about the six month anniversary of his death, I just don't know. This week I'm neither strong nor brave.

I think my storyline needs better writers.

4283 Hours

It’s been almost six months since you died. Oh, how I miss you. Six months ago today I could still curl up next to you, I could reach out and touch your cheek. Six months ago today we were still making plans for our future.

I am halfway through my first year as a widow. The term “widow” still sounds so odd. I don’t feel like a “widow.” I feel like it’s supposed to apply to other people, not me. A widow is supposed to be some tiny, ancient lady, dressed in mourning. Not someone even remotely near my age.

I’m still working on acceptance. I still have a long journey. But at least I’ve made it this far. That’s something, I think.

Kything NaturesZen

Evenings

Lots of people like to take pictures of sunsets. They’re common on photo sharing sites, and I've certainly taken more than my share. Jeff enjoyed trying to capture something of the moment too, and we always loved to watch sunsets together. We’d find some spot with a good view, take our cameras, and enjoy the evening.

In the nearly six months since he died I've sometimes noticed a pretty evening sky and briefly considered going out on my own to watch the sun set, but I just couldn't bring myself to leave the house and take pictures. Although I've always enjoyed photography it wasn't until I met Jeff that it really became a shared joy, and once he was gone the photography became another shared hobby that I couldn't bring myself to work on. After all, if I couldn't share any of it with him then what was the point? Why even bother?

I’m not sure what prompted me to pick up my camera and leave the house yesterday, but for some reason it seemed appropriate. It’s spring, it was warm, and if my life had remained unchanged we would probably have taken advantage of this warm weekend to do something fun. I didn't even really try hard to frame out my photos or consider the composition, I just wanted to snap away and try to get back in the habit.

What I've found is that taking one baby step forward feels good at the time, but it usually results in a minor panic state and I leap backwards five steps. It’s too early to tell if that will happen to me this week, but I’m glad I went out. I missed his presence intensely, but it was nice to sit by the water and take pictures, and I know without doubt this would have been high on the list of things that Jeff would want me to continue doing.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Bad Naps

Dozed off for a bit this afternoon for a short, quiet nap. Woke to a bright and sunny living room, and for a moment everything was right in the world and I could imagine starting to get dinner ready for him because he'd be home soon... And then the fog lifted and I knew he wasn't on the way home, and the sunshine was wrong, the day was wrong, everything was wrong, because how could it possibly be a beautiful bright day if he is gone?

It became one of those moments of profound disbelief. He's not dead. He can't really be dead. It really was just a dream, because now that I've woken up I'm absolutely sure that he's going to pull into the driveway any second now. 

Sometimes you just don't want to try to work through the grief moment. Sometimes you just have to lay back down and try to resume your nap, and hope that when you wake up again things won't feel so totally wrong.

I'd thought I'd be comforted by the warm beautiful days, but now I don't know. I think the warm, beautiful days are going to be the hardest days to face.

So I looked out the window this fine spring morning

and clearly my master plan to turn back the calendar and return to the Before Time is working. I have managed to reverse spring, and will soon be moving backwards through winter. October should be right around the corner.

Random Little Thoughts

I want to make wishes and have them come true. I want to be able to believe so firmly and unquestioningly in a wish that the universe manifests it for me instantly. I want to toss my coins in the wishing well and know that it's going to work.

Last Friday I went out to run errands, and for a change I decided on a different grocery than my usual stop. Halfway there I realized I was driving the same route, and at the exact same time of day, that I had driven on many Friday afternoons in that time Before It Happened. We almost always met a friend for dinner on Fridays, and on those days when Jeff wasn't able to work from home he'd head straight for the restaurant after work, and I'd drive over on my own. For a moment I entertained the fantasy that if I drove to the restaurant as usual, and if I could hold the belief in my heart that this was just an an average Friday and I was just minutes away from seeing him, that I'd pull into the lot and he'd be standing near the door, talking with his friend and waiting for me to arrive.

The restaurant is in the same parking lot as the grocery, so I did pull in as usual. But, of course, he wasn't there. It was a nice dream while it lasted.

His shoes are still in the living room. Not where he'd left them, I've moved them around as I've tried to tidy up, but I've never taken them out of the room. Likewise all the other little things he'd left in our cluttered space. Notepads. A motorcycle helmet that was sitting off to the side, waiting for cold weather to pass and the riding season to begin again. A couple of bottles of cologne that were left on the bookshelf. I squirt those into the air or onto a throw pillow now and then, just to smell them, and imagine that he might have just walked through.

I don't know why I haven't moved any of these things, or why it remains out of the question to consider doing so. I think it's related to that wish that if I follow a familiar routine without thinking, such as driving to the restaurant, that it will miraculously restore my life to how it was. If I leave things as they are it will leave open the possibility that this has been a dream, he might still come home, and I can't change things around too much because he'd be annoyed and have a hard time finding his things. Right?

Oh, I know I can't magically erase the past five months. Intellectually, I know he's gone. I understand that it's not a dream.  But my heart still feels like it is a dream, and for now, while I am still trying to understand how to live in this strange and unpleasant new world, it's sometimes nice to imagine that I'm driving to meet him for dinner and he'll be there waiting. And I'll still leave his shoes over beside the window for a while longer.

My head tells me that doesn't matter how much I wish to see him again, I need to work on accepting that I will not. My head tells me that life really has changed.

My heart says that's just crazy talk and looks around for some coins to toss in the wishing well.

Sometimes

When I read all the notes of encouragement from my friends they are usually doing what they can to reassure me that I can do it, I can make it through this. They tell me how strong I am. I realize I don't necessarily doubt that I can be strong. That I have the ability to get through this. I don't really doubt I have the ability to carry on.

Much of the time the question isn't "How can I make it through this?"  The question is, "Do I want to make it through this?"

I know that I'll carry on, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not planning anything dire. But I have realized that the hardest part of this is not trying to find the strength to carry on, the hardest part is trying to find the reason to carry on.

Sometimes I look through other blogs that were founded with much the same reason behind them as this one, as a healing journal for someone who is newly widowed. Most of them seem to be a way to learn how to cope, a way to try to make sense of what's happened. Many of them, if not most, seem to have been written by women who are dealing not only with their loss, but also with raising their children. There are a lot of feelings that these women express that I completely identify with. The constant feeling of loss, the emptiness, the grief of not having the love of your life by your side. But they also talk about doing their best to hang on and maintain as normal a life as they can for their kids. Their kids are a focus for them, a reason to do what they can to continue moving forward.

I think I'm having a hard time because I haven't been able to find that one thing to that really gives me the incentive to keep going. I've picked little things here and there to try to shift my focus on, and I often tell myself "I have to do it for Jeff. He'd want me to carry on. I have to hang in there to honor him." And that's not a bad thing, it's carried me along for a few months now. But lately I'm realizing that what I need to do is shift that focus back onto myself. If I don't find a reason to carry on for myself then I will never be able to say "Yes, I really want to get through this."

Adding this to my list of things I need to work on. And for now, I will remind myself that this is something he'd want me to do.

I Am the Queen of Sticky Notes

They're everywhere...

On the fridge.

Stuck to the kitchen cabinets.

On the computer.

No surface has been safe so from all my little reminders to breathe. To smile.

They remind me to remember that even though he's no longer be with me in this life, the feelings we shared will never fade. I will always carry him in my heart.

So I leave little reminders to have courage. To hang in there.

I wonder if they're doing me any good. A friend says that these must be working, or I wouldn't be making them. Maybe they are having a positive influence on me.

Whenever I think of something I need to keep repeating to myself I grab a notepad and write it down. Whenever I begin to feel like everything is hopeless and I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel I try to write myself an encouraging note. Whenever I want to focus on the sort of energy I want to bring into my life I write it down. I am capable. I am creative. I am confident.

Sometimes I just have to remind myself that I can be strong, even if I  have a lot of trouble believing it.

That's when the notes are most important.

I think I'll continue pasting them all over the house for a while.

At least until I run out of surfaces.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Reflected

I caught sight of my reflection last night, in one of the photos of Jeff I keep on the desk. I was looking over his shoulder, and it was as if we had traded places. He is vibrant and alive, and I am the spirit, watching over him.  I felt like I should be able to reach out and touch his cheek, and run my fingers through his hair, and call him sweet, silly names. And then I stop to cry again.

I fell silent towards the end of February and couldn’t think of anything to blog about, even though I wanted to write. It seemed like there was nothing left to say.

I think as the initial shock that carried me along for the first three months began to wear off I just ran out of steam, and my brain finally shut down. I stumbled backwards a lot, I felt worse than ever and the house seemed to always be closing in on me. I kept telling myself that it was just the bad winter that was keeping me down. I wanted the weather to change, I wanted it to be warm and pretty, but it occurred to me that as spring arrived I would no longer have a good excuse for hiding in the house. Deep down I don’t think I’ve really wanted to see warm, bright days. I know I’ll have to start moving around again, doing chores, interacting with people, and dealing with all the day to day things on my own that we would tackle together. Sometimes, in those moments when I haven’t managed to totally distract myself with some pastime, I realize that eventually I’m going to have to accept that he’s really gone, it’s not just a dream.

Of course my solution to these sudden realizations is to run away from that reality, drink the chocolate milk of forgetfulness, and bury myself under cozy blankets of denial.

It really is all a bad dream, Melony. Really it is. Close your eyes, take a nap, when you wake up it will all be okay. And if it doesn’t work the first time just keep repeating, eventually you’re bound to wake up out of the nightmare. And have some more donuts in between naps. You’ll feel better.

I often find myself wondering how long this feeling persists. Does it go on forever? I sometimes feel like I’m the old fashioned, stereotypical reclusive widow: forever dressed in mourning, never leaving my house, sitting in a dark room with the curtains drawn, perpetually weeping…

Well, I do wear a lot of black, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.

Today it has been four and a half months. 136 days. And yet it still feels like a day or so. Sooner or later I will have to step forward into the sunshine and try to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.

Jeff is gazing at me from that photo. He knows I can do it. I know I can do it, deep down there's an optimist inside me, I'm sure of it. I've pasted sticky notes with motivational comments all over the house: You can do it! Be the confident, self assured person Jeff always knew you could be!

I'm not sure they've started to help yet, but I'm not giving up.

I can do it.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Still

I begin to wonder how long it takes before it even starts to sink in that I have to readjust to a new way of life.

I still look at his photo and find it impossible to believe it isn't all a bad dream.

I still think, hope, wish, that I'll wake up and everything will be okay.

I still scream at the universe for taking him away from me. I scream at myself for not finding some way to prevent it. I scream at him for leaving me alone.

I wonder how long it takes before I begin to accept that this is reality.

*sigh*

In the meantime I should consider what to write on the main blog, and what direction I might want to take this one in. And I should consider what direction I want to take my life in. That's a toughie as well.

Ramblings from four and a half months along the way.

Some Days You Scream

Some days I cry until I think I'm going to throw up. But no matter how hard I cry, and how long, there's more, I just can't stop.

Some days I have to scream. I mean really scream. In the car, driving home, all alone, I can scream. At the top of my lungs. Horror movie, blood curdling, shrieking.

I'm not sure if it helps at all.

Doesn't hurt to try, though.

Just a Scribble

This morning I picked up a notebook. I was going to jot something down, but found it already had a couple pages filled with Jeff's mind mapping exercises so I stopped to look through them. He liked mind maps, he would make one when he was thinking about a project, or trying to organize his thoughts. He always thought I should use them to sort out my jumbled mess of mind chatter, but I never quite got into them. He thought they were great, though, I find them around now and then. He was always overflowing with ideas, and he'd write them down whenever he had a chance.

This map was focused on our hopes for our future. He had noted things we wanted to have in our lives, and possible steps to achieve that. There were bubbles and lines all over the pages, filled with ideas about things he wanted to learn, and goals he was setting for himself. In the middle of the page he'd scribbled a little drawing in a circle to use as the focal point of the map. It's a simple little sketch, not meant to be artistic or even to be saved forever, it was just there to represent the future us, having succeeded and enjoying the fruits of our labor. In this doodle we've realized our goals. He has his arms raised up in triumph, I have my arms around him. I can even picture the image with us in place of the little scribble figures.

I can feel the joy and fulfillment he intended in the sketch. We've achieved our personal success, we have made our dreams come true. We're standing in front of our dream house, near mountains, beside a lake. He has a little wind turbine and some solar panels too, because he always had this dream we'd have a self sufficient place one day, off the grid. This is our happily ever after, the place where we will grow old together.

These are the hardest things to find, for me. The to-do lists. The dreams. The hopes, in the form of a little sketch, for a future that will never come.

It's completely undone me today.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

What Gives Us Hope

Hope springs...

This is a bit of a rambly post, but I’ve been tossing some of these things around in my head for a while and this seemed like a good time to pull them together. A blogger I read regularly posts a weekly blog challenge, sometimes a series of questions, sometimes a writing prompt or a challenge to create an image. She has recently experienced the end of a serious relationship, and while it’s not quite the same as what I've experienced, it’s still a painful, difficult loss and there are a few parallels, so I feel for her. One of her friends posted the challenge this week, asking her readers what gave them hope when they were at their lowest point. I've always enjoyed trying to do the challenges on another blog I play with that has to do with online virtual worlds (because that is the topic of her blog), but I wanted to tackle this one over here as well, because it ties in very well with my thoughts these past few months.

 I love my friends ♥

So where am I finding hope? What picks me back up?
Primarily, I think, it's in the support from my friends. I'm not sure I ever fully appreciated just how important my friends, those I know in person and those I have only spoken to online, are to me, and I'm afraid I spent far too much time taking them for granted. I often regret that I've always been reluctant to try to talk to people because I'm always certain that I'm boring, or that I'm bothering them and they'd rather spend time with more interesting, fun people. I'm still often overwhelmed by how people have reached out to me, letting me know I'm in their thoughts and they're there for me, and doing their best to keep my spirits up . It makes me even more determined to break out of my cocoon and reach out to others, if only to let them know I don't take them for granted and I appreciate them.

And while I work on this, I treasure all my gifts that have been bringing me hope and smiles. From the pendant given to me by friends from college, that radiates calm whenever I look at it, to a warm snuggly blanket from a group of women I've gotten to know who I think of as my sisters, even though I've never met any of them in person, to a little plushie doll that a dear friend and fellow music fan hand-made for me a couple of years ago.  I've been keeping all of these things close to me lately because they remind me of just how powerful friendship is, and just how much it has helped to keep me moving forward.

Music carries me forward as well. Like many people I often react very emotionally to music and it can completely turn my mood around. Sometimes it's in the lyrics, but more often it's in the way something sounds, the feeling it brings me, and I can rarely find words to adequately describe it. After Jeff died I spent about a week unable to listen to anything at all, I think in part because I didn't want to hear anything that might make me feel better.  It took some time to get over that, but gradually I reintroduced music into my life. As I think about that now I've realized I almost went chronologically with that reintroduction to music, at first it was things my parents enjoyed that I'd heard as a child, then onto various songs from the 70s, 80s, 90s... onward until I had come back to where I was and I could embrace my favorites again.  Now I can't imagine not having it.

I've tried to read a lot as well. I've fallen off a bit from that lately, I've been letting myself get distracted, but I've read through some books that have helped: Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now (one of Jeff's favorite books,) Thich Nhat Hanh's No Death No Fear, Grieving Mindfully by Sameet M. Kumar , and Healing Your Grieving Heart by Alan D. Wolfelt, which was gifted to me by the church where Jeff and I were married, and where his memorial was held, and is full of good ideas. I am still in the process of reading Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road by Neil Peart.

I have spent three and a half months being on an emotional roller coaster that more often than not gets stuck at the very bottom of the hill, but sometimes it's the smallest little things that make me smile, or make me really happy, or just give me a little hope about the future. I find a lot of hope in the silly, fun things that make me laugh and remind me that I can still feel joy and be happy about something and look forward to things, that I can smile at goofy pictures, and fangirl like a teenager over musicians, and laugh at stupid jokes. I think sometimes people feel like they must pat my hand and be sympathetic and dignified, because the situation calls for being sad and serious. For some people that would probably be the most appropriate thing to do, but I'm finding a lot more hope in the light, and the joy.

I've been considering trying out blog prompts here, because I’m not sure I want to continue on with this being my “I’m still so very sad every day” journal. I may feel that way, the past few days have been an extremely down period for me and I'n not sure what triggered it, but I’m realizing that the more I talk about how miserable and sad and alone I feel, the more miserable and sad and alone I actually do feel. It helps to write out my thoughts and talk to others about it, and one thing I don't want to do is put on a happy face and deny my grief, but sometimes I need to consider there might be a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s tiny, often I can’t see it, but I suspect it’s there and I know it’s that little flicker of hope about the future that I need to hold on to.

Right now I'm trying my best to hold on to the hope that things will get brighter. On some occasions I do truly believe it. I still have a long, long way to go, but it's becoming a little easier to smile for no reason now.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

I Heart U

Leaving important messages for the world.

Yesterday I was at the grocery and saw a handful of guys wandering around the gift displays, eyeing the candy boxes and stuffed animals and balloons, trying to figure out what would be an acceptable gift. I was a little amused by it, they all looked vaguely confused and frustrated, no doubt in part because they felt like they were expected to come up with something romantic. There may have been a lot riding on that gift. I hope it worked out well for all of them today.

We never really did much on Valentine's Day. Sometimes we'd go out for dinner. One year he bought me wonderful gift that I'll treasure forever, but mostly we didn't really treat it as a special day. We were mushy and romantic all year, we didn't need a holiday for that.

Still, I wouldn't have let the day pass unnoticed, I would always take any excuse to be a little extra mushy and leave little hearts all over the house. This year I'll be cuddled up with a blanket and pillows and plushie doll, but Jeff, you are still, and always my Valentine. ♥

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Valentine's Day, 4AM

I keep thinking I should write a post on the main blog. I have some ideas in mind. I don't know where to go with them though.

We never did a lot for Valentine's Day. We didn't even usually go out because it was so busy. He did get me a gift a couple of times. One year an amazing gift, one I'll always treasure.

Mostly I just look at the happy hearts and flowers nonsense and feel extra lonely.

Mostly I wonder how long it takes before you don't feel sick and want to cry at least once a day.

I'm afraid the answer is never.

He's just over there

When I first come downstairs in the morning I always hope, just for a split second, that I'll see Jeff sitting on the couch. Sometimes I pause on the steps and try to will him into existence. I'm not having much success with that so far... I know I won't find him there, of course. But still, I still must look.

His presence in this house is very, very strong. I am often struck by the feeling that he's just left he room, or that he's right there with me, and I would not be surprised if I turned and found him standing in the kitchen. It's not that I'm so used to seeing him in a certain spot that I still feel like he's there, I think it's that his presence and his influence was so strongly imprinted on me that I will always feel like he's with me. In this house, in the car, out shopping. I still feel him around me.

Everyone we've ever gotten to know changes us in some way, and I like the idea that he is always going to be a part of me.  I talk to him all the time, and sometimes I can imagine his responses, his suggestions, his comments. His words flow easily through my thoughts, shaping my own reactions and giving me another perspective on things.

Maybe he is there, just beyond my sight. Maybe when we feel someone near us we have a sense of that.

 

image created with Bitstrips

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Timekeeping

I'm doing odd little exercises today, counting up how much time we had together. Clearly I don't feel sad enough and must find additional things to make me cry.

From the time we first saw each other in person on our first date to the last hour, we had 3037 days together. 8 years, 3 months, and 23 days.

3037 days. That seems like such a small number.

Out of that time we were married for 2695 days.

Again, not enough. Not nearly enough.

And so I made it through that day

I talk to Jeff a lot. I talked to him all day today, wished him a happy birthday, talked about all the dreams we'd had. All the things we planned to do before we turned fifty. We had a lot of plans, although we realized that we wouldn't accomplish any of them by that magical fifty mark. Even if I start working on them in earnest I don't think I'll be able accomplish the things I'd hoped to do before my fiftieth birthday. And getting started is the hard part. It's so very hard to motivate myself.

I'm still trying to live in the moment, honey, just as you always wanted me to. I'm still having endless difficulties doing that. Quite often I don't like this moment very much, this moment is filled with loneliness and sadness, this moment reminds me that you aren't with me. This moment often feels empty.

Sometimes while I sit here and consider how empty this moment feels I like to theorize that maybe everything is just the present, that maybe all of my right this moments are happening simultaneously, I just happen to be aware of this one. So, right now I'm missing Jeff. But also right now, somewhere just beyond this awareness, I am snuggled up with him on the couch. Or hiking at the park. Or going on our first date. Right now I'm with him. Right now he has his arms around me and he's telling me that everything will be okay.

It's a nice thought.

Happy Birthday

Today is a tough day to greet with a smile. Today is one of those "firsts" that I have to get through alone, today is his birthday. Today he would have turned fifty. Today would have been one of those big milestone days. We never made much fuss over birthdays, usually we'd just go out to dinner, but I think this year I'd have tried to do something special. And there would have been teasing, lots of teasing, I'd been getting a head start on that shortly after his last birthday. "I can't believe you'll be fifty! You're sooo old!" I told him. Of course he'd have given it all back to me when my time came, but I'd have had a lot of fun out of it before that happened. :)

I considered writing about what turning fifty was going to mean to us, what we'd hoped to do, what was left undone, but instead I just sat down this morning and worked on a digital painting. I'm still learning my way around the program, but I think he'd like it. He'd like that I'm trying.
Happy birthday, Jeff. I love you more than I could ever express. I miss you every day.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Time loops.

12 full weeks have passed. That amazes me, I can't imagine how 12 weeks have passed by already. Sometimes it doesn't even feel like 12 hours could have passed.

I don't feel any different. Some days are good. More often I think I feel worse than ever.

You occasionally hear people talk about someone who was widowed, who died soon after their spouse. People say they died of a broken heart. I thought I would. I was sure I would. 

But it didn't happen. I'm still here.

And I go on.

That was fast...

Onward to your next adventure

So I looked at Jeff's Facebook today and it's been 'memorialized'... so now I can't log into it anymore and it will never change. That's probably for the best. He won't keep showing up as a suggested friend, his birthday won't appear in lists, and I won't keep getting suggestions about adding little details about how we met to my timeline.

I also noticed that my fear that it would suddenly "unmarry" me from him was unfounded. It seems that as long as I never change my relationship status on my own account then his page will always read "was married to" me. I can't imagine ever updating that, so that did make me feel a tiny bit better. I know it's a silly thing to worry over, but it is what it is.

But overall It was still hard, it was like another little reminder that he's not here, and for some reason those are hitting me harder now than they had in the weeks after he died. I wonder if it's because some of the numbness has started to wear off and I'm realizing I need to face life alone? So far this year has been like reliving the beginning of November all over. There are days I can't even imagine how I'm going to make it all the way through. I often wonder if the pain ever really becomes easier, or if you just get used to living with that knot in your stomach?

I miss you so much. I miss our adventures. I know that now you're off on some amazing adventure that I can't share, but I will still think of you every second of every day.

Leaving Memorials

Jeff's photography, from his Facebook

This week I began to think about what to do with Jeff’s Facebook account. I have access to it, we always shared passwords with each other and I can access most of his online accounts, so I have a few options. I can leave it active, as it is now, I can delete it entirely, or I can ask Facebook to memorialize it. That will lock it down, frozen in time, a memorial to the thoughts and images he shared. I had always considered that the best option, but I’ve been resisting it for a while, it would be another way of acknowledging that he's really gone, and in my heart I still don't want to do that.

It also occurs to me that by memorializing Jeff's account it will probably cause the relationship status on my own account to change. Now I'm not entirely sure about this, it might still read the same, but it made me wonder if it might be time to change that status over to read "widowed."  That's a label I've been resisting, it sounds so permanent and final. I don't feel like a widow, I still feel married, I'm just married to a man who seems to have always left the room before I came in. I know that there's no need to make any changes to the way I label myself on something as relatively insignificant as Facebook, in fact there's no need to display any relationship status at all. Still, I'm thinking that maybe this is another step on my journey of healing. I'm rebuilding my life, and perhaps taking ownership of the term "widow," even if it is only a mental acknowledgement of my new identity,  is a small step in continuing to work on accepting that Jeff has died, and my life is not as it was.

In preparation for changing over the account I went back through Jeff's timeline and read through his status updates. In the process I found myself reliving a lot of little moments of the past few years. He didn’t update his status often, so each post is extra special to me. Each was an insight into what he was doing, what he was thinking, into which technologies he’d stumbled across and found so cool he just had to share them with everyone. I could feel his enthusiasm in each update. I could feel his optimism and his hope for the future. I could remember every time he told me about something that he’d just found, and how excited he was about new ideas and innovation. Reading through that was much harder than I would have imagined, It made my grief feel very fresh again.  I cried not just for my own loss, but because the world will never know what he could have made of his plans, and what he might have created. It’s not fair. He should have had forty more years to pursue his dreams.

Even though it's hard to look back at things that prompt memories I don't want to hide from them. Remembering him and talking about him is important to me. But there are times that all of the memories do become too difficult, the pain is too much to bear and I have to step back and find a way to distract myself and try to bring my mood back up. My challenge this year is to curb my instinct to use comfort foods to do that. A little treat is fine, a never ending stream of high fat, carb laden food is not. At least, it's not for me, the temporary happiness I gain from that 1400 calorie pint of ice cream never seems to make up for the way I feel after I eat it, and the fifteen pounds that have joined me in the past couple of months are proof that I need to find a better way to comfort myself. I need to spend less time thinking about cookies as a mood lifter, and more time losing myself in books, in hobbies, in music, in idle, silly daydreams.

75 days have come and gone, but I'm still breathing. It's an ongoing battle, but I'm holding on.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

64 Days

64 days.

I don’t really have anything to blog this afternoon, except to mark that it has been 64 days, and that felt significant to me. We always liked 64. It was the year we were both born, Jeff near the beginning of the year, me close to the end, so of course that made the whole year special. 64 was something we had in common. 64 was the number we always took notice of, if we saw it somewhere. We allowed it to be the number that would remind us we needed to pay attention to what was going on around us so we wouldn’t miss anything.

I haven’t been counting off the exact number of days since he died, not since the first month. I’ve tracked weeks, but not days. I knew it was 9 weeks on Friday. It’s been two months. When I looked up the days this morning it made me pause for a moment. Sixty four. It makes me wonder if the universe is telling me to be extra observant today. To watch for something I don’t want to miss. Maybe it’s just that extra reminder that we should always be paying attention to the world around us.

64 days, Jeff. What do you want me to know today?

Now What Do We Do?

It's a new year now. New year, and one where I will be completely on my own.

New moon, too. Fresh starts. Somehow seems fitting to me, as if there's a message in here for me to get myself in order.

Tonight I'm missing conversation. I think I miss this even more because I don't have an office job anymore, I don't have people I talk to every day. Lately, unless I go to the store and exchange a few moments of chitchat with a clerk, or someone in a checkout line, I don't talk at all, except to myself, for several days in a row.

When the ball dropped at midnight and all the happy party-goers in Times Square turned to someone for their new years kiss I began to cry again. I miss my kiss. We only celebrated seven new years together, and that wasn't enough.

While the firecrackers went off outside I spent my new years gazing at his photo, telling him my fears, but also my hopes, my dreams, my goals. Our goals.

But I still miss my kiss.