You're Not Here

I am only human. Although I know this life is so much bigger than me, the pain still takes a hold of me while you’re not here. Defeated I feel at times, in need of inspiration. In need of you, our love and your strength.

Infuriated, devastated and heart broken. You promised you would protect my heart but it’s shattered. The one person I trusted in most, you have hurt me the most. Unknowingly you took our future from us, you took everything that was anything with your last breath.

I love you.

I don’t like to scream at you but in fleeting moments rage releases “How could you be so stupid!” I hate myself for being angry. It’s not your fault. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to be angrier with you than you. My anger is not so much directed to you, I just feel cheated of our happily ever after! Our story was not finished, this was not the life we planned or deserved.

I don’t blame you.

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Collecting the Hurt

I figured something out this morning, about grief. 

It is this ... 

Things that happen to you, after the loss of your person, that are painful, 

hurt way more. 

They hurt more than they did in the previous life.

The "before" life. 


In this "after" life,

the one where my person is dead forever,

things that hurt, 

hurt more. 


They hurt deeper.

They feel more personal.

More tender. 

Its like poking an open wound,

again and again,

and again. 

So each time you open it,

and poke at it,

and let others poke at it,

inviting them in to see your wound,

and then jab at it,

the pain is worse,

and bigger,

and more intense,

than the last time. 


And your insides,

become raw,

and broken,

and scarred, 

and it hurts like hell, 

and it burns like fire,

and it bleeds

from your skin,

and your heart. 

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Remember as a kid when you would hold your hand out the car window and float it up and down in the wind? As a kung fu guy, Mike would play with the wind the same way, with the same joy as that child riding in the car. I have a hard time describing how that large man would seem to float effortlessly in the air, twirling, kicking, jumping, his arms moving in spirals so fast your eyes could barely keep up. And in big wind, he had even more fun. He used to love to go to the windiest spots on the island to play like that.

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Not Dating Contemplation~

I wonder, if we, as widows, set ourselves up, if and when the time comes that we step out into the dating world. 

*I haven’t dated since my husband’s death, and don’t plan on it, so this is merely me, contemplating the concept*

Somewhere back in my second year of widowhood, I spoke about the concept of dating with my daughter, and how not interested in it I am, and she said that she thought that my husband would have a part in sending a man to me who would be just right for me.

It’s a pretty idea, maybe a comforting one, seeing how freaky dating always has been, and continues to be, but I do wonder if we set ourselves up by wanting to believe such a thing, or actually believing it.  Believing that our dead husband or wife sends us a new one, I mean.

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Holding a Hand

On a day-to-day basis, I’m fairly composed and not overly sensitive to things that remind me of Megan, her illness, or the fact that she’s gone.  Shelby acheives honor roll like clockwork, and though it reminds me of how proud Megan would be, and I wish she was there, it’s an “it is what it is situation”, where I can be happy for both of us and go about my day.  I can hear and talk about others that are sick, watch shows or read about widowers or illness, or drive by the hospital she was treated and died in, and it doesn’t really phase me.

 Chalk that up to years of becoming desensitized to it all.  Long-term illness has a way of letting you begin grieving long before it is “required”, so that you are already well into the process when the time comes.  Although Megan’s death was “sudden”, in that we didn’t know precisely what day of the month it would occur, it wasn’t a “surprise”.

So, when a neighborhood stray cat was evidently hit by a car, at first, I thought not too much of it, and decided, with Sarah, that we needed to take care of it with a clear head and confidence.  Out came one of the largest triggers I’ve had since Megan’s death.

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I want my why

I have been told time and time again don't ask why. It will drive you mad. I have been told there are something's you will never have answers for. You must let go. In other people's dark hours have have given this same advice. But the truth is I want my why! I want my answers! 
I have been laying in a hospital bed for three days now. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four months after Joeys death. I pissed me off to my core. Wasn't enough enough. But I fought through the anger and tried to accepted it as best I could. I have tried to be responsible about it. I have sought out medical attention both conventional and traditional. And yet here I sit in a bed with steroids being pumped in me. And no one can tell me why. Why I have this disease. What triggers it. What is going to happen to me. 

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How to Keep on Loving...


(Mike and I with Drew's parents)

I didn’t manage to get a post up last week as I was out on a very special trip back home to Texas. One that left my heart overflowing with just how beautiful and surprising life still can be. It isn’t often that we happen to find ourselves in the middle of a truly miraculous celebration of life. I think the last time I was part of something that honored loved ones this beautifully was in Hawaii a few years ago, when I attended their annual Lantern Festival on Memorial Day.

This though, was something else. Something really personal. As I stood there looking out at the smiles and laughter, the banjos and guitars, the softly swaying hay fields and cactus warmed by the sleepy, low-hanging sun… I truly could not believe the moment’s perfection.

Once a year, every year since Drew died, all of my closest friends get together for a long weekend for what we call DrewFest. This was the 5th year, and to my complete surprise, it ended up being a much bigger celebration of him than we ever imagined would happen…

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Sewing My Widow Oats


So let's just do it. 

Let's talk about it. 

Let's talk about love and dating and sex. 

Yeah, I said it. 


And widowhood. 

Lets not forget widowhood. 

I need to talk about this. 

It's time. 

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Shifts Happen

Having lunch with a friend the other day, one who knows me well and knew Mike, I told her: I feel like a completely different person now. Four year later, the only things that remain the same here in Kona are the friends we knew together, my two dogs, and the house I shared with Mike, though its innards are greatly changed now too. And soon, no idea when, the house itself will be gone, and I will be gone from this place altogether.


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This New Year of Mine~

I just passed the 4-year mark of Chuck’s death.  This year blew me to pieces.  Every year does, honestly, but this year…wow.  I went to work the day after, but lasted for only 2 hours, at which point it seemed like my choices were go home or run screaming from the store.  Mentally and emotionally, I was so done.  Mostly, I push my way through all of the moments of the days, but this time I decided no, I’m paying attention and I’m giving in to it.  So, I went home and crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up and zoned out to nonsense DVDs, though I don’t remember what I watched.

Mind you, when I say went to bed, I’m talking about my little bed in my tiny trailer.  I was surrounded by pink, covered in pink, laying on pink sheets with my head on a pink pillow, with pictures of me and Chuck covering most the surfaces.  Which is exactly how I want it to be.

Somewhere along the line, in the last few weeks, I decided to really and honestly just let myself be exactly where I am with this grief, with this missingness.  I’m tired of fighting and pushing to make me something other than what I am and how I am.  Tired of trying to dress life up and make it look pretty to my own eyes.   

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