Hello, Dead Husband ....

Hello Dead Husband, 

There are days,

days like today,

that are not special days,

just regular, boring, rainy days,

where my heart wants so badly,


to be able to 

talk to you. 

To tell you things. 

To lie in bed with you again,

and swing our arms back and forth,

as we hold hands,

and act silly,

and sing our silly songs,

to the kitties,

that we made up. 

To make fun of everything,

with you,


and laugh so much,

while staying at my parents house,

that my mom says to us at breakfast:

"What on earth were you two giggling about last night?"




We giggled about life. 

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The Public Face

I have a dear friend here in Kona who recently lost her mother. She was a new friend when Mike died, but had met him, and after discovering we were both writers we decided to get together every so often to write and support each other. She has since become a good friend who saw the rawness of my grief right there in the beginning, but since I've been gone for so long this year, and so busy since my return, we hadn't connected in a long time. So I called her the other day to express my condolences and catch up.


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I Will Sing You to Me~

I will sing you to me…..

These words curve around my lower right leg, from knee to ankle.

My 3rd tattoo.  My first one says nothin’ but love, our credo in hospice.  Those words swirl in a circle on the back of my neck, with the circle ending in a small heart, and the circle is left open.  As my heart must be in this new life without him.

My second one simply says Love, and is on the inside of my left wrist, in the exact location where the tumor I named Wilson, first showed up on Chuck.  It took a 11-hour surgery and 4 reconstructive surgeries afterwards to rid ourselves of Wilson and reconstruct Chuck’s arm.  His right thigh looked like hamburger when they were through.

Each of my tattoos carry special meaning, as all tattoos must.

But…my 3rd tattoo…

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Going Postal

It’s been cold, rainy, and just plain miserable for the past two weeks.  The brief respite prior to our Texas trip, where it was summerlike for a few days did nothing but remind me that May in Ohio is fickle.  You can be sitting outside, sipping a cold beer in the sun one day, and the next, you’re protecting plants from frost and bundling up in winter coats.

Still though, this has been an exceptionally cold and wet month.  The coldest in 12 years, and the most rain since 2011.  We’re itching to be outside, but frankly, it just sucks.

Fairly often, I struggle to find something poignant or meaningful to write about on these Tuesday mornings...today is no exception.  The thing that is circling my mind though, is the weather in May of 2011..the year Megan got her transplant.  

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May 9, 2015

joey.jpgMay 9,2015. The day my life changed forever. Two years have passed and I am still trying to wrap my head around it. The death certificate says the 10th but I was there. Joey died at that accident scene. He was dead when they pulled him out of the water. He was traveling at 100 miles an hour when he hit that guard rail. He was ejected from the truck and thrown into a creek where he was pinned down 8 feet deep into murky creek water where they found him 30 minutes later. They brought him to the hospital and continued to work on him until 12:07am on the tenth. But he left me on the ninth. This is my life. One I most of the times have a hard time really understanding. But will hit me like it just happen out of no where. I have always worried what his last few seconds of life were like. Did he know. Was he scared. Did he suffer. 
The nurse told me there was no water found in his lungs which meant he wasn't breathing by the time he hit the water. I have always tried to find comfort in that. When it came time to sign the paperwork for the autopsy I refused. I couldn't imagine letting them cut him open and dissecting him. So I will never truly know. The death certificate lists drowning and massive skull injury as causes of death. 
These are hard facts but these are my reality. These are the things I remember and think about often to this day. Two years, 731 days without his voice, his laugh, him. 

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A Phonecall from a Friend

Two days ago, I got a phone call no one wants to get, from my friend who got news she never wanted to hear. For the past 6 months, I’ve been on-call for one of my best friends as she goes through the toughest thing she has yet faced in her life. Her dad has been fighting a very aggressive terminal cancer since the holidays, which came quite out of nowhere. Literally, they were hiking the Appalachian Trail last August, and a few months later he goes in the hospital and they tell him he has 6 months to a year to live. He didn’t even make it to 6 months… her phone call to me 2 days ago, was to tell me that he had died the night before.

I burst into tears with her. And I will never forget the moment. I was cooking dinner in the kitchen, Mexican Food for Cinco De Mayo. None of us felt he was that close to death yet. I certainly did not think that this was the phone call I was going to get this week. We cried together, and we talked both about the hard stuff and the stuff that is a relief. His battle was quite short and he did not have a long, painful death. He died peacefully in his sleep. His suffering is over. Of course, I could tell that there was a sense of relief for her, as this whole thing has coincided with her mother also having cancer, and these months have truly pushed them all to the edge. Fortunately, her mom’s was not as serious and she is expected to recover well, but even so, it has been especially draining for them all as a family.

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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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