Knowing the Unknown and Beyond~

I stare into the distance of everything and nothing many times during a day’s measure,

And, as I stare, I see everything and I see nothing

I feel everything so much that I feel nothing.

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Have a Friggin Holly Jolly Christmas

As we near Shelby’s 11th Christmas, what will be our third without Megan around, I’ve got my head down.  I’m powering through this week at work, excited more for the 4 day break from the monotony than any festivities.  Every activity, preparation, and event seems more like a “have to” than a “get to”.  Wrapping gifts, baking cookies, school Christmas recitals, stringing lights along the house, shoveling snow, and trimming a tree are all perceived as just “one more thing I need to take care of”, rather than “another thing I GET to do”.

I’m stressed.  Work is extra busy.  There are countless projects at home that we have to take care of before this weekend.  I’m sick of looking at blinky lights, knowing that I have to pack them all back up within a few weeks.  All of the beautiful snow we had last week has now melted into a sloppy wet mess.  The house feels cluttered and somehow smaller than it already is.  Bills still need paid.  God I hate this time of year.  

 

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I can feel your arms around my Life...

Today it is thirteen months and 3 days since you died.  Some moments, your death still does not feel real to me.  And, other times, the realness of your death is so apparent I feel nauseated. This is grief in all it's unapologetic glory.

In the early days when you died I couldn't even breathe. I'd gasp for breathe and I'd rock back and forth, holding my chest,  in an effort to encourage the air to move from my lungs into my body.  For months I struggled desperately, day and night, to soothe my broken Soul.  I remember I'd stand in the kitchen and I'd clutch my chest as I cooked dinner because I thought my heart was going to explode into a million pieces when it broke.  I remember thinking that grief was cruel because it forced us to endure and survive this deep aching pain.  I knew full well that my heart wasn't going to literally reduce to fragments - even though it felt like it was.  Those early days of grief were completely gutting.  And, I am glad that the raw intensity of those first four months is behind me.  Somehow I survived. 

As much as I never want to feel the pain of the early days again, I do wish I could go back and tell my newly widowed self what I have learned about grief.  I'd tell her that in order to survive she does not need to do anything - except breathe.  (Which, I know, is easier said than done.)  I'd let her know that the shock and numbness she feels is there by design; and, I would tell her that she is not to worry about being in a daze.  I'd tell her that the laundry and housework are not a priority.  I'd wink and let her know that she won't have any memory of these first four months after his death, so she should feel free to let it go.  I'd also brief her about the fact that she can't rush through this.  I'd say with authority, that there is no way to side step this pain because there is no "cure" for grief.  Grief isn't a disease that you are magically healed from.  Grief is a journey that lasts your lifetime from what I can tell so far.  I'd continue with the advice, knowing full well, my sleep deprived self would not really understand or absorb much of what I was saying because her mind could no longer process anything.  She was consumed with trying to make sense of the fact that Mike was dead. 

At this point, in my made-up (but all too real) scenario, I'd make us both something to eat because I know that she is on the "widow diet".   I know that she has probably only had coffee all day.  Once I got her fed, I'd tell her I notice she's lost more than her smile, she's lost weight too.  I'd remind her to eat everyday.  And, I would tell my freshly widowed self that she needs to start wearing makeup again, and I'd tell her that doing her hair is not as optional as she thinks. And, then, I'd hear her laugh... and it's magic.  

As a new widow she needs to know that she should try to lean into the pain and absorb the ache into her DNA.  I'd let my frazzled self know that when your person dies you are reduced to a state of infancy.  And, I'd smile and I'd gently brush the strands of stray hair from her eyes; then, I'd tell her that she's normal.  And, I'd promise her that she's going to be okay.  I'd remind myself to tell her that death is a trauma.  And, because of the trauma Mike's death caused, she has forgotten how to soothe herself.   She will need assistance with the basics: breathing, sleeping and eating.  I'd recommend that she surround herself with only compassionate, loving, people who don't try to "fix" her.  These people who simply walk along side her as she grieves will become her lifelines.  They will carry her on the really hard days in the year ahead.  I'd gently tell my newly widowed self to be patient and settle into her feelings.  I'd remind her to smile more, even if it's just for a fleeting moment.  I'd let her know that, in spite of herself, I heard her laugh today - and it was magical.   

And, finally, I'd stop and hold her for longer than most normal hugs last. 

And, then, I'd look far past the glazed, "deer in headlights", look in her eyes,  

I'd look straight into her Soul and I'd whisper to her "you've got this".

 

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 Photo credits: @heidi_the_untold 

 

Somehow I've survived this surreal experience of out living Mike.  I have learned that in order to survive his death I had to undergo a sort of re-birth, and this process is still ongoing.  I've come undone and I've been unhinged for the better part of this last year.  But, alas, I've arrived here, in this moment.  I've emerged exhausted and a bit disheveled because... 

 

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Creating Christmas

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This year, Christmas has given me a lot to consider. Reminders to give myself ample time to take care of all that needs doing, so I don’t get overwhelmed. To give myself at least 30 minutes each day to myself, to do something that relaxes me, like yoga or taking a walk or drawing, in order to help me stay sane. That daily maintenance has been a Godsend. Not only has it kept me sane, it’s left space for me to actually enjoy the holidays… and maybe *gasp* be excited about the season for the first time in years. 

It’s also given me more space to feel the loss. Not only of the people I love who have died, but also of the traditions I’ve lost with them. This has been one of the things my counselor and I have been talking about quite a bit lately. Loss of tradition. I honestly don’t think I’d even considered how significant that was until now. How much it has affected my Christmas experience my entire life.

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Happy Hellidays

Our grief manifests in a plethora of different ways, whether it be sadness and depression or laughter or anger, we each find our own outlet and tend to exhaust them. We do so in even greater concentration perhaps when it comes to the holidays.
 
These significant events which once upon a time signified love, joy, family, and being together is now a resounding echo of the lack of those things. We’re reminded. We see what was and look out upon what is our present state and realize that it will never quite be the same again.
 
The thought weighs on me as Lila gets older and learns more and more about family structure...and how her mom isn’t existent in it. I’m curious to see exactly how she’ll respond when she understands.
 
Will she be sad? Will she even care at all?
 
The time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s is a dark time for many widows and widowers such as myself. “Hellidays” as some of us have come to know them.
 
I never really believed in Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. Not for lack of trying, my parents did the fantastic story-telling and annual routine of making the presents appear out of nowhere, etc. I just never put much stock into things I couldn’t see or prove for myself.
 
These days, however, the idea of returning to childhood innocence and putting my hope and faith in those fictitious things seems like it would be a rather welcomed vacation. When things to be expected were only good and when you actually looked forward to events and happenings.
 
This will be my third Christmas without her. The feeling is still as fresh and numb as it was two years ago. I’m reminded of how anxious she was to wake up and spend Christmas together. I’m reminded of how excited she was to open up presents. I’m reminded of the look on her face when she’d open a gift I’d remembered she’d wanted. I remember all of it in vivid detail.
 
I stare at a tree. No presents with her name on them neither “To” nor “From.” Just places where they should be.
 
It is not a dream. It is not a nightmare.
 
It is reality...and some realities are worse than nightmares.
 
Happy Hellidays.
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Wherever You Are, It's Okay

So, here's a fun fact:

The holidays are torture for widowed people. 

Hell, the regular days are torture. 

But the holidays ....

they shine a big red light on the torture,

and then burn you with the beams. 

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To Know Grief is to Know Love

I can’t tell you how I manage to pull off a post every week, or how I have done so for the past three and a half years here. I get asked that a lot. Some weeks I know exactly what I want to write. Other weeks I feel dry…uninspired, lackluster and done. Then suddenly something will move me. Feeling overcome with emotion in a moment, a vision of something in our world, something a friend says, a memory I have. Sometimes it’s just a phrase that comes to me.

 

Sometimes I start writing and never title it. It remains in my files, which Apple titles for me, Blank 22 or Blank 24. Sometimes I go back and read what I’d started, and I find I can finish.

 

Other times I just know the title, but nothing more. This is one of those times. I think maybe a friend said that to me, or I read it somewhere, this phrase.

 

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As this Odyssey of Love Expands~

My rig, PinkMagic.  I bought her brand new following Chuck's death. I had to find a way to continue the life that Chuck and I lived on the road. Emotionally, I just couldn't bear to do it in the way that he and I did for 4 years; staying at lodging on military bases, and at inexpensive hotels. How tragically sad would it be...a country western tune gone wrong...for me, as a widow, to sit in a  godforsaken back of beyond and lonely hotel room on the back roads of our country. As devastated as I was, that would be too much even for me. Also...I knew that doing so would only lead to isolation, and isolating myself could only lead me down a dark tunnel.

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You're a Mean One...

Ahhh yes...the holidays.  It is a constant ride of ups and downs, like the world’s most depressing roller coaster.  Kicking off with Thanksgiving.  Spending time with friends and family, circled around a hearty dinner and laughter, I get to remember that Megan died just a week before that day.  I don’t get to remember the 33 prior enjoyable Thanksgiving dinners.  It doesn’t work.  All I can recall is sitting in my parents’ dining room, crying, and having to leave the room in the middle of dinner.

 

Then, following that Thursday comes the epitome of consumerism...Black Friday.  I avoid anyplace that may sell something like the plague that day.  “You’re not going to con me into buying your baubles, Mr. Scrooge!” as I shake my fist in the air.  But it’s fruitless.  Inevitably, I'll need to fuel up my car, and Christmas music will be playing everywhere, even at the gas station. Sure enough, “Blue Christmas”, or “I’ll be home for Christmas” will softly emanate from a tinny speaker somewhere.  Done.  You’ve succeeded, Ebeneezer, in depressing me.  

 

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Who Am I ?

 

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Life after the death of the person you love demands that you ask yourself BIG questions.  Ironically, the questions are often about life and living.  I have asked myself over and over again, Who am I now that Mike has died?  Maybe part of the answer lies in Who I was before I met him.  Who I was before he died.  I think a lot about Who I was when I was Mike's fiancee.  And, I ask myself again and again, Who I want to be now that I am his Widow

Admittedly, these are questions to which I don't have the answers; but, I'm working on it.  These questions challenge me and scare me because of their enormity and because I feel the potential here.  I still have choices in my changed life.  I have the opportunity to re-create myself, and you do too.  I know how overwhelming this is; but I believe that if we allow ourselves to be off kilter we will find ourselves in the process. 

In the last year, I have spent a fair bit of time on my knees scrounging for direction and answers.  I have spent many a night on the floor crying, begging Mike to come back.  I've dance under the stars with my dead fiance; desperately wanting his touch, longing for the days when his arms were wrapped around my life.  Many times, I have wandered through the day completely absent with thoughts of him endlessly ruminating in my mind.  Grief is gutting.  I know how hard it is for you to live with the  relentless heaviness and ache in your chest.  If I am awake I'm likely on the verge of tears at any given moment, I get it.  I have noticed, with time, the ache in my heart is softening a little and my tears don't last as long anymore.  But, still, the emptiness is there.  And, maybe in some weird way, that's okay.  Maybe we are meant to use this emptiness and rootlessness as our foundation.  Maybe we need to feel the emptiness and absorb all this "missingness" into every cell of our body.  If we feel it and lean into our grief we will learn something about ourselves.  I think there in the empty silence - is where the answers are for all of us.  I've decided that if I am going to survive Mike's sudden death I have to build a purposeful life around the emptiness inside me.

 

So, I haven't told you Who I am. Well, for starters...

 

 

 

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