Seems like being a widower means adjusting my view of the world to an existence of being damaged, marred and/or scarred for the rest of my life.  Life is now about managing the constant reminders of love lost.  Maybe, just like my poor eyesight, my grief is becoming a deficit that I will have to carry forward as I am constantly reminded of the song, Motherless Children by Blind Willie Johnson and covered by Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan and many others.

I completely forgot!  It was Natasha’s birthday recently and I completely forgot.  In the 4 years since her death, I forgot her birthday for the first time.  I only remembered a couple of days later when my daughter was asking about her scheduled activities.

Sarah and I are planning our wedding, taking place next year.  Vaguely, it is going to be somewhat informal, in the sense that the traditional rehearsal, church, event hall, catering, DJ, etc are either going to not be a part of it, or otherwise substituted in a more unique way.

I’ve helped plan a wedding before.  14 years ago, Megan and I were “locked in” so to speak, by May.  Our wedding was in August, and everything was booked, arranged, planned, and scripted.  Invitations were not only sent out, but most RSVPs had been received. We had spent 6 months already getting everything in order. (Because of her health situation, all of it was somewhat “accelerated” from the traditional year of planning).

The point is, I’ve personally done this before.  Most widows have. I have the benefit of a happy memory of doing half the work of planning a wedding, followed by a happy memory of nine years after the fact.

It is easy enough for most of us to identify with our own, “widowed” side of the story.  We’re the ones left behind when our partner dies. We are all suddenly single parents, sole breadwinners, alone, scared, and confused.  It doesn’t matter if we’ve had years to accept the impending death, or minutes.

But, what if we were on the other side of that coin?  What if we knew we were the ones leaving others behind?  If we knew that our children, partner, friends and family were going to have to be without us?  What if we had to trust...REALLY trust that when we were gone, it would be horrible for our loved ones, but everything would be alright?  

Even more risky, what if the riskiest thing we had to do was the one thing that kept us around longer?

This is what I’m thinking about this morning, after talking with an old friend yesterday.

Why do you let my grief scare you?

Why can’t I just talk about Natasha how ever I want?  She was MY wife, not yours!

Why can’t you just listen and try not to fix me?  “You just need to focus on your daughter’s smile, and everything will be alright.”

Why do you give me an arbitrary timeline and act as if it is the word of some God?  “So, how long has it been since your wife died?”

Why do you try to insist on measuring the severity of my grief by saying, “So, have you been dating?”

Why do you need to suggest that a man needs a woman to raise a girl, “Girls need a mother, it’s just good for them.”?

Wow, you really are an expert on grief!  So have you ever lost a spouse, no?  How about a parent, sibling, or good friend,  no?  I guess you haven’t had much experience with grief, yet you are so wise when it comes to my grief.

I know, I should relax, you are a good person and you are just trying to help, and, maybe I am being too sensitive.

All I ask, please let my grief be just the way it is.

One of the most fundamental aspect of our species is that we are constantly comparing everything.  Walking down the street, our brains are constantly comparing the faces of strangers to faces of people we know.  Isn’t that? …no, she’s too tall to be her.  Comparing helps us cross the street and be safe—we have an image of a safe crosswalk in our brains, and we compare what we see on the street with that image before our feet leave the curb.  Most comparisons keep us safe and healthy, while others simply make life far more complicated than it has to be. 

     I have watched loved ones turn into corpses, and, I somehow managed to survive.  Being alive means I get to watch an amazing little girl grow up, but each and everyday, I daydream of what life would be like if Anisha’s mother and grandparents were still with us.  I try to look on the positive—I am the ONE who gets to raise an amazing little girl!  I get to feel her hand on my face in the morning, “Dada, wake up!  I’m hungry.”  I get to hear her say, “Daddy, look at my new dance move!” or “Daddy I wish I could hug you forever and never, ever let go!”  I try hard to remind myself of the precious joys of watching a girl who is a blend of my wife and I mature.  I try, yet I still feel this never ending abyss of pain, fear and anger.

There was always a bit of competition between Megan and I as to who could be the “favorite” parent.  It was playful, obviously, but between the two of us, we were always trying to get the “better” birthday present for Shelby, or take her to the more memorable thing to do, or tell the funniest joke.  Whomever could make Shelby laugh harder got to “win” that battle.

Megan won, more often than not.  When Shelby was younger, it was Disney princesses and ice-capades.  Pink everything and dance competitions. Every so often though, I would swoop in with something like fishing or a funny “dad” joke (to Shelby, at least), and I would get to win that day’s competition.

All of this was in good fun, and it only benefitted Shelby.  She got to experience multiple events, types of hobbies, or memories that she wouldn’t have otherwise.  It helped her form the interests she has today.

But, as I am sure you are aware, considering the fact that you are reading this on the Soaring Spirits website, Megan died a few years back.

Today has been a good day so far.  I love waking up and feeling passion for whatever is going to happen next in my life.  Like my daughter saying, “I have a Valentine’s Day card for Dada!  Here it is!”  As I help my daughter get ready for school, I take a deep breath and remind myself of one simple truth; getting Anisha ready and walking her to school in the sun and snow IS what life is all about!  I love that I truly appreciate simple things more, but I still miss so many things about Natasha, such as her food.

Megan spent a lot of time in her pajamas.  It kind of came with the territory, spending so much time in the hospital.  When she was home, she often wasn't nearly at 100%, so being in her pajamas was comfortable, warm, and easy.  If there was no need to been seen in public, she figured, why get all dressed up and ready? Pajamas made sense.

She was tiny.  Five feet, three inches, and at her absolute heaviest (after a double lung transplant and a lot of steroids) she was able to crack 110 pounds.  She spent more of the time in the sub-100 pound range. Still, she wore those same big baggy pajamas.

In the final year of her life, she struggled to keep 80 pounds on her frame.  Those pajamas fit her in a very specific way. The waistband was tight enough, but the flannel fabric draped off of her like curtains.  Her accompanying t-shirt seemed far, far too large, with the sleeves actually hanging down to her elbows.

When I eventually got around to clearing out some of her clothes after her death, I don’t know exactly why I kept some of her pajamas.  It may have been a small feeling of comfort in knowing that the things she wore so much weren’t just going away. Possibly, it felt a bit wasteful, knowing that they were so “broken in” that even a thrift store wouldn’t take them.

Mostly though, I imagine there was a lot of “oh, Shelby can wear these someday”

It’s now someday.