Two years ago Brian and I invited a bunch of our Jewish friends to join us for a movie and Chinese food. We saw Les Miserables and went out for one of the worst Chinese meals ever. We didn't imagine that it would be our last time sharing in that tradition. We didn't know that it would be the last movie he ever saw, or that it would be the last time we went out for a meal together. We had no idea that just a few days later he would become very sick or that just two weeks later the doctor would tell me that he was dying.
All we knew then was that we were in love, and that we were sharing a fun day with friends. We were looking forward to 2013, and expecting to share a wonderful new year. We were so blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, and that that day was more of an ending than a beginning.
Two years later and I'm still struggling with this new normal. I have many good things in my life. I have great friends, and meaningful relationships. I have newly found strength and gratitude. Still, I struggle with my losses.
I'm grateful for the memories. I'm grateful for so much. But my losses are still so real.
Today we saw Imitation Game and ate at one of Brian's favorite restaurants. He would have loved the movie. He would have loved sharing the day with our friends. I loved the movie. I loved being with people I love, but I still can't fathom how that wonderful group that I spent the day with didn't include him. In just a few days it will be two years sine we knew he was really sick. In just a few weeks it will be two years sine he left our home for the last time. Two years since the doctor told me he was dying. Two years since I told Brian he was dying. Two years since a parade of horror, bad luck, and pain.
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Time adds new perspective. It let's the raw edges smooth. It let's the shock wear off. It lets reality set in. Time makes room for laughter and love to return. It allows the most broken of hearts feel again. But no amount of time can erase the loss or make the pain OK.
Today wasn't a bad day. Today wasn't drenched in sorrow, but the loss was with me all day. A loss that I am learning to live with despite the fact that I will never be comfortable in it.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Saturday, December 6, 2014
The gift of love
Thursday should have been Brian's 50th birthday. I expected the day to be difficult. I didn't expect it to be as difficult and painful as it was. It hurt. On a day when we should have been celebrating life, I was thrown back into all sorts of memories of his death. While it seems like it shouldn't have been so, the anniversary of his birth was even harder than the anniversary of his death.
When the pain of memory became crushing, I was rescued by friends and people that I love. A very select few knew exactly how to reach out, and one knew exactly what to say and do to help me turn away from the pain of death and back towards the joy of life.
There are parts of me that will never recover from Brian's death. There are memories of his dying that will always haunt me. But I know what Brian wanted for me. He wanted me to live, to be happy, to laugh, and to love again; and while a year ago these things seemed impossible, I know that despite the loss I can live and love. I know now that I must love in order to live, and despite the fact that I will never stop loving Brian, I have it in me to give and accept love from someone else. I also know that while I often feel weak and cowardly inside, it is a thing of courage to open my heart to love again when it can lead to more loss.
I loved Brian totally and completely. Our years together were so happy. Our relationship was such a gift. Without love life is a compromise. I don't want that. I want to live life to its fullest. I want my life to have meaning.
Thursday was an unbelievably hard day, but by Thursday night I knew that love would save me and allow me to experience happiness again. The gift of Brian's love let me know how wonderful life can be. It will be the gift of another that let's me experience that wonder and joy once more.
When the pain of memory became crushing, I was rescued by friends and people that I love. A very select few knew exactly how to reach out, and one knew exactly what to say and do to help me turn away from the pain of death and back towards the joy of life.
There are parts of me that will never recover from Brian's death. There are memories of his dying that will always haunt me. But I know what Brian wanted for me. He wanted me to live, to be happy, to laugh, and to love again; and while a year ago these things seemed impossible, I know that despite the loss I can live and love. I know now that I must love in order to live, and despite the fact that I will never stop loving Brian, I have it in me to give and accept love from someone else. I also know that while I often feel weak and cowardly inside, it is a thing of courage to open my heart to love again when it can lead to more loss.
I loved Brian totally and completely. Our years together were so happy. Our relationship was such a gift. Without love life is a compromise. I don't want that. I want to live life to its fullest. I want my life to have meaning.
Thursday was an unbelievably hard day, but by Thursday night I knew that love would save me and allow me to experience happiness again. The gift of Brian's love let me know how wonderful life can be. It will be the gift of another that let's me experience that wonder and joy once more.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thanksgiving
Today is the day when we are supposed to be thankful. We're supposed to spend the day with our families laughing and eating.
I have so much to be thankful for; much more than most. I'm thankful for my parents, sister, and all my nieces and nephews. I'm thankful for the love of friends. I'm thankful that I live comfortably. But on Thanksgiving, it is hard to not focus on the loss.
Today is my second Thanksgiving without Brian. Two years ago we spent Thanksgiving at home, with a house full of people we love - happy and, we thought, healthy. Who knew that Briand's stomach ache after dinner was the cancer and not the turkey?
Last year on Thanksgiving I was recovering from back surgery. My parents were here with me, but it was a non-holiday. It was easy to ignore Thanksgiving.
This year I was supposed to fly to New York to spend the holiday with my sister's family and my parents, but the weather had different ideas. Ridiculously long flight delays made me cancel the trip. Honestly, I wasn't disappointed. I would have loved to see my nephew, but I was dreading spending Thanksgiving with my family. How can it be a holiday with family if Brian isn't there? It can't.
Grief has become private. I know longer wear it publically on my face or on my sleeve. It's still very much with me on a daily basis, but I don't have the energy to let it loose, and others have list their patience with it. Its been 19 months, the new normal is supposed to be comfortable. It isn't. Especially on Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is a cruel reminder of the one thing we were most thankful for and that was taken away. I'm very grateful for the time together that we shared. Until the cancer it was all good. But he was given a death sentence when he had just turned 48.
I'll be spending this afternoon with friends. We'll laugh, we'll eat and it will be fine. It will be better than fine, it will be fun. But family Thanksgivings will never again feel right. I'll continue to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I hope that one of these years, my grief finds a place within me where it no longer casts a shadow on my gratitude.
I have so much to be thankful for; much more than most. I'm thankful for my parents, sister, and all my nieces and nephews. I'm thankful for the love of friends. I'm thankful that I live comfortably. But on Thanksgiving, it is hard to not focus on the loss.
Today is my second Thanksgiving without Brian. Two years ago we spent Thanksgiving at home, with a house full of people we love - happy and, we thought, healthy. Who knew that Briand's stomach ache after dinner was the cancer and not the turkey?
Last year on Thanksgiving I was recovering from back surgery. My parents were here with me, but it was a non-holiday. It was easy to ignore Thanksgiving.
This year I was supposed to fly to New York to spend the holiday with my sister's family and my parents, but the weather had different ideas. Ridiculously long flight delays made me cancel the trip. Honestly, I wasn't disappointed. I would have loved to see my nephew, but I was dreading spending Thanksgiving with my family. How can it be a holiday with family if Brian isn't there? It can't.
Grief has become private. I know longer wear it publically on my face or on my sleeve. It's still very much with me on a daily basis, but I don't have the energy to let it loose, and others have list their patience with it. Its been 19 months, the new normal is supposed to be comfortable. It isn't. Especially on Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is a cruel reminder of the one thing we were most thankful for and that was taken away. I'm very grateful for the time together that we shared. Until the cancer it was all good. But he was given a death sentence when he had just turned 48.
I'll be spending this afternoon with friends. We'll laugh, we'll eat and it will be fine. It will be better than fine, it will be fun. But family Thanksgivings will never again feel right. I'll continue to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I hope that one of these years, my grief finds a place within me where it no longer casts a shadow on my gratitude.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Grief and Time
Today I spoke with a friend of mine who experienced the loss of his wife around the same time that I lost Brian. We have spoken often of our losses and our grief. A year ago at this time, neither of us understood how we could possible survive, but we have. Life goes on, we remember how to laugh, we remember how to enjoy things, we accept new good things into our lives. But that doesn't mean that one ever moves on from their loss. You don't. Time smooths the ragged edges, new experiences bring satisfaction, new friendship and relationships bring joy; but the loss is always there and it always will be. It changes from a public thing to a private thing.
In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide. It is on our faces and in our voices. Strangers may not understand it, but they see it. As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day. Smiles and laughter return. Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it. At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter. It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.
I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it. I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again! But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable. There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts. It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself. If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss. That pain never goes away. It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface. Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened.
I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss. I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced. I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be. I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.
In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide. It is on our faces and in our voices. Strangers may not understand it, but they see it. As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day. Smiles and laughter return. Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it. At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter. It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.
I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it. I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again! But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable. There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts. It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself. If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss. That pain never goes away. It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface. Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened.
I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss. I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced. I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be. I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Before and After
On Monday morning it will be a year and a half. Eighteen months ago I lived some of the hardest days of my life.
When you are in the midst if it, the pain is so incompassing that you don't know how you'll possibly survive. The death of your husband, the end of a life you loved, the end of a life you shared; it is horrible. The grief doesn't stop with time, but life goes on and the experience of the grief changes. As a good friend describes it, when the loss is fresh it is your entire experience; you life within the grief. As time passes, the grief doesnt go away but it becomes a part of your life as opposed to your entire experience. Like it or not, life goes on and the loss becomes just a part of it. The pain does not lessen, but it allows room for other experiences and emotions.
A year and a half later, I miss Brian every day. I miss the life we shared. I still have trouble understanding how I am living and experiencing new things - both good and bad - that Brian is not a part of. But I'm alive, and living means moving on and trying to build a new, happy, and fulfilling life.
I am living. I no longer feel like I'm just surviving. I have joy, gladness and love. I'm experiencing things every day that Brian will never experience. I'm finding room for happiness.
One thing that I'm realizing is that I was never truly happy before Brian. I didn't have a horrible childhood, but I was not a particularly happy child. My first marriage was not a good one, and I realize now how much I struggled to control things that were out of my control throughout that relationship.
I was never good at being alone. I was never comfortable with solitude. So now, I'm not returning to a former state of contentment, I'm trying to figure out how to be happy on my own. Something new that is hard and often terrifying.
I do have good times. I have formed new relationships and have enjoyed wonderful times. There are elements in this new life that make me extremely happy and bring me true joy. Things are not bad. But I'm lonely. Even after a great day, when I turn off the lights each night I am alone, and I'm still not comfortable with my own company. I still hate solitude.
I want more. I know that Brian is gone, and I know that I can be happy again, I just don't know how to make this new life happy. How to let my new found joy and love become the core of a new and happy life. I have to learn, relatively late in life, how to be happy and fulfilled with all the good that I have. I have to take the experience of joy that I learned with Brian, and apply it to a life without him. I know that I can do it, but it is a difficult thing to accomplish.
I question if my happiness was tied to my identity as Brian's wife rather to my identity as an individual. I'm no longer a wife, but I am still me. Better for the experience of true love, smarter for the experience of a healthy relationship, stronger for the pain and loss.
Life after Brian will never be the same, but it doesn't have to revert to the unhappiness of life before Brian. Life after can be beautiful. I can love, feel, enjoy and grow as a more whole individual. I can try to lessen my grasp on the loss, and allow the beauty and memory of love form the new and improved me. And even though this has been hard, I see and feel it happening. I'm not content with the whole of my life right now, but I am very happy with parts of it. I owe it to myself to figure this out and to make a happy life for myself and the people that I love.
I don't know why Brian had to die so young. There is no reason. Bad things happen, and life is shaped by how we deal with them - how we move on.
I am moving on. I'm not leaving him behind because our love and marriage have shaped me. I'm taking him with me, because I'm not willing to give up happiness and love in my life.
When you are in the midst if it, the pain is so incompassing that you don't know how you'll possibly survive. The death of your husband, the end of a life you loved, the end of a life you shared; it is horrible. The grief doesn't stop with time, but life goes on and the experience of the grief changes. As a good friend describes it, when the loss is fresh it is your entire experience; you life within the grief. As time passes, the grief doesnt go away but it becomes a part of your life as opposed to your entire experience. Like it or not, life goes on and the loss becomes just a part of it. The pain does not lessen, but it allows room for other experiences and emotions.
A year and a half later, I miss Brian every day. I miss the life we shared. I still have trouble understanding how I am living and experiencing new things - both good and bad - that Brian is not a part of. But I'm alive, and living means moving on and trying to build a new, happy, and fulfilling life.
I am living. I no longer feel like I'm just surviving. I have joy, gladness and love. I'm experiencing things every day that Brian will never experience. I'm finding room for happiness.
One thing that I'm realizing is that I was never truly happy before Brian. I didn't have a horrible childhood, but I was not a particularly happy child. My first marriage was not a good one, and I realize now how much I struggled to control things that were out of my control throughout that relationship.
I was never good at being alone. I was never comfortable with solitude. So now, I'm not returning to a former state of contentment, I'm trying to figure out how to be happy on my own. Something new that is hard and often terrifying.
I do have good times. I have formed new relationships and have enjoyed wonderful times. There are elements in this new life that make me extremely happy and bring me true joy. Things are not bad. But I'm lonely. Even after a great day, when I turn off the lights each night I am alone, and I'm still not comfortable with my own company. I still hate solitude.
I want more. I know that Brian is gone, and I know that I can be happy again, I just don't know how to make this new life happy. How to let my new found joy and love become the core of a new and happy life. I have to learn, relatively late in life, how to be happy and fulfilled with all the good that I have. I have to take the experience of joy that I learned with Brian, and apply it to a life without him. I know that I can do it, but it is a difficult thing to accomplish.
I question if my happiness was tied to my identity as Brian's wife rather to my identity as an individual. I'm no longer a wife, but I am still me. Better for the experience of true love, smarter for the experience of a healthy relationship, stronger for the pain and loss.
Life after Brian will never be the same, but it doesn't have to revert to the unhappiness of life before Brian. Life after can be beautiful. I can love, feel, enjoy and grow as a more whole individual. I can try to lessen my grasp on the loss, and allow the beauty and memory of love form the new and improved me. And even though this has been hard, I see and feel it happening. I'm not content with the whole of my life right now, but I am very happy with parts of it. I owe it to myself to figure this out and to make a happy life for myself and the people that I love.
I don't know why Brian had to die so young. There is no reason. Bad things happen, and life is shaped by how we deal with them - how we move on.
I am moving on. I'm not leaving him behind because our love and marriage have shaped me. I'm taking him with me, because I'm not willing to give up happiness and love in my life.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Lonely
I'm lonely.
I have amazing friends, and I spend time with them. When I'm with people I care about I can feel joy, and I can experience laughter. I can forget that I'm lonely for a time. But at the end of the day, I go to bed alone. I wake up alone. I come home from work, and I'm alone. I eat meals (or skip meals) alone. I do the laundry, wash the dishes, sweep the floor - alone. Nobody greats me with a hug. Nobody asks how my day was. Nobody tells me about their day, discusses world events, talks to me about people we know, because nobody is there.
I have love, I have friends; but I have no partner to come home to. To share my life with. I have never been good alone. I hate living alone. I shouldn't feel lonely because I have so many wonderful people in my life, and yet I am alone and lonely.
How do I make what I have enough? How do I become comfortable living by myself? How does this existence become fulfilling?
I have amazing friends, and I spend time with them. When I'm with people I care about I can feel joy, and I can experience laughter. I can forget that I'm lonely for a time. But at the end of the day, I go to bed alone. I wake up alone. I come home from work, and I'm alone. I eat meals (or skip meals) alone. I do the laundry, wash the dishes, sweep the floor - alone. Nobody greats me with a hug. Nobody asks how my day was. Nobody tells me about their day, discusses world events, talks to me about people we know, because nobody is there.
I have love, I have friends; but I have no partner to come home to. To share my life with. I have never been good alone. I hate living alone. I shouldn't feel lonely because I have so many wonderful people in my life, and yet I am alone and lonely.
How do I make what I have enough? How do I become comfortable living by myself? How does this existence become fulfilling?
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Celebrate life?
Today was my birthday, and it was fine, mostly because it was just another day. I didn't have special plans. In fact, I didn't see anyone today. Other than an avalanche of Facebook wishes, I didn't have to think about birthdays, occasions or celebrations. I ran errands and cooked. I spoke with a few friends. I just got through the day.
I know that life is the right choice, and that aging beats the alternative. I'm grateful that I'm basically healthy and comfortable. I just wish I could find a reason to feel that my choice of life is the right choice.
One day, hopefully not too soon, I'll die. I'll simply cease to exist. I hope that I can find a way to make the time between now and then meaningful. Maybe then, in 2015, I'll feel a reason to celebrate life.
I know that life is the right choice, and that aging beats the alternative. I'm grateful that I'm basically healthy and comfortable. I just wish I could find a reason to feel that my choice of life is the right choice.
One day, hopefully not too soon, I'll die. I'll simply cease to exist. I hope that I can find a way to make the time between now and then meaningful. Maybe then, in 2015, I'll feel a reason to celebrate life.
Friday, September 19, 2014
A year and a Half
A year and a half ago was Brian's last night. A year and a half ago tomorrow morning I became a widow.
Was there something that I was supposed to learn in this time? Was I supposed to become smarter or stronger? Was I supposed to be more enlightened?
I'm not. I'm so much more alive than I was a year and a half ago, but I don't see any good that has come from Brian's death. It was random and cruel. It was meaningless.
I've always thought that the difficult times in my life were meant to teach me something. I no longer believe that. There isn't always a silver lining.
Edit: I just realized that it isn't a year and a half, it is a year and five months. Memory and emotion don't always coincide with anniversaries, and thank God for that.
Was there something that I was supposed to learn in this time? Was I supposed to become smarter or stronger? Was I supposed to be more enlightened?
I'm not. I'm so much more alive than I was a year and a half ago, but I don't see any good that has come from Brian's death. It was random and cruel. It was meaningless.
I've always thought that the difficult times in my life were meant to teach me something. I no longer believe that. There isn't always a silver lining.
Edit: I just realized that it isn't a year and a half, it is a year and five months. Memory and emotion don't always coincide with anniversaries, and thank God for that.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Another Goodbye
This morning I had to put my sweet kitty, Tater to sleep. "To Sleep", what a comforting euphemism. He's not sleeping, he's dead, and I'm so so sad. When Brian and I met, he had one cat and I had two. Tater was ours. The kitty we both fell in love with and invited into our family together. He was the sweetest, most cuddly, loveable cat we had ever met, and he brought us so many smiles.
He was an old boy - at least 16 and very likely 18 years old. He lived a long and good life, but somehow that is little comfort when you lose a pet. Ironically, and thankfully, my friend Sharon came to visit me today. Sharon was Brian's hospice nurse. She took care of him, and she took care of me. She is one of the most beautiful, kind, and compassionate people I know. We planned a short visit and a chance to catch up with each other. When we sat down to talk, and Tater came over for some loving, I knew that something was very wrong. His eye, which has been weepy on and off for a few months was covered with a bloody puss. He smelled like infection - a horrible hospital smell that signals the worst kind of wrong. I pulled him to me and saw that his beautiful coat was lackluster and course, and that he seemed to have blood, or puss, or something on his coat. Then I pulled back his lip, and saw what I thought was a huge abscess in his mouth.
Sharon, who knows more about end of life care than I ever hope to know, agreed that I should call the vet right away. I'm not allowed to lift, so she put him in his crate and drove us to the vet. While his vitals were ok, his mouth and eye weren't. The vet said that the infection and swelling in his mouth was almost certainly a malignant tumor. She let me know that I could bring him back during the week to biopsy it, but that if it was malignant, nothing could be done. How could I put my aged kitty through anesthesia and the pain of recovery if there was nothing to be done? His temperature wasn't high enough to suggest an infection. And then it all sort of clicked. That adorable snaggle tooth that he developed about five years ago was actually the result of a growing tumor. His weepy eye that never responded to medications was actually caused by the growing tumor pressing up through the roof of his mouth into his orbit. My sweet, loveable, purring kitty was very very sick, and beyond medical help.
Having seen cancer in cruel action, I knew that the kindest thing to do for Tater would be the hardest thing for me to do. So with a broken heart, I told the vet that it was time to euthanize him. She and Sharon both sadly agreed.
This is the fifth time I've had to euthanize a pet. Every other time, the decision was clear; they were in pain and suffering and had no quality of life left. Tater was purring - even as they put in his IV. As bad as things were, he didn't indicate that he has been in pain. He had slown down a lot,and slept most of the time, but he still ate and drank and purred so loudly that you couldn't believe anything could be wrong. But my once robust 25 pound kitty was down to 12.4 pounds, and as horrible as it felt, keeping him alive would have been incredibly selfish of me.
Life is so unfair. Things have been so hard lately. I can't stand any more loss or pain. I know that AI did the right thing. I know that if Brian had been here to help me with this decision, we would have done the same thing, and then we would have come home and cried together. I don't want to be selfish, but I want a break.
Today I was supposed to be in Fort Wayne attending my niece's wedding. Instead, I am home recuperating from another back surgery, and mourning the sweetest cat I have ever known. I have missed so many celebrations lately, and have dealt with so much loss. This just isn't the way life is supposed to be.
Goodbye, my Sweet Tater. I will miss you so much.
He was an old boy - at least 16 and very likely 18 years old. He lived a long and good life, but somehow that is little comfort when you lose a pet. Ironically, and thankfully, my friend Sharon came to visit me today. Sharon was Brian's hospice nurse. She took care of him, and she took care of me. She is one of the most beautiful, kind, and compassionate people I know. We planned a short visit and a chance to catch up with each other. When we sat down to talk, and Tater came over for some loving, I knew that something was very wrong. His eye, which has been weepy on and off for a few months was covered with a bloody puss. He smelled like infection - a horrible hospital smell that signals the worst kind of wrong. I pulled him to me and saw that his beautiful coat was lackluster and course, and that he seemed to have blood, or puss, or something on his coat. Then I pulled back his lip, and saw what I thought was a huge abscess in his mouth.
Sharon, who knows more about end of life care than I ever hope to know, agreed that I should call the vet right away. I'm not allowed to lift, so she put him in his crate and drove us to the vet. While his vitals were ok, his mouth and eye weren't. The vet said that the infection and swelling in his mouth was almost certainly a malignant tumor. She let me know that I could bring him back during the week to biopsy it, but that if it was malignant, nothing could be done. How could I put my aged kitty through anesthesia and the pain of recovery if there was nothing to be done? His temperature wasn't high enough to suggest an infection. And then it all sort of clicked. That adorable snaggle tooth that he developed about five years ago was actually the result of a growing tumor. His weepy eye that never responded to medications was actually caused by the growing tumor pressing up through the roof of his mouth into his orbit. My sweet, loveable, purring kitty was very very sick, and beyond medical help.
Having seen cancer in cruel action, I knew that the kindest thing to do for Tater would be the hardest thing for me to do. So with a broken heart, I told the vet that it was time to euthanize him. She and Sharon both sadly agreed.
This is the fifth time I've had to euthanize a pet. Every other time, the decision was clear; they were in pain and suffering and had no quality of life left. Tater was purring - even as they put in his IV. As bad as things were, he didn't indicate that he has been in pain. He had slown down a lot,and slept most of the time, but he still ate and drank and purred so loudly that you couldn't believe anything could be wrong. But my once robust 25 pound kitty was down to 12.4 pounds, and as horrible as it felt, keeping him alive would have been incredibly selfish of me.
Life is so unfair. Things have been so hard lately. I can't stand any more loss or pain. I know that AI did the right thing. I know that if Brian had been here to help me with this decision, we would have done the same thing, and then we would have come home and cried together. I don't want to be selfish, but I want a break.
Today I was supposed to be in Fort Wayne attending my niece's wedding. Instead, I am home recuperating from another back surgery, and mourning the sweetest cat I have ever known. I have missed so many celebrations lately, and have dealt with so much loss. This just isn't the way life is supposed to be.
Goodbye, my Sweet Tater. I will miss you so much.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Stuck
My life is starting to feel like one pathetic bad joke. I just want a break from it. Bad luck, bad circumstance, bad turn of fate. I'm so tired of it all.
Jokes on me.
Jokes on me.
Monday, September 1, 2014
can't rationalize it away
I'm depressed. I'm sad, lonely, exhausted, and finding it hard to rationalize away some crushing feelings of despair.
I come home from the hospital yesterday. I had five friends come visit today, and several others call or email, and I know that I'm so lucky to have so many people who genuinely care about me, but I'm depressed. I feel like I have to put on a smile and a sunny disposition, but I just want to cry. I want to curl up and hide from the world and just stop feeling, stop pretending, stop putting on a good face for others and just allow myself to be genuine in my pain and grief.
Things have been hard. Too hard, and I feel like people either over or underestimate me. They assume that I can manage with little help, or that I'm a wuss with no tolerance for pain. I have a lot of tollerance for pain, but my pain before surgery was unbearable. I do the best I can, but I do need help. The hardest part of all this, the biggest challenge is coping alone without Brian. Waking up alone every morning, turning out the lights alone every night.
I loved being married. I loved being a wife and partner. I hate facing every day and every new challenge alone. Some days are better than others, but I'm really starting to doubt that things will ever truly feel OK again.
I come home from the hospital yesterday. I had five friends come visit today, and several others call or email, and I know that I'm so lucky to have so many people who genuinely care about me, but I'm depressed. I feel like I have to put on a smile and a sunny disposition, but I just want to cry. I want to curl up and hide from the world and just stop feeling, stop pretending, stop putting on a good face for others and just allow myself to be genuine in my pain and grief.
Things have been hard. Too hard, and I feel like people either over or underestimate me. They assume that I can manage with little help, or that I'm a wuss with no tolerance for pain. I have a lot of tollerance for pain, but my pain before surgery was unbearable. I do the best I can, but I do need help. The hardest part of all this, the biggest challenge is coping alone without Brian. Waking up alone every morning, turning out the lights alone every night.
I loved being married. I loved being a wife and partner. I hate facing every day and every new challenge alone. Some days are better than others, but I'm really starting to doubt that things will ever truly feel OK again.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Going Home
I'm writing this from a hospital bed after back surgery. My second in 10 months. Since Brian died I have had three surgeries and I don't know how many eye injections. None of these procedures/surgeries have been awful, what has been awful is the fact that Brian hasn't been here with me. Each time I get disturbing news from a doctor, I still turn to look for him. He who was always there to hold my hand, give me a hug, let me know that everything was going to be OK and that we would deal with it together. But that's not how life works.
I'll never forget that awful, empty, crushing pain when the doctor told me that Brian was dying. I could hold his hand, hug him, be there to deal with it together, but I couldn't do anything to make things alright. Three and a half months later, he died in my arms.
I'm not going to die for a long time. Despite some serious medical issues, I'm pretty healthy. And somehow I have to learn to manage my health and my life alone. I'm going to go home later today, and I'm going to be alone. I have friends that will visit and help, I have a neighbor who will walk Lola and feed Tater, I have lots of love and blessings, but Brian, my love, my strength, my partner in life is gone. That hurts more than the back and leg pain, more than the eye pain, more than the incision pain.
When we married it was forever; until death do we part. Who knew that death would come for Brian when he was just 48? Who knew that life could be so cruel? That the love of my life would be with me for only 9 short years?
So I'm going home, but that just means I'm going back to my house. Brian and I together made it a home. Brian's love made everything OK. And while Brian and I never stopped loving each other, he stopped breathing. His big beautiful heart stopped beating. He can't help me make everything OK anymore. I miss him. I miss him more than I can find words to express.
There is no home without Brian.
I'll never forget that awful, empty, crushing pain when the doctor told me that Brian was dying. I could hold his hand, hug him, be there to deal with it together, but I couldn't do anything to make things alright. Three and a half months later, he died in my arms.
I'm not going to die for a long time. Despite some serious medical issues, I'm pretty healthy. And somehow I have to learn to manage my health and my life alone. I'm going to go home later today, and I'm going to be alone. I have friends that will visit and help, I have a neighbor who will walk Lola and feed Tater, I have lots of love and blessings, but Brian, my love, my strength, my partner in life is gone. That hurts more than the back and leg pain, more than the eye pain, more than the incision pain.
When we married it was forever; until death do we part. Who knew that death would come for Brian when he was just 48? Who knew that life could be so cruel? That the love of my life would be with me for only 9 short years?
So I'm going home, but that just means I'm going back to my house. Brian and I together made it a home. Brian's love made everything OK. And while Brian and I never stopped loving each other, he stopped breathing. His big beautiful heart stopped beating. He can't help me make everything OK anymore. I miss him. I miss him more than I can find words to express.
There is no home without Brian.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Pain, Fear, and Quality of Life
Today I saw the doctor and had another injection in my eye. I've lost count of how many injections I've had - enough to know that the thought of it is so much worse than the reality. Enough to know that it might be uncomfortable, but it won't hurt. Enough to know that it will bring me quick but temporary relief from my pain. Enough that it should feel routine, but injection days still bring me to tears. Not from pain or fear, but from the sadness of knowing that Brian isn't there with me. He came to my appointments with me. He was always in the room when I had the injections. And he was always - even when horrible Dr. Schoch didn't sufficiently numb my eye causing me pain and permanent damage - a calming living presence letting me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything would be OK.
I don't know that anymore. Today I had an injection. Tomorrow morning have another discectomy. Dr. Prall agrees with me that both my eye and my back problems probably stem from an auto-immune condition causing my body to attack the collagen in my retina and spinal disks. My initial relief that a doctor finally listened to me and confirmed my suspicion was quickly followed by incredible fear.
We've been trying to manage this problem for for almost three and a half years. If the Humira doesn't control it, I don't know what medical options remain. With my eye, I've already had cataract surgery, so if we can't control the edema, I can get steroid injections periodically to reduce the swelling and pain. What are the options for my back?
This is my second discectomy on the same disc in less than ten months. If the Humira isn't effective, the disc or others can bulge again. The pain has been unbearable - even though many people, including those closest to me, think that I have no tolerance for pain and like to be a drama queen. The incision pain from the surgery will be horrible for a few days, then I'll slowly recover and gain strength. I'll likely miss 6-8 weeks of work and income. I need to go to rehab because I can't come home alone. Despite my pain I had to beg doctors for a quick surgery, deal with insurance, research recovery options, and make plans for myself and my pets because I'm alone - without Brian I have no advocate. And though it wasn't easy, I did it, and it will be fine. But what if there is a next time? I'm terrified to even think about it! If the Humira doesn't work, will I be facing another back surgery next year?
I know that many people would tell me to relax and not worry until it happens, but how do I do that? This type of autoimmune condition has no cure. If the drugs can't get me and keep me in remission, these problems will repeat, and I don't know what I will do. This has been my biggest fear since Brian died - facing the very real risk that I might be visually impaired or compromised in terms of mobility, alone, and in severe pain.
What will I do? Where will I end up? How will I live, and what kind of quality of life will I have? Maybe I shouldn't let my mind wander. But part of surviving, part of managing and taking control is having a plan. I don't know how to plan for a future of extreme pain and limited ability. I don't know how to face those possibilities alone. I don't know that I want to face those possibilities at all.
I am terrified and I feel alone. Brian would tell me to be strong and to ask for help, and I do, but Brian also believed that quality of life was important. Alone, frightened, in pain - what kind if quality is that?
I wish he was here to help me sort through these thought and fears. I'm afraid to discuss it with anyone, and I am terrified.
I don't know that anymore. Today I had an injection. Tomorrow morning have another discectomy. Dr. Prall agrees with me that both my eye and my back problems probably stem from an auto-immune condition causing my body to attack the collagen in my retina and spinal disks. My initial relief that a doctor finally listened to me and confirmed my suspicion was quickly followed by incredible fear.
We've been trying to manage this problem for for almost three and a half years. If the Humira doesn't control it, I don't know what medical options remain. With my eye, I've already had cataract surgery, so if we can't control the edema, I can get steroid injections periodically to reduce the swelling and pain. What are the options for my back?
This is my second discectomy on the same disc in less than ten months. If the Humira isn't effective, the disc or others can bulge again. The pain has been unbearable - even though many people, including those closest to me, think that I have no tolerance for pain and like to be a drama queen. The incision pain from the surgery will be horrible for a few days, then I'll slowly recover and gain strength. I'll likely miss 6-8 weeks of work and income. I need to go to rehab because I can't come home alone. Despite my pain I had to beg doctors for a quick surgery, deal with insurance, research recovery options, and make plans for myself and my pets because I'm alone - without Brian I have no advocate. And though it wasn't easy, I did it, and it will be fine. But what if there is a next time? I'm terrified to even think about it! If the Humira doesn't work, will I be facing another back surgery next year?
I know that many people would tell me to relax and not worry until it happens, but how do I do that? This type of autoimmune condition has no cure. If the drugs can't get me and keep me in remission, these problems will repeat, and I don't know what I will do. This has been my biggest fear since Brian died - facing the very real risk that I might be visually impaired or compromised in terms of mobility, alone, and in severe pain.
What will I do? Where will I end up? How will I live, and what kind of quality of life will I have? Maybe I shouldn't let my mind wander. But part of surviving, part of managing and taking control is having a plan. I don't know how to plan for a future of extreme pain and limited ability. I don't know how to face those possibilities alone. I don't know that I want to face those possibilities at all.
I am terrified and I feel alone. Brian would tell me to be strong and to ask for help, and I do, but Brian also believed that quality of life was important. Alone, frightened, in pain - what kind if quality is that?
I wish he was here to help me sort through these thought and fears. I'm afraid to discuss it with anyone, and I am terrified.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Slap in the Face
It has been over a year and four months since Brian died. Enough time for the jagged edges of that wound to scab over. Enough time to take off my wedding ring, his wedding ring, and my widow's ring. Enough time to move to reluctant acceptance. This is my life; I am a widow.
But the shock of aloneness doesn't stop reappearing with the painful surprise of a slap in the face. The realization that no matter what the circumstance, I have to face life alone. The understanding that no amount of love and friendship can fill the void left by Brian's death.
To Brian I was the most important person in the world, as he was to me. My needs were equally important to him, and vice versa. This isn't true about my parents, my sister, or anyone else. I never had to lean on Brian because he always, in good times and bad, lifted me up.
That's what love is. That's what our marriage was. We lived together as a unit -two individuals that acted as one. Always there for each other, always supporting each other, always considering the needs of the other perhaps before considering our own.
I miss that. I miss Brian's nurturing presence in my life. I miss having a partner in life. I miss being a partner in Brian's life.
Things have been extremely challenging lately. I'm in horrible pain and facing surgery - my third surgery in ten months. Chronic pain is exhausting and depressing, and I feel that I have been given a bit more than I can manage. The hardest part is facing it all alone. I have no advocate. I need argue with doctors and insurance companies. I need to make post-surgical arrangements. I need to learn to calm my own fears. I need to manage everyone around me who, with the very best of intentions, have shown that while they love me, they don't view me as strong or self sufficient. The well meaning but misguided actions of others have added insult to injury. I'm in horrible pain, I'm exhausted, I'm insulted, and I'm frightened. I'm facing my biggest fear - the fear of being alone and ill-equipped to deal with the challenges that life is throwing at me. A fear that Brian understood and erased just by being alive.
But the shock of aloneness doesn't stop reappearing with the painful surprise of a slap in the face. The realization that no matter what the circumstance, I have to face life alone. The understanding that no amount of love and friendship can fill the void left by Brian's death.
To Brian I was the most important person in the world, as he was to me. My needs were equally important to him, and vice versa. This isn't true about my parents, my sister, or anyone else. I never had to lean on Brian because he always, in good times and bad, lifted me up.
That's what love is. That's what our marriage was. We lived together as a unit -two individuals that acted as one. Always there for each other, always supporting each other, always considering the needs of the other perhaps before considering our own.
I miss that. I miss Brian's nurturing presence in my life. I miss having a partner in life. I miss being a partner in Brian's life.
Things have been extremely challenging lately. I'm in horrible pain and facing surgery - my third surgery in ten months. Chronic pain is exhausting and depressing, and I feel that I have been given a bit more than I can manage. The hardest part is facing it all alone. I have no advocate. I need argue with doctors and insurance companies. I need to make post-surgical arrangements. I need to learn to calm my own fears. I need to manage everyone around me who, with the very best of intentions, have shown that while they love me, they don't view me as strong or self sufficient. The well meaning but misguided actions of others have added insult to injury. I'm in horrible pain, I'm exhausted, I'm insulted, and I'm frightened. I'm facing my biggest fear - the fear of being alone and ill-equipped to deal with the challenges that life is throwing at me. A fear that Brian understood and erased just by being alive.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Life is Unfair
At a very young age, my parents instilled on me the message that life is not fair. I don't think that this is a lesson that needs to be taught, it is a lesson learned through experience.
I try not to wallow in self pity. I know how in so many ways I am truly lucky and blessed, and I am grateful for so much. Still, there are times when life seems to dole out more than my fair share of pain and grief, and while I always try to look at the positives, sometimes it becomes a real challenge.
When Brian died, everything changed. My priorities were changed, my view of myself changed, my hopes and dreams changed. Things that used to seem important just don't matter anymore. I no longer judge myself through the critical eyes of others - I judge myself with my own values and goals, and by how true I am to myself. I was forced to grow up, and while I'll probably always be one of the most emotional people that I know, I no longer view myself as emotionally immature. I am strong and resilient; a survivor.
Brian and I had an amazing and special relationship. We knew each other so well that we could care for and be there for each other in just the way we needed without conversation. He was my rock and my support, and the hardest thing about processing his death was that he wasn't there to support me in my grief. It sounds crazy, it sounds selfish, but it's true.
Since Brian has been gone, I've had to learn to manage on my own. Its not always easy - its lonely. I've had to assume all the responsibility of the household. I've had to rely on my own abilities and my ability to ask for help to accomplish anything. I have to find in myself the strength, support, and validation that he always provided. Its hard, but I'm managing with the help of my friends.
The times when it all becomes too challenging and too lonely is when I have to face my own pain, fear and uncertainty alone. Since Brian died I've had multiple health issues. My ongoing eye issues cause me chronic pain and leaves me with impaired vision. When the pain is bad, I feel so alone. My friends go above and beyond in helping me - showering me with love and care, driving me to doctor appointments, and more. I'm so fortunate, but at the end of the day, when I turn out the lights and climb into bed, the lonliness is overwhelming.
Last November I had spinal surgery. In April I had cataract surgery. I had love and support, and I came through, but I missed Brian so much.
Now my back is out again, and the pain is excruciating. I'm facing another back surgery and another long recovery. I know I'll be OK. I have a great surgeon, and he'll fix it. The surgery will work, the pain will stop and things will be better. I know this. But facing my third surgery in one year, dealing with pain that is much more extreme than last time, knowing what to expect from my upcoming recovery - its another slap in the face from loneliness. Its another reminder that I'm on my own, and it terrifies me.
I have friends who will help me. I even have someone special who makes it all bearable just by caring. I will get through it, my pain will go away, I'll heal and I'll be okay. But the terror of facing this alone is overwhelming. Living alone when I'm in extreme pain scares me. Being a burden to my friends and acquaintances embarrasses me. Appearing weak to others infuriates me. I can't just be.
I worry about what others think. I don't want to complain and appear weak or pathetic. I don't want to be seen as needy. I don't like to have to explain myself to others. But I am needy. I am in horrible pain, and it terrifies me to have to face it alone. I want to be seen as strong and independent, but right now I'm not. I want to have someone take care of me without viewing me as incapable. I want to turn out the light at night without worrying about what I'll do if the pain becomes too much to bear before the sun rises. I want to feel that safety that you have when you're in a strong partnership with the one you love.
I have friends. I have love. I have so many wonderful people and things in my life. But I have pain and I have fear, and when I'm alone and hurting, I can't help but feel that life is too unfair and that I just want a break from this pain, loss and fear.
I try not to wallow in self pity. I know how in so many ways I am truly lucky and blessed, and I am grateful for so much. Still, there are times when life seems to dole out more than my fair share of pain and grief, and while I always try to look at the positives, sometimes it becomes a real challenge.
When Brian died, everything changed. My priorities were changed, my view of myself changed, my hopes and dreams changed. Things that used to seem important just don't matter anymore. I no longer judge myself through the critical eyes of others - I judge myself with my own values and goals, and by how true I am to myself. I was forced to grow up, and while I'll probably always be one of the most emotional people that I know, I no longer view myself as emotionally immature. I am strong and resilient; a survivor.
Brian and I had an amazing and special relationship. We knew each other so well that we could care for and be there for each other in just the way we needed without conversation. He was my rock and my support, and the hardest thing about processing his death was that he wasn't there to support me in my grief. It sounds crazy, it sounds selfish, but it's true.
Since Brian has been gone, I've had to learn to manage on my own. Its not always easy - its lonely. I've had to assume all the responsibility of the household. I've had to rely on my own abilities and my ability to ask for help to accomplish anything. I have to find in myself the strength, support, and validation that he always provided. Its hard, but I'm managing with the help of my friends.
The times when it all becomes too challenging and too lonely is when I have to face my own pain, fear and uncertainty alone. Since Brian died I've had multiple health issues. My ongoing eye issues cause me chronic pain and leaves me with impaired vision. When the pain is bad, I feel so alone. My friends go above and beyond in helping me - showering me with love and care, driving me to doctor appointments, and more. I'm so fortunate, but at the end of the day, when I turn out the lights and climb into bed, the lonliness is overwhelming.
Last November I had spinal surgery. In April I had cataract surgery. I had love and support, and I came through, but I missed Brian so much.
Now my back is out again, and the pain is excruciating. I'm facing another back surgery and another long recovery. I know I'll be OK. I have a great surgeon, and he'll fix it. The surgery will work, the pain will stop and things will be better. I know this. But facing my third surgery in one year, dealing with pain that is much more extreme than last time, knowing what to expect from my upcoming recovery - its another slap in the face from loneliness. Its another reminder that I'm on my own, and it terrifies me.
I have friends who will help me. I even have someone special who makes it all bearable just by caring. I will get through it, my pain will go away, I'll heal and I'll be okay. But the terror of facing this alone is overwhelming. Living alone when I'm in extreme pain scares me. Being a burden to my friends and acquaintances embarrasses me. Appearing weak to others infuriates me. I can't just be.
I worry about what others think. I don't want to complain and appear weak or pathetic. I don't want to be seen as needy. I don't like to have to explain myself to others. But I am needy. I am in horrible pain, and it terrifies me to have to face it alone. I want to be seen as strong and independent, but right now I'm not. I want to have someone take care of me without viewing me as incapable. I want to turn out the light at night without worrying about what I'll do if the pain becomes too much to bear before the sun rises. I want to feel that safety that you have when you're in a strong partnership with the one you love.
I have friends. I have love. I have so many wonderful people and things in my life. But I have pain and I have fear, and when I'm alone and hurting, I can't help but feel that life is too unfair and that I just want a break from this pain, loss and fear.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Love
When Brian received his cancer diagnosis, he knew right away that it was terminal. They told him 8-12 months without chemo, two years with chemo. After much deliberation, he opted for chemo. It didn't extend his life. It didn't buy him more quality time. He died three and a half months later having never come back home from his surgery. But chemo is a topic for another post.
Brian was so smart and so introspective, and he processed his mortality quickly and privately. He also thought a lot about me, and how his death would effect my life. Often throughout his illness he spoke of how his dying was so much harder on me than it was on him. I find it hard to believe that that could be true, but I hope it is. I know how hard it has been for me, and I would like to think that it was easier for him, but I can't imagine that it was.
Brian and I had a rare and beautiful relationship. We had that kind of love that others dream about - a perfect non-demanding love that was always easy, always joyful, always true. So early on in his illness when he told me that he wanted me to love and to allow myself to fall in love again, I told him no and shut down the discussion.
Before he died he told me that he wanted me to live. He wanted me to be happy, to embrace life, and to live it for both of us. That was a hard thing to hear. After he died, I wanted to shrivel up and die myself. Suicide was attractive, but it was never an option as I promised him that I would live. And so I have, but loving again - that didn't seem possible. I always knew that what we had was special, and that I could never have that love again. What I didn't know, that Brian did, was that I couldn't go on living without love.
My life changed, and in many ways started, when Brian came into it. The love we shared made life beautiful. So when Brian wanted me to love again, he really wanted me to live. He knew that without love, my life wouldn't be worth living, so he didn't just give me permission to love again, he asked me to love again. He asked me to embrace life and live it fully, and he knew that without love I couldn't.
Now with some time and perspective, I am reminded of how smart Brian was, and just how completely he loved me. He was right - life without love can't be fully embraced. Without love, trust, and touch, life is stark and frightening.
About six months after Brian died, I just wanted someone to touch me - to validate that I was still alive by letting me feel a warm and tender touch. Brian and I were very physical - we always held hands, hugged, and kissed. When he died, I missed him so much in my life. I missed him in my bed. I missed his voice. I missed everything, but I didn't realize how much I missed his touch. I'm not talking about sex - I'm talking about the simple life affirming joy of a loving touch of a hand. I felt alone, ugly, undesirable, and half dead. I just needed to feel. I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't interested in sex. I craved being touched. I wanted someone to hold my hand, to hug me in more than just that chaste "poor-widow" way that people hugged me. I needed to feel connection with life, and that was gone.
Eight months after Brian died, I became good friends with a man whose wife was diagnosed with cancer about the same time Brian was. She died three months after Brian. We met in a bereavement group, and being in such similar places in our grief we formed an fast connection. I remember the first night we talked, we were both so broken. I cried for Brian, he cried for his wife. We just sat and cried together. And then, much to my horror, I asked if I could touch him. Under any other circumstances that would have been terrible, but he looked at me and he understood exactly what I meant. And so we held hands and we both cried for our respective loved ones. As deep as my grief was, as much as I was ready to give up my life, as pained and broken as I was; holding hands with him was the first life affirming moment I had after Brian's death.
We are still very good friends. We still talk about our losses, but we also talk about our lives. We've held hands, we've hugged, we've helped each other with emotional and practical matters, and on an emotional level an intimate relationship. So many of my friends have decided that we also have a secret intimate physical relationship. It makes me laugh. We've never kissed. We've never flirted with the idea. That is not in our future. He is very dear to me because together we navigated through some of the worst parts of our grief. By listening, by understanding, and by holding my hand, he helped me to look away from death and back towards life.
So when I look forward towards life, I know that to embrace it I have to embrace love. I understand what Brian wanted for me, and I want it for myself. I can't live without love. I don't know how anyone could. Allowing myself to love, is allowing myself to live. To love, trust and touch another affirms that life is worth living. Allowing myself to love is not turning away from Brian, it's honoring his wish for me to have a full life.
I'm still figuring this life thing out. I still have fears. I still miss Brian every day. But I will let myself love completely. I will never compare another person to Brian - he was one of kind, as we all are. I will never try to replace that relationship or hold it as a benchmark for others. But I will allow myself to love, and share, and touch, and live because I need that as much as I need the air that I breathe.
I am not just able to love. I live to love, or maybe I love to live, or maybe its all the same thing.
Brian was so smart and so introspective, and he processed his mortality quickly and privately. He also thought a lot about me, and how his death would effect my life. Often throughout his illness he spoke of how his dying was so much harder on me than it was on him. I find it hard to believe that that could be true, but I hope it is. I know how hard it has been for me, and I would like to think that it was easier for him, but I can't imagine that it was.
Brian and I had a rare and beautiful relationship. We had that kind of love that others dream about - a perfect non-demanding love that was always easy, always joyful, always true. So early on in his illness when he told me that he wanted me to love and to allow myself to fall in love again, I told him no and shut down the discussion.
Before he died he told me that he wanted me to live. He wanted me to be happy, to embrace life, and to live it for both of us. That was a hard thing to hear. After he died, I wanted to shrivel up and die myself. Suicide was attractive, but it was never an option as I promised him that I would live. And so I have, but loving again - that didn't seem possible. I always knew that what we had was special, and that I could never have that love again. What I didn't know, that Brian did, was that I couldn't go on living without love.
My life changed, and in many ways started, when Brian came into it. The love we shared made life beautiful. So when Brian wanted me to love again, he really wanted me to live. He knew that without love, my life wouldn't be worth living, so he didn't just give me permission to love again, he asked me to love again. He asked me to embrace life and live it fully, and he knew that without love I couldn't.
Now with some time and perspective, I am reminded of how smart Brian was, and just how completely he loved me. He was right - life without love can't be fully embraced. Without love, trust, and touch, life is stark and frightening.
About six months after Brian died, I just wanted someone to touch me - to validate that I was still alive by letting me feel a warm and tender touch. Brian and I were very physical - we always held hands, hugged, and kissed. When he died, I missed him so much in my life. I missed him in my bed. I missed his voice. I missed everything, but I didn't realize how much I missed his touch. I'm not talking about sex - I'm talking about the simple life affirming joy of a loving touch of a hand. I felt alone, ugly, undesirable, and half dead. I just needed to feel. I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't interested in sex. I craved being touched. I wanted someone to hold my hand, to hug me in more than just that chaste "poor-widow" way that people hugged me. I needed to feel connection with life, and that was gone.
Eight months after Brian died, I became good friends with a man whose wife was diagnosed with cancer about the same time Brian was. She died three months after Brian. We met in a bereavement group, and being in such similar places in our grief we formed an fast connection. I remember the first night we talked, we were both so broken. I cried for Brian, he cried for his wife. We just sat and cried together. And then, much to my horror, I asked if I could touch him. Under any other circumstances that would have been terrible, but he looked at me and he understood exactly what I meant. And so we held hands and we both cried for our respective loved ones. As deep as my grief was, as much as I was ready to give up my life, as pained and broken as I was; holding hands with him was the first life affirming moment I had after Brian's death.
We are still very good friends. We still talk about our losses, but we also talk about our lives. We've held hands, we've hugged, we've helped each other with emotional and practical matters, and on an emotional level an intimate relationship. So many of my friends have decided that we also have a secret intimate physical relationship. It makes me laugh. We've never kissed. We've never flirted with the idea. That is not in our future. He is very dear to me because together we navigated through some of the worst parts of our grief. By listening, by understanding, and by holding my hand, he helped me to look away from death and back towards life.
So when I look forward towards life, I know that to embrace it I have to embrace love. I understand what Brian wanted for me, and I want it for myself. I can't live without love. I don't know how anyone could. Allowing myself to love, is allowing myself to live. To love, trust and touch another affirms that life is worth living. Allowing myself to love is not turning away from Brian, it's honoring his wish for me to have a full life.
I'm still figuring this life thing out. I still have fears. I still miss Brian every day. But I will let myself love completely. I will never compare another person to Brian - he was one of kind, as we all are. I will never try to replace that relationship or hold it as a benchmark for others. But I will allow myself to love, and share, and touch, and live because I need that as much as I need the air that I breathe.
I am not just able to love. I live to love, or maybe I love to live, or maybe its all the same thing.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Changes
It's been 15 1/2 months since Brian died. When you lose your husband young, you know that everything will change. Life is no longer the same, but somehow you go on breathing. The loss becomes part of your reality, and everything in daily life changes and becomes harder. I expected this. I knew that grief would make life harder. I knew that my responsibilities would be greater. I knew that I would suffer more fears. What I didn't know or expect was how everyone would view me differently.
I've always been an emotional person, and I never hid my grief and my tears from those around me. As the grief matured and became less raw, I marveled at the fact that I survived. I would never have guessed that I could have the strength to survive such a devastating loss, but I did. I still mourn, I still grieve, but I live, I love, I work. I don't think I'm strong. I think that I had no choice but to survive. But, whereas in the past I always viewed myself as emotionally immature, I now see myself as emotionally strong. That's not to say I'm not an emotional person. I still can cry on the drop of a hat, but my thinking has changed. When you experience a profound loss you learn what is important and what isn't. Though my friends and family might not agree, I KNOW that I am emotionally strong and centered. Things that at one time would frazzle me, no longer matter. I have no energy for the bull-shit that once bogged me down.
So I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed to realize that many of my friends and family view me as weak, immature, and helpless. Some of my friends and family members seem to view me as a helpless five year old instead of as a strong 50 year old surviver.
I survived an unhappy childhood. I survived mental illness in my family. I survived date rape. I survived losing two husbands; the first to drug addiction, the second to cancer. I survived a failed career. I survived the loss of my hopes and dreams.
I am surviving, and despite my losses, I'm doing well. I have a lot of fears, but I don't let them cripple me. I need help, and I know how to ask for it. I'm suffering from chronic and severe physical pain, and I'm able to function and get done everything that I need, if not everything that I want. So when some members of my family and some of my good friends recently treated me like a child, I went through a gamete of emotions. Initially furious I tried to tell myself that people care about me and acted in love. The anger gave way to disappointment, the disappointment gave way to depression, and the depression turned back into anger.
If there is one thing that I have always hated, it is others telling me what to think, feel or do. I realize that in my family, I have always been treated like the baby. No matter how old I get or how capable I am, my immediate family always seems to think that they know what is best for me. They never consider my priorities, desires and dreams - they have always tried to project their values onto me, and it has always annoyed me. But recently, when my friends began to do the same thing, I was shocked. Shocked by the revelation that they think that they know what is best for me, and by the realization that they don't think that I'm capable of managing my life. Somewhere along the road, I have given them the impression that I need them to intervene on my behalf.
I am blessed with truly wonderful friends, who supported me and helped me through Brian's illness and death, and who continued to support me and help me after. I've had some health issues and relied on my friends to drive me to doctor appointments and help me with other challenges. Maybe I've been selfish and allowed them to help me too much. Maybe my needs became too much for them, and they aren't able to help me as much as I have needed. I don't know what they are thinking because they didn't respect me enough to talk to me about their concerns. Instead, they contacted my 78 year old mother and my 84 year old father who are dealing with their own issues, and told them that I am in pain and not managing. They implied that I need my elderly parents to come and take care of me because I am incapable of caring for myself. They never considered my feelings in this. They didn't think that this might be inappropriate and may have unpleasant consequences for me. They just acted as they saw fit without talking to me first.
So now I'm stuck in a terrible place because I love my friends and know that they meant well. I know that they thought that they were acting in my best interest. I know that they didn't intend to hurt me or create problems for me, but they did. Whatever their intent, I feel like they don't respect me or view me as an adult. I feel incredibly insulted, but I also am so grateful for all the truly wonderful things that they have done for me and don't want to damage the relationships. So I'm back to where I used to be so often in my life - trying to excuse the unacceptable behavior of others at my own expense.
When I tried to discuss my disappointment, I was shut down and shut out. Brian taught me to stand up for myself and respect myself. He taught me to not let others walk all over what I believe. I feel now that people dear to me are walking all over me, and while there is a part of me that wants to lash out in anger, there is another part of me that doesn't want to hurt anyone the way that I feel hurt by them.
So how do I ask for help? How do I find a balance of letting others help without letting them feel like they have some power over me? I don't know. I just know that I feel hurt, insulted and angry, and these feelings make me want to isolate myself from additional pain.
I've always been an emotional person, and I never hid my grief and my tears from those around me. As the grief matured and became less raw, I marveled at the fact that I survived. I would never have guessed that I could have the strength to survive such a devastating loss, but I did. I still mourn, I still grieve, but I live, I love, I work. I don't think I'm strong. I think that I had no choice but to survive. But, whereas in the past I always viewed myself as emotionally immature, I now see myself as emotionally strong. That's not to say I'm not an emotional person. I still can cry on the drop of a hat, but my thinking has changed. When you experience a profound loss you learn what is important and what isn't. Though my friends and family might not agree, I KNOW that I am emotionally strong and centered. Things that at one time would frazzle me, no longer matter. I have no energy for the bull-shit that once bogged me down.
So I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed to realize that many of my friends and family view me as weak, immature, and helpless. Some of my friends and family members seem to view me as a helpless five year old instead of as a strong 50 year old surviver.
I survived an unhappy childhood. I survived mental illness in my family. I survived date rape. I survived losing two husbands; the first to drug addiction, the second to cancer. I survived a failed career. I survived the loss of my hopes and dreams.
I am surviving, and despite my losses, I'm doing well. I have a lot of fears, but I don't let them cripple me. I need help, and I know how to ask for it. I'm suffering from chronic and severe physical pain, and I'm able to function and get done everything that I need, if not everything that I want. So when some members of my family and some of my good friends recently treated me like a child, I went through a gamete of emotions. Initially furious I tried to tell myself that people care about me and acted in love. The anger gave way to disappointment, the disappointment gave way to depression, and the depression turned back into anger.
If there is one thing that I have always hated, it is others telling me what to think, feel or do. I realize that in my family, I have always been treated like the baby. No matter how old I get or how capable I am, my immediate family always seems to think that they know what is best for me. They never consider my priorities, desires and dreams - they have always tried to project their values onto me, and it has always annoyed me. But recently, when my friends began to do the same thing, I was shocked. Shocked by the revelation that they think that they know what is best for me, and by the realization that they don't think that I'm capable of managing my life. Somewhere along the road, I have given them the impression that I need them to intervene on my behalf.
I am blessed with truly wonderful friends, who supported me and helped me through Brian's illness and death, and who continued to support me and help me after. I've had some health issues and relied on my friends to drive me to doctor appointments and help me with other challenges. Maybe I've been selfish and allowed them to help me too much. Maybe my needs became too much for them, and they aren't able to help me as much as I have needed. I don't know what they are thinking because they didn't respect me enough to talk to me about their concerns. Instead, they contacted my 78 year old mother and my 84 year old father who are dealing with their own issues, and told them that I am in pain and not managing. They implied that I need my elderly parents to come and take care of me because I am incapable of caring for myself. They never considered my feelings in this. They didn't think that this might be inappropriate and may have unpleasant consequences for me. They just acted as they saw fit without talking to me first.
So now I'm stuck in a terrible place because I love my friends and know that they meant well. I know that they thought that they were acting in my best interest. I know that they didn't intend to hurt me or create problems for me, but they did. Whatever their intent, I feel like they don't respect me or view me as an adult. I feel incredibly insulted, but I also am so grateful for all the truly wonderful things that they have done for me and don't want to damage the relationships. So I'm back to where I used to be so often in my life - trying to excuse the unacceptable behavior of others at my own expense.
When I tried to discuss my disappointment, I was shut down and shut out. Brian taught me to stand up for myself and respect myself. He taught me to not let others walk all over what I believe. I feel now that people dear to me are walking all over me, and while there is a part of me that wants to lash out in anger, there is another part of me that doesn't want to hurt anyone the way that I feel hurt by them.
So how do I ask for help? How do I find a balance of letting others help without letting them feel like they have some power over me? I don't know. I just know that I feel hurt, insulted and angry, and these feelings make me want to isolate myself from additional pain.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Incomplete
I went to the cemetery today. I don't really know why. It doesn't bring me comfort. In fact, it always upsets me. I guess its a place where I can talk to Brian out loud where nobody will see or judge.
I don't feel particularly close to Brian there. He isn't there. His body wasn't buried - just a small bag of ashes, I don't know what was harvested from his body - I don't want to. During the last months of his life they cut him open too many times. I saw the scars, I saw the staples, I saw the huge open gaping hole they left after the second surgery, and I saw his excruciating pain every few days when they changed the horrific dressing on that wound. No. Wound isn't the right word. It wasn't a wound, it was an incredibly large incision made to repair his ruptured stomach after the first futile surgery left him vulnerable. I saw the blood, the asitiis, the chemo, the nutrition - so many things that nobody should ever see. And I saw him deal with all that with such courage and grace while I fell apart.
He wanted to donate his body to science, and I wanted to honor his wishes. Still, the thought of them cutting open his lifeless body, removing organs, or bones, or tissues that once kept him alive feels like desecration. I love that he wanted to help others through his death, I hate the thought of it though.
So his grave is not a place where he rests. Its not a place where his body lies. It's just a hole with some ashes and a stone to tell people that he was once here and that he matters.
Rest in peace. What a ridiculous expression. There is no rest in death. Only the living can rest. Brian isn't at rest, he's dead. Gone.
People say the strangest things. The other day I posted a photo of a yearling on my Facebook page. It was beautiful. Tyrone commented that it was Brian coming back to look after me. I know it was meant to be comforting, but it was disturbing. I don't see or feel him in the sun, the rain, the deer, the flowers. Those things are not reminders of him. If anything, they are reminders that he is gone.
And I'm alive. And by most definitions I'm doing well. I have wonderful friends, I have love, I work, I breath. I experience joy and pleasure; but life isn't easy. It's incomplete. I'm not lonely, but I'm alone. I have amazing friends, incredible support, more love than I deserve, but at the end of the day I'm alone. I'm no longer sharing life - just moments of it.
And somehow the worst part is that I'm getting used to it. At some point others assume that I'm done grieving and that everything is okay. And in many ways I'm no longer actively grieving. I accept that he is gone. I accept that I am no longer his wife. I accept that this is my life, my reality. I'm somehow moving on and starting to think about my future. But I don't think that I will ever heal from experiencing his death and the unfairness of it. I try to remember that I didn't have the cancer, that all that happened to Brian - I was just a witness to it. But, how do you witness pain and death and heal? How do you accept the death of a wonderful person who was only given 48 years of life?
I'm healthy, and I expect to have many years ahead of me, but Brian's death ended the life I knew and loved. I'm alive, but somehow my life feels unnatural, inorganic. Life now comes in moments and spurts.
I suppose every widow feels this way, but nobody warns you about it. When the period of mourning is over - when you are forced to live a new reality - everything is unfamiliar. That isn't a bad thing, but it is uncomfortable. Maybe that's what is hard - feeling comfortable in a strange life.
I know that I have a pretty good life. I am grateful for so much, and I don't take it for granted, but building a new life is something we do in solitude. And I'm not good at solitude.
I so glad that this loss didn't rob me of the ability to love. Life without love would be horrific. I love, I laugh, I live, but I'm still waiting for the day when things feel comfortable, right, and complete.
I don't feel particularly close to Brian there. He isn't there. His body wasn't buried - just a small bag of ashes, I don't know what was harvested from his body - I don't want to. During the last months of his life they cut him open too many times. I saw the scars, I saw the staples, I saw the huge open gaping hole they left after the second surgery, and I saw his excruciating pain every few days when they changed the horrific dressing on that wound. No. Wound isn't the right word. It wasn't a wound, it was an incredibly large incision made to repair his ruptured stomach after the first futile surgery left him vulnerable. I saw the blood, the asitiis, the chemo, the nutrition - so many things that nobody should ever see. And I saw him deal with all that with such courage and grace while I fell apart.
He wanted to donate his body to science, and I wanted to honor his wishes. Still, the thought of them cutting open his lifeless body, removing organs, or bones, or tissues that once kept him alive feels like desecration. I love that he wanted to help others through his death, I hate the thought of it though.
So his grave is not a place where he rests. Its not a place where his body lies. It's just a hole with some ashes and a stone to tell people that he was once here and that he matters.
Rest in peace. What a ridiculous expression. There is no rest in death. Only the living can rest. Brian isn't at rest, he's dead. Gone.
People say the strangest things. The other day I posted a photo of a yearling on my Facebook page. It was beautiful. Tyrone commented that it was Brian coming back to look after me. I know it was meant to be comforting, but it was disturbing. I don't see or feel him in the sun, the rain, the deer, the flowers. Those things are not reminders of him. If anything, they are reminders that he is gone.
And I'm alive. And by most definitions I'm doing well. I have wonderful friends, I have love, I work, I breath. I experience joy and pleasure; but life isn't easy. It's incomplete. I'm not lonely, but I'm alone. I have amazing friends, incredible support, more love than I deserve, but at the end of the day I'm alone. I'm no longer sharing life - just moments of it.
And somehow the worst part is that I'm getting used to it. At some point others assume that I'm done grieving and that everything is okay. And in many ways I'm no longer actively grieving. I accept that he is gone. I accept that I am no longer his wife. I accept that this is my life, my reality. I'm somehow moving on and starting to think about my future. But I don't think that I will ever heal from experiencing his death and the unfairness of it. I try to remember that I didn't have the cancer, that all that happened to Brian - I was just a witness to it. But, how do you witness pain and death and heal? How do you accept the death of a wonderful person who was only given 48 years of life?
I'm healthy, and I expect to have many years ahead of me, but Brian's death ended the life I knew and loved. I'm alive, but somehow my life feels unnatural, inorganic. Life now comes in moments and spurts.
I suppose every widow feels this way, but nobody warns you about it. When the period of mourning is over - when you are forced to live a new reality - everything is unfamiliar. That isn't a bad thing, but it is uncomfortable. Maybe that's what is hard - feeling comfortable in a strange life.
I know that I have a pretty good life. I am grateful for so much, and I don't take it for granted, but building a new life is something we do in solitude. And I'm not good at solitude.
I so glad that this loss didn't rob me of the ability to love. Life without love would be horrific. I love, I laugh, I live, but I'm still waiting for the day when things feel comfortable, right, and complete.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Packing away
Brian is dead.
I felt his heart stop. I heard his last breath. I held his lifeless body in my arms. He's gone, and my broken heart no longer forgets that. I no longer reach for him in the middle of the night. I no longer turn in search of him for love, support or comfort. I have accepted the tragic reality that fate ripped him from my life too soon.
Our time together was brief, but oh so amazingly special. I carry his love in my heart; I carry his spirit in my being; I mourn for the man, the love, the marriage, the life. I miss him. But Brian is dead and I am not - even if at times it feels like I died too.
In recent weeks I find that I am able to start thinking in new ways. My sadness is less paralyzing, my loss less crippling. I am able to look at my life without Brian and to recognize that I want and need more. I can not accept living in this void forever. I want my life to have meaning. I want to live with hope for tomorrow. I don't want to replace Brian - he is not replaceable - but I want to respect his greatest gifts to me. I want to live my life with love and laughter. I want to feel peace in the warmth of the sun on my face. I want to feel happiness in the wonders of nature. I want to delight in the happiness and good fortune of those around me. I want to take control of my life; to change stressful things that are in my power to change. I want my life to be about living and not about obligation.
Since Brian died, life has been overwhelming, stressful, and harsh. It has been about acts of survival instead of acts of living. I realize now that it is in my power to reduce my stress and make my life more manageable. I know that there are steps that I can take to improve the quality of my life if I can muster the courage to take them on. I also know that this is what Brian would want for me.
So this past weekend I stood in the mess that we used to call our closet, and acknowledged that my inability (or refusal) to organize Brian's belongings has not spared me pain. It has made my home unmanageable, and has added to my stress and anxiety.
The thought of going through Brian's belongings, of giving away his things, of throwing away his things has been so painful, that I have allowed my home to be a source of stress instead of a refuge from it. It has to change, and I am the only person on earth with the power to change it.
So, on Saturday afternoon I grabbed boxes, removed all of Brian's clothing from the closet and the chest, and sorted it all to give away. Keeping the clothing doesn't keep Brian alive. In fact, keeping the clothing has become more like a slap in the face with an unneccesary reminder of his absence.
I wasn't prepared for the searing agony of this task. The hot tears and physical pain took me by surprise. Despite the fact that I recognized the need to simplify my daily life by clearing out his closet space, the act of doing it felt like reliving the moment when the doctor declared that Brian was dying. It was truly awful. But, it was just his clothing - it wasn't him. It no longer held his scent, it was no longer a reminder of his life. It was just stuff - stuff that was never really that important to him. The long long list of wonderful things that made Brian so amazing never included words like "clothes horse" or "fashionista". I realize now that hanging onto everything that was his is not a source of comfort, but rather a source of stress.
The task has just begun. If going through his clothes was difficult, sorting through his books, his tools and his other belongings will be infinitely harder. I don't want to do it, but I know that I need to for my own sake.
Keeping his clothing didn't help to eliminate the void left in the wake of his death. Removing his clothing, however painful, does make room in my life for peace, order, and hope. I know that with more space I can keep my own things more organized and that will reduce my stress. I also know that with less stress, I will be better able to experience life, laughter, and love - three things that Brian wanted for me and that I desperately want for myself.
And I think, that as hard as this all is, it is a sign of healing and growth. The fact that I can recognize my stress and take painful steps to reduce it is good. The fact that I'm able to start thinking about simplifying my life, means that I am really starting to choose life rather than giving it lip service. The fact that I can even entertain early thoughts of someday selling my home - our home - and moving to a smaller condo that would require less time, effort, and money to maintain, means that I am truly seeking balance and making strides in that direction.
I am alive. I am able to love. I am able to declutter my home, declutter my head, and declutter my heart; I can make room for all the good things that I crave. Feeling love and joy doesn't mean walking away from Brian, it means carrying him with me into the future.
.
I felt his heart stop. I heard his last breath. I held his lifeless body in my arms. He's gone, and my broken heart no longer forgets that. I no longer reach for him in the middle of the night. I no longer turn in search of him for love, support or comfort. I have accepted the tragic reality that fate ripped him from my life too soon.
Our time together was brief, but oh so amazingly special. I carry his love in my heart; I carry his spirit in my being; I mourn for the man, the love, the marriage, the life. I miss him. But Brian is dead and I am not - even if at times it feels like I died too.
In recent weeks I find that I am able to start thinking in new ways. My sadness is less paralyzing, my loss less crippling. I am able to look at my life without Brian and to recognize that I want and need more. I can not accept living in this void forever. I want my life to have meaning. I want to live with hope for tomorrow. I don't want to replace Brian - he is not replaceable - but I want to respect his greatest gifts to me. I want to live my life with love and laughter. I want to feel peace in the warmth of the sun on my face. I want to feel happiness in the wonders of nature. I want to delight in the happiness and good fortune of those around me. I want to take control of my life; to change stressful things that are in my power to change. I want my life to be about living and not about obligation.
Since Brian died, life has been overwhelming, stressful, and harsh. It has been about acts of survival instead of acts of living. I realize now that it is in my power to reduce my stress and make my life more manageable. I know that there are steps that I can take to improve the quality of my life if I can muster the courage to take them on. I also know that this is what Brian would want for me.
So this past weekend I stood in the mess that we used to call our closet, and acknowledged that my inability (or refusal) to organize Brian's belongings has not spared me pain. It has made my home unmanageable, and has added to my stress and anxiety.
The thought of going through Brian's belongings, of giving away his things, of throwing away his things has been so painful, that I have allowed my home to be a source of stress instead of a refuge from it. It has to change, and I am the only person on earth with the power to change it.
So, on Saturday afternoon I grabbed boxes, removed all of Brian's clothing from the closet and the chest, and sorted it all to give away. Keeping the clothing doesn't keep Brian alive. In fact, keeping the clothing has become more like a slap in the face with an unneccesary reminder of his absence.
I wasn't prepared for the searing agony of this task. The hot tears and physical pain took me by surprise. Despite the fact that I recognized the need to simplify my daily life by clearing out his closet space, the act of doing it felt like reliving the moment when the doctor declared that Brian was dying. It was truly awful. But, it was just his clothing - it wasn't him. It no longer held his scent, it was no longer a reminder of his life. It was just stuff - stuff that was never really that important to him. The long long list of wonderful things that made Brian so amazing never included words like "clothes horse" or "fashionista". I realize now that hanging onto everything that was his is not a source of comfort, but rather a source of stress.
The task has just begun. If going through his clothes was difficult, sorting through his books, his tools and his other belongings will be infinitely harder. I don't want to do it, but I know that I need to for my own sake.
Keeping his clothing didn't help to eliminate the void left in the wake of his death. Removing his clothing, however painful, does make room in my life for peace, order, and hope. I know that with more space I can keep my own things more organized and that will reduce my stress. I also know that with less stress, I will be better able to experience life, laughter, and love - three things that Brian wanted for me and that I desperately want for myself.
And I think, that as hard as this all is, it is a sign of healing and growth. The fact that I can recognize my stress and take painful steps to reduce it is good. The fact that I'm able to start thinking about simplifying my life, means that I am really starting to choose life rather than giving it lip service. The fact that I can even entertain early thoughts of someday selling my home - our home - and moving to a smaller condo that would require less time, effort, and money to maintain, means that I am truly seeking balance and making strides in that direction.
I am alive. I am able to love. I am able to declutter my home, declutter my head, and declutter my heart; I can make room for all the good things that I crave. Feeling love and joy doesn't mean walking away from Brian, it means carrying him with me into the future.
.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Homesick
"When you lose your partner, you lose your intimate, domestic life. You lose the one who is equally committed to your life, present and future. You lose the intimate daily details of life. You lose home."
These aren't my words, but they are similar to things I've said. When Brian died, I lost more than my husband; I lost my life. People who haven't watched their spouse die can't really understand this.
We're expected to mourn and then return to life. Go back home, go back to work, return to life. But when your beloved dies, you become homeless. You're home becomes just a house filled with souvenirs. You can't return to your life, because the life you knew has ended.
You have to discover a new reason to live, create a new home in which you can feel safe, open yourself to the possibility that you might someday find happiness again.
I can't feel at home in my house, but I'm not ready to pack up my souvenirs and move. My life isn't here, but ours was. The thought of moving is like walking away from everything comfortable, familiar and desired.
With Brian, home could have been anywhere. On my own, I feel homeless despite the fact that I own a very beautiful home.
I don't know how to process these feelings. I accept that Brian is dead. I accept that that part of my life is over. I know that he wanted me to be happy and to allow myself to love and to be loved. What I don't know is how to create a home alone.
These aren't my words, but they are similar to things I've said. When Brian died, I lost more than my husband; I lost my life. People who haven't watched their spouse die can't really understand this.
We're expected to mourn and then return to life. Go back home, go back to work, return to life. But when your beloved dies, you become homeless. You're home becomes just a house filled with souvenirs. You can't return to your life, because the life you knew has ended.
You have to discover a new reason to live, create a new home in which you can feel safe, open yourself to the possibility that you might someday find happiness again.
I can't feel at home in my house, but I'm not ready to pack up my souvenirs and move. My life isn't here, but ours was. The thought of moving is like walking away from everything comfortable, familiar and desired.
With Brian, home could have been anywhere. On my own, I feel homeless despite the fact that I own a very beautiful home.
I don't know how to process these feelings. I accept that Brian is dead. I accept that that part of my life is over. I know that he wanted me to be happy and to allow myself to love and to be loved. What I don't know is how to create a home alone.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Alone
Life goes on whether we want it to or not. There are good times, bad times, challenging times..... No matter what is happening, you feel the loss. Family cares, friends are kind and generous and supportive, but at the end of the day when you face life without your partner, you face it alone.
I'm luckier than most. I'm blessed with a lot of people who love me and who help me so much. I'm so grateful so I feel so guilty to admit to feeling so alone.
I'm tired of pretending that I'm strong or brave. I'm tired of trying to hide the depth of my fears. I'm tired of living alone and pretending that any part of that is ok.
Brian was always there for me, and I hope I was always there for him. Lately I question if I was there for him in the way he needed in the end. I hope that in his illness he didnt feel as alone as I feel right now.
I'm luckier than most. I'm blessed with a lot of people who love me and who help me so much. I'm so grateful so I feel so guilty to admit to feeling so alone.
I'm tired of pretending that I'm strong or brave. I'm tired of trying to hide the depth of my fears. I'm tired of living alone and pretending that any part of that is ok.
Brian was always there for me, and I hope I was always there for him. Lately I question if I was there for him in the way he needed in the end. I hope that in his illness he didnt feel as alone as I feel right now.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Surviving
Sitting out on the deck in the dark. Remembering a night almost ten years ago. July 2004. The night Larry finally moved out. I rushed to change the locks, and then I sat alone in the dark on the patio, and I called Brian. We talked and listened to the thunder.
There was so much hope, so much promise. I had such a sense of relief. I had survived.
And tonight I sit alone and listen to the crickets. Lola is lying at my feet, happily dozing. She feels safe.
I'm trying so hard to remember how I felt that night. I've survived once more, but there is no relief. No promise. No safety. The solitude offers no comfort, but it has become familiar.
I've learned so much and so little in ten years. Everything changes; everything remains the same.
There was so much hope, so much promise. I had such a sense of relief. I had survived.
And tonight I sit alone and listen to the crickets. Lola is lying at my feet, happily dozing. She feels safe.
I'm trying so hard to remember how I felt that night. I've survived once more, but there is no relief. No promise. No safety. The solitude offers no comfort, but it has become familiar.
I've learned so much and so little in ten years. Everything changes; everything remains the same.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Bullshit
Sometimes I think that Facebook's main purpose it to expose us to crap that will piss us off. Like this quote that I saw on Facebook tonight:
"The truth is that the more intimately you know someone, the more clearly you’ll see their flaws. That’s just the way it is. This is why marriages fail, why children are abandoned, why friendships don’t last. You might think you love someone until you see the way they act when they’re out of money or under pressure or hungry, for goodness’ sake. Love is something different. Love is choosing to serve someone and be with someone in spite of their filthy heart. Love is patient and kind, love is deliberate. Love is hard. Love is pain and sacrifice, it’s seeing the darkness in another person and defying the impulse to jump ship."
Seriously? I don't think so. I agree that love is patient, kind and deliberate, but I've know real love and it was never hard. Love doesn't mean not having or recognizing each others' weaknesses. Love means that dispite our weaknesses we treat each other with kindness and forgiveness. Love should never be pain or sacrifice. True love, for me, was perfect. The only thing painful about it was watching him die - and because I loved him so, there was nowhere else I would have been.
I have more love in me, and I believe that I can experience true love again. And I won't accept that that means accepting pain and sacrifice. It means having the grace to treat another lovingly even in difficult times and circumstance. If it feels "hard" to love, you may be doing it wrong.
"The truth is that the more intimately you know someone, the more clearly you’ll see their flaws. That’s just the way it is. This is why marriages fail, why children are abandoned, why friendships don’t last. You might think you love someone until you see the way they act when they’re out of money or under pressure or hungry, for goodness’ sake. Love is something different. Love is choosing to serve someone and be with someone in spite of their filthy heart. Love is patient and kind, love is deliberate. Love is hard. Love is pain and sacrifice, it’s seeing the darkness in another person and defying the impulse to jump ship."
Seriously? I don't think so. I agree that love is patient, kind and deliberate, but I've know real love and it was never hard. Love doesn't mean not having or recognizing each others' weaknesses. Love means that dispite our weaknesses we treat each other with kindness and forgiveness. Love should never be pain or sacrifice. True love, for me, was perfect. The only thing painful about it was watching him die - and because I loved him so, there was nowhere else I would have been.
I have more love in me, and I believe that I can experience true love again. And I won't accept that that means accepting pain and sacrifice. It means having the grace to treat another lovingly even in difficult times and circumstance. If it feels "hard" to love, you may be doing it wrong.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Bad Days
On good days everything seems OK. You let your guard down. You smile, you laugh without being self conscious, you allow yourself to experience joy; and it all feels great. Until it doesn't. Until you have a bad day - a day when the sheer frustration of trying to get something done makes you want to to scream, when pain makes you want to crawl into bed and hide, when every crazy crawls out if the woodwork with selfish demands,when the fucking random unfairness of life reminds you that you are nothing and your life means nothing.
Those days hurt. Not like a pounding headache, or a bleeding wound, or a blistering burn - they hurt like an acid eating away at the very core if your being. They wipe away your confidence, your self-worth, your reason to fight. They strip away your purpose, question your ability to trust, take away your hope and leave you naked and defenseless in a hostile world you thought you left behind.
And you see it happening, but you're not strong enough to stop it. So you question everything, you become passive-agressive, and you hate yourself for it. And you just want someone to make it OK again, but nobody can.
So you medicate away the pain, and you hide the self-doubt behind a pretty shade of lipstick, and you know that if you just bear it for a few days everything will start to feel OK again. And maybe the next really bad day will take a little longer to arrive.
Those days hurt. Not like a pounding headache, or a bleeding wound, or a blistering burn - they hurt like an acid eating away at the very core if your being. They wipe away your confidence, your self-worth, your reason to fight. They strip away your purpose, question your ability to trust, take away your hope and leave you naked and defenseless in a hostile world you thought you left behind.
And you see it happening, but you're not strong enough to stop it. So you question everything, you become passive-agressive, and you hate yourself for it. And you just want someone to make it OK again, but nobody can.
So you medicate away the pain, and you hide the self-doubt behind a pretty shade of lipstick, and you know that if you just bear it for a few days everything will start to feel OK again. And maybe the next really bad day will take a little longer to arrive.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Rhythm and Flow
When you're in a real partnership, like I had with Brian, life takes on a rhythm and flow. You wake up together; you go to sleep together; and in between you do a million things together - a million ordinary little things together.
So when that partnership is cut short, everything changes. Nothing is familiar or comfortable anymore. Everything becomes difficult, frightening, and overwhelming.
I'm overwhelmed, and I hate myself for it because it feels like weakness. No matter how many people tell me otherwise, it feels like failure because life has no familiar rhythem. The flow is gone and I feel like I'm being bounced around from challenge to challenge, problem to problem, failure to failure.
I know that it will get better - it already has, but life is hard right now. I'm so tired of having to work so hard just to make it through each day.
I feel happiness and joy. I laugh. I love. But I miss the comfort of my old life, and the feeling of certainty that in my partnership with Brian everything would be OK.
So when that partnership is cut short, everything changes. Nothing is familiar or comfortable anymore. Everything becomes difficult, frightening, and overwhelming.
I'm overwhelmed, and I hate myself for it because it feels like weakness. No matter how many people tell me otherwise, it feels like failure because life has no familiar rhythem. The flow is gone and I feel like I'm being bounced around from challenge to challenge, problem to problem, failure to failure.
I know that it will get better - it already has, but life is hard right now. I'm so tired of having to work so hard just to make it through each day.
I feel happiness and joy. I laugh. I love. But I miss the comfort of my old life, and the feeling of certainty that in my partnership with Brian everything would be OK.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
I'm Alive
Grief never goes away. Mourning never ends. Life goes on, and a new normal starts to feel OK. Joy comes back in starts and fits. Laughter becomes real again. Happiness becomes imaginable, and hope returns.
But the sadness remains. Some days it descends like a thick fog, and while hope is still there it is hidden behind the clouds of grief.
Others can't understand. How can I be OK one day, and fall part the next. I am. Its a scary ride. It is difficult to enjoy the ups when you know that the pain can jump up and strangle you at any time. The suffocating grip around the neck that tries to convince you that you're already dead. We are crazy. Schizophrenic at worst. Moody at best.
This is life - not the fairytale we thought we were living. This is life - wonderful, horrible, joyful, tearful, amazing and terrifying.
Loss is a hard lesson. It takes a lifetime to learn.
I'm OK. I'm not OK. I'm alive. That has to be enough. I am able to feel happy again, but that doesn't erase the pain. They coexist - the ying and yang in my heart and my mind.
I'm alive.
But the sadness remains. Some days it descends like a thick fog, and while hope is still there it is hidden behind the clouds of grief.
Others can't understand. How can I be OK one day, and fall part the next. I am. Its a scary ride. It is difficult to enjoy the ups when you know that the pain can jump up and strangle you at any time. The suffocating grip around the neck that tries to convince you that you're already dead. We are crazy. Schizophrenic at worst. Moody at best.
This is life - not the fairytale we thought we were living. This is life - wonderful, horrible, joyful, tearful, amazing and terrifying.
Loss is a hard lesson. It takes a lifetime to learn.
I'm OK. I'm not OK. I'm alive. That has to be enough. I am able to feel happy again, but that doesn't erase the pain. They coexist - the ying and yang in my heart and my mind.
I'm alive.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
DEATH IS UNFAIR
My husband was diagnosed a few weeks after his 48th birthday. He died three and a half months later.
His brother, Bill, died of alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency when he was just 36.
His sister Connie died in her young fifties. She lived with her cancer for 15 years. Lived on chemotherapy for 15 years. She didn't let it define her; she held the bastard back and lived until......
Death isn't fair. Five siblings. One gone in his 30s, another in his 40s, the third in her 50s.
If there is any lesson here at all, it is to live. Just live. Be good. Be loved. Love. And live.
His brother, Bill, died of alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency when he was just 36.
His sister Connie died in her young fifties. She lived with her cancer for 15 years. Lived on chemotherapy for 15 years. She didn't let it define her; she held the bastard back and lived until......
Death isn't fair. Five siblings. One gone in his 30s, another in his 40s, the third in her 50s.
If there is any lesson here at all, it is to live. Just live. Be good. Be loved. Love. And live.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Moving Forward
I miss him so much. Things change, and it hurts. I don't remember the feeling I used to have when I came home - that happy skip of my heart to walk through the door and see the love of my life smiling at me. I hate that I'm forgetting. I hate that my brain can adjust to life without Brian.
I don't automatically turn to him for help when a task seems to daunting, when there is a spider in the bathtub, when I"m tired and hurting and want to feel his loving arms around me. The pain now isn't realizing that he"s not there when I turn for him. The pain is in the realization that I know he's not here, and I no longer turn for his help or his comfort. That is so hard. I don't want to forget all those little things. I don't want to move forward without him.
Fate can be cruel. I really feel like I've had more than I could take - but here I am, alive, breathing, living, moving on. Creating a life. Actively deciding to continue to live without him, To look for happiness. To share all of the love that he shared for me.
I realize that in many ways I am closer to his nieces and nephews than to my own family. I have chosen to love the people he loved, to make his chosen family my chosen family. To love and nurture them like my own nieces and nephews - like my own kids.
So, it seems that the only thing I can do is take the lessons I've learned from the deceit and pain of my first marriage, and the total, unconditional love of my second marriage and share that with the people that Brian and I love so much. To nurture them, and let them nurture me.
I have to move forwards, but I have so many gifts from Brian to take with me and share.
I miss you so much, Brian. It still is a searing raw pain. But I don't feel it every minute of every day. More and more I feel you in me. You were the most beautiful person I've ever met. Loving you has made me so much more beautiful. You're not in my arms, but you are my heart. You are the best part of me - my compassion, my ability to love, my wicked humor. I am better for being loved by you. You live on because you are in me.
You saved me, even if you would never admit it. I won't waste that gift. I'll live. I'll love. I'll try to be the best of you.
I don't automatically turn to him for help when a task seems to daunting, when there is a spider in the bathtub, when I"m tired and hurting and want to feel his loving arms around me. The pain now isn't realizing that he"s not there when I turn for him. The pain is in the realization that I know he's not here, and I no longer turn for his help or his comfort. That is so hard. I don't want to forget all those little things. I don't want to move forward without him.
Fate can be cruel. I really feel like I've had more than I could take - but here I am, alive, breathing, living, moving on. Creating a life. Actively deciding to continue to live without him, To look for happiness. To share all of the love that he shared for me.
I realize that in many ways I am closer to his nieces and nephews than to my own family. I have chosen to love the people he loved, to make his chosen family my chosen family. To love and nurture them like my own nieces and nephews - like my own kids.
So, it seems that the only thing I can do is take the lessons I've learned from the deceit and pain of my first marriage, and the total, unconditional love of my second marriage and share that with the people that Brian and I love so much. To nurture them, and let them nurture me.
I have to move forwards, but I have so many gifts from Brian to take with me and share.
I miss you so much, Brian. It still is a searing raw pain. But I don't feel it every minute of every day. More and more I feel you in me. You were the most beautiful person I've ever met. Loving you has made me so much more beautiful. You're not in my arms, but you are my heart. You are the best part of me - my compassion, my ability to love, my wicked humor. I am better for being loved by you. You live on because you are in me.
You saved me, even if you would never admit it. I won't waste that gift. I'll live. I'll love. I'll try to be the best of you.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Acceptance is Not the Same as Acceptable
Accepting that he's gone, accepting that he won't be back, accepting that my life must go on without him, doesn't make the loss OK.
Everyday is a reminder of the loss. Every sadness, every joy, every disappointment, every accomplishment - they are all things that I can't share with him. I can share them with my friends, but none if them know me like he did. None if them understand me - my joys, my fears, my weaknesses - like he.
Today was tough. It was a day of frustration and anger with others. It was a day that would have been so much better if he had been here to wrap his arms around me and help me refocus. Instead it was a day of tears. A day in which I knew that no matter what the future might bring, nobody will ever know me like he did. I may not ever know me like he did.
Today was a reminder of how alone I am, and how meaningless my life has become.
Everyday is a reminder of the loss. Every sadness, every joy, every disappointment, every accomplishment - they are all things that I can't share with him. I can share them with my friends, but none if them know me like he did. None if them understand me - my joys, my fears, my weaknesses - like he.
Today was tough. It was a day of frustration and anger with others. It was a day that would have been so much better if he had been here to wrap his arms around me and help me refocus. Instead it was a day of tears. A day in which I knew that no matter what the future might bring, nobody will ever know me like he did. I may not ever know me like he did.
Today was a reminder of how alone I am, and how meaningless my life has become.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Change
Grief can change a person. You become someone else, someone you don't recognize; perhaps someone you don't even like.
You make choices out of loneliness and despair - and who is to say if those choices are good or bad, healthy or self-destructive.
I hate what I have become. I hate being lonly and desperate. I hate being needy. I hate feeling pathetic.
When Brian was here, I always new who I was. I saw myself reflected in his eyes. I was half of him, he was half of me. Now, I'm not half of anything. I'm simply not whole. I don't recognize myself in anyone's eyes. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I don't know who I am or what I'm doing.
You make choices out of loneliness and despair - and who is to say if those choices are good or bad, healthy or self-destructive.
I hate what I have become. I hate being lonly and desperate. I hate being needy. I hate feeling pathetic.
When Brian was here, I always new who I was. I saw myself reflected in his eyes. I was half of him, he was half of me. Now, I'm not half of anything. I'm simply not whole. I don't recognize myself in anyone's eyes. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I don't know who I am or what I'm doing.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
I want to feel
Tomorrow will be one year since Brian died, but he died on a Saturday morning, so today felt awful. I went to synagogue and said Kaddish and cried and, like every week when I say Kaddish and cry, the congregation was wonderful, loving and comforting.
Still, I feel pain - emotional, spiritual and physical - and I want it to stop. I want to feel something else, to be someone else, to take a vacation from being me. I want to get drunk or stoned. I want to have a one night stand with a stranger who I'll never see again. I want to act out and not be me; to feel good and desirable and to have fun in the process. But, of course, I won't. That isn't me and it won't work. I wouldn't feel good. I'd feel cheap and stupid and flawed.
There is no way around this pain. I just have to live through it. To feel it, to hurt, and to figure out how to come through to the other side and be relatively whole. Drugs, wine, and sex can't change what I feel. They won't make me happy, they won't make me beautiful, they won't make me desirable - they'll only make me feel more alienated from myself. More pathetic.
I miss my husband. How can it be a year since I held him in my arms as he took his last breath? How can it be so long since I was me?
Still, I feel pain - emotional, spiritual and physical - and I want it to stop. I want to feel something else, to be someone else, to take a vacation from being me. I want to get drunk or stoned. I want to have a one night stand with a stranger who I'll never see again. I want to act out and not be me; to feel good and desirable and to have fun in the process. But, of course, I won't. That isn't me and it won't work. I wouldn't feel good. I'd feel cheap and stupid and flawed.
There is no way around this pain. I just have to live through it. To feel it, to hurt, and to figure out how to come through to the other side and be relatively whole. Drugs, wine, and sex can't change what I feel. They won't make me happy, they won't make me beautiful, they won't make me desirable - they'll only make me feel more alienated from myself. More pathetic.
I miss my husband. How can it be a year since I held him in my arms as he took his last breath? How can it be so long since I was me?
Thursday, April 17, 2014
A life
Some things don't get easier. Some pain doesn't fade. Everyone says it is a process; everyone says it will get better in time. Intellectually I suppose I know that it might, but I truly think that it is just about getting used to a meaningless life.
Nobody asks how I am. If I offer information, people offer sympathy. They say I'm strong, courageous, graceful. I don't want sympathy, I want a life. I want someone to know me.
My own family never asks how I am. They never talk about Brian. His birthday passed, our anniversary passed, and they say nothing - like he never existed. My parents forgot that this weekend is the anniversary of his death.
I have never felt quite so alone. I don't feel depressed - I feel destroyed. Broken beyond repair. I don't want to get used to this. Nothing about this is OK. Nothing about this existence as my life is acceptable. Nothing about Brian's death is comprehensible.
I don't want platitudes. I don't want pep talks. I don't want advice. I want a life, and if I can't have that, I'll settle for death.
Nobody asks how I am. If I offer information, people offer sympathy. They say I'm strong, courageous, graceful. I don't want sympathy, I want a life. I want someone to know me.
My own family never asks how I am. They never talk about Brian. His birthday passed, our anniversary passed, and they say nothing - like he never existed. My parents forgot that this weekend is the anniversary of his death.
I have never felt quite so alone. I don't feel depressed - I feel destroyed. Broken beyond repair. I don't want to get used to this. Nothing about this is OK. Nothing about this existence as my life is acceptable. Nothing about Brian's death is comprehensible.
I don't want platitudes. I don't want pep talks. I don't want advice. I want a life, and if I can't have that, I'll settle for death.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Simple Pleasures
A year ago today was Brian's last Tuesday. He had family visit that afternoon and was exhausted. He was still responsive, but was no longer really speaking.
At this point our amazing niece was staying with us at hospice. She was sleeping on the couch, and I was glued to Brian's side.
Because of a stomach rupture, Brian had not eaten in several months. He received IV nutrition, and was only taking small sips of water. Denise had gone out that evening to buy some snacks. We were sitting at Brian's side talking, when she got herself a Coconut Water and Pineapple popsicle. I asked Brian if he wanted one. He thought for a moment, then nodded yes. Quicker than lightening I grabbed the popsicle out of Denise's hand and held it up for Brian to taste. As he bit off a tiny piece his eyes lit up with joy. After not tasting anything for so long, that popsicle was pure pleasure for him. He ate the whole thing, and when I asked if he wanted another, he nodded.
It was so great to see him enjoying something. As I fed him the second popsicle, Denise and I joked with him. He smiled and set out to devour his treat. When I asked if he wanted another, he thought for a brief moment and nodded yes.
I was so overjoyed and filled with love to see him eat. I joked that he had some juice on his lips, and reached down to kiss him. Then, without any words, my Brian returned. He started rubbing his lips on the popsicle, then looking up at me waiting for his kisses. We kissed a lot, and smiled, and we both knew how much we were loved.
I will never forget those three popsicles. They brought true primal pleasure to him in the last days of his life. That was also the last time that Brian was able to kiss me. A memory so dear in my heart.
By Wednesday he was unresponsive.
As I remember that evening now, I can't control my tears. Tears of joy remembering that last occasion of joy and shared pleasure. Tears of loss and grief remembering that last occasion of joy and shared pleasure. Tears of gratitude remembering the true and unconditional love that Brian and I shared.
At this point our amazing niece was staying with us at hospice. She was sleeping on the couch, and I was glued to Brian's side.
Because of a stomach rupture, Brian had not eaten in several months. He received IV nutrition, and was only taking small sips of water. Denise had gone out that evening to buy some snacks. We were sitting at Brian's side talking, when she got herself a Coconut Water and Pineapple popsicle. I asked Brian if he wanted one. He thought for a moment, then nodded yes. Quicker than lightening I grabbed the popsicle out of Denise's hand and held it up for Brian to taste. As he bit off a tiny piece his eyes lit up with joy. After not tasting anything for so long, that popsicle was pure pleasure for him. He ate the whole thing, and when I asked if he wanted another, he nodded.
It was so great to see him enjoying something. As I fed him the second popsicle, Denise and I joked with him. He smiled and set out to devour his treat. When I asked if he wanted another, he thought for a brief moment and nodded yes.
I was so overjoyed and filled with love to see him eat. I joked that he had some juice on his lips, and reached down to kiss him. Then, without any words, my Brian returned. He started rubbing his lips on the popsicle, then looking up at me waiting for his kisses. We kissed a lot, and smiled, and we both knew how much we were loved.
I will never forget those three popsicles. They brought true primal pleasure to him in the last days of his life. That was also the last time that Brian was able to kiss me. A memory so dear in my heart.
By Wednesday he was unresponsive.
As I remember that evening now, I can't control my tears. Tears of joy remembering that last occasion of joy and shared pleasure. Tears of loss and grief remembering that last occasion of joy and shared pleasure. Tears of gratitude remembering the true and unconditional love that Brian and I shared.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Last Monday
A year ago was Brian's last Monday. He slept almost all day and night by then, but when he was awake he was still able to speak and respond. I spent most of the day sitting in his room alone. It was a difficult time. I knew that things had gotten much worse, but I had no way to know what that meant or to prepare myself for what was to come.
Around 7:30 that evening I turned on my tablet and opened Facebook. My feed was filled with stories about gun control and the too familiar arguments that go with the subject. I assumed that there had Ben another shooting and went to ask the nurses about what had happened. Much to my horror, they told me that there had been a bombing at the Boston Marathon.
I immediately broke down in tears. My dear friend Linda was running the marathon that day. Linda and I met the summer after our senior year in high school. She and I had been assigned to the same dorm room at Penn. She lived only about a half hour away, so we were able to meet and immediately become fast friends. We roomed together for all four years in Philadelphia. By the time we graduated she was family - a second sister.
Linda and I saw each other through all our ups and downs in life. She was there to share my happiness at my first marriage, there when my first husband began abusing drugs, there when that marriage spun out of control, there through my divorce. And of course she was there sharing my true joy as I fell in love with Brian, at our wedding, and in our lives. She often commented on how wonderful Brian was and how beautiful and rare our marriage was. When I called her in shock and tears to tell her that Brian was diagnosed with terminal cancer she immediately purchased a plane ticket, and had real reservations when I told her to wait and come later.
So when I heard of the bombing in Boston, a reasonable reaction of concern became an extreme reaction of terror. The thought of losing another person I loved was too much to bear.
I immediately called Linda's cell which wasn't working. I left messages on her home phone for her husband. I cursed myself for not knowing her husband's cell number or email address. I called her work but hot the after hours tape, and then I collapsed on the floor in hysterics.
When I was able to pull myself together, I snuck back into Brian's room. He woke, and I went to his side to tell him about the bombing and that I would be out in the great room watching the news. He nodded with concern in his eyes.
I watched the news in horror and fear. Finally Erik, Linda's husband, called and told me that Linda and her sister were OK. I was flooded with relief,but also knew that being physically OK after a bombing did not mean that you were emotionally OK. I finally was able to find in thewhich hotel she was staying, and called there. Her sister answered and told me about what had happened , and how they eventually reunited. Linda was talking on her cell and would call me back. It wasn't until she did and we were able to cry together and tell each othet "///I love you" that I was able to calm myself.
I returned to our room, expecting to find Brian asleep. He stirred when I entered. I went to his bed, and with concern in his eyes he whispered, "Linda?". I told him that we had spoken and that Linda and her sister were unharmed. His eyes smiled, he sighed, nodded, and fell back asleep.
By that time Brian had very few words left, and he saved them for what was important. My dear friend Linda was important to him. Though his words were few, his eyes showed his initial concern and his later relief.
That was my Brian. He knew what was important in life, and nothing was more important than the people you love.
This year the Boston Marathon is on the 21st - one day after the first anniversary of Brian's death. Linda will be there again - running for herself, for those that were killed and injured, and for Brian. She plans to wear her Team Igo On T-shirt with its message of strength on the front and Brian's picture on the back. That, and so many things I have just written about, brings me to tears.
It is close to 3am. I should be sleeping - it will be a long day. Instead I lay here crying, thinking of people I love, strength, loss, and memories that tear me open and leave me raw.
Have the run of a lifetime, Linda. Run for strength, hope, and love. Run for yourself, for all the people, touched by last year's terrorism, and for my Brian - who throughout his life, and in his dying days, knew what was most important in life.
Around 7:30 that evening I turned on my tablet and opened Facebook. My feed was filled with stories about gun control and the too familiar arguments that go with the subject. I assumed that there had Ben another shooting and went to ask the nurses about what had happened. Much to my horror, they told me that there had been a bombing at the Boston Marathon.
I immediately broke down in tears. My dear friend Linda was running the marathon that day. Linda and I met the summer after our senior year in high school. She and I had been assigned to the same dorm room at Penn. She lived only about a half hour away, so we were able to meet and immediately become fast friends. We roomed together for all four years in Philadelphia. By the time we graduated she was family - a second sister.
Linda and I saw each other through all our ups and downs in life. She was there to share my happiness at my first marriage, there when my first husband began abusing drugs, there when that marriage spun out of control, there through my divorce. And of course she was there sharing my true joy as I fell in love with Brian, at our wedding, and in our lives. She often commented on how wonderful Brian was and how beautiful and rare our marriage was. When I called her in shock and tears to tell her that Brian was diagnosed with terminal cancer she immediately purchased a plane ticket, and had real reservations when I told her to wait and come later.
So when I heard of the bombing in Boston, a reasonable reaction of concern became an extreme reaction of terror. The thought of losing another person I loved was too much to bear.
I immediately called Linda's cell which wasn't working. I left messages on her home phone for her husband. I cursed myself for not knowing her husband's cell number or email address. I called her work but hot the after hours tape, and then I collapsed on the floor in hysterics.
When I was able to pull myself together, I snuck back into Brian's room. He woke, and I went to his side to tell him about the bombing and that I would be out in the great room watching the news. He nodded with concern in his eyes.
I watched the news in horror and fear. Finally Erik, Linda's husband, called and told me that Linda and her sister were OK. I was flooded with relief,but also knew that being physically OK after a bombing did not mean that you were emotionally OK. I finally was able to find in thewhich hotel she was staying, and called there. Her sister answered and told me about what had happened , and how they eventually reunited. Linda was talking on her cell and would call me back. It wasn't until she did and we were able to cry together and tell each othet "///I love you" that I was able to calm myself.
I returned to our room, expecting to find Brian asleep. He stirred when I entered. I went to his bed, and with concern in his eyes he whispered, "Linda?". I told him that we had spoken and that Linda and her sister were unharmed. His eyes smiled, he sighed, nodded, and fell back asleep.
By that time Brian had very few words left, and he saved them for what was important. My dear friend Linda was important to him. Though his words were few, his eyes showed his initial concern and his later relief.
That was my Brian. He knew what was important in life, and nothing was more important than the people you love.
This year the Boston Marathon is on the 21st - one day after the first anniversary of Brian's death. Linda will be there again - running for herself, for those that were killed and injured, and for Brian. She plans to wear her Team Igo On T-shirt with its message of strength on the front and Brian's picture on the back. That, and so many things I have just written about, brings me to tears.
It is close to 3am. I should be sleeping - it will be a long day. Instead I lay here crying, thinking of people I love, strength, loss, and memories that tear me open and leave me raw.
Have the run of a lifetime, Linda. Run for strength, hope, and love. Run for yourself, for all the people, touched by last year's terrorism, and for my Brian - who throughout his life, and in his dying days, knew what was most important in life.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Tears
So many tears today sparked by good memories, bad memories, and the sad fact that my life goes on.
I miss him so much. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I don't know how I breath. This is the anniversary of his last week. I remember that week. How amazing he was until the very end, how awful the very end was for me.
I wish I knew what he was thinking and feeling. I know he loved me, but he was beyond speech. I don't know if he was scared or at peace. I don't know if he was in pain. But I do remember how he was my Brian until the very end.
He was amazing. I miss him. I don't know how to live without him.
I miss him so much. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I don't know how I breath. This is the anniversary of his last week. I remember that week. How amazing he was until the very end, how awful the very end was for me.
I wish I knew what he was thinking and feeling. I know he loved me, but he was beyond speech. I don't know if he was scared or at peace. I don't know if he was in pain. But I do remember how he was my Brian until the very end.
He was amazing. I miss him. I don't know how to live without him.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
What Wouldn't I Give
I'm now anniversarying the last week of Brian's life. So many memories - mostly sad, but not all. One great memory from that Tuesday that breaks my heart even more than the awful memories.
Until his very last breath, Brian let me know how much he loved me. I hope he knew how much I love him. I think he did - our marriage was like that, but what wouldn't I give for one more opportunity to tell him.
Until his very last breath, Brian let me know how much he loved me. I hope he knew how much I love him. I think he did - our marriage was like that, but what wouldn't I give for one more opportunity to tell him.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Solitude
I feel like I've taken a giant step backwards. I wasn't emotionally ready for the unveiling. I wasn't ready to see his death etched in stone.
My life feels so empty right now. I am not good with solitude - I hate this aloneness. Life is devoid of real joy. I feel guilty saying this - I have the most amazing friends who give me so much love and support. When it comes to my grief, though, I'm completely alone. Nobody can comfort me through this.
My life feels so empty right now. I am not good with solitude - I hate this aloneness. Life is devoid of real joy. I feel guilty saying this - I have the most amazing friends who give me so much love and support. When it comes to my grief, though, I'm completely alone. Nobody can comfort me through this.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Reminder
Was the unveiling supposed to do anything for me? Was it supposed to mark some change in me, the way I think, the way I feel, the way I grieve? Was it supposed to honor Brian?
It was just a reminder of a horrible loss. It just reminded me how empty life has become. I'm supposed to feel grateful. I just feel pain.
It was just a reminder of a horrible loss. It just reminded me how empty life has become. I'm supposed to feel grateful. I just feel pain.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Unveiling
Today was Brian's unveiling. A ceremony honoring his legacy and dedicating his gravestone.
The stone looks nice. It marks a place where his ashes are buried. Ashes of the body of the man I love so much - or what is left of his body after they harvested what was donated to science.
Everyone said that the stone is beautiful, the ceremony lovely.
To me it was all awful. A stone marking a place with no significance in his life. A stone with his name on it that provides no insight into the amazing man he was. A stone that offers no healing, no closure, no hope.
My heart feels ripped open. My grief feels new and raw. My solitude feels suffocating. My pain has been pushed back to the surface. It is forefront in my consciousness. At a time when others feel like I should be healing, stronger, moving on with my life; I feel just the opposite.
A silent pain. A private suffering. A stifling solitude.
So I drank a little too much wine, and I got through it. And now it's over, and I'll be alone with this new hurt. I'll wear a new mask and play a new part, as the me that Brian knew slowly dies. There is no honest me without Brian. I am a stranger in a strange land. A stranger to myself.
The stone looks nice. It marks a place where his ashes are buried. Ashes of the body of the man I love so much - or what is left of his body after they harvested what was donated to science.
Everyone said that the stone is beautiful, the ceremony lovely.
To me it was all awful. A stone marking a place with no significance in his life. A stone with his name on it that provides no insight into the amazing man he was. A stone that offers no healing, no closure, no hope.
My heart feels ripped open. My grief feels new and raw. My solitude feels suffocating. My pain has been pushed back to the surface. It is forefront in my consciousness. At a time when others feel like I should be healing, stronger, moving on with my life; I feel just the opposite.
A silent pain. A private suffering. A stifling solitude.
So I drank a little too much wine, and I got through it. And now it's over, and I'll be alone with this new hurt. I'll wear a new mask and play a new part, as the me that Brian knew slowly dies. There is no honest me without Brian. I am a stranger in a strange land. A stranger to myself.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Cheesecake
Intense pain can be found in the strangest of places - like in cheesecake.
Brian's unveiling will be this Sunday. I'm not ready. I'm not ready to see confirmation of his death carved in stone. I'm dreading it, but it will happen. Friends will be there to help me through. Many of the same friends who were there with me a year ago - who have given me so much love and support.
So after the ceremony there will be a luncheon. I'm ordering sandwiches, but making sides and desserts. VN Tonight after a long and dreadful day at work, I came home to make cheesecake. It suddenly occurred to me that I've never made cheesecake before. I'm making cheesecake for Brian's unveiling, but I never made cheesecake for him. I can't tell you what searing pain came with that realization.
What I wouldn't do for the chance to bake cheesecake for Brian.
Brian's unveiling will be this Sunday. I'm not ready. I'm not ready to see confirmation of his death carved in stone. I'm dreading it, but it will happen. Friends will be there to help me through. Many of the same friends who were there with me a year ago - who have given me so much love and support.
So after the ceremony there will be a luncheon. I'm ordering sandwiches, but making sides and desserts. VN Tonight after a long and dreadful day at work, I came home to make cheesecake. It suddenly occurred to me that I've never made cheesecake before. I'm making cheesecake for Brian's unveiling, but I never made cheesecake for him. I can't tell you what searing pain came with that realization.
What I wouldn't do for the chance to bake cheesecake for Brian.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Tears
The tears are coming more often these days. Maybe it is planning the unveiling. Maybe it is memories of last year and the last weeks of his life.
I miss the physical and emotional intimacy we shared. I could be myself - with no masks, no pretense. I could tell him anything. Now there is nobody that I can talk to about anything. Nobody with whom I can share certain thoughts and feelings. While I have so many great friends, that makes me feel so alone and isolated.
This is my life now, and I don't like it. I miss my Brian. I miss my life.
I miss the physical and emotional intimacy we shared. I could be myself - with no masks, no pretense. I could tell him anything. Now there is nobody that I can talk to about anything. Nobody with whom I can share certain thoughts and feelings. While I have so many great friends, that makes me feel so alone and isolated.
This is my life now, and I don't like it. I miss my Brian. I miss my life.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
I miss my life
I'm approaching the first anniversary of Brian's death and many feel that I should be done mourning. It doesn't work that way. I have accepted Brian's death, but that doesn't mean that I have come to terms with it.
I'm not just mourning the end of his life; I'm mourning the end of my own. The best of my life died with Brian. My marriage is over. My best friend is gone. The person I spent the most time with, my confidant, my sounding board, my lover - all gone. The person that I could laugh and cry with, the only one who could bring comfort, the only one who knew me completely - gone. I
I have turned towards life. I'm not tucked away from the world wallowing in my grief, but I miss love, joy and fun. There is no joy left. Life is bleak.
Mourning doesn't end by a mark on the calendar. I am still deeply mourning. I miss my life.
I'm not just mourning the end of his life; I'm mourning the end of my own. The best of my life died with Brian. My marriage is over. My best friend is gone. The person I spent the most time with, my confidant, my sounding board, my lover - all gone. The person that I could laugh and cry with, the only one who could bring comfort, the only one who knew me completely - gone. I
I have turned towards life. I'm not tucked away from the world wallowing in my grief, but I miss love, joy and fun. There is no joy left. Life is bleak.
Mourning doesn't end by a mark on the calendar. I am still deeply mourning. I miss my life.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
V62.82 Adding Insult to Injury
Working in a healthcare field, I am all too familiar with diagnosis codes and how they effect the care that insurance companies will cover.
I remember several years ago, when Brian was healthy and we looked forward to growing old together, hearing that grief and bereavement would become a recognized mental health diagnosis code. I was opposed to this. This was during a time when pre-existing conditions were still a debilitating ball and chain that could cost people their health coverage. Why would grief, a normal reaction to a substantial loss be considered a mental health diagnosis? Brian took the opposite view. He felt that a diagnosis would allow the bereaved access to councelling and support that they might otherwise not be able to afford.
Baby, you weren't wrong often, but I fear you might have been wrong about this.
V62.82 is the ICD-9 diagnosis code for bereavement.
I remember several years ago, when Brian was healthy and we looked forward to growing old together, hearing that grief and bereavement would become a recognized mental health diagnosis code. I was opposed to this. This was during a time when pre-existing conditions were still a debilitating ball and chain that could cost people their health coverage. Why would grief, a normal reaction to a substantial loss be considered a mental health diagnosis? Brian took the opposite view. He felt that a diagnosis would allow the bereaved access to councelling and support that they might otherwise not be able to afford.
Baby, you weren't wrong often, but I fear you might have been wrong about this.
V62.82 is the ICD-9 diagnosis code for bereavement.
"Most people can navigate the bereavement process with the help of family, friends and their faith based community if you have a particular faith. We expect you to think about the departed person, be sad and have some physical symptoms. Crying, loss of appetite poor sleep and even some weight loss are common in the early stages of bereavement. You may experience more or less of these symptoms. Some people can express this outwardly and some keep the pain inside.
You will probably never completely get over the loss and you are sure to always remember the loved one but at some point you will begin to be able to return to your life as it was before they passed. You should still be able to work, be close to others among your family and friends and find some things pleasurable to do.
If the symptoms go on too long they begin to look more like depression than normal grief. How long the bereavement process may take you depend on you and your culture. In American and most of “western” culture we expect this process to take 60 days or less. If it goes beyond that we need to look at how this loss is affecting you."
Wow. I think that these codes were defined by someone who never lost more than the carnival goldfish won in the 2nd grade. 60 days or less? This framework would imply that all loss is the same. I think perhaps the loss of a young child might take longer to process than the loss of a 98 year old grandparent. I think perhaps the loss of a loved one with whom you live may take longer than the loss of a loved one that you see once or twice a year.
I'm not done grieving the cruel and unexpected death of my 48 year old husband. I go to work, have relationships with others, and even find pleasure in some activities, but how can I ever "return to my life as it was before he passed?" Before he passed, I lived with Brian. We shared everything. We supported each other. We were best friends, lovers, two halves of a whole. I can never return to that, and it is taking me much longer than two months to deal with this horrific loss and everything it means about my life and my future.
I am working with a councillor to help me process my grief, and while I am in a much better place now than I was nine months ago, I am still experiencing debilitating pain.
When I first returned home after spending four months with Brian in the hospital and hospice, I was inconsolable, sleep deprived, and experiencing unbeleavable pain. Any time I layed down to try and rest, I experienced anxiety attacks. My doctor had me on an antidepressant, an anti-anxiety drug, and a drug to help me sleep. In addition, I was on narcotic pain medication for a medical condition. I was concerned about taking all these drugs and how they might interact. After discussing this with my councillor we agreed that I should consult a psychiatrist to manage my medications.
Let's skip over the hoops I had to jump through to get access to a psychiatrist. When I met with the doctor - let's call him Dr. Pompous to protect his identity, I told him that I was concerned with being on so many meds. I explained that I had a relationship with a councillor, and was just seeing him for drug management. He changed the anti-depressant that I was on (which seems to have been a good decision), and immediately pushed me to stop seeing my councillor because she did not provide the cognitive therapy that was so "crucial" to my mental health. When I told him that I had no intention of changing therapists he kindly let me know that I was making a poor choice.
Because it had already been more than two months since Brian's death, he didn't give me a V62.82 diagnosis, but diagnosed me as having an acute major-depressive episode.
Yes, I probably should have stopped seeing him immediately, but I didn't. Dr. Pompous, in his all-knowing wisdom then raised my dosage of the anti-deppresant to the highest available dose. We'll skip over the fact that my previous $9.00 copay jumped to over $200, it was the required therapeutic dose.
As time went on my grief did not dissipate, but some of the sharp edges smoothed. I told Dr. Pompous that I wanted to start to lower the dosage. I wasn't surprised when he objected to the idea. He insisted that the doseage worked and asked why would I stop taking it. I suggested that since I was grieving the death of my husband one would expect that I would start to feel better with time. I also said that my work with my councillor is helping me a lot, an idea he completely dismissed. He asked if I had ever been depressed before, and I admitted that I had when my first husband, an addict who abused prescription drugs, was out of control and making my life a living nightmare. This solidified his stance. I've had multiple episodes of acute depression and therefore must remain on the highest dose of medication for the rest of my life.
What?! Grief is not a mental illness! It is an unbearably painful reaction to a horrible loss. There is no timeline for dealing with grief - it is as individual as our fingerprints. Instead of viewing me as a human being in pain, Dr. Pompous viewed me as an organism with a label.
A bereavement diagnosis, and all of the ridiculous assumptions that go with it, is not helpful or realistic. My grief does not make me mentally ill; it makes me human.
I will be ending my doctor/patient relationship with Dr. Pompous. I will be working with another doctor to safely reduce my doseage. I will refuse to be labeled by a diagnosis code.
I know I will never return to the life that I had before Brian died. I don't know if I will ever stop grieving. I do know that with time and patience I will find a new normal that is OK, that brings me joy, that allows me to feel alive.
Normal people don't view others through the context of diagnosis codes, but they often have established ideas of how others "should" react, cope, and heal. Please don't paint everyone with the same brush. If you have friends and loved ones who are grieving, be supportive and allow them to work through it in their own time and way. They may need help in navigating through their grief, but ultimately nobody can say what the "correct" path through grief is. Be supportive without expectations or defined frameworks; like diagnosis codes, those frameworks simply add insult to injury.
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