I've come to accept that Brian is gone; that no amount of love, or prayer, or longing will bring him back. Everything has changed - life as we knew it is over, and nothing in my life is comforting or comfortable.
I have no idea who I am anymore. How do I live a purposeful life? Where do I find meaning, passion, or interest? Do I have anything at all to offer anyone?
Why is Brian dead, and why am I alive? What am I supposed to be doing with this life, because it feels like a waste. I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to feel excited about, nothing or no one to live for.
I hate what has become of my life; I'm starting to hate me. I don't have the strength, knowledge, or ability to turn this around.
The clock ticks, minute by minute, and the meaniglessness of existence overwhelms. Breathe in, breathe out. Another moment passes.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Irellevant
Perhaps I'm not invisible, perhaps I'm just irellevant.
I accepted a dinner invitation last night from a couple I know. . Another good friend and a couple I'm friendly with were also invited. It was a lovely evening. A warm and comfortable environment, great food, people I enjoy.
But somewhere along the way it changed. Conversation turned to cancer, and death, and just stayed there. They talked about people who died of cancer and how bad it was. They talked about people who survived cancer and how good it was. They talked about dying at length, and while I sat there trying to zone out, they didn't notice the tears welling up in my eyes. Each time I tried to join the conversation I was talked over or ignored - as if there was an assumption that I had nothing to offer the conversation.
Rationally I know that this says more about the other guests than me, but I can't help but believe that since I lost Brian, I've lost the right to particate in discussions.
It really upset me.
I accepted a dinner invitation last night from a couple I know. . Another good friend and a couple I'm friendly with were also invited. It was a lovely evening. A warm and comfortable environment, great food, people I enjoy.
But somewhere along the way it changed. Conversation turned to cancer, and death, and just stayed there. They talked about people who died of cancer and how bad it was. They talked about people who survived cancer and how good it was. They talked about dying at length, and while I sat there trying to zone out, they didn't notice the tears welling up in my eyes. Each time I tried to join the conversation I was talked over or ignored - as if there was an assumption that I had nothing to offer the conversation.
Rationally I know that this says more about the other guests than me, but I can't help but believe that since I lost Brian, I've lost the right to particate in discussions.
It really upset me.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Life?
I know nothing. I don't know who I am. I don't know what I am. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't know how to fill the void in my heart and in my life.
Some say "choose life". What does that mean? This is my life. This is my loss. My husband died. My life feels empty, meaningless, untethered. I have chosen life; I'm not suicidal, but this life doesn't feel worth living.
Others say to just live with your grief and understand that it stems from love. No kidding. What does that mean? Live one day after another with no meaning, no love, no partner. I miss talking to my husband every day. I miss having someone hug me when I cry. I hate going to bed alone every night, and waking up alone every morning. I have nothing to look forward to. Life has become an endless series of obligations. Work, clean, pay bills I can't afford. Blow dry my hair and put on lipstick to make others feel more comfortable. Slap on a fake smile until I'm alone and the tears begin to flow.
How do you choose life when there is nothing compelling left?
Some say "choose life". What does that mean? This is my life. This is my loss. My husband died. My life feels empty, meaningless, untethered. I have chosen life; I'm not suicidal, but this life doesn't feel worth living.
Others say to just live with your grief and understand that it stems from love. No kidding. What does that mean? Live one day after another with no meaning, no love, no partner. I miss talking to my husband every day. I miss having someone hug me when I cry. I hate going to bed alone every night, and waking up alone every morning. I have nothing to look forward to. Life has become an endless series of obligations. Work, clean, pay bills I can't afford. Blow dry my hair and put on lipstick to make others feel more comfortable. Slap on a fake smile until I'm alone and the tears begin to flow.
How do you choose life when there is nothing compelling left?
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Shopping
I haven't allowed myself to think about it, but I can't put it off much longer. I need to shop for a grave stone.
How the hell am I supposed to do that? Brian and I never talked about it. I don't know what he would have wanted, so I have to do this on my own.
The cemetery requires that the stone be flush with the ground with no more than a few inch rise. I hate that. The family plots back on the East Coast have raised stones. They rise up over the ground. These flush stones make you focus down - instead of the freed soul, one focuses on the ground and the buried remains.
Most of the stones in our section of the cemetery are simple with little more than names and dates. They are small. Many, if not most, are flat double stones.
I don't know what to do. I don't know what to order. I don't want Brian's life reduced to a name and date range. I want the stone to speak of him and of our love.
I also don't know whether or not to get a double stone including my name. Many people have advised me not to do that. They think it would be disconcerting to see my own name on the stone. I think they don't want me to include me on the stone because I'm relatively young and maybe someday I'll entertain another relationship. I can't process that. No matter what might happen years from now, Brian was my husband, the love of my life. Not putting my name on the stone would almost feel like abandoning Brian.
This is horrible. There is no instruction sheet, and there is no right and wrong. I don't know what Brian thought about the stone - we thought we had decades more together, and when we knew we didn't we didn't waste precious time planning for time without Brian.
So I visited his grave today, and then I went to the memorial store to explore my options. I honestly don't know what stone I'll choose or what inscription I'll have engraved. I just don't know what to do, but I know that I'll need to decide soon.
This is like adding insult to injury. This is so unthinkable.
How the hell am I supposed to do that? Brian and I never talked about it. I don't know what he would have wanted, so I have to do this on my own.
The cemetery requires that the stone be flush with the ground with no more than a few inch rise. I hate that. The family plots back on the East Coast have raised stones. They rise up over the ground. These flush stones make you focus down - instead of the freed soul, one focuses on the ground and the buried remains.
Most of the stones in our section of the cemetery are simple with little more than names and dates. They are small. Many, if not most, are flat double stones.
I don't know what to do. I don't know what to order. I don't want Brian's life reduced to a name and date range. I want the stone to speak of him and of our love.
I also don't know whether or not to get a double stone including my name. Many people have advised me not to do that. They think it would be disconcerting to see my own name on the stone. I think they don't want me to include me on the stone because I'm relatively young and maybe someday I'll entertain another relationship. I can't process that. No matter what might happen years from now, Brian was my husband, the love of my life. Not putting my name on the stone would almost feel like abandoning Brian.
This is horrible. There is no instruction sheet, and there is no right and wrong. I don't know what Brian thought about the stone - we thought we had decades more together, and when we knew we didn't we didn't waste precious time planning for time without Brian.
So I visited his grave today, and then I went to the memorial store to explore my options. I honestly don't know what stone I'll choose or what inscription I'll have engraved. I just don't know what to do, but I know that I'll need to decide soon.
This is like adding insult to injury. This is so unthinkable.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Widow
I hate the word "widow". I hate the label. I hate being a widow, and I've fought using the word. I've refused to allow myself to be labeled a widow.
I recently met a man in a bereavement group. His wife was diagnosed two weeks after Brian. She died in July. Grief has bonded us in friendship, and we have spoken often of our pain, and shed many tears together.
He has questioned if he is still married, and until this morning, I never have. He asked, "what does it mean to be a wife or a husband when your spouse is dead?" What does marriage to a dead person mean?
Of course hearing him struggle with these questions and answers forced me to face them as well, and, of course, that brought on tears. I didn't divorce Brian. He didn't leave me, he died. And I still love him, and I still feel like his wife, but what has become of our marriage. We can't talk, we can't laugh, dance, hug, make love, share a meal, keep each other company - we can't share anything new.
I know that if he could be here with me, he would be. I know that he would have done anything to live, but he's gone, and I have to face the reality that I am a widow, and that my marriage will always be so dear, but it is over. And I don't know how to face that, and I don't know what to do. And if I'm not Brian's wife, who am I? What am I?
I am a widow.
I recently met a man in a bereavement group. His wife was diagnosed two weeks after Brian. She died in July. Grief has bonded us in friendship, and we have spoken often of our pain, and shed many tears together.
He has questioned if he is still married, and until this morning, I never have. He asked, "what does it mean to be a wife or a husband when your spouse is dead?" What does marriage to a dead person mean?
Of course hearing him struggle with these questions and answers forced me to face them as well, and, of course, that brought on tears. I didn't divorce Brian. He didn't leave me, he died. And I still love him, and I still feel like his wife, but what has become of our marriage. We can't talk, we can't laugh, dance, hug, make love, share a meal, keep each other company - we can't share anything new.
I know that if he could be here with me, he would be. I know that he would have done anything to live, but he's gone, and I have to face the reality that I am a widow, and that my marriage will always be so dear, but it is over. And I don't know how to face that, and I don't know what to do. And if I'm not Brian's wife, who am I? What am I?
I am a widow.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Live?
A year ago today Brian had the ct scan that showed that he was riddled with cancer. It was a Friday, and they didn't give us the results until Monday. Monday 1-7-13 they sent us to speak with the surgeon - they never said the "C" word. They did tell us that the culture of the ascitiis showed no cancer cells, and we foolishly thought we had dodged the bullet. We felt relief and hope. We thought that that he was having exploratory surgery to find the cause and fix an obstructed bowel.
In the er waiting room I knew that they might find cancer, but I never entertained a thought that it was terminal. Like every challenge we met we would deal with it together - we would come through it together.
Surgeons don't sugar-coat it when they tell you that the love of your life is dying. They blurt it out and leave, leaving you alone with the remnants of your life. With a pain so suffocating you think you'll just stop existing. But you don't. You move as if under water - not seeing, not hearing - just feeling.
Brian first showed symptoms in late December. The ascitiis was so bad that he couldn't get comfortable. In 2013 I never slept a night with my husband. We never danced, we never made love, we never shared a meal, we never did so many things. I layed in bed and slept with Brian for about one hour before his surgery. The next time I could lay in bed and hold him was the last hour of his life. I knew he was slipping away and I climbed into his bed at hospice and wrapped my arms around him. I could feel him breath; I could feel his heart beat. I could feel when his breathing and heart beat stopped. He didn't gain consciousness, but he did squeeze my hand to say goodbye. I watched as he took his last three breathes and then he was gone.
This time last year I still had hope. Four days later that hope was shattered along with all my dreams for the future.
I'm "supposed" to be coming to terms with my grief, but how do you do that when you are bombarded with memories of the worst time of your life and struggling with the reality that you must live on without the love of your life? How do you look to the future when you feel so alone and empty? How do you learn to live when your lungs can't take in air? When your heart forget how to beat? When the only person who truly knows you and who could possibly comfort you is gone forever?
Who is there to hold you when you cry when the only person who can hold you tight is gone and is the reason for your grief?
How do you live? I really don't know.
In the er waiting room I knew that they might find cancer, but I never entertained a thought that it was terminal. Like every challenge we met we would deal with it together - we would come through it together.
Surgeons don't sugar-coat it when they tell you that the love of your life is dying. They blurt it out and leave, leaving you alone with the remnants of your life. With a pain so suffocating you think you'll just stop existing. But you don't. You move as if under water - not seeing, not hearing - just feeling.
Brian first showed symptoms in late December. The ascitiis was so bad that he couldn't get comfortable. In 2013 I never slept a night with my husband. We never danced, we never made love, we never shared a meal, we never did so many things. I layed in bed and slept with Brian for about one hour before his surgery. The next time I could lay in bed and hold him was the last hour of his life. I knew he was slipping away and I climbed into his bed at hospice and wrapped my arms around him. I could feel him breath; I could feel his heart beat. I could feel when his breathing and heart beat stopped. He didn't gain consciousness, but he did squeeze my hand to say goodbye. I watched as he took his last three breathes and then he was gone.
This time last year I still had hope. Four days later that hope was shattered along with all my dreams for the future.
I'm "supposed" to be coming to terms with my grief, but how do you do that when you are bombarded with memories of the worst time of your life and struggling with the reality that you must live on without the love of your life? How do you look to the future when you feel so alone and empty? How do you learn to live when your lungs can't take in air? When your heart forget how to beat? When the only person who truly knows you and who could possibly comfort you is gone forever?
Who is there to hold you when you cry when the only person who can hold you tight is gone and is the reason for your grief?
How do you live? I really don't know.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
A New Year
New Years Day 2013. We knew Brian was seriously ill - we didn't yet know how grave things were and how drastically everything we knew was about to change. But he was here, and we were together, and we had the kind of love that survives and conquers everything - except cancer.
New Years Day 2014. Today felt endless, raw, and unbearably oppressive. Today starts a new year during which there will be no new memories created with Brian. A year in which he won't be part of the living world. A year in which he does not exist outside of memory.
I have received so many heartfelt wishes for a better year. A year without loss, a year of renewed health, a year of accomplishment and growth, and I thought "how could this year possibly be anything but better?". 2013 was so horrific on so many levels.
Rationally I know that I will survive the memories and the painful anniversaries. I know that I will start to build a new normal, and that that new normal will eventually feel OK. I know that there will be laughter, joy and celebrations. I also know that Brian's absence from those celebrations will be painful. He won't be there in September to dance with his niece at her wedding. He won't be here for birthdays or anniversaries, or Tuesdays. I have to learn to live without him. I have to learn to contain this pain so that I am not crippled by it.
How do you do that? How do you look to the future knowing that the best of your life is in the past. How do you let go of the pain and allow the love to shape the future when the lover is gone?
I'm 50 years old, and I know nothing. I need to relearn everything I thought I knew. I need to learn to love and trust in myself the way he loved and trusted me. I need to be there for my friends and loved ones. I need to learn to live without him, and it is the hardest challenge I may ever face.
New Years Day 2014. Today felt endless, raw, and unbearably oppressive. Today starts a new year during which there will be no new memories created with Brian. A year in which he won't be part of the living world. A year in which he does not exist outside of memory.
I have received so many heartfelt wishes for a better year. A year without loss, a year of renewed health, a year of accomplishment and growth, and I thought "how could this year possibly be anything but better?". 2013 was so horrific on so many levels.
Rationally I know that I will survive the memories and the painful anniversaries. I know that I will start to build a new normal, and that that new normal will eventually feel OK. I know that there will be laughter, joy and celebrations. I also know that Brian's absence from those celebrations will be painful. He won't be there in September to dance with his niece at her wedding. He won't be here for birthdays or anniversaries, or Tuesdays. I have to learn to live without him. I have to learn to contain this pain so that I am not crippled by it.
How do you do that? How do you look to the future knowing that the best of your life is in the past. How do you let go of the pain and allow the love to shape the future when the lover is gone?
I'm 50 years old, and I know nothing. I need to relearn everything I thought I knew. I need to learn to love and trust in myself the way he loved and trusted me. I need to be there for my friends and loved ones. I need to learn to live without him, and it is the hardest challenge I may ever face.
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