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.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
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.
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