Comfortable

I went to the cemetery today to clean Brian's stone. I don't feel closer to him there. He isn't there. The ashes of his remains were put in the ground there. The stone means a lot to me. Long after I'm gone that stone should still be there as proof of his life. It will tell people who never knew him that he once lived, and that he mattered.

As I walked amongst the graves in our small cemetery, I saw memorials to people I knew and to people that I didn't. Many of them lived well into old age. Others didn't. Brian isn't the youngest to have been buried their. Not far from his is the grave of a baby. But in our small cemetery, Brian is one of the youngest to have died. He was diagnosed a month past his 48th birthday, and died three and a half months later.

And now, a few hours after leaving the cemetery, I am suddenly filled with rage. Why is he gone? Why didn't he have the opportunity to get old?

It is 9/11, and I feel guilty for my anger. All those who died 15 years were murdered. Their lives were taken through violence, not through a chance of bad luck. This guilt doesn't change my anger though. Knowing that it might have been worse doesn't make it easier. People comment on how much better I'm doing, and I want to scream! Of course I manage my grief better than I did during those early months. All that means is that I have gotten better at making you less uncomfortable with my grief. My life with grief will never be comfortable for me.

Tragedy

Shortly after Brian died, my dad said to me, "I've lived a long life, and when I die it won't be a tragedy. I know you'll be sad, but I've lived a good long life." It was one of the most sentimental living things he ever said to me. I know my dad loves me, but he's not one to say it, and that said it about as loud and clear as anything.

Now it's over three years later, and my parents are here visiting. They've aged a lot in three years, and have slowed down a lot, but I am so lucky that they are still in command of their bodies and minds and that they can still travel.

Sixteen years ago my dad lost a kidney to cancer. They caught it early, so after surgery no chemo or radiation was needed. Now, though, his kidney function is getting pretty low. When they are back home next week a surgeon will be creating a fistula so that they can start dialysis as soon as my dad begins to feel sick. To complicate things, it is most likely that he has cancer in the remaining kidney. It is relatively small and slow growing, but it is growing.

My dad is a real trooper and taking all of this in stride. He is not one to complain.

My dad is going to be 86, and aside from this little cancer/kidney situation, is in good health.

So tonight when I got home from work, we were relaxing and talking when he said, "this may be the last time I ever see you. When I die, I know you'll be sad, but it won't be tragic, I've lived a long good life." I felt the burn of tears well up, so I immediately said that I was going to visit them soon. We talked about when might be the best time.

I was fine until I closed my bedroom door and the tears started to flow. My dad's death won't be tragic. He is old and accomplished a lot in his life, but he's my dad. I'm a mushy gushy pansy. I cry; I hug; I tell people I love them. My dad and I are so different this way. And so, as much as I understand that my dad's death won't be tragic like Brian's was, I can't face this loss right now. I thought I could. I've always been sad that my dad and I don't have a sentimental father - daughter bond that I would have loved. I've always regretted my dad,I believe, doesn't really understand me and what makes me tick. It's been a strained relationship that has caused me a lot of angst, anger and guilt, but that we love each other was never a question.

So now I'm faced with a very real possibility that this could be our last visit together, and even though these visits are often stressful, my heart is completely broken. I am going to lose my dad some day sooner than later, and when that day comes, my Brian won't be here to hold me when I cry.

I'm not a monster; I'm a widow.

There are so many things that are horrible when you mourn. Loneliness, anger, sadness are just a few. I think the worst is guilt. I'm not talking about survivor guilt - the "why is he gone and I'm still here" guilt that so many grief articles talk about. I'm talking about the guilt that comes from jealousy. I have it, and I hate it. I hate that I feel jealousy, and I hate that I feel guilty for feeling jealous.

Somebody celebrates a 10th, 25th, 50th, or any number in between anniversary, and while my lips say "happy anniversary", my brain screams "why do you get this and I barely got 7 years of my remarkable marriage?" Somebody celebrates that their cancer is in remission, and while I smile and share congratulations my heart screams "why couldn't we find a way for Brian's cancer to go into remission?"  Shortly after Brian's diagnosis I saw a car in the hospital parking deck that was filled with blue balloons and had an "It's a Boy" sign in the back window, and I blurted out"Fuck you!" Why did other people get to celebrate life, when Brian and my existence was defined by his impending death?

Of course I am happy for my friends who get to celebrate their love with double digit anniversaries! Of course I am glad when anyone can put cancer in their history. Of course I appreciate the beauty and promise of births. I'm not a monster, I'm a widow.

There are so many labels that can be used to describe me, but "widow" overshadows the rest. Being a widow discolors my world. Where once I could see beauty, I now see beauty and danger. Where once I could experience joy, I now feel it as fleeting. Where once I could feel hope, I no longer can. The envy that I feel when others celebrate anniversaries that cancer robbed us of isn't surprising. The melancholy that I feel when others celebrate life and I am reminded of death doesn't make me a bad person. The fact that celebrations often leave me feeling unbearably lonely doesn't mean I'm disconnected. I'm a widow, and my husband's illness and death redefined me. Cancer took his life, our life, my life.

I may find a path to happiness again, but Brian's death put my life on a whole new trajectory. I am alone on this uncharted path that I didn't choose. While I accept that I am here and that this is my new life, I got here kicking and screaming. I miss the life that I shared with Brian.; I miss my hopes and dreams of growing old with him; I miss coming home to someone who knew me better than I know myself. I miss my marriage; I miss my husband.

I'm ashamed when I feel envy over other people's happiness. It makes me feel petty, selfish, and small; but the guilt that I feel about my feelings is oppressing. I don't have energy for it. So I'm going to try and give myself a break. I'm going to try and remember that I'm human and that I'm trying to find beauty in the shadow of an unbearable loss. I don't lash out at others because they have reason to celebrate; instead I impose judgement on myself. I don't deserve it.

I'm not a monster; I'm a widow.

lonely

I honestly don't know if I'm Depressed or just unhappy - or even how I would tell the difference. I have family that loves me, I have friends that care about me, but I feel so alone in the world. I can't really talk to anyone except my therapist, and she doesn't talk back. I pay her to listen to myself drone on like a broken record. Things don't get better. 

This week I felt like everyone finds my to be annoying. I should just stop talking because nobody cares about what I say.

And writing this here, it sounds like indulgent self-pity, but it is how I feel. Really alone.

I hate having to ask people for help. I hate that I'm trying to organize social events that either fall through, or leave me feeling left out. I hate not having enough money to go out, to buy tickets to the theater, to take a much needed vacation. I hate carrying myself through this life as a widow. 

Supposed?

It's been 37.5 months since Brian died; 40 months since the doctor told me he would die. I'm supposed to be ok with this new "chapter" now. The pain is supposed to be a thing of the past.

Who made this declaration about how I'm "supposed" to be? Not me. Probably not anyone who watched their 48 year old husband die. Certainly not someone who watched their 28 year old husband die. Probably not even someone who watched their 78 year old husband die. I don't think that anyone who watched their spouse die would tell someone else how their grief is supposed to feel.

Want to piss me off? Tell me to move on. Tell me to get over it. Tell me not to live in the past.

Clearly, I'm not living in the past with Brian! Clearly I have moved on. And that's the problem! I'm living in this new reality that I hate. My happy reality ended when I was told that my husband would die of a rare cancer that we couldn't fight. I was told that without chemo he could live for nine months. I was told that with chemo he could live two or three years. Neither of those things happened. He died three and a half months later. He died without ever coming back home. He died without ever again feeling the sun on his face. He died without ever enjoying another real meal. Without ever again petting his cat or walking his dog. He died without sleeping another night in his own bed. He died without ever dancing with me again. He died without enjoying the things that he had previously enjoyed.

I have moved on. I am still alive. I held him as he took his last breath. I held our cat as he took his last breath. I held our dog as she took her last breath. I packed up our things by myself and sold our home.

I'm still here. I'm still alive. I live in my new home with my new dog. I get up in the morning and go to my new job. A home, a dog and a job that he never knew.

I live in the present, and that is the problem. This is not what I ever imagined. Brian and I imagined growing old together. We planned to be that little old couple who held hands and kissed in public. We planned to be happy together.

That was my past. None of that exists in my present. I would love to live in the past, but I can't.

We were there for each other. We took care of each other. Nothing could have kept me from him those three and a half months that we were in the hospital or in hospice house. There was so little that I could do for him, but I wanted to do anything that I could for him. I'm grateful that I could do those things for him, though even as he died he did so much for me. He still took care of me.

I survived his death. I planned a memorial service for him. I planned a burial for his cremains. I designed and provided his grave stone. I needed to do all of that. The only thing that could have been right after that was for me to go to sleep and never wake up. It is so unfair that I am still here and he isn't.

I don't live in the past. I live in the present. I'm sad and lonely, and I have tried so hard to change that but I'm not able.

Roller coaster

Long before I met Brian I knew that I wanted to be an administrator in a university setting. It wasn't until almost three years after he died that I actually got the job. The pay sucks, the benefits are great, and for the first time ever, I really like my job.

I am the program administrator for a summer program. Yesterday we had orientation for out instructors. Today was the first day of classes. It was a crazy busy day, but an exciting one. At lunch time I had to escort a group of students to get ID cards. The sky was bright blue, it was warm but not humid. Campus was in bloom. As I addressed the students I felt happy to introduce them to our beautiful campus and to share their enthusiasm. I felt really proud to contribute to our program. I was up, smiling, excited and feeling like I wanted to celebrate - and just like that it all crashed. 

I wanted to go home and dance. I knew that if Brian were here we would have. We would have gone downtown for dinner, sat outside, and had a great evening. I could picture the smile on his face as I told him about the students and the instructors. I could hear his laughter in sharing my excitement. As quickly as I imagined that, I was fighting to hold back the tears. I can't share any of this. It felt so good for a moment, and then the moment was over, and I was alone.

I don't have anyone to celebrate these moments with. I no longer have someone who shares my joy, excitement and accomplishments. I finally have the job that I wanted, the job that he wanted for me, but I don't have him. Without him, the joy is stripped.

I am proud of myself for all that I have learned so far in this job. I am proud to contribute to this program. I am glad to finally have a job I enjoy. But I am so hurt by this roller coaster of feelings that makes bad days bad and good days lonely.

This is not how it should be.

Dreams

So many widowed people talk about seeing their loved ones in dreams. I almost never dream of Brian. I wish I did. Perhaps I don't because I don't believe he exists anymore in any concious form. Last night I had my most vivid dream of him, and it wasn't good. I still feel sad an shaken. Like my loss is fresh again.

In my dream Brian came home and told me he was leaving me. There was no fight, no anger, no love loss, but we were over and I couldn't understand. I asked if I had done anything wrong, if I had angered or disappointed him. I asked if he stopped loving me. No. Nothing had changed, but he had to go and we were over. He was sad and I was sad and neither of us wanted that, but there was this horrible surrender to some terrible reason why we couldn't be together. 

In the dream I was so broken. There was no begging or pleading, just this horrific feeling of losing my marriage. And he was sad, but he wouldn't stay. We both knew our marriage was ending, and we both hated it, and there was nothing to talk about. Just this gut wrenching surrender to a "divorce" that neither of us wanted.

I woke up really sad, and have been fighting tears all day. In the light of day I know that the dream was about his death. It wasn't a divorce that neither of us wanted. It was a dream about how fate ripped us apart. How cancer made us both accept that our lives had been hijacked.

I am typing this with tears flowing. After all this time I finally have a vivid dream about my Brian, and it wasn't about our love and life, it was about his death. Somehow now the loss seems new again and the pain is raw, and I want to scream about how unfair life can be- how unfair it has been. The quiet resolve of the dream doesn't exist in the real world. I can't quietly accept the reality of my loss. I can't imagine a life that seems even half full. It will always feel, at best, half empty. The thought of spending the rest of my life in this state of private pain and loss is heavy, and I wish he could help me bear the weight as he always did in life.

Better?

Tomorrow will be three years since my Brian died. People are remarking on how much better I am. Am I? I don't cry in public nearly as often as I used to. That is a good thing. Of course I feel like I'm not out in public as much as I used to be. It is just too much work trying to be ok. I feel like I've spent years living under water, and I would like to come up for air, but I can't remember how to breath.

I still hurt, and the last two weeks before this terrible anniversary have been hard. I'm sad, and I feel physically sick. I know that anniversaries do that - so many painful memories that are so clear. I know that in a week or two I won't feel so sick. I just don't know if I'll ever remember how to breath again.

A question is worth a thousand suggestions

What is the worst part of being a widow? It is a ridiculous question. What is good about being a widow? Nothing. I mean we don't even get a discount at the movie theater. We lose our loves, our lives, friends, health, security, companionship, financial well being. We lose so much. We seem depressed because we are depressed. Others may see up as self-indulgent, weak, or pathetic because they don't understand the enormity of the task of survival. Surviving is hard, brave, exhausting and frightening; and even with the best of support systems, it is something we do alone.

After the first year of raw, unrelenting pain, I think perhaps one of the hardest things is being made to feel like a failure for not being cured, or whole, or happy. I don't think anyone would call us failures - that would involve a special sort of cruelty. We label ourselves failures because every time someone tells us to move on, start a new life, or live in the present there is a silent message that we are somehow grieving wrong.

There is no path in grief. There is no little instruction book of how to navigate this new territory. We drag ourselves forward, clawing at a chance for wholeness. We slip, we fall. We open old scabs, and we create new wounds. We bleed.

Maybe the right thing isn't to suggest that we get over it or move on, but to ask us how we can find a less painful space. Maybe instead of presuming to understand us, you can challenge us to try to understand ourselves. If and how we get there is really none of anyone's business. But if you can help us question ourselves without demanding answers or results, perhaps you can make this awful road a bit less bumpy.

Living, dying, or something in between

On April 20th it will be three years since Brian died. This time three years ago we had already been living in hospice house - living, no, we were alive there, but not living - we were dying. I am so sad; so alone in my pain. I am surviving, but not living. Without Brian There is nobody that understands and knows me. I live in this horrible solitude of pain, and while its jagged edges aren't as treacherous as they used to be, it's weight is slowly killing me.

Rage

I went to see my grief counsellor today. I see her every week, but needed an extra appointment today. I'm feeling so alone, angry and hopeless. I just can't seem to turn it around lately.

On the ground level of her building there is a small cafe, and when I walked in there was a family sitting there eating. I would recognize that beautiful woman and her magnificent hair anywhere - it was Brian and my favorite nurse from when we were still in the hospital. I excused myself for interrupting their supper, saying that she probably didn't remember me and mentioning my name. She jumped up and hugged me. I knew she would remember us. She only worked on weekends, and we always requested her to be our nurse.

And it all came rushing through the cracks in the dam that I put up to hold back the pain. In a week when I have been struggling so hard to keep it together, it all became too much - all the kindness we were shown during that horrific time. There was so much support then.

I guess when the dam crumbles it is good to be at the therapist's office. The rush of pain didn't surprise me, but the anger did. I am so angry! At everyone except Brian. I am so angry at a world that thinks that I could possibly ok, that I am weak or self indulgent. I am emotional - I often give into tears, but I am not weak! I am a survivor. I have been through losses that many couldn't endure. Nobody besides Brian knows or ever knew some of the challenges I have survived. Maybe if they did people wouldn't treat me like a silly child. I am so angry. I am carrying so much rage and I can't let it go because there is no longer anyone who can help bear the load.

I am so utterly alone in my pain and my grief, and I think that this is how it will always feel.

Tired

I haven't written in a long time because I'm tired. I'm tired of being a widow. I'm tired of feeling loss. I'm tired of wishing for what was. I think that mostly, though, I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of pretending that life is ok. I'm tired of smiling to make other people more comfortable. I'm tired of facing challenges alone. I'm tired of having nobody to share accomplishments with. Sometimes just getting through the day is an accomplishment that deserves recognition.

I'm tired of being alone.

My eye hurts. I started a new treatment that sucks, and I hate that I have to navigate it alone. I had an injection yesterday that left my eye burning for hours and that has my eye still hurting tonight. Brian used to take me to my injections. He knew this hurt and terrified me, and he always supported me so that I could be strong or weak. Now it is hard to be strong because I can't be weak. I have nobody to offer their strength.

In less than a month it will be three years since he has been gone. A lot has changed. I'm learning to live in this emptiness that has become my life. I'm learning to move forward even though I want to go back. But I know that the best of my life is behind me, and moving forward just moves me further from the life that was.

I'm tired of this life.