Invisible

I don’t remember when I became invisible
It must have happened while I was sleeping

It has its benefits
I suppose.

For her

Every smile, every tear,

Everything in my life has settled into me -

My heart, my mind.

Every memory has its place,

Its room in this body that I call home.

Everything,

Except for you.

You have stained me.

You have seeped into every cell.

You have tainted me.

Turned white to grey and

Truth to lies.

You are the shadow cast over my days

You are the howl in the night

You are the silence that begs for a lullaby

And the screech that yearns for peace.

You are the pain that reminds me that I'm alive

And the ache that welcomes death

I don't know where you end

Or where I begin

Your need chokes me

Your anger scalds

You have taught me to hate

And to love

And how it is hard to distinguish between the two.

Comfort

It’s been so long. I should be better.

I realize now, that he was my comfort in life. I still love him, and I feel his love for me, but he can’t comfort me in this loss.

My time with him was the only time in my life when I felt comfortable being myself. He knew me and loved me, and let me be. I lost my husband, my lover, my best friend, and somehow I’m going on, but I don’t know how to go back to life without comfort. It is terrifying.

Faith

Rosh Hashanah begins tonight. This is the start of the Jewish Holy Days; a time when Jews gather as a community for self-reflection and penitence. I used to love these holy days. I appreciated the time to reflect on my achievements and failures. I took moral inventory to realistically see my strengths and weaknesses, to be grateful for all of the gifts in my life, and to resolve to work on bettering myself without judgement. I used to feel a wonderful peace in this opportunity to tune out the physical and focus on the spiritual.

Five years ago all that changed. After my husband Brian’s death I was consumed with grief. I become more active in attending religious services. I was desperate for some sort of comfort and understanding through Judaism.

I didn’t find it.

During those first holy days after Brian’s death,  I read about God deciding “who shall live and who shall die. Who by fire and who by water.” I read these words and felt an excruciating pain, because I do believe in God, but I can’t believe that God decided that Brian would develop cancer and die. I can’t believe that Brian’s death was some sort of punishment. I have never believed in a God that micromanages our lives. I believe in a God that gave us free will. Brian died because a cancer cell went rougue in his body and we did not have the ability to find it fast enough to stop it.

I am not angry at God because I don’t believe that God wanted to punish Brian or me. I think God is more involved in the big picture than with our daily lives, but I do get angry when I read those prayers. It has caused a real crisis of faith that I have been struggling with for five years.

Ultimately, I deal with this conflict by telling myself that the words of Torah, and the words in our sidurs are written by humans- no better, smarter, or chosen than me. That these are explanations and metaphors - not the actual word of God. This allows me to attend services. This allows me to say my own heartfelt prayers, to feel all the nuances of my gratitude and my grief, and to reject those parts of the service that offend me without being a bad Jew or a bad person.

So, as we prepare to observe these holy days, I am finally able to tell myself that these feelings do not make me a bad Jew; that I can reject these parts of our prayers without rejection my belief in God or my connection to my religion; that I can own my grief and anger without being ungrateful.

I still feel ambivalent about participating in services, and I still feel offended by these words; but I do finally believe that this is ok. I can immerse myself in self reflection and I can pray as a member of the community. I can own my discomfort.

As we begin this holy season, I wish all of you who celebrate a year of peace, health, happiness and understanding.

Complicated Grief

For several years I have been struggling with complicated grief. Grief changes with time, and it isn’t as raw and painful a it once was. It has changed things so profoundly in ways I wouldn’t have imagined. I knew that daily life would change; I expected to feel unbearable sadness and loneliness; I knew that I would always miss the future I had dreamed of; but I didn’t expect to lose myself. The loss of purpose and joy had been profound. I have felt like the best of me died with Brian and what was left we’re the qualities of which I am not proud. I feel more selfish, less companionate and quick to pass judgement.

So far 2018 has not been a good year. I’m fine - nothing particularly bad has happened to me, but a lot is happening with people around me. I have been feeling intense stress and anxiety. Things that Brian and I would experience and process together have been heavy on my shoulders, and the weight of my “aloneness” has been crushing. The last month for me has been pretty awful, and I coped by trying to sleep through as much of it as possible.

It has dawned on me, that this stress and anxiety might not be a result of complicated grief. I think it is the result of complicated life.

Brian, I believe, is the only person who has ever truly known me and love me unconditionally. There was nothing that we couldn’t talk about openly, there was complete trust, there was always a safe place for us to just be. All of our personal issues were discussed, understood, and forgiven. We both came with baggage, but together we were able to leave the baggage behind and move forward with so much less “weight”.

Now that he is gone the weight of my past is back. My self-confidence and worth are diminished, and my codependent tendencies now make me angry. I have been so angry since Brian died. Not at Brian or at God, but at myself and at all the people in my life who cant love me the way he could.

I love my family, but we are complicated. My mom is incredibly smart and determined, but she suffers from depression. It’s not her fault, she loves us, but she is self absorbed and fearful. As a result she never taught me to follow my dreams. She never let me take risks. She always looked at all the horrible things that could happen, so I never learned to take risks or push my limits. None of this is her fault, but her depression has framed the way that I think. With Brian I could allow myself out of that box, now I find myself back there.

My dad is great, but he wasn’t always. When my sister and I were little he was an absent parent. Not a deadbeat - the opposite- my dad was driven to take care of his family. He worked hard, he worked, earned his PhD, and provided for us. It was a different time - my mom raised the kids, my dad provided for us.

I have had a privileged life, I know that. I have always had food, clothes, a lovely home and access to education, but everything I did was a responsibility and not a joy.

My parents are now old. My dad goes to dialysis three days a week. He doesn’t complain. He has mellowed. He is accepting. My mom has been really suffering from her depression. She has been angry, selfish and irrational, but she is trying. And through it all, I have been so ambivalent. I am broken hearted to see my mom suffer. I am sad to know that their time is limited. I am also furious. Furious that I feel responsible for my mom’s mental health. Angry that my dad can’t say, “I love you.” Angry that they will ask me if i am saving money and keeping the house clean but they will never ask if I’m happy - did I do anything fun. All this anger makes me feel guilty and selfish and worthless.

This isn’t grief - this is my insecurity and weakness. This is all the stuff that I had never dealt with before Brian coming back, but he isn’t here to help me.

I feel so alone and overwhelmed, but I realize that nobody can help me with this. I have to reframe my thinking so that I can be the person that Brian lived - that compassionate and ion person. This is on me. I have to fix this.

complete

I didn't post here on the five year anniversary. April 20th.

I took the day off work and checked out. I got through the day - the weekend - by not being present. I don't know if that was wise, but it worked.

I don't want to blog, I don't want to journal, I don't want to talk.

I'm alone in this. Nobody cares. I have nothing left but anger. Anger that he had to die young. Anger that I'm alone in this and in life. Anger at the people who take their loved ones for granted. Anger at my parents for not teaching me how to cope. I think that I might be the strongest person I know. I am also unhappy, emotionally immature, and full of rage. I get up in the morning and I get through each day. I do what I have to do, then I go home alone. Strong doesn't mean shit. i don't want to be strong; I want to feel complete.

12 Years - the good death anniversary

I remember

Twelve years ago tonight we had a house full of people.
Twelve years ago tomorrow we married; it was perfect.

In front of our friends, family and God, we declared our commitment to something that started earlier. Everyone who knew us then, knew that we had something special. History, circumstance and background would have never had us together, but fate knew we belonged with each other. We were unconventional. We first fell in love, then met. How wonderful to fall in love with a person first, to love their heart and mind and soul before setting eyes on them. At a time when both of us might have been guarded, we let ourselves trust and love. I knew we would marry before I ever met you. I knew you were my heart. I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. That didn’t happen.

But you did spend the rest of your life with me- loving, trusting, supporting. You knew and understood me more than I know or understand myself. You allowed me to be me, and in the process let me know true happiness.

I regret that I came with baggage; that I never was able to leave it all behind, but carried it and let it weigh on my soul. I don’t know how you understood, and saw the love under the scars. All my self doubt, all my insecurities, all my faults, and still I was luck enough to be your wife.

I think what made us so great is that we put us first. It wasn’t about what was best for you or what was best for me - it was about what was best for us as a unit. We both grew as people within the framework of “us”.

Twelve years ago I was so happy, so lucky, so blessed. Twelve years ago I became your wife and you became my husband. It breaks my heart that we cannot celebrate this anniversary. It tears me apart that we cannot grow old together. I don’t know who I am outside of half of us. But I do know, without a doubt, that I am the luckiest .

To have had such an extraordinary love. It is rare. I don’t think many couples get to share the complete trust that we had. I don’t think many couples laugh as much as we laughed. I don’t think many people get to love as deeply as we loved.

Living without you is not easy. I feel like you would be disappointed. As hard as it is, I don’t give up. I give in to the pain, but I keep trying. For this anniversary I want to give myself the gift of peace. I want to accept what has happened. To do that, I think I need to stop trying so hard to live well, and focus on making sure that I die well. I don’t want to suffer a dibilitating disease, or whither away alone in a nursing home. I don’t want a diminished mind in a healthy body, or a diminished body with a strong mind. I don’t know if I will die tomorrow or in 40 years, but I want to focus on having a good death. In doing that, I will have to have more peace in the life I have left. I think that maybe you would be ok with that.

I love you so, and I miss you so much more than I could imagine. You absence is felt every single day. As sad as I am, I know that I am

I am

I am

The Luckiest.

Happy anniversary, Babe. I love you more than an elephant,

In a tutu

In a pink VW bug.
❤️

On The Day That I Died

It was cold.

The sun shone brightly

The sky was blue with deceit 

-an illusion of calm.

We hung our hopes on a low hanging limb,

filled with the promise that Spring would soon bud.

But the limb snapped.

The canopy that shaded us from our fears was destroyed.

The warmth we sought betrayed us.

It beat down searing, scorching,

consuming that which had been beautiful 

-giving life to something dark and destructive.

Hope was cruel,

allowing us to believe that fate could be altered. 

It was cold.

The sky was blue,

on the day that I died.

Heart

It swells with love until it risks bursting..

A rush to the brain;

A glow on the cheek;

A warmth between the legs.

It fills the chest 

Squeezes out the emptiness

Makes things like "forever" seen real

Until...

The body goes cold.

How much loss can one heart bear?

How can it be put back together?

What happens when the glue chips away

And the cracks spread wide?

There is no limit to love

But the heart is human - 

Frail.

How many times can it be broken and repaired 

before it can no longer hold onto love 

and can only, barely, continue to beat?

Want

I don’t even know what I want in life. I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to settle. I would like to meet someone, but I don’t want to date. I don’t know if I will ever want to re-marry, but I would love to have a partner again.

Do I want a husband, a lover, a friend with benefits?

I want trust and intimacy of mind and body. I want someone to fuss over, and someone to fuss over me. I want occasions for celebration, a shoulder to cry on, a person to grow with.  I want to feel like I matter. I want to feel like I am living again rather than just going through the motions.

Actually, that sounds like I do know what I want. I just don’t know how to have it anymore. I’m scared to try; I’m scared not to try.

I lost my first husband to drugs. I lost my second husband - the love of my life - to cancer. I don’t want to lose more. I don’t want to put my fragile, glued-together heart someplace where someone can crush it by not wanting me. I don’t want my heart to be destroyed by loving another man who I can lose.

I want love, sex, real companionship, support, responsibility, accountability and more. I want a life that is full, shared, and honest. I’m scared to have that and I’m scared that I may never have it again.

Need Him

Five years ago my Brian had surgery. We thought they were looking for a bowel obstruction. We were prepared for a cancer diagnosis, but not for a stage four - no options - terminal diagnosis.

Five years is a long time. I thought I could get through my day without focusing on five years ago. I didn’t focus on five years ago, but it had me. I fought years from the time  I got out of bed. It was a lousy day.

I went to work and was bombarded with requests. That’s my job, and I like to help, but not when I’m given just a hint of the story to figure out what needs to be done. People want things done now, but won’t take the time to clearly state what they need, so they waste my time doing detective work. I miss Brian. Brian knew how to communicate clearly. Brian knew how to say please and thank you. Brian made the people around him feel appreciated and never took them for granted. Is it so wrong to want to feel appreciated at work? Is it so wrong to feel sad on the fifth anniversary of my husband’s death sentence?

My eye has been very painful for three weeks. It makes it really hard to stay cool. It makes me anxious and on edge. Chronic pain exhausts me and I just crave sleep. I had a 1:00 doc appt today. My pain has been bad and unrelenting, so I thought my retinal edema would be bad. It far surpasses my expectations, though it did confirm that my pain and vision problems are real. Sat at the doc four four hours waiting for authorizations. Gave me lots of time to remember the last time my eye scan was so bad. It was Jan 2012  - first time I needed an interoccular injection. I was terrified, but Brian was right there giving me support. Today I was alone, and it was so lonely. The shots aren’t so terrible, but the anxiety before the shot is always bad. I always feel panicky, and I wanted Brian there with me. I was sad, then mad, then depressed to be sitting there alone. I got the inplant, but have never had the itching and burning in my eye after. The one eye was tearing nonstop, and the stinging burning pain lasted two hours.

Five pm - sun is going down, both eyes are dilated, one eye is in post injection pain and waterworks, I’m alone, sad, depressed, frustrated, grieving, I’m pissed off that I’m there alone. Spent four hours trying to get authorization paperwork, but ended up having to pay out $2200 anyway. Then I have to drive home at dusk with seriously compromised vision. I had no business being behind the wheel. He used to take care of me. I needed help, but couldn’t have it. I’m so sad, I’m so lonely. I need help. This condition is very painful. We don’t know what causes it. We can treat the symptoms but it is thousands of dollars every two months and treatment is invasive. It is painful, but others with similar symptoms don’t have the dibilitating pain I do. We inject implants in my eye and we flood my body with biological medication. It costs over $3000 each treatment and it is invasive, and I don’t know if it is right or worth it. I need my partner to help me figure it out. I need my partner to lean on in my pain. Today I didn’t have him, but I did have haunting memories of being told that he would soon die. I remember having to tell him that he was dying. I remember how we both tried to be strong for the other.

I’m alone. I miss him. I’m in pain. I need his strength and support. It is so hard - this life alone.

Mothering Grief

Yesterday I posted this to a widow’s group in Facebook:

“Five years ago today, Brian and I spent in the ER. We thought they would admit him and schedule surgery to remove his pancreas. CAT scan showed a healthy pancreas.

Five years ago today, Brian and I learned the word ascites.  The doctors didn’t tell us they suspected cancer, but that’s when we both started to think it was likely. He wasn’t diagnosed with cancer until Jan 8, but I suspect all his doctors knew it was cancer. We were ready for the cancer diagnosis, but not for “terminal”, “stage 4”, and “no treatment”.

It would be so easy to allow myself to fall into despair, but that would disappoint him. He has been gone for almost five years, and I have to stop nurturing my grief. Nobody around me understands that this deep pain will never go away, and I will forever miss him and our life together, but I know that I can continue to live. Life isn’t as rich, and it isn’t as fun, but it is a gift that I have and that he was denied.

I recently shared the attached poem that has been so meaningful to me. At one, two and maybe even three years out, this poem would have pissed me off. Now, approaching five years, the poem speaks to me. I can hear his voice in it.  I carry my grief with me, but I must stop nurturing it. I must stop allowing it to dominate my life. I most focus on life, and let my grief fend for itself. It isn’t easy, but time is making me feel like it is possible.

Five years ago today we were scared and clinging to a hope that failed us. Today, I have survived the worst of what life could deal me. Today I no longer fear loss because I have lost what was most important. Today I think maybe I can stop carrying me grief, and let it follow me on its own.

Wishing us all strength for 2018.”

Here is the poem:


http://lodestarquarterly.com/work/397/

It is hard to separate the grief of life from the grief of death, but this is where I am.  I can no longer blame my grief on Brian’s death. It is time to own it. I hope I can do so in 2018.

Let's not be Graceful in our Grief

Recently there were ads on the radio for a weekend seminar offered by the Sisters of Something or Other. It was called "Graceful Grieving". I held off on commenting because since Brian died I seem to be the Lady of Perpetual Anger, and I wanted to think about why this seminar upset me so much.

I think it is a huge disservice to try and instruct people to grieve gracefully. In fact, I think we need to do the opposite. Grief is raw, and messy, and anything but graceful. To grieve gracefully is to stifle your feelings for the comfort of others. Why should anybody do that?

Why should a mourner smile politely and hide the tears for private moments. Why should a mourner say "thank you" and offer a sweet if phony smile when someone says "he's in a better place", or "God had a plan", or "this will make you stronger"? Grief is hot, wet, and smelly. Grief is loud and grating. Grief is primal screams, and collapsing to the floor. It is forgetting to shower and brush teeth. Grief is tears, snot, vomit and diarrhea. Grief is private pain, but public spectacle.

How offensive that anyone would instruct anyone else on how to mourn gracefully?

When Brian was dying, I tried to shield him from my grief. I couldn't understand what it must have felt like for him to be dying, and I didn't want to burden him with my pain - a pain that he couldn't make go away. I'm sure I failed miserably. I cried when he slept. I left his room when I had to collapse to floor. I stifled my screams. I tried to shower, dress, and eat. I tried to show him that I would be okay. He knew that I wouldn't be ok for a long time.

Then he died, and nothing was ok. I showered and dressed in a suit and went to his memorial. I stood and received "guests" after the service. I sent thank you notes. I told people that I was "fine". I listened to everyone tell me that I was strong.

No.

I wasn't strong. I'm not strong. I continue to breath because that is what you do. Because you live, and you learn to live in agonizing pain. You learn to hide it until private moments, but it never goes away. It becomes easier to live with, but the pain and loss are always there. Every sad occasion that you can't share; every happy accomplishment that you don't celebrate; every holiday that you attend alone; everything new that happens in a world without them hurts - but we are expected to be graceful and grateful.

I am so grateful for the time I had with Brian, but I don't want to be graceful. I wish I could go back a few years and allow myself to fully experience the pain. I wish I could scream in public, tear my clothes, rant at God, curse at others' happiness. I wish I could be ugly, loud and offensive. I wish I could be honest with the force of my pain, because maybe then it wouldn't be so hard now. Maybe had I been allowed to be weak, ugly and selfish then, I wouldn't have to feel so alone in my pain now.

Perspective

Grief doesn't get easier. We learn how to live with it, but it doesn't ease, we don't heal, we don't move on - we somehow live. Even after four years it isn't easy. It is a continual struggle to see good in a present that will never be as complete and joyous as the past.

Something happened in the past week, that has really helped me to form a new perspective. Something that I wish I could talk with Brian about. Something that feels really profound.

Brian was the love of my life. Losing him will always be the greatest heartache of my life. Loving him, I believe, will always be my greatest joy. I am blessed to have many family and friends that I love. One person stands out, and that is my niece, Denise. She is permanently in my heart in a way that I can't explain. She is my niece by marriage - Brian's niece - but she is my family. I have no children, and she is the closest to a daughter that I will ever have. I hurt when she hurts, I am delighted with her accomplishments. I want the world for her.

Denise's mom was Brian's sister. She died of breast cancer three years before Brian died of appendicial cancer. She didn't have it easy. She was on active chemo for over 11 years, but this lady had a perspective that was beautiful. She said that everyone had something about themselves that they don't like - some people don't like their hair, or their weight, or their fears - she didn't like her cancer, but she was going to live with it. She didn't "fight cancer"; she just chose to live. And despite what the cancer and the chemo did to her body, she lived as best as she could. We had some private time to speak a few days before she died, and I got to thank her for showing me what it really means to live on one's own terms. I wish I had had more time to know her better, but I loved her and I miss her.

Denise and Brian had a special relationship, and it didn't take long for me to fall in love with her. She and her cousins are the greatest inheritance that Brian left me. Denise has been there for me. She was there with us when Brian died. I have a bond with her that is unlike anything I have with anyone else on this earth.

So when she told me a few months ago that she had an amazing opportunity at work, I was so happy for her. When she was selected from a national team for a promotion that would move her for four years to the other side of the world, my heart swelled with pride and joy for her. I would be lying if I didn't selfishly feel some sadness that she would be so far away, but I knew what this opportunity meant for her, and I couldn't be more proud.

Then, two weeks ago she called me and told me that she felt a lump in her breast and was going to see the surgeon. The fear that I felt was unlike anything I had felt before. I felt fear when Brian was diagnosed, but I hadn't lived through his illness yet. I hadn't seen close up what surgery and chemo does. I hadn't seen how cancer can eat a person until there is nothing left to eat. I now understand cancer, and the thought that those things might happen to my Denise, filled me with a fear and rage that were consuming. Her mother died of cancer. Her uncle died of cancer. Her grandmother survived cancer. With this family history, this wasn't just a scare - it was a moment of harsh realities.

They scheduled her for biopsy the next week. They took five cores. We didn't talk after the biopsies. We texted. She needed to turn off the phone from the world. I needed to be supportive but hide my fears. They told her she would have results by the end of the week. So I waited, and I prayed like I have never prayed before.

I believe in God, and I believe in the power of prayer, but my "idea" of God is unlike that of most organized religions. I don't believe in God as an entity that controls our individual fates. I don't believe that people get sick or not because some god decides that. I don't believe that prayer can cause or prevent illness or death. I was never angry at God because my Brian died. To me, God is more of an idea - more of the unembodied embodiment of what is good and true and right in the world. God is the belief in the goodness of people and a recognition of the beauty of life. God is the way things are supposed to be.

On Friday morning I was driving to work, and I couldn't stop the tears. The thought of what could be was so unfair and so terrifying. I cried and I raged, and I cursed at God. I thought if the biopsies come back positive, then there is no God. Then there is no point in prayer, or hope. Then the world is just unfair. And then, as quickly as this rage had escalated, I had a thought. If Denise did have bad news and I blamed God, would I show corresponding appreciation and gratitude if the biopsies came back negative?

Suddenly, I was a hypocrite, because I knew that I wouldn't. As grateful as I would be, I probably would not have expressed that gratitude to the order of goodness and rightness in the world. And that stopped me in my tracks. I have been living with this horrible sadness since Brian died. I know that it will never go away, but I need to focus more on gratitude. I need to feel appreciation that I experienced a love so strong that most people will never know - that even though I now have a profound sadness, I was so lucky to experienc true happiness -  that despite cancer, and poverty, and politics and tragedy there is good in the world, and that life itself is a miracle that I can't take for granted. It's ok for me to feel sad, but only if I recognize both sides of the coin.

On Saturday morning I got a text. All of the biopsies were negative. I immediately called Denise and we laughed and cried. I cried all day - happy tears, because despite how unfair life is, sometimes things end up exactly how they are supposed to be. I cried because someone who I love will be able to take an amazing promotion, and move to the other side of the world for four years, and experience life - and I will get to share that experience with her.

Denise and I spoke this morning, and we laughed, and I cried some more and we talked about all this. We talked about how real the fear was and how amazing the relief is. We talked about how important it is to appreciate the good things because they can be so fleeting.

Bad things are going to happen to me and to the people I love. There will be more fear and loss, but I have been so wrapped up in my fears and losses that I haven't been able to appreciate the gifts that I still have. No, my present is neither as full nor as happy as my past, but I still have life and love and wonder. I hope I can remember to keep that in my consciousness. I am truly thankful for the beauty of life, and to know that while life is not fair, sometimes things turn out exactly how they should.

Depressed

The first year of grief was unbearable raw pain.

The second year the shock is gone, but the reality of loss sets in.

The third year was a fight to have hope.

The fourth year was unbearably lonely.

I'm starting my fifth year, and the depression is debilitating. The tears come daily. I work, I sleep, I do little else. I feel like the gift of life is wasted on me. I have nobody to talk to. I spend too much time alone. I feel like I don't matter.

It never goes away

Four years ago tonight was the worst night of my life. When you realize that the idea of the person you love most in the world dying is less horrific than the thought that they will continue to live in their current state.....  When you start to press the morphine button to help him die instead of to help him live.....

That is a pain that never goes away. That is a blow from which you never recover. That was me four years ago tonight, and right now it hurts almost as much as it did then.

I miss you, Brian. This pain is so awful because our love was so strong. Your died too young. Fate was so unfair. I live, not because I expect to regain the happiness we had, but because I know how incredibly lucky I am to have had the love we shared. I will always love you.

Time Does Not Heal

It will be four years on Thursday. I remember those last days. I remember how brave he was. I remember how searing the pain of losing him was. Time doesn't heal. Time allows you to get used to living with loss and pain. Time eases the shock, but when the shock is gone the starkness of reality is so clear. I miss my husband. I miss our life. I miss feeling that there were things to look forward to. I truly don't believe that I will ever again be happy. I was so lucky. I had the best life could give. It is sad to know that the best is in the past.

Done

I've wanted to write many times since my last post, but I couldn't log on my devices. I guess my password is saved on my desktop, but things have been hard, and fighting to log on was too much work. I guess getting up and walking to the desktop was too much work too.

It will be four years later this month, and while the raw all-consuming grief has passed, in some ways things are worse. The shock of the loss is gone; now I'm dealing with the reality of life post-Brian. It's not good. I suppose if I'm honest I would have to say it's not bad either. Bad was hearing that your husband had terminal cancer. Bad was watching your most loved one die. Bad was getting his ashes left on the front porch by UPS. Bad was burying a bag of ash that used to be your husband. Bad was choosing a headstone for a wonderful man who died too young. What I have now is just not good.

I think the worst part is the isolation. In early grief people blanket you with care and concern. It's not that they stop caring, its just that with time, the loss is no longer on their radar. It's always on mine. At this point, the grief isn't something I can't talk about with others. They don't understand. They think I should have moved on, but what does that mean? Move on? I have. I buried our cat. I buried our dog. I adopted a new dog that he never knew. I sold our home. I bought my new home. I started a new job. I have accepted that the love of my life is dead. That's moving on, I think. I live in the here and now; I'm not caught up in the past. And that's the problem. I'm lonely. The here and now is lonely. I come home to a nice house and a great dog, but there is nobody to come home to. Nobody gives me a hug, asks how my day is, sits down to dinner with me. Nobody helps with responsibilities at home. Nobody supports me on the bad days. Nobody makes me tea when I don't feel well, or comforts me when I cry, or shares in any sort of accomplishment. Nobody relies on me to do all those things for them. The sadness isn't dissipated; the joy can't be shared - and that makes the sadness so  much worse, and the joy so meaningless.

I'm not young, but I'm not old, and I feel like I am destined to this lonely mediocrity for the next few decades.

My dad is 87 years old and having health issues. He is on dialysis three times a week, and while he is doing great, there is a lot more life behind him than in front of him. My mom is dealing with all sorts of stress and anxiety related to his illness. She is depressed and doesn't know what to do about it. She hates being old, but how do I help? I totally  understand how she feels, but she has no idea that I too feel old and depressed. I work Monday through Friday. I sleep on the weekends. The bills get paid, the laundry gets done, but the house could be a lot cleaner, I could eat better, I could get involved with hobbies or friends - but I don't. It's all too much work, because no matter what I do, I am doing it alone and without my life partner.

I don't believe in heaven. I don't believe in a God that takes people because he needs them more than we do. Brian is dead because he had horrible luck - he had a cancer cell that ate his body, and that modern medicine couldn't fight. The idea that he is in a better place is absurd to me. Death, I believe, is the absence of life. I don't believe in life after death, I don't believe in consciousness after death. I believe that we have the here and now and that we live and then we are gone - and I hate myself for not being able to live now while I have the opportunity. When I die will I regret this inertia, or will I be grateful that I had 9 years together with a wonderful man who knew me, loved me, let me love him, and made my life complete?

I was so very lucky. Now I just feel done.

Holidays suck

I don't write here as often as I used to. I think maybe I need to write a lot more. Maybe this is the only place that I can express myself. I know that very few people see these posts, and I don't know if anyone that I know reads them. Maybe I should write more because there is no other outlet for the grief. The world moves on, and people expect that I have moved on, so grief is no longer tolerated. I'm supposed to accept my life and see the beauty in it. I accept that Brian is dead. I don't look for him around the corner anymore. I don't expect that he will come back. I live in today; I accept my reality.

I didn't know true happiness until Brian came into my life, and I haven't experienced it since he has been gone. That isn't to say that life is awful. Watching him die was awful. Being unable to help him was awful. This isn't awful - it's just not good. I miss him. I miss who I was when he was here. I miss the life we shared. I miss being "us". When Brian was in life we were two perfect halves of a wonderful whole. We fit. We made life meaningful. Now I'm a whole of nothing. I don't really matter to anyone. Nobody asks me what I want, and I couldn't answer. I don't even know. I no longer dream or plan or hope. I just get through one day at a time.

This week we wrapped up the holidays. Hanukah, Christmas, New years. It was a hard week. It is always a hard week now. I miss celebrating with him. From Thanksgiving until his death date in April is hard - so many occasions without him - so many memories.  Thanksgiving, his birthday, Chanukah and our Jew Bear celebration, his families Christmas, the anniversary of when he got sick, the anniversary of his diagnosis and all the bad luck in the hospital, the day we moved to hospice, Valentines Day, our anniversary, and ultimately his death. All of these things. I feel his absence through all of these. So if I invite people to celebrate with Jew Bear, for me it is a very hard bitter sweet event. For others it is a party. On New Years I remember just four years ago when we spent New Years Eve day in the ER and New Years day in bed. How sick he was - but that we still had hope - before that horrible diagnosis.

I seem to have forgotten how to live. I don't know how to be happy. I don't know how to allow anyone in. I know that I could love again, but I'm afraid. I want someone to know me again, but I can't imagine anyone knowing me like he did, loving me like he did. And the idea of losing again is too too hard. I am angry at life, and at the people in my life. Maybe it isn't fair - maybe I have nobody to be angry at but myself, but I feel like I just don't matter.

These holidays sucked. On Christmas day I went out with friends - the same friends that Brian and I went out with 4 years ago - but it wasn't fun. Then that night I got food poisoning. I felt awful, and I cancelled the Jew Bear celebration. I had another small get together planned for New Years, and woke up that morning with a horrific migraine. Every time I stood up I was overcome by waves of nausea. I couldn't cancel though - nobody cared enough to tell me to take care of myself. And then a friend mentioned that I'm having a party in front of others and I ended up with double the people that I had invited. So I doubled up on pain meds and I suffered through, and it was fine. Everyone had an ok time - even me, despite the headache. But I was angry. It was like my life isn't even about me. I had to have this party for others despite that I was sick. I don't have my partner to help set up and clean up. I don't have anyone to lean on. And I became furious. I'm not going to put others first anymore. I'm not inviting people or hosting out of a sense of obligation. I'm not doing things because other people think that I should. I'm not pretending to love my life because anything less makes others uncomfortable. I want to matter to someone the way that I mattered to Brian.  

I am so sad, and so lonely. I am so angry. I am so tired of living like this. I feel like I don't know how to relate to people anymore. I don't even know myself anymore. I don't know what I enjoy and don't enjoy. I don't know what I want. I don't know how to lighten up and enjoy the gift of life. I hate that this is who I have become. I hate what my life has become. I am so tired of hurting.

Grief doesn't go away. We learn to live with it, but we don't heal. I haven't healed. I have moved forward in time from those horrible days when I heard that he was dying and that there was nothing we could do. I have moved forward from the multiple surgeries, the sepsis, the chemo. I have moved forward from urinals, and drainage tubes, and vomit. I have left the sights and smells of death behind, but I have also left the joy of life behind. Grief is no longer raw, but it is as whole as it ever was. Others may have forgotten, but I never will. If there is beauty somewhere in my future, it will never erase the pain of my loss. I can't pretend to be who others want me to be because pain is too hard for them to deal with. I need to give myself permission to be fragile.

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.