When Brian received his cancer diagnosis, he knew right away that it was terminal. They told him 8-12 months without chemo, two years with chemo. After much deliberation, he opted for chemo. It didn't extend his life. It didn't buy him more quality time. He died three and a half months later having never come back home from his surgery. But chemo is a topic for another post.
Brian was so smart and so introspective, and he processed his mortality quickly and privately. He also thought a lot about me, and how his death would effect my life. Often throughout his illness he spoke of how his dying was so much harder on me than it was on him. I find it hard to believe that that could be true, but I hope it is. I know how hard it has been for me, and I would like to think that it was easier for him, but I can't imagine that it was.
Brian and I had a rare and beautiful relationship. We had that kind of love that others dream about - a perfect non-demanding love that was always easy, always joyful, always true. So early on in his illness when he told me that he wanted me to love and to allow myself to fall in love again, I told him no and shut down the discussion.
Before he died he told me that he wanted me to live. He wanted me to be happy, to embrace life, and to live it for both of us. That was a hard thing to hear. After he died, I wanted to shrivel up and die myself. Suicide was attractive, but it was never an option as I promised him that I would live. And so I have, but loving again - that didn't seem possible. I always knew that what we had was special, and that I could never have that love again. What I didn't know, that Brian did, was that I couldn't go on living without love.
My life changed, and in many ways started, when Brian came into it. The love we shared made life beautiful. So when Brian wanted me to love again, he really wanted me to live. He knew that without love, my life wouldn't be worth living, so he didn't just give me permission to love again, he asked me to love again. He asked me to embrace life and live it fully, and he knew that without love I couldn't.
Now with some time and perspective, I am reminded of how smart Brian was, and just how completely he loved me. He was right - life without love can't be fully embraced. Without love, trust, and touch, life is stark and frightening.
About six months after Brian died, I just wanted someone to touch me - to validate that I was still alive by letting me feel a warm and tender touch. Brian and I were very physical - we always held hands, hugged, and kissed. When he died, I missed him so much in my life. I missed him in my bed. I missed his voice. I missed everything, but I didn't realize how much I missed his touch. I'm not talking about sex - I'm talking about the simple life affirming joy of a loving touch of a hand. I felt alone, ugly, undesirable, and half dead. I just needed to feel. I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't interested in sex. I craved being touched. I wanted someone to hold my hand, to hug me in more than just that chaste "poor-widow" way that people hugged me. I needed to feel connection with life, and that was gone.
Eight months after Brian died, I became good friends with a man whose wife was diagnosed with cancer about the same time Brian was. She died three months after Brian. We met in a bereavement group, and being in such similar places in our grief we formed an fast connection. I remember the first night we talked, we were both so broken. I cried for Brian, he cried for his wife. We just sat and cried together. And then, much to my horror, I asked if I could touch him. Under any other circumstances that would have been terrible, but he looked at me and he understood exactly what I meant. And so we held hands and we both cried for our respective loved ones. As deep as my grief was, as much as I was ready to give up my life, as pained and broken as I was; holding hands with him was the first life affirming moment I had after Brian's death.
We are still very good friends. We still talk about our losses, but we also talk about our lives. We've held hands, we've hugged, we've helped each other with emotional and practical matters, and on an emotional level an intimate relationship. So many of my friends have decided that we also have a secret intimate physical relationship. It makes me laugh. We've never kissed. We've never flirted with the idea. That is not in our future. He is very dear to me because together we navigated through some of the worst parts of our grief. By listening, by understanding, and by holding my hand, he helped me to look away from death and back towards life.
So when I look forward towards life, I know that to embrace it I have to embrace love. I understand what Brian wanted for me, and I want it for myself. I can't live without love. I don't know how anyone could. Allowing myself to love, is allowing myself to live. To love, trust and touch another affirms that life is worth living. Allowing myself to love is not turning away from Brian, it's honoring his wish for me to have a full life.
I'm still figuring this life thing out. I still have fears. I still miss Brian every day. But I will let myself love completely. I will never compare another person to Brian - he was one of kind, as we all are. I will never try to replace that relationship or hold it as a benchmark for others. But I will allow myself to love, and share, and touch, and live because I need that as much as I need the air that I breathe.
I am not just able to love. I live to love, or maybe I love to live, or maybe its all the same thing.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Friday, August 8, 2014
Changes
It's been 15 1/2 months since Brian died. When you lose your husband young, you know that everything will change. Life is no longer the same, but somehow you go on breathing. The loss becomes part of your reality, and everything in daily life changes and becomes harder. I expected this. I knew that grief would make life harder. I knew that my responsibilities would be greater. I knew that I would suffer more fears. What I didn't know or expect was how everyone would view me differently.
I've always been an emotional person, and I never hid my grief and my tears from those around me. As the grief matured and became less raw, I marveled at the fact that I survived. I would never have guessed that I could have the strength to survive such a devastating loss, but I did. I still mourn, I still grieve, but I live, I love, I work. I don't think I'm strong. I think that I had no choice but to survive. But, whereas in the past I always viewed myself as emotionally immature, I now see myself as emotionally strong. That's not to say I'm not an emotional person. I still can cry on the drop of a hat, but my thinking has changed. When you experience a profound loss you learn what is important and what isn't. Though my friends and family might not agree, I KNOW that I am emotionally strong and centered. Things that at one time would frazzle me, no longer matter. I have no energy for the bull-shit that once bogged me down.
So I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed to realize that many of my friends and family view me as weak, immature, and helpless. Some of my friends and family members seem to view me as a helpless five year old instead of as a strong 50 year old surviver.
I survived an unhappy childhood. I survived mental illness in my family. I survived date rape. I survived losing two husbands; the first to drug addiction, the second to cancer. I survived a failed career. I survived the loss of my hopes and dreams.
I am surviving, and despite my losses, I'm doing well. I have a lot of fears, but I don't let them cripple me. I need help, and I know how to ask for it. I'm suffering from chronic and severe physical pain, and I'm able to function and get done everything that I need, if not everything that I want. So when some members of my family and some of my good friends recently treated me like a child, I went through a gamete of emotions. Initially furious I tried to tell myself that people care about me and acted in love. The anger gave way to disappointment, the disappointment gave way to depression, and the depression turned back into anger.
If there is one thing that I have always hated, it is others telling me what to think, feel or do. I realize that in my family, I have always been treated like the baby. No matter how old I get or how capable I am, my immediate family always seems to think that they know what is best for me. They never consider my priorities, desires and dreams - they have always tried to project their values onto me, and it has always annoyed me. But recently, when my friends began to do the same thing, I was shocked. Shocked by the revelation that they think that they know what is best for me, and by the realization that they don't think that I'm capable of managing my life. Somewhere along the road, I have given them the impression that I need them to intervene on my behalf.
I am blessed with truly wonderful friends, who supported me and helped me through Brian's illness and death, and who continued to support me and help me after. I've had some health issues and relied on my friends to drive me to doctor appointments and help me with other challenges. Maybe I've been selfish and allowed them to help me too much. Maybe my needs became too much for them, and they aren't able to help me as much as I have needed. I don't know what they are thinking because they didn't respect me enough to talk to me about their concerns. Instead, they contacted my 78 year old mother and my 84 year old father who are dealing with their own issues, and told them that I am in pain and not managing. They implied that I need my elderly parents to come and take care of me because I am incapable of caring for myself. They never considered my feelings in this. They didn't think that this might be inappropriate and may have unpleasant consequences for me. They just acted as they saw fit without talking to me first.
So now I'm stuck in a terrible place because I love my friends and know that they meant well. I know that they thought that they were acting in my best interest. I know that they didn't intend to hurt me or create problems for me, but they did. Whatever their intent, I feel like they don't respect me or view me as an adult. I feel incredibly insulted, but I also am so grateful for all the truly wonderful things that they have done for me and don't want to damage the relationships. So I'm back to where I used to be so often in my life - trying to excuse the unacceptable behavior of others at my own expense.
When I tried to discuss my disappointment, I was shut down and shut out. Brian taught me to stand up for myself and respect myself. He taught me to not let others walk all over what I believe. I feel now that people dear to me are walking all over me, and while there is a part of me that wants to lash out in anger, there is another part of me that doesn't want to hurt anyone the way that I feel hurt by them.
So how do I ask for help? How do I find a balance of letting others help without letting them feel like they have some power over me? I don't know. I just know that I feel hurt, insulted and angry, and these feelings make me want to isolate myself from additional pain.
I've always been an emotional person, and I never hid my grief and my tears from those around me. As the grief matured and became less raw, I marveled at the fact that I survived. I would never have guessed that I could have the strength to survive such a devastating loss, but I did. I still mourn, I still grieve, but I live, I love, I work. I don't think I'm strong. I think that I had no choice but to survive. But, whereas in the past I always viewed myself as emotionally immature, I now see myself as emotionally strong. That's not to say I'm not an emotional person. I still can cry on the drop of a hat, but my thinking has changed. When you experience a profound loss you learn what is important and what isn't. Though my friends and family might not agree, I KNOW that I am emotionally strong and centered. Things that at one time would frazzle me, no longer matter. I have no energy for the bull-shit that once bogged me down.
So I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed to realize that many of my friends and family view me as weak, immature, and helpless. Some of my friends and family members seem to view me as a helpless five year old instead of as a strong 50 year old surviver.
I survived an unhappy childhood. I survived mental illness in my family. I survived date rape. I survived losing two husbands; the first to drug addiction, the second to cancer. I survived a failed career. I survived the loss of my hopes and dreams.
I am surviving, and despite my losses, I'm doing well. I have a lot of fears, but I don't let them cripple me. I need help, and I know how to ask for it. I'm suffering from chronic and severe physical pain, and I'm able to function and get done everything that I need, if not everything that I want. So when some members of my family and some of my good friends recently treated me like a child, I went through a gamete of emotions. Initially furious I tried to tell myself that people care about me and acted in love. The anger gave way to disappointment, the disappointment gave way to depression, and the depression turned back into anger.
If there is one thing that I have always hated, it is others telling me what to think, feel or do. I realize that in my family, I have always been treated like the baby. No matter how old I get or how capable I am, my immediate family always seems to think that they know what is best for me. They never consider my priorities, desires and dreams - they have always tried to project their values onto me, and it has always annoyed me. But recently, when my friends began to do the same thing, I was shocked. Shocked by the revelation that they think that they know what is best for me, and by the realization that they don't think that I'm capable of managing my life. Somewhere along the road, I have given them the impression that I need them to intervene on my behalf.
I am blessed with truly wonderful friends, who supported me and helped me through Brian's illness and death, and who continued to support me and help me after. I've had some health issues and relied on my friends to drive me to doctor appointments and help me with other challenges. Maybe I've been selfish and allowed them to help me too much. Maybe my needs became too much for them, and they aren't able to help me as much as I have needed. I don't know what they are thinking because they didn't respect me enough to talk to me about their concerns. Instead, they contacted my 78 year old mother and my 84 year old father who are dealing with their own issues, and told them that I am in pain and not managing. They implied that I need my elderly parents to come and take care of me because I am incapable of caring for myself. They never considered my feelings in this. They didn't think that this might be inappropriate and may have unpleasant consequences for me. They just acted as they saw fit without talking to me first.
So now I'm stuck in a terrible place because I love my friends and know that they meant well. I know that they thought that they were acting in my best interest. I know that they didn't intend to hurt me or create problems for me, but they did. Whatever their intent, I feel like they don't respect me or view me as an adult. I feel incredibly insulted, but I also am so grateful for all the truly wonderful things that they have done for me and don't want to damage the relationships. So I'm back to where I used to be so often in my life - trying to excuse the unacceptable behavior of others at my own expense.
When I tried to discuss my disappointment, I was shut down and shut out. Brian taught me to stand up for myself and respect myself. He taught me to not let others walk all over what I believe. I feel now that people dear to me are walking all over me, and while there is a part of me that wants to lash out in anger, there is another part of me that doesn't want to hurt anyone the way that I feel hurt by them.
So how do I ask for help? How do I find a balance of letting others help without letting them feel like they have some power over me? I don't know. I just know that I feel hurt, insulted and angry, and these feelings make me want to isolate myself from additional pain.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Incomplete
I went to the cemetery today. I don't really know why. It doesn't bring me comfort. In fact, it always upsets me. I guess its a place where I can talk to Brian out loud where nobody will see or judge.
I don't feel particularly close to Brian there. He isn't there. His body wasn't buried - just a small bag of ashes, I don't know what was harvested from his body - I don't want to. During the last months of his life they cut him open too many times. I saw the scars, I saw the staples, I saw the huge open gaping hole they left after the second surgery, and I saw his excruciating pain every few days when they changed the horrific dressing on that wound. No. Wound isn't the right word. It wasn't a wound, it was an incredibly large incision made to repair his ruptured stomach after the first futile surgery left him vulnerable. I saw the blood, the asitiis, the chemo, the nutrition - so many things that nobody should ever see. And I saw him deal with all that with such courage and grace while I fell apart.
He wanted to donate his body to science, and I wanted to honor his wishes. Still, the thought of them cutting open his lifeless body, removing organs, or bones, or tissues that once kept him alive feels like desecration. I love that he wanted to help others through his death, I hate the thought of it though.
So his grave is not a place where he rests. Its not a place where his body lies. It's just a hole with some ashes and a stone to tell people that he was once here and that he matters.
Rest in peace. What a ridiculous expression. There is no rest in death. Only the living can rest. Brian isn't at rest, he's dead. Gone.
People say the strangest things. The other day I posted a photo of a yearling on my Facebook page. It was beautiful. Tyrone commented that it was Brian coming back to look after me. I know it was meant to be comforting, but it was disturbing. I don't see or feel him in the sun, the rain, the deer, the flowers. Those things are not reminders of him. If anything, they are reminders that he is gone.
And I'm alive. And by most definitions I'm doing well. I have wonderful friends, I have love, I work, I breath. I experience joy and pleasure; but life isn't easy. It's incomplete. I'm not lonely, but I'm alone. I have amazing friends, incredible support, more love than I deserve, but at the end of the day I'm alone. I'm no longer sharing life - just moments of it.
And somehow the worst part is that I'm getting used to it. At some point others assume that I'm done grieving and that everything is okay. And in many ways I'm no longer actively grieving. I accept that he is gone. I accept that I am no longer his wife. I accept that this is my life, my reality. I'm somehow moving on and starting to think about my future. But I don't think that I will ever heal from experiencing his death and the unfairness of it. I try to remember that I didn't have the cancer, that all that happened to Brian - I was just a witness to it. But, how do you witness pain and death and heal? How do you accept the death of a wonderful person who was only given 48 years of life?
I'm healthy, and I expect to have many years ahead of me, but Brian's death ended the life I knew and loved. I'm alive, but somehow my life feels unnatural, inorganic. Life now comes in moments and spurts.
I suppose every widow feels this way, but nobody warns you about it. When the period of mourning is over - when you are forced to live a new reality - everything is unfamiliar. That isn't a bad thing, but it is uncomfortable. Maybe that's what is hard - feeling comfortable in a strange life.
I know that I have a pretty good life. I am grateful for so much, and I don't take it for granted, but building a new life is something we do in solitude. And I'm not good at solitude.
I so glad that this loss didn't rob me of the ability to love. Life without love would be horrific. I love, I laugh, I live, but I'm still waiting for the day when things feel comfortable, right, and complete.
I don't feel particularly close to Brian there. He isn't there. His body wasn't buried - just a small bag of ashes, I don't know what was harvested from his body - I don't want to. During the last months of his life they cut him open too many times. I saw the scars, I saw the staples, I saw the huge open gaping hole they left after the second surgery, and I saw his excruciating pain every few days when they changed the horrific dressing on that wound. No. Wound isn't the right word. It wasn't a wound, it was an incredibly large incision made to repair his ruptured stomach after the first futile surgery left him vulnerable. I saw the blood, the asitiis, the chemo, the nutrition - so many things that nobody should ever see. And I saw him deal with all that with such courage and grace while I fell apart.
He wanted to donate his body to science, and I wanted to honor his wishes. Still, the thought of them cutting open his lifeless body, removing organs, or bones, or tissues that once kept him alive feels like desecration. I love that he wanted to help others through his death, I hate the thought of it though.
So his grave is not a place where he rests. Its not a place where his body lies. It's just a hole with some ashes and a stone to tell people that he was once here and that he matters.
Rest in peace. What a ridiculous expression. There is no rest in death. Only the living can rest. Brian isn't at rest, he's dead. Gone.
People say the strangest things. The other day I posted a photo of a yearling on my Facebook page. It was beautiful. Tyrone commented that it was Brian coming back to look after me. I know it was meant to be comforting, but it was disturbing. I don't see or feel him in the sun, the rain, the deer, the flowers. Those things are not reminders of him. If anything, they are reminders that he is gone.
And I'm alive. And by most definitions I'm doing well. I have wonderful friends, I have love, I work, I breath. I experience joy and pleasure; but life isn't easy. It's incomplete. I'm not lonely, but I'm alone. I have amazing friends, incredible support, more love than I deserve, but at the end of the day I'm alone. I'm no longer sharing life - just moments of it.
And somehow the worst part is that I'm getting used to it. At some point others assume that I'm done grieving and that everything is okay. And in many ways I'm no longer actively grieving. I accept that he is gone. I accept that I am no longer his wife. I accept that this is my life, my reality. I'm somehow moving on and starting to think about my future. But I don't think that I will ever heal from experiencing his death and the unfairness of it. I try to remember that I didn't have the cancer, that all that happened to Brian - I was just a witness to it. But, how do you witness pain and death and heal? How do you accept the death of a wonderful person who was only given 48 years of life?
I'm healthy, and I expect to have many years ahead of me, but Brian's death ended the life I knew and loved. I'm alive, but somehow my life feels unnatural, inorganic. Life now comes in moments and spurts.
I suppose every widow feels this way, but nobody warns you about it. When the period of mourning is over - when you are forced to live a new reality - everything is unfamiliar. That isn't a bad thing, but it is uncomfortable. Maybe that's what is hard - feeling comfortable in a strange life.
I know that I have a pretty good life. I am grateful for so much, and I don't take it for granted, but building a new life is something we do in solitude. And I'm not good at solitude.
I so glad that this loss didn't rob me of the ability to love. Life without love would be horrific. I love, I laugh, I live, but I'm still waiting for the day when things feel comfortable, right, and complete.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Packing away
Brian is dead.
I felt his heart stop. I heard his last breath. I held his lifeless body in my arms. He's gone, and my broken heart no longer forgets that. I no longer reach for him in the middle of the night. I no longer turn in search of him for love, support or comfort. I have accepted the tragic reality that fate ripped him from my life too soon.
Our time together was brief, but oh so amazingly special. I carry his love in my heart; I carry his spirit in my being; I mourn for the man, the love, the marriage, the life. I miss him. But Brian is dead and I am not - even if at times it feels like I died too.
In recent weeks I find that I am able to start thinking in new ways. My sadness is less paralyzing, my loss less crippling. I am able to look at my life without Brian and to recognize that I want and need more. I can not accept living in this void forever. I want my life to have meaning. I want to live with hope for tomorrow. I don't want to replace Brian - he is not replaceable - but I want to respect his greatest gifts to me. I want to live my life with love and laughter. I want to feel peace in the warmth of the sun on my face. I want to feel happiness in the wonders of nature. I want to delight in the happiness and good fortune of those around me. I want to take control of my life; to change stressful things that are in my power to change. I want my life to be about living and not about obligation.
Since Brian died, life has been overwhelming, stressful, and harsh. It has been about acts of survival instead of acts of living. I realize now that it is in my power to reduce my stress and make my life more manageable. I know that there are steps that I can take to improve the quality of my life if I can muster the courage to take them on. I also know that this is what Brian would want for me.
So this past weekend I stood in the mess that we used to call our closet, and acknowledged that my inability (or refusal) to organize Brian's belongings has not spared me pain. It has made my home unmanageable, and has added to my stress and anxiety.
The thought of going through Brian's belongings, of giving away his things, of throwing away his things has been so painful, that I have allowed my home to be a source of stress instead of a refuge from it. It has to change, and I am the only person on earth with the power to change it.
So, on Saturday afternoon I grabbed boxes, removed all of Brian's clothing from the closet and the chest, and sorted it all to give away. Keeping the clothing doesn't keep Brian alive. In fact, keeping the clothing has become more like a slap in the face with an unneccesary reminder of his absence.
I wasn't prepared for the searing agony of this task. The hot tears and physical pain took me by surprise. Despite the fact that I recognized the need to simplify my daily life by clearing out his closet space, the act of doing it felt like reliving the moment when the doctor declared that Brian was dying. It was truly awful. But, it was just his clothing - it wasn't him. It no longer held his scent, it was no longer a reminder of his life. It was just stuff - stuff that was never really that important to him. The long long list of wonderful things that made Brian so amazing never included words like "clothes horse" or "fashionista". I realize now that hanging onto everything that was his is not a source of comfort, but rather a source of stress.
The task has just begun. If going through his clothes was difficult, sorting through his books, his tools and his other belongings will be infinitely harder. I don't want to do it, but I know that I need to for my own sake.
Keeping his clothing didn't help to eliminate the void left in the wake of his death. Removing his clothing, however painful, does make room in my life for peace, order, and hope. I know that with more space I can keep my own things more organized and that will reduce my stress. I also know that with less stress, I will be better able to experience life, laughter, and love - three things that Brian wanted for me and that I desperately want for myself.
And I think, that as hard as this all is, it is a sign of healing and growth. The fact that I can recognize my stress and take painful steps to reduce it is good. The fact that I'm able to start thinking about simplifying my life, means that I am really starting to choose life rather than giving it lip service. The fact that I can even entertain early thoughts of someday selling my home - our home - and moving to a smaller condo that would require less time, effort, and money to maintain, means that I am truly seeking balance and making strides in that direction.
I am alive. I am able to love. I am able to declutter my home, declutter my head, and declutter my heart; I can make room for all the good things that I crave. Feeling love and joy doesn't mean walking away from Brian, it means carrying him with me into the future.
.
I felt his heart stop. I heard his last breath. I held his lifeless body in my arms. He's gone, and my broken heart no longer forgets that. I no longer reach for him in the middle of the night. I no longer turn in search of him for love, support or comfort. I have accepted the tragic reality that fate ripped him from my life too soon.
Our time together was brief, but oh so amazingly special. I carry his love in my heart; I carry his spirit in my being; I mourn for the man, the love, the marriage, the life. I miss him. But Brian is dead and I am not - even if at times it feels like I died too.
In recent weeks I find that I am able to start thinking in new ways. My sadness is less paralyzing, my loss less crippling. I am able to look at my life without Brian and to recognize that I want and need more. I can not accept living in this void forever. I want my life to have meaning. I want to live with hope for tomorrow. I don't want to replace Brian - he is not replaceable - but I want to respect his greatest gifts to me. I want to live my life with love and laughter. I want to feel peace in the warmth of the sun on my face. I want to feel happiness in the wonders of nature. I want to delight in the happiness and good fortune of those around me. I want to take control of my life; to change stressful things that are in my power to change. I want my life to be about living and not about obligation.
Since Brian died, life has been overwhelming, stressful, and harsh. It has been about acts of survival instead of acts of living. I realize now that it is in my power to reduce my stress and make my life more manageable. I know that there are steps that I can take to improve the quality of my life if I can muster the courage to take them on. I also know that this is what Brian would want for me.
So this past weekend I stood in the mess that we used to call our closet, and acknowledged that my inability (or refusal) to organize Brian's belongings has not spared me pain. It has made my home unmanageable, and has added to my stress and anxiety.
The thought of going through Brian's belongings, of giving away his things, of throwing away his things has been so painful, that I have allowed my home to be a source of stress instead of a refuge from it. It has to change, and I am the only person on earth with the power to change it.
So, on Saturday afternoon I grabbed boxes, removed all of Brian's clothing from the closet and the chest, and sorted it all to give away. Keeping the clothing doesn't keep Brian alive. In fact, keeping the clothing has become more like a slap in the face with an unneccesary reminder of his absence.
I wasn't prepared for the searing agony of this task. The hot tears and physical pain took me by surprise. Despite the fact that I recognized the need to simplify my daily life by clearing out his closet space, the act of doing it felt like reliving the moment when the doctor declared that Brian was dying. It was truly awful. But, it was just his clothing - it wasn't him. It no longer held his scent, it was no longer a reminder of his life. It was just stuff - stuff that was never really that important to him. The long long list of wonderful things that made Brian so amazing never included words like "clothes horse" or "fashionista". I realize now that hanging onto everything that was his is not a source of comfort, but rather a source of stress.
The task has just begun. If going through his clothes was difficult, sorting through his books, his tools and his other belongings will be infinitely harder. I don't want to do it, but I know that I need to for my own sake.
Keeping his clothing didn't help to eliminate the void left in the wake of his death. Removing his clothing, however painful, does make room in my life for peace, order, and hope. I know that with more space I can keep my own things more organized and that will reduce my stress. I also know that with less stress, I will be better able to experience life, laughter, and love - three things that Brian wanted for me and that I desperately want for myself.
And I think, that as hard as this all is, it is a sign of healing and growth. The fact that I can recognize my stress and take painful steps to reduce it is good. The fact that I'm able to start thinking about simplifying my life, means that I am really starting to choose life rather than giving it lip service. The fact that I can even entertain early thoughts of someday selling my home - our home - and moving to a smaller condo that would require less time, effort, and money to maintain, means that I am truly seeking balance and making strides in that direction.
I am alive. I am able to love. I am able to declutter my home, declutter my head, and declutter my heart; I can make room for all the good things that I crave. Feeling love and joy doesn't mean walking away from Brian, it means carrying him with me into the future.
.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Homesick
"When you lose your partner, you lose your intimate, domestic life. You lose the one who is equally committed to your life, present and future. You lose the intimate daily details of life. You lose home."
These aren't my words, but they are similar to things I've said. When Brian died, I lost more than my husband; I lost my life. People who haven't watched their spouse die can't really understand this.
We're expected to mourn and then return to life. Go back home, go back to work, return to life. But when your beloved dies, you become homeless. You're home becomes just a house filled with souvenirs. You can't return to your life, because the life you knew has ended.
You have to discover a new reason to live, create a new home in which you can feel safe, open yourself to the possibility that you might someday find happiness again.
I can't feel at home in my house, but I'm not ready to pack up my souvenirs and move. My life isn't here, but ours was. The thought of moving is like walking away from everything comfortable, familiar and desired.
With Brian, home could have been anywhere. On my own, I feel homeless despite the fact that I own a very beautiful home.
I don't know how to process these feelings. I accept that Brian is dead. I accept that that part of my life is over. I know that he wanted me to be happy and to allow myself to love and to be loved. What I don't know is how to create a home alone.
These aren't my words, but they are similar to things I've said. When Brian died, I lost more than my husband; I lost my life. People who haven't watched their spouse die can't really understand this.
We're expected to mourn and then return to life. Go back home, go back to work, return to life. But when your beloved dies, you become homeless. You're home becomes just a house filled with souvenirs. You can't return to your life, because the life you knew has ended.
You have to discover a new reason to live, create a new home in which you can feel safe, open yourself to the possibility that you might someday find happiness again.
I can't feel at home in my house, but I'm not ready to pack up my souvenirs and move. My life isn't here, but ours was. The thought of moving is like walking away from everything comfortable, familiar and desired.
With Brian, home could have been anywhere. On my own, I feel homeless despite the fact that I own a very beautiful home.
I don't know how to process these feelings. I accept that Brian is dead. I accept that that part of my life is over. I know that he wanted me to be happy and to allow myself to love and to be loved. What I don't know is how to create a home alone.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Alone
Life goes on whether we want it to or not. There are good times, bad times, challenging times..... No matter what is happening, you feel the loss. Family cares, friends are kind and generous and supportive, but at the end of the day when you face life without your partner, you face it alone.
I'm luckier than most. I'm blessed with a lot of people who love me and who help me so much. I'm so grateful so I feel so guilty to admit to feeling so alone.
I'm tired of pretending that I'm strong or brave. I'm tired of trying to hide the depth of my fears. I'm tired of living alone and pretending that any part of that is ok.
Brian was always there for me, and I hope I was always there for him. Lately I question if I was there for him in the way he needed in the end. I hope that in his illness he didnt feel as alone as I feel right now.
I'm luckier than most. I'm blessed with a lot of people who love me and who help me so much. I'm so grateful so I feel so guilty to admit to feeling so alone.
I'm tired of pretending that I'm strong or brave. I'm tired of trying to hide the depth of my fears. I'm tired of living alone and pretending that any part of that is ok.
Brian was always there for me, and I hope I was always there for him. Lately I question if I was there for him in the way he needed in the end. I hope that in his illness he didnt feel as alone as I feel right now.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Surviving
Sitting out on the deck in the dark. Remembering a night almost ten years ago. July 2004. The night Larry finally moved out. I rushed to change the locks, and then I sat alone in the dark on the patio, and I called Brian. We talked and listened to the thunder.
There was so much hope, so much promise. I had such a sense of relief. I had survived.
And tonight I sit alone and listen to the crickets. Lola is lying at my feet, happily dozing. She feels safe.
I'm trying so hard to remember how I felt that night. I've survived once more, but there is no relief. No promise. No safety. The solitude offers no comfort, but it has become familiar.
I've learned so much and so little in ten years. Everything changes; everything remains the same.
There was so much hope, so much promise. I had such a sense of relief. I had survived.
And tonight I sit alone and listen to the crickets. Lola is lying at my feet, happily dozing. She feels safe.
I'm trying so hard to remember how I felt that night. I've survived once more, but there is no relief. No promise. No safety. The solitude offers no comfort, but it has become familiar.
I've learned so much and so little in ten years. Everything changes; everything remains the same.
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