Time does not heal all wounds. Life goes on; I'm alive. I have friends, I experience happiness, I have fun, but so much is still missing. Not the pain, the pain remains. Sometimes it hides in the shadows, but it is always there. You can't experience such a profound loss and expect to heal. You survive. And by many accounts, I'm surviving well, but the pain is always there. When there is joy to celebrate, but he isn't there to celebrate with. When there is sadness, and he isn't there for comfort. In the little things, and in the big things. When something is interesting, horrifying, or absurd, he isn't there. I have friends, I have so much, but so much is gone, The loss is always there. The "new normal" doesn't feel normal - it feels like a compromise.
How to hold on, how to let go. How to carry the love and the loss. What to keep, and what to dispose of. How to process things alone. How to not feel alone. How to allow others in, and how to realize that they can't possibly understand the level of the loss. How to allow yourself to be happy, and how to deal with all that is missing.
I wan't joy, laughter and passion. I want purpose and permission to not have purpose. I wan't intention. I don't want people to feel sorry for me, but I don't want them to confuse survival with strength. I want permission to be weak. I want to breakdown and have someone there who isn't made uncomfortable by it. I wan't to incorporate my grieving and my sadness into a life that is purposeful and happy. I want to feel good about myself. I want to feel proud of my accomplishments. I wan't not to feel defeated by my failure.
I want to understand how Brian is gone, even if I'll never understand why he is gone. I want to maintain my faith in humanity and in G-d without anger. I want to find the strength to accept my anger. I want someone to know me the way Brian knew me, and to love me despite all ,my faults and frailty.
I want, I want, I want, but I don't know how to make it happen. I don't know how to move on. I don't know how to feel complete.
I'm not the first person to lose the love of their life. The world is full of grieving widows, widowers, parents, children, sibling, friends - people who miss someone desperately, and most of us move on. But to lose your life partner before their time. To watch a good, decent, kind, intelligent man die at 48 just because a cancer cell divided and divided and ate him from the inside - how do you live with that without doubt? Can life ever be more than just ok again?
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Memory
I no longer feel qualified to write about life. I don't know if I remember how it feels to live. There has to be more.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Done
Bad news begets bad news. Bad luck begets bad luck. Bad karma begets bad karma. Eventually it just starts to feel like nothing good will ever again happen. It is too dangerous to hope or to want. I'm done.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Two Years
Tonight I lit a yaretzeit candle. Two years ago tonight was Brian's last night. Two years ago early tomorrow Brian died in my arms. He died peacefully. He didn't appear to be in any pain. I think he knew that I was there. He squeezed my hand before he took his last two breathes.
For me, it was horrible. The last two nights were excruciating. I knew he was going - that was no surprise, but I didn't know what he felt. I didn't know if he was scared. He couldn't communicate, and I didn't know how to help him.
I knew that that last night, when I hit the morphine button, it was for more than to alleviate his pain. I hit that button again and again, to end his pain. I didn't kill him; I would never have done anything to hurt him, but if the morphine could speed the horrific process of dying, I wanted to do that for him. I wanted to fix him, to bring him back to health, to spend the rest of my life with him; but the cancer ate him from the inside out. Death was imminent, and I wanted it to be peaceful for him. I didn't want him to suffer. I didn't want him to feel pain. I didn't want him to die, but I couldn't bear watching him live in the state that he was in. He couldn't communicate, he couldn't get out of bed, he couldn't control his body. He couldn't be Brian.
Two years later, and those memories are still so hard. Two years later, and I still miss him so much. I know he is gone. I know he won't come back. I know that my life has and is moving away from our life together. I have to live; and living without him means meeting people, doing things, experiencing life in a way that he will never be able. How can I be meeting people that he will never know? How can I be going places that he will never see. How can I be getting older when he had barely turned 48 when he was told that he was dying?
Brian and I did not make a decision to end our marriage. If he could be here, he would be. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave me. But he is gone, and he won't be back. Our dreams of getting old together were dashed. I need to live without him. I need to do new things without him. I need to plan for a life without him.
For two years I have been stagnant. Wanting to live, wanting to be happy, but not wanting to move away from the life we had together. But to really live, I need to make changes for myself. I need to leave behind things that don't enhance my life, and welcome new experiences, people and opportunities that can bring me happiness. I need to make changes in my life without being able to talk to Brian about them. I need to experience things that he will never know about. I need to go places that he has never seen. I need to move forward, but that means moving further away from the life that we had; a life that I loved.
It is lonely. It is terrifying. It is heartbreaking. I don't understand how I can want better things for myself, but be terrified of those opportunities because they move me away from my life with Brian.
Brian wanted me to live and to be happy. He would be so proud of me for risking change on my own. He believed in me. He knew that I could do anything I set my mind to.
I need to set my mind to living a life that is fulfilling without Brian. I need to set my mind to making changes that will enhance my life. I need to move away from the past and towards a meaningful life. I take him with me in my head and my heart, but he can't come with me into the future. I need to accept that memory is all that I have left.
I see the flickering of the candle, and I need to believe that his light is glowing in me. That I carry him into the future by living the best life that I can. I need to believe that my best is not in my past. I don't know how to believe that. I don't know how to look forward with excitement and anticipation. I need to figure that out. I need to start to do it now.
For me, it was horrible. The last two nights were excruciating. I knew he was going - that was no surprise, but I didn't know what he felt. I didn't know if he was scared. He couldn't communicate, and I didn't know how to help him.
I knew that that last night, when I hit the morphine button, it was for more than to alleviate his pain. I hit that button again and again, to end his pain. I didn't kill him; I would never have done anything to hurt him, but if the morphine could speed the horrific process of dying, I wanted to do that for him. I wanted to fix him, to bring him back to health, to spend the rest of my life with him; but the cancer ate him from the inside out. Death was imminent, and I wanted it to be peaceful for him. I didn't want him to suffer. I didn't want him to feel pain. I didn't want him to die, but I couldn't bear watching him live in the state that he was in. He couldn't communicate, he couldn't get out of bed, he couldn't control his body. He couldn't be Brian.
Two years later, and those memories are still so hard. Two years later, and I still miss him so much. I know he is gone. I know he won't come back. I know that my life has and is moving away from our life together. I have to live; and living without him means meeting people, doing things, experiencing life in a way that he will never be able. How can I be meeting people that he will never know? How can I be going places that he will never see. How can I be getting older when he had barely turned 48 when he was told that he was dying?
Brian and I did not make a decision to end our marriage. If he could be here, he would be. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave me. But he is gone, and he won't be back. Our dreams of getting old together were dashed. I need to live without him. I need to do new things without him. I need to plan for a life without him.
For two years I have been stagnant. Wanting to live, wanting to be happy, but not wanting to move away from the life we had together. But to really live, I need to make changes for myself. I need to leave behind things that don't enhance my life, and welcome new experiences, people and opportunities that can bring me happiness. I need to make changes in my life without being able to talk to Brian about them. I need to experience things that he will never know about. I need to go places that he has never seen. I need to move forward, but that means moving further away from the life that we had; a life that I loved.
It is lonely. It is terrifying. It is heartbreaking. I don't understand how I can want better things for myself, but be terrified of those opportunities because they move me away from my life with Brian.
Brian wanted me to live and to be happy. He would be so proud of me for risking change on my own. He believed in me. He knew that I could do anything I set my mind to.
I need to set my mind to living a life that is fulfilling without Brian. I need to set my mind to making changes that will enhance my life. I need to move away from the past and towards a meaningful life. I take him with me in my head and my heart, but he can't come with me into the future. I need to accept that memory is all that I have left.
I see the flickering of the candle, and I need to believe that his light is glowing in me. That I carry him into the future by living the best life that I can. I need to believe that my best is not in my past. I don't know how to believe that. I don't know how to look forward with excitement and anticipation. I need to figure that out. I need to start to do it now.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Grief
It has been almost two years since I lost Brian, and while the grief feels different, it still feels fresh. I am anniversarying the last two weeks of his life, and the memories are painful. In the end, the decline was rapid. We had the chance to say goodbye, but it was too quick, too soon, too hard.
I miss him every day. I miss the life we shared. I miss the love we shared. I miss my best friend. Life goes on, but nothing is the same. It is hard every day.
This week I heard the horrible news of an online friend who just lost her infant son. He was a twin. They are now enjoying their beautiful baby girl, while mourning their beautiful baby boy. I can't imagine their pain. I know my pain. I know that Brian died far too young. How does one deal with the death of an infant? How does anything in life make sense.
I am heartbroken. For them, for myself, for Brian. It hurts too much. Every day is too hard. I need to find a way to be happy again, but I don't know how.
I miss him every day. I miss the life we shared. I miss the love we shared. I miss my best friend. Life goes on, but nothing is the same. It is hard every day.
This week I heard the horrible news of an online friend who just lost her infant son. He was a twin. They are now enjoying their beautiful baby girl, while mourning their beautiful baby boy. I can't imagine their pain. I know my pain. I know that Brian died far too young. How does one deal with the death of an infant? How does anything in life make sense.
I am heartbroken. For them, for myself, for Brian. It hurts too much. Every day is too hard. I need to find a way to be happy again, but I don't know how.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Sadness
I'm really struggling with sadness. I have had some good times, but I really haven't felt joy since Brian's diagnosis. Life has been hard, and I hate being alone. I miss the laughter that was a daily part of our life.
There is so much bad news every day. Today a plane crash in Switzerland took the lives of 150 people including 16 high school kids. Today my friend Margaret shared her sadness that one of her newborn twins has become unresponsive and they don't know what is wrong.
There seems to be no good news. Everyone around me is struggling with stress.
There is so much bad news every day. Today a plane crash in Switzerland took the lives of 150 people including 16 high school kids. Today my friend Margaret shared her sadness that one of her newborn twins has become unresponsive and they don't know what is wrong.
There seems to be no good news. Everyone around me is struggling with stress.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Inertia
I feel like I'm in a state of total inertia, and I hate it.
I lost my husband; I spend too much time alone; I'm in a dead end job with pay that doesn't cover my bills; I'm not keeping up with housework; I can't seem to get some health issues managed. There is so much I should or could do - housework, yardwork, cleaning out some of Brian's things, divesting myself of my own "stuff" in the knowledge that I should downsize into a smaller home to reduce my expenses. I'm just not doing any of those things. I do the minimum to get by. Laundry, bills. Even preparing meals is often too much of an effort. Who wants to cook for one? Eat alone? Eat the same thing all week?
Some things have gotten better, certainly, but there is an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness that overshadows everything else in my life. I know that there is a lot of good still out there for me, but I also know that my best years are behind me. I know that if I had a desire to look for it, there might even be a new relationship out there for me, but I believe that the perfect partnership is behind me and that no other could be as perfect, as all encompassing, as fulfilling as my relationship with Brian.
I had a visit with my doctor this week, and he injected an implant into my eye. I've had more injections in my eye that I can count at this point. This time I was terrified. This was something new - a larger needle, and not just a medication, but an implant being placed into my eye. I was fighting to hold back tears because I just wanted Brian to hold my hand. I hate having to pretend to be strong when I don't feel strong. I hate having to face these fears alone. I hate that my life is moving on without him. I've met people and been to places that Brian never knew. I've experienced good things and bad things that Brian hasn't experienced. I've created new memories that he is not a part of. It hurts.
I have amazing friends who support me and love me, but in so many things in my life I am completely alone, and it breaks my heart. I am lonely. I am not good with my own company. I see me friends, and I have good times, and I laugh and enjoy some things in my life, but at the end of the day I go home alone. I climb into bed alone. I go to sleep alone. I wake up alone. None of this was my choice. None of this was the plan.
It has been a year, ten months and eight days since he has been gone, and I still can't wrap my brain around what has happened. How does a 48 year old man go in for exploratory surgery and never come home? How does someone stop breathing and cease to exist? How do I as his wife learn to live in a world without him?
Maybe I could and should be doing more to have a better life without Brian, but I'm stuck. I can't push past the inertia. I can't process the pain.
I lost my husband; I spend too much time alone; I'm in a dead end job with pay that doesn't cover my bills; I'm not keeping up with housework; I can't seem to get some health issues managed. There is so much I should or could do - housework, yardwork, cleaning out some of Brian's things, divesting myself of my own "stuff" in the knowledge that I should downsize into a smaller home to reduce my expenses. I'm just not doing any of those things. I do the minimum to get by. Laundry, bills. Even preparing meals is often too much of an effort. Who wants to cook for one? Eat alone? Eat the same thing all week?
Some things have gotten better, certainly, but there is an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness that overshadows everything else in my life. I know that there is a lot of good still out there for me, but I also know that my best years are behind me. I know that if I had a desire to look for it, there might even be a new relationship out there for me, but I believe that the perfect partnership is behind me and that no other could be as perfect, as all encompassing, as fulfilling as my relationship with Brian.
I had a visit with my doctor this week, and he injected an implant into my eye. I've had more injections in my eye that I can count at this point. This time I was terrified. This was something new - a larger needle, and not just a medication, but an implant being placed into my eye. I was fighting to hold back tears because I just wanted Brian to hold my hand. I hate having to pretend to be strong when I don't feel strong. I hate having to face these fears alone. I hate that my life is moving on without him. I've met people and been to places that Brian never knew. I've experienced good things and bad things that Brian hasn't experienced. I've created new memories that he is not a part of. It hurts.
I have amazing friends who support me and love me, but in so many things in my life I am completely alone, and it breaks my heart. I am lonely. I am not good with my own company. I see me friends, and I have good times, and I laugh and enjoy some things in my life, but at the end of the day I go home alone. I climb into bed alone. I go to sleep alone. I wake up alone. None of this was my choice. None of this was the plan.
It has been a year, ten months and eight days since he has been gone, and I still can't wrap my brain around what has happened. How does a 48 year old man go in for exploratory surgery and never come home? How does someone stop breathing and cease to exist? How do I as his wife learn to live in a world without him?
Maybe I could and should be doing more to have a better life without Brian, but I'm stuck. I can't push past the inertia. I can't process the pain.
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