Roller coaster

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

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

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

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

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

This is not how it should be.

Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

Better?

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

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

A question is worth a thousand suggestions

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

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

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

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

Living, dying, or something in between

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

Rage

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

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

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

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

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

Tired

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

I'm tired of being alone.

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

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

I'm tired of this life.