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.

Tragedy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lonely

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

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

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

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

Supposed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roller coaster

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

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

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

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

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

This is not how it should be.