Two years ago today my life changed. Two years ago today was Brian's surgery and the horrific declaration from the doctor that he was dying.
After that he never came home. After that he, we, never did so many things.
Today there were some horribly painful memories. Today there were some awful moments. There were also some good ones.
It still hurts. It will always hurt. But I need to live with the pain and loss and still be happy. And I have to somehow figure it all out.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Two years ago
Two years ago Brian and I invited a bunch of our Jewish friends to join us for a movie and Chinese food. We saw Les Miserables and went out for one of the worst Chinese meals ever. We didn't imagine that it would be our last time sharing in that tradition. We didn't know that it would be the last movie he ever saw, or that it would be the last time we went out for a meal together. We had no idea that just a few days later he would become very sick or that just two weeks later the doctor would tell me that he was dying.
All we knew then was that we were in love, and that we were sharing a fun day with friends. We were looking forward to 2013, and expecting to share a wonderful new year. We were so blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, and that that day was more of an ending than a beginning.
Two years later and I'm still struggling with this new normal. I have many good things in my life. I have great friends, and meaningful relationships. I have newly found strength and gratitude. Still, I struggle with my losses.
I'm grateful for the memories. I'm grateful for so much. But my losses are still so real.
Today we saw Imitation Game and ate at one of Brian's favorite restaurants. He would have loved the movie. He would have loved sharing the day with our friends. I loved the movie. I loved being with people I love, but I still can't fathom how that wonderful group that I spent the day with didn't include him. In just a few days it will be two years sine we knew he was really sick. In just a few weeks it will be two years sine he left our home for the last time. Two years since the doctor told me he was dying. Two years since I told Brian he was dying. Two years since a parade of horror, bad luck, and pain.
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Time adds new perspective. It let's the raw edges smooth. It let's the shock wear off. It lets reality set in. Time makes room for laughter and love to return. It allows the most broken of hearts feel again. But no amount of time can erase the loss or make the pain OK.
Today wasn't a bad day. Today wasn't drenched in sorrow, but the loss was with me all day. A loss that I am learning to live with despite the fact that I will never be comfortable in it.
All we knew then was that we were in love, and that we were sharing a fun day with friends. We were looking forward to 2013, and expecting to share a wonderful new year. We were so blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, and that that day was more of an ending than a beginning.
Two years later and I'm still struggling with this new normal. I have many good things in my life. I have great friends, and meaningful relationships. I have newly found strength and gratitude. Still, I struggle with my losses.
I'm grateful for the memories. I'm grateful for so much. But my losses are still so real.
Today we saw Imitation Game and ate at one of Brian's favorite restaurants. He would have loved the movie. He would have loved sharing the day with our friends. I loved the movie. I loved being with people I love, but I still can't fathom how that wonderful group that I spent the day with didn't include him. In just a few days it will be two years sine we knew he was really sick. In just a few weeks it will be two years sine he left our home for the last time. Two years since the doctor told me he was dying. Two years since I told Brian he was dying. Two years since a parade of horror, bad luck, and pain.
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Time adds new perspective. It let's the raw edges smooth. It let's the shock wear off. It lets reality set in. Time makes room for laughter and love to return. It allows the most broken of hearts feel again. But no amount of time can erase the loss or make the pain OK.
Today wasn't a bad day. Today wasn't drenched in sorrow, but the loss was with me all day. A loss that I am learning to live with despite the fact that I will never be comfortable in it.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
The gift of love
Thursday should have been Brian's 50th birthday. I expected the day to be difficult. I didn't expect it to be as difficult and painful as it was. It hurt. On a day when we should have been celebrating life, I was thrown back into all sorts of memories of his death. While it seems like it shouldn't have been so, the anniversary of his birth was even harder than the anniversary of his death.
When the pain of memory became crushing, I was rescued by friends and people that I love. A very select few knew exactly how to reach out, and one knew exactly what to say and do to help me turn away from the pain of death and back towards the joy of life.
There are parts of me that will never recover from Brian's death. There are memories of his dying that will always haunt me. But I know what Brian wanted for me. He wanted me to live, to be happy, to laugh, and to love again; and while a year ago these things seemed impossible, I know that despite the loss I can live and love. I know now that I must love in order to live, and despite the fact that I will never stop loving Brian, I have it in me to give and accept love from someone else. I also know that while I often feel weak and cowardly inside, it is a thing of courage to open my heart to love again when it can lead to more loss.
I loved Brian totally and completely. Our years together were so happy. Our relationship was such a gift. Without love life is a compromise. I don't want that. I want to live life to its fullest. I want my life to have meaning.
Thursday was an unbelievably hard day, but by Thursday night I knew that love would save me and allow me to experience happiness again. The gift of Brian's love let me know how wonderful life can be. It will be the gift of another that let's me experience that wonder and joy once more.
When the pain of memory became crushing, I was rescued by friends and people that I love. A very select few knew exactly how to reach out, and one knew exactly what to say and do to help me turn away from the pain of death and back towards the joy of life.
There are parts of me that will never recover from Brian's death. There are memories of his dying that will always haunt me. But I know what Brian wanted for me. He wanted me to live, to be happy, to laugh, and to love again; and while a year ago these things seemed impossible, I know that despite the loss I can live and love. I know now that I must love in order to live, and despite the fact that I will never stop loving Brian, I have it in me to give and accept love from someone else. I also know that while I often feel weak and cowardly inside, it is a thing of courage to open my heart to love again when it can lead to more loss.
I loved Brian totally and completely. Our years together were so happy. Our relationship was such a gift. Without love life is a compromise. I don't want that. I want to live life to its fullest. I want my life to have meaning.
Thursday was an unbelievably hard day, but by Thursday night I knew that love would save me and allow me to experience happiness again. The gift of Brian's love let me know how wonderful life can be. It will be the gift of another that let's me experience that wonder and joy once more.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thanksgiving
Today is the day when we are supposed to be thankful. We're supposed to spend the day with our families laughing and eating.
I have so much to be thankful for; much more than most. I'm thankful for my parents, sister, and all my nieces and nephews. I'm thankful for the love of friends. I'm thankful that I live comfortably. But on Thanksgiving, it is hard to not focus on the loss.
Today is my second Thanksgiving without Brian. Two years ago we spent Thanksgiving at home, with a house full of people we love - happy and, we thought, healthy. Who knew that Briand's stomach ache after dinner was the cancer and not the turkey?
Last year on Thanksgiving I was recovering from back surgery. My parents were here with me, but it was a non-holiday. It was easy to ignore Thanksgiving.
This year I was supposed to fly to New York to spend the holiday with my sister's family and my parents, but the weather had different ideas. Ridiculously long flight delays made me cancel the trip. Honestly, I wasn't disappointed. I would have loved to see my nephew, but I was dreading spending Thanksgiving with my family. How can it be a holiday with family if Brian isn't there? It can't.
Grief has become private. I know longer wear it publically on my face or on my sleeve. It's still very much with me on a daily basis, but I don't have the energy to let it loose, and others have list their patience with it. Its been 19 months, the new normal is supposed to be comfortable. It isn't. Especially on Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is a cruel reminder of the one thing we were most thankful for and that was taken away. I'm very grateful for the time together that we shared. Until the cancer it was all good. But he was given a death sentence when he had just turned 48.
I'll be spending this afternoon with friends. We'll laugh, we'll eat and it will be fine. It will be better than fine, it will be fun. But family Thanksgivings will never again feel right. I'll continue to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I hope that one of these years, my grief finds a place within me where it no longer casts a shadow on my gratitude.
I have so much to be thankful for; much more than most. I'm thankful for my parents, sister, and all my nieces and nephews. I'm thankful for the love of friends. I'm thankful that I live comfortably. But on Thanksgiving, it is hard to not focus on the loss.
Today is my second Thanksgiving without Brian. Two years ago we spent Thanksgiving at home, with a house full of people we love - happy and, we thought, healthy. Who knew that Briand's stomach ache after dinner was the cancer and not the turkey?
Last year on Thanksgiving I was recovering from back surgery. My parents were here with me, but it was a non-holiday. It was easy to ignore Thanksgiving.
This year I was supposed to fly to New York to spend the holiday with my sister's family and my parents, but the weather had different ideas. Ridiculously long flight delays made me cancel the trip. Honestly, I wasn't disappointed. I would have loved to see my nephew, but I was dreading spending Thanksgiving with my family. How can it be a holiday with family if Brian isn't there? It can't.
Grief has become private. I know longer wear it publically on my face or on my sleeve. It's still very much with me on a daily basis, but I don't have the energy to let it loose, and others have list their patience with it. Its been 19 months, the new normal is supposed to be comfortable. It isn't. Especially on Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is a cruel reminder of the one thing we were most thankful for and that was taken away. I'm very grateful for the time together that we shared. Until the cancer it was all good. But he was given a death sentence when he had just turned 48.
I'll be spending this afternoon with friends. We'll laugh, we'll eat and it will be fine. It will be better than fine, it will be fun. But family Thanksgivings will never again feel right. I'll continue to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I hope that one of these years, my grief finds a place within me where it no longer casts a shadow on my gratitude.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Grief and Time
Today I spoke with a friend of mine who experienced the loss of his wife around the same time that I lost Brian. We have spoken often of our losses and our grief. A year ago at this time, neither of us understood how we could possible survive, but we have. Life goes on, we remember how to laugh, we remember how to enjoy things, we accept new good things into our lives. But that doesn't mean that one ever moves on from their loss. You don't. Time smooths the ragged edges, new experiences bring satisfaction, new friendship and relationships bring joy; but the loss is always there and it always will be. It changes from a public thing to a private thing.
In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide. It is on our faces and in our voices. Strangers may not understand it, but they see it. As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day. Smiles and laughter return. Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it. At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter. It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.
I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it. I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again! But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable. There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts. It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself. If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss. That pain never goes away. It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface. Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened.
I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss. I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced. I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be. I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.
In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide. It is on our faces and in our voices. Strangers may not understand it, but they see it. As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day. Smiles and laughter return. Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it. At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter. It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.
I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it. I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again! But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable. There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts. It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself. If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss. That pain never goes away. It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface. Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened.
I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss. I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced. I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be. I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Before and After
On Monday morning it will be a year and a half. Eighteen months ago I lived some of the hardest days of my life.
When you are in the midst if it, the pain is so incompassing that you don't know how you'll possibly survive. The death of your husband, the end of a life you loved, the end of a life you shared; it is horrible. The grief doesn't stop with time, but life goes on and the experience of the grief changes. As a good friend describes it, when the loss is fresh it is your entire experience; you life within the grief. As time passes, the grief doesnt go away but it becomes a part of your life as opposed to your entire experience. Like it or not, life goes on and the loss becomes just a part of it. The pain does not lessen, but it allows room for other experiences and emotions.
A year and a half later, I miss Brian every day. I miss the life we shared. I still have trouble understanding how I am living and experiencing new things - both good and bad - that Brian is not a part of. But I'm alive, and living means moving on and trying to build a new, happy, and fulfilling life.
I am living. I no longer feel like I'm just surviving. I have joy, gladness and love. I'm experiencing things every day that Brian will never experience. I'm finding room for happiness.
One thing that I'm realizing is that I was never truly happy before Brian. I didn't have a horrible childhood, but I was not a particularly happy child. My first marriage was not a good one, and I realize now how much I struggled to control things that were out of my control throughout that relationship.
I was never good at being alone. I was never comfortable with solitude. So now, I'm not returning to a former state of contentment, I'm trying to figure out how to be happy on my own. Something new that is hard and often terrifying.
I do have good times. I have formed new relationships and have enjoyed wonderful times. There are elements in this new life that make me extremely happy and bring me true joy. Things are not bad. But I'm lonely. Even after a great day, when I turn off the lights each night I am alone, and I'm still not comfortable with my own company. I still hate solitude.
I want more. I know that Brian is gone, and I know that I can be happy again, I just don't know how to make this new life happy. How to let my new found joy and love become the core of a new and happy life. I have to learn, relatively late in life, how to be happy and fulfilled with all the good that I have. I have to take the experience of joy that I learned with Brian, and apply it to a life without him. I know that I can do it, but it is a difficult thing to accomplish.
I question if my happiness was tied to my identity as Brian's wife rather to my identity as an individual. I'm no longer a wife, but I am still me. Better for the experience of true love, smarter for the experience of a healthy relationship, stronger for the pain and loss.
Life after Brian will never be the same, but it doesn't have to revert to the unhappiness of life before Brian. Life after can be beautiful. I can love, feel, enjoy and grow as a more whole individual. I can try to lessen my grasp on the loss, and allow the beauty and memory of love form the new and improved me. And even though this has been hard, I see and feel it happening. I'm not content with the whole of my life right now, but I am very happy with parts of it. I owe it to myself to figure this out and to make a happy life for myself and the people that I love.
I don't know why Brian had to die so young. There is no reason. Bad things happen, and life is shaped by how we deal with them - how we move on.
I am moving on. I'm not leaving him behind because our love and marriage have shaped me. I'm taking him with me, because I'm not willing to give up happiness and love in my life.
When you are in the midst if it, the pain is so incompassing that you don't know how you'll possibly survive. The death of your husband, the end of a life you loved, the end of a life you shared; it is horrible. The grief doesn't stop with time, but life goes on and the experience of the grief changes. As a good friend describes it, when the loss is fresh it is your entire experience; you life within the grief. As time passes, the grief doesnt go away but it becomes a part of your life as opposed to your entire experience. Like it or not, life goes on and the loss becomes just a part of it. The pain does not lessen, but it allows room for other experiences and emotions.
A year and a half later, I miss Brian every day. I miss the life we shared. I still have trouble understanding how I am living and experiencing new things - both good and bad - that Brian is not a part of. But I'm alive, and living means moving on and trying to build a new, happy, and fulfilling life.
I am living. I no longer feel like I'm just surviving. I have joy, gladness and love. I'm experiencing things every day that Brian will never experience. I'm finding room for happiness.
One thing that I'm realizing is that I was never truly happy before Brian. I didn't have a horrible childhood, but I was not a particularly happy child. My first marriage was not a good one, and I realize now how much I struggled to control things that were out of my control throughout that relationship.
I was never good at being alone. I was never comfortable with solitude. So now, I'm not returning to a former state of contentment, I'm trying to figure out how to be happy on my own. Something new that is hard and often terrifying.
I do have good times. I have formed new relationships and have enjoyed wonderful times. There are elements in this new life that make me extremely happy and bring me true joy. Things are not bad. But I'm lonely. Even after a great day, when I turn off the lights each night I am alone, and I'm still not comfortable with my own company. I still hate solitude.
I want more. I know that Brian is gone, and I know that I can be happy again, I just don't know how to make this new life happy. How to let my new found joy and love become the core of a new and happy life. I have to learn, relatively late in life, how to be happy and fulfilled with all the good that I have. I have to take the experience of joy that I learned with Brian, and apply it to a life without him. I know that I can do it, but it is a difficult thing to accomplish.
I question if my happiness was tied to my identity as Brian's wife rather to my identity as an individual. I'm no longer a wife, but I am still me. Better for the experience of true love, smarter for the experience of a healthy relationship, stronger for the pain and loss.
Life after Brian will never be the same, but it doesn't have to revert to the unhappiness of life before Brian. Life after can be beautiful. I can love, feel, enjoy and grow as a more whole individual. I can try to lessen my grasp on the loss, and allow the beauty and memory of love form the new and improved me. And even though this has been hard, I see and feel it happening. I'm not content with the whole of my life right now, but I am very happy with parts of it. I owe it to myself to figure this out and to make a happy life for myself and the people that I love.
I don't know why Brian had to die so young. There is no reason. Bad things happen, and life is shaped by how we deal with them - how we move on.
I am moving on. I'm not leaving him behind because our love and marriage have shaped me. I'm taking him with me, because I'm not willing to give up happiness and love in my life.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Lonely
I'm lonely.
I have amazing friends, and I spend time with them. When I'm with people I care about I can feel joy, and I can experience laughter. I can forget that I'm lonely for a time. But at the end of the day, I go to bed alone. I wake up alone. I come home from work, and I'm alone. I eat meals (or skip meals) alone. I do the laundry, wash the dishes, sweep the floor - alone. Nobody greats me with a hug. Nobody asks how my day was. Nobody tells me about their day, discusses world events, talks to me about people we know, because nobody is there.
I have love, I have friends; but I have no partner to come home to. To share my life with. I have never been good alone. I hate living alone. I shouldn't feel lonely because I have so many wonderful people in my life, and yet I am alone and lonely.
How do I make what I have enough? How do I become comfortable living by myself? How does this existence become fulfilling?
I have amazing friends, and I spend time with them. When I'm with people I care about I can feel joy, and I can experience laughter. I can forget that I'm lonely for a time. But at the end of the day, I go to bed alone. I wake up alone. I come home from work, and I'm alone. I eat meals (or skip meals) alone. I do the laundry, wash the dishes, sweep the floor - alone. Nobody greats me with a hug. Nobody asks how my day was. Nobody tells me about their day, discusses world events, talks to me about people we know, because nobody is there.
I have love, I have friends; but I have no partner to come home to. To share my life with. I have never been good alone. I hate living alone. I shouldn't feel lonely because I have so many wonderful people in my life, and yet I am alone and lonely.
How do I make what I have enough? How do I become comfortable living by myself? How does this existence become fulfilling?
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