Milestones and minutes

When my husband died, every moment felt like a lifetime.  Each hour dragged.  Days were exhausting and seemed to wane on and on until I finally collapsed into my empty bed.  Minutes ticked by slowly.  It was the strangest feeling.  It was like being trapped in this world that moved in slow motion while the rest of the world kept plugging along at regular speed leaving me behind.

As the years have gone by, time has resumed it’s regular flow.  What used to feel like centuries is now back to feeling like regular days and nights.  I remember lying in bed all those years ago and just waiting for the morning to come back…I was always waiting for something…and it just never arrived.  As I look at my children and how much they have grown, it feels like time has flown by me again.  As I look at our healing, my healing and dealing with the enormity of my loss, I don’t know how I made it this far or how so much time has already passed.

We have had our milestones throughout the years also.  We had our year of firsts without him.  Then we moved on to just feeling the emptiness of something missing on special days or occasions.  There is always that longing, that wondering how things would be different if he was still here.  The boys and I have made it through many moments, many milestones, and we will continue to move through them.  It’s odd though that this month, the things we have faced seem to bring back larger waves of grief than there have been lately.  I’m feeling more off balance again as I watch my big boy navigate new opportunities and say good bye to things he loves.

My big boy just turned 14.  The scales have tipped to him being parented by me alone longer than he was parented by his father and I together.  It’s weird, but for some reason this means something to me.  I don’t know if it because I really never knew I would make it this far or if I am sad because he has missed out being his father’s son.  I’m sure it is both.  I really, really feel bad about it though.  I am so sad that his dad isn’t with him as he finishes elementary school and moves into full throttle teenager.  My heart breaks that his dad won’t be here to teach him how to drive a car, treat a girl, be one of the guys, give advice before sports…all of it.  I have made it through the childhood heartbreak with him.  We have done ok.  Looking at him turn into a man without his dad to guide him has new heartache attached.  I didn’t expect it.  He is struggling in new ways with not having his dad around and watching him, sitting with him, guiding him has made me feel inadequate in some way again.  I’m not sure why.

The milestones he reaches as a teen and young adult seem to have a new meaning.  They seem to have that stabbing pain of the early days of loss attached to them.  I can sense his emptiness and sorrow as he tries to manage these new things.  I’m not sure if these feelings are just because he’s growing up, or because of who we are as a family without his dad.  Probably both, probably not the most important thing…how he, well we, handle all this will again be the important thing.

During these minutes and during milestones I long to be “normal” again.  I hope that they weren’t so bittersweet.  I want my kids to just be kids, happy kids.  I hate that there is always this thing that they carry along with them.  As much as I didn’t want their dad to die, I want their lives to be more happy than sad.  I want them to be able to love with out reserve and the fear of loss…maybe it’s just too high an expectation…who knows?  Maybe it is just in getting through the minutes one by one, that we will be able to look back at all the milestones and know we did our best, we had happy moments, we had sad moments and we made it to here.

Grief observed

Since my husband’s death, I have struggled with my heartbreak, feeling lost, sad, lonely and everything that is wrapped up in the package of grief and loss.  I have also struggled through successes, changes, and new beginnings.  With all of these experiences, I have been challenged to my core.  There is one thing that is even more difficult than experiencing my loss…watching my children grieve.

Every new experience, change, big or small, brings to them another way that they are without their dad.  Many times, this feeling is not expressed or maybe comes out in anger or frustration.  My big boy is changing every day.  Not only is he growing physically, but he is maturing and trying to make his own choices, friends, and well, living his life.  This year, he finishes elementary school.  The upcoming weeks are filled with fun activities.  He gets to go to Catalina Island for an outdoor education trip, there is a dance, trip to the water park and 8^th grade promotion.  Lots of fun lined up ready to experience to the fullest!  He is excited and nervous.  He is looking forward to high school and a summer off with friends.  He is also sad.  He is missing his dad a lot these days.

I never assume to know how my kid’s are feeling.  I know how I feel about certain things and I share that with them.  They both are pretty good at talking about their feelings about their dad.  When things go well, when exciting times are going on, even in the midst of the fun, they will suddenly be sad.  They will get in touch with what’s missing and come to me.  Some days a hug helps and some days it doesn’t.

My sweet, big boy is going to be 14 in a few weeks.  He has grown a head taller than me. It seems like every time I turn around, he is an inch taller.  I forget sometimes that wrapped up in this blossoming young man is still the little boy who lost his daddy just a few weeks before he turned seven.  The little boy misses his daddy.  He wishes his daddy was here to see the young man he is becoming.  I knew this would be hard to experience with him…but the heartbreak is suffocating some days.

My little one doesn’t remember much about his dad.  He is very troubled by this.  He wants, no, he longs for a memory of his dad.  He feels guilty and sad that he doesn’t remember him.  We can look at videos, tell the stories, but when it comes down to it, they are our stories, not his.  Again…heartbreaking.

I knew raising my boys alone would be tough.  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  I knew that with each new start, with each new turn their lives took that they would miss their dad.  I know there will be a hole in their lives. I know that I can love them to pieces every moment of their sweet lives…but I also know that I can never replace what they’ve lost.  There is no way for me to be their dad…no matter how much I wish it, will it, hope for it…I will always be mom.  I can help them build the tools to cope with the hole, but no matter what happens in our lives, they will always miss him and wish he could see the men they become.  For me, this is the most heartbreaking part…Dave loved his boys so much.  He would be so, so proud of them.  I wish they could hear him say how much he loved them…just one more time.  I wish each time they have a moment of success that feels bittersweet that he would whisper in their ear…I love you son and I am so proud of you.

I will say it! I will always say how much their dad loved them and that he would have done anything to stay with them. I will tell them how proud he was from the moment they were in my belly…how much he loved his boys!  I will hope, I will pray that somehow, some day the hole in their hearts will be filled with the love that brought them into this world and that they will know…just know that he is always with them.  Even if they don’t see him, even if they can’t remember how he smelled or the sound of his voice…he is there with them and through them.  They are his legacy.  They are the wonderful part of him that got to stay here.  They are the children he wanted.  They are his boys!

So as I watch them cope with heartbreak, I will remember that the men they will become is very much because he was their dad.  There are moments that will take my breath away, moments that will bring tears, and many moments that will bring joy.  Through the pain of observing their grief, I am so proud of how they face their own heartbreak and survive each day.  It can’t be easy, but they do it…every single day.

Through my tears, my pride will prevail and I will continue to watch no matter how difficult it is.  I will continue to hug, listen and love them with all my might.  Hopefully some day they will look back and know that losing their dad will weave through every part of who they are, but it doesn’t define them…only they can do that.  Hopefully they will live with compassion, open hearts, and love life…no matter how many challenges they may face.

Mystery

It’s April again.  Every year the beautiful spring awakens and April arrives filling my head with thoughts of loss and renewal.  April is my month. The month that my life stopped seven years ago creeps up on me and penetrates my soul. No matter what is going on, no matter how I feel, no matter how much better things are…it seeps in bringing unexpected (well, maybe expected) waves of sadness and overwhelming loss. I haven’t quite mastered the thought that my life is so different than it was that April when he died.  That April when I watched with my heart and soul as he withered, bravely and gracefully.  The April that he left for good has left every April since then marked by his death.

Now, add the double powie of Easter.  As a former church person, the years I spent as a youth minister left Easter cemented in my soul.  It is a time of death.  It is a time of new life and a time for renewal.  It is a time when I reflected on how I would be different from year to year never expecting the changes that would be thrust upon me.  I never anticipated sitting here staring at the death of my husband, my new life, my transformation into a life unexpected.

Here’s the thing…I really bought into the mystery.  I have been invested in process. It was a place where I was able to go and come out fresh and new.  It used to work and I used to really feel good about evolving and changing from year to year.  I could identify with the days of Triduum…holy days in my church…I could follow the story and apply it to my life.  Even now, I can buy into the love that it took to change.  It is only with great love and patience with myself that I was ever able to change.

Too many feelings, too many memories, just too damn much this time of year.

Fleeting moments of before, fleeting moments of during, fleeting moments of since…all too much.  When I remember sitting on my bed, nursing my baby, watching my husband die…too much.  Listening as his breathing changed and then stopped…just too much.  When I think of standing next to the hole in the ground where he would be…it’s too much.  All these years, all the tears, anger, the triumphs, the baby steps toward a new life…in April, they all come crashing down on me and I don’t know where to put them or how to handle them.  I guess the important part is that I recognize them…I let the tears come.  I let the anger surge and fade.  I let the disbelief come and go.  I look back and then turn forward again.  It is really all a mystery to me.

How it all happened…mystery.  How I survived…mystery.  How I will keep moving forward…mystery.

So today, I’ll cry.  Today my heart will ache and loneliness will remind me of all that I have lost.  This April, I will also remind myself that in seven years there has been healing, growth and hope.  I will be gentle with myself, my kiddos, and hope my heart can continue to heal and I will not let the sadness win. I will continue to embrace the mystery of life and death.  I will continue to live in the mystery of why…and disbelief will melt away into my survival of another April, another year, another wave of grief.  It will.  I’m not sure how, but it will.

Mystery.

October begins again.

Today October begins again and I can feel my descent into the memories.  It started about a week ago when the weather began to change a bit.  The cooler breezes starting blowing, the sky is a more brilliant blue and the heat is beginning to subside.  For me, all of these changes trigger my grief.  It was a beautiful October Wednesday in 2004 when my journey with grief was set into motion.  I had been to the ob/gyn and was told that we could induce the birth of second son that Friday.  My husband had a nice lunch planned with friends at the Ping golf factory.  I was anxious to see him that evening to give him the news, but didn’t expect to hear the news he received during lunch.  He had been under the weather, so much so that he had scans of his lungs done days before.  While he was at lunch, the doctor had called him and told him he wanted to check into the hospital and they would bring all the specialists to him.  As I heard this, I was still oblivious to what was about to happen to us.  I was so focused on our new son coming into our life that when I asked the doctor what kind of specialists he was talking about…the word oncologist flew from his mouth, through my brain, and then right out of my head.  It must be a mistake…neoplasms on his liver? When did this happen?  We are having our baby on Friday…he would go to the hospital the following Monday when I came home, when we came home…a family of four…

By the next October, I was a widow.  We were a family of three again.  He was gone. My baby would have his first birthday without his dad.  I felt like I was in a nightmare.  How could this be, we were just having a baby, everything was going well, how could this be?

Fast forward many years, seven years to be exact and October is back again.  I love October and I hate October.  It is so, so beautiful here, but my memories are so painful.  I still wonder how this is my life some days…but in October, I seem to feel it more.  I seem to feel the loneliness, the brokenness, the grief more deeply.

This year, our baby started playing soccer.  He’ll be seven in a few weeks…that’s seven birthdays without his daddy now.  As I sat on the soccer field watching him play, my sorrow rose.  Another son playing without his dad to cheer him on, encourage him, and practice with him has begun.  Another fall watching the families with dads has arrived and there are moments in my head and heart when I really don’t think I can do this again.  I did it with Sam.  Sam started playing the fall after his dad died.  I made it through five or six fall soccer seasons with him.  He stopped playing a few years ago, and I can tell you I was grateful when he stopped.  I have not missed being the mother that the coaches don’t take seriously because there was not dad present.  I have not missed sitting on the sidelines watching the “complete” (those with dads) families cheer on their kids.  I have not missed feeling like an outsider in the land of suburbia.  There’s just something about these family type activities that just bring me down.  I really don’t think people treat me any differently and I know I’m not the only single parent, heck, I may not be the only sole parent there anymore.  I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s just too much.  It throws me over the grief cliff.  Many times I feel like I was thrown off the cliff without my parachute and rescue skills.  All of these years later, all these years since Dave left and I am still caught off guard by my grief and feel myself falling off the cliff hurdling toward the hard, unforgiving ground.

So this October, just like the ones before, I will make a vow to be gentle with myself and my children.  I will make a vow to let the tears come when they do.  I will make a vow to honor the deep pain and the deep gratitude that I have because I loved my husband.  I will remember that October was not only a time of great sorrow for us, but also great joy because our son was born.  It was not just a time of death lurking around us, but also a time of life beginning in our beautiful boy.  I will remember that a bittersweet life is ok.  It is ok for me to feel great pain because I know that the only reason I know such pain is because I felt love so deeply.

So as the leaves drop from the trees and the tears slide down my face, I will remember that it is just another step in my healing and understanding of who I am.  I will remember what great faith my husband had in me to know that I would continue and raise our family.  I will remember our October and look forward to an October when the cool breezes and blue skies only evoke the feelings of love and let the feelings of grief blow pass me with only a gentle nudge reminding me how far I’ve come and how much I was loved.

Hospice of the Valley program helps children cope with grief

Hospice of the Valley program helps children cope with grief.

My friend Dawn and I met at New Song. She was recently  interviewed with her family.  If you can volunteer, these families need you!  It is truly a place of healing.  New Song Center has helped my family through our grief journey.

Day 2,250

I think grief is slippery, sneaky and downright tricky. I don’t think about Dave every day anymore. I still miss him, but it’s different.  I still ache and hurt some days, but not every day.  That said, some days are sneakier and trickier than others. Some days, things creep up on me so unexpectedly, I imagine a landmine.  Boom! Something triggers the grief.

Then, I may notice the date, the time of day, a place we’ve been and it’s not so sneaky after all.  Today was one of those days.  Everything was moving along.  Everything was doing ok. I decided to take the kids to the movie.  It’s a cute movie that Ben has wanted to see for a few weeks.  Well, the movie was mostly about a dad and his kids.  It was about a divorced family getting a second chance at being happy.  A chance my kids would really like to have.  They’d love to see their mom and dad together, to go on a date or hug each other. They’d just like to see their dad at all…in any way. They’d just like to see our family complete again.  Then I noticed that the date was one of our days.

An hour or so after the movie, the kids are out of sorts and my oldest is sad. His sadness progresses to tears.  Before I really know what’s going on, he is sobbing. Somehow, the pin was pulled.  His grief bomb has been triggered.  He didn’t expect it.  I didn’t expect it.  It just happens sometimes. I comfort him in the only way I know how…I hold him, tell him how sorry I am for his pain, his loss, and then I cry too.  Even now, six years later, his pain is so deep.  His loss is so fresh.  I am watching him turn into a man and am amazed.  I am watching him turn into a man and I am so sad that he doesn’t have his dad here to share it with him.  I don’t know, but I think that he is really feeling that lately.

Another holiday weekend is approaching and I can feel the tension in my bones.  It feels like Father’s Day was just a minute ago and now we have to look at another weekend of families doing the things that we used to do too.  We try every time to make the best of it.  We try every time to be as normal as we can, but it’s still there.  We still miss being the family we were.  This doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate our current status…I think we are doing pretty well.  Our brokenness is not always apparent.  Some days, we look nearly normal…I think.

Everyday is a new day and a new chance.  I try to live this example to my kids.  I try to get up every morning with a fresh and new attitude.  Not always easy, but I pull it off most days.  Grief is sneaky some days though.  Grief doesn’t really care what my plans are when I get up.  Grief doesn’t often care if my boys were trying to be happy.  It often comes to call when you are doing better, feeling better, working hardest toward adapting to this new life.  For me, the gift in this sneaky emotion is I can see how far we’ve come.  I can still see us in those early moments.  I can still tap into the feeling of confusion and consuming grief and recognize that we have done our best through the entire journey this far.  Is it perfect?  No.  Will it ever be perfect? No, not even if my husband were still here.  Is it our truth?  Yes.  I think that’s the key.  We are true to ourselves even when the grief sneaks up and takes us down when we don’t expect it.  We recognize it.  We accept it.  We get up the next day and try again.  This day, though, we are one moment closer to where we are headed, to who we are to become.  When we get up and start again, we make my husband proud.  When get up and start again, we honor ourselves and his memory. We honor the love that breaks our hearts when the grief sneaks in to them…and that’s never a bad thing.

Lazarus is here again…

Well, today is Sunday and I went to church.  It is also Lent in in the faith I practice.  Lent always has a way with me…I should say, it has its way with me.  It forces me to look toward renewal.  Today is no different.  This is a post from three years ago – our church calender has three cycles, so I hear this reading every third year.  I wrote it originally for a youth ministry blog.

Today, I heard the reading of Lazarus again.  Again, it has touched me in a new way.  Today although I feel less bound by my grief, more able to wriggle around in grief’s bindings but I was sad when I heard it.  I remembered writing this piece.  I remembered choosing it for the services for Dave.  I remembered why it means so much to me.  I am becoming unbound…but I still am not free of the grief that has been a part of me for six years.  I still long for freedom.  I still can’t believe my husband is dead.  I am still grateful for the line in scripture that tells us that Jesus wept when he approached his friend’s grave.

Ok Lazarus, come on out!

Last Sunday in services, I heard a familiar story from scripture, the story about the man born blind. In this Lenten cycle, it reminded me that on the coming Sunday I would here another familiar story, the death and raising of Lazarus. So, I sat listening to the story of the man born blind, all I was hearing was Lazarus’ story. I love the scripture about Lazarus being raised from the dead. I have loved it for as long as I can remember. It has so much packed into it. I have also always loved the Lenten season.  Since my husband’s death, I am not really fond of either. Something about the pure impact of the season when tragedy surrounds you…my life seems like Lent all the time now…I want to get off the cross! Some days I just want to scream, “ENOUGH ALREADY!”

Back to Lazarus, kind of…

At the funeral service for my husband,  I chose the story of Lazarus for the main scripture reading. I love the reading remember…at that moment the story seemed to speak to how I was feeling. It spoke of “unbinding” to me. My husband, through his death, had been unbound. He had been set free of the cancer that had been holding him in its grip. He had been set free of pain, set free of fear of dying, set free of sadness of leaving us. He had been welcomed into the divine light of God’s kingdom…unbound of all earthly, bad stuff.  I wanted Lazarus’ story to be heard that day. The day we committed my husband to God in this new phase of his new journey I wanted to people to know that he had been set free.

Now last Sunday, as the story of the man born blind who was healed by Jesus is being read, my being filled with the dread that I would have to listen to the story of  Lazarus on the coming Sunday.  Dread!  My husband had been set free, unbound, but in the wake of that I had been wrapped and bound with grief. My journey following his death has not been one of freedom.  I have not been set free from the pain, the cancer that took him, or the fear that gripped me during his sickness. Mine has been a journey of facing all the things that do bind me, tangle me, and take me off my course of servitude and love of God and others.  I want to scream at Jesus sometimes. I want to say to him as Lazarus’ sister Mary says in the gospel of John, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” (John 11:32)  I called for Jesus to help my husband, I prayed, everyone prayed, but he died.  I want to argue with his decision to wait and not come sooner before my husband had died…like in the story of Lazarus…He waited days before going to see Lazarus.  He even knew when he set on his way to see Lazarus that he was dead.

The main idea that has always drawn me to this scripture story was the fact that Jesus wept. (John 11:34-37)  I’ve always been moved that we have this loving Lord that weeps when we tragedy strikes us. I wonder if my Lord weeps with my pain. I wonder if he wept when my husband died. Such pain in my life, does have equal pain in our Lord’s eternity?

From early in the story of Lazarus’ death, we hear Jesus say it is for God’s glory and that the Son of God be glorified. “This illness does not lead to death, rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it” (John 11:4)  So, I am left to wonder if this is why my husband died? If he died for the glory of God, how is that being made real in my life here? Does it need to be made real here in my life or is the glory of God happening somewhere else because he died?

Well, Lazarus’ story ends well…Jesus goes to his tomb and tells him to get up…and he does.  Jesus tells the women to “unbind” him and to “let him go”. (John 11:44) As I sit here dreading the re-hearing of Lazarus story, I wonder, did I unbind my husband? Did I let my husband go? What is my work here and will it glorify the Lord?  As my heart breaks and my grief journey continues I continue to challenge myself about my role, my journey as a servant of God.  How will the story of Lazarus touch me when I hear it this time? How will I take it into my being? How will I be unbound?

Feeling widowy…

OK, I know that widowy isn’t a word, but it is a description of how I feel today. Widowy isn’t quite full on sadness. Widowy is more like melancholy.  My grief, my sadness blows around me like a gentle breeze. It’s a breeze that I notice, but it’s not the hurricane force of grief that can throw me to the ground.  Widowy for me is kind of sweet and sad all together.

Here in Arizona, the weather is cold, but beautiful these days.  In the end of January and early February the events begin that make us the tourist trap we love so dearly.  The car auctions, the golf, the culinary festivals and spring training attract those from the freezing weather and turn our cities into heaven for some.  My husband and I always enjoyed this time of year.  We enjoyed the events and living as tourists in our own city.  There is so much to do each weekend. A few stolen weekdays to run off to watch golf or catch a midday movie were such a delight from the daily grind.  It just feels like playtime around here and it’s hard not to partake in the fun.

Now, without him, I don’t often partake in the fun I used to enjoy so much.  There is so much work to be done and honestly, it’s just not that fun without him.  The kids don’t always like the stuff we used to do and it’s just different with only me. So, here I sit feeling widowy.  The superbowl is tonight. I love the superbowl. Since Dave’s death, there is always that horrible pang in my heart…I just miss him.

So, widowy is here today. Hopefully it will be gone tomorrow. I can put on the face I wear everyday.  The face that reminds me I’m a survivor of great heart ache.  It is the face that I bravely wear because I have known great joy, great love and great times.  Even though all that greatness is behind me for now, I know and am so grateful to have had it.  So as I sit here feeling all widowy, I am grateful to have the memories that bring that widowy feeling to me.

The worlds beyond…

There are worlds out there that I was unaware of…subcultures of people with experiences we don’t find until we are thrown into their world. We walk by these people every day, not knowing they belong, not knowing their pain or suffering…or joy and elation for some worlds and some people.

I used to belong to a world I knew well.  I was married, had one child, then another. I liked my world. It was comfortable, predictable and I felt blessed. Even more than those things, I understood that world. I grew up in that world. The world of families, children, faith, and middle class were a place whose ideas I grasped daily.  I was challenged in this world to be a better person, to give back, to love and be loved. I liked this world.  It kind of feels like that world was a dream now.

First, I was thrown into the world of sickness, a world of the terminally ill. When Dave was diagnosed our world changed.  We went to places like infusion labs, imaging offices and having blood drawn was so regular that his arms were black and blue. All of these places are crowded.  There are old and young there.  There are very ill and newly ill there. There are those recovering and those who will never recover. There were those with hope and those in deep despair.  After being thrown into this world with Dave, I began to notice people on the street…not people I knew, but people who looked like us.  People who looked like Dave was beginning to look. He was strong and robust, but so quickly turned fragile. His skin changed. His beautiful, sun kissed skin turned yellow and looked so thin and transparent. I notice people like this now. I didn’t before my entry into this place.

Now I live in a different place.  The place of young (well, kind of young) widow is my new home. At first it was so foreign to me. I couldn’t navigate it because I couldn’t believe I was there. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t comprehend. I walked through the days and lived the reality, but I still didn’t believe it.

Time passed and I began to believe it. As time passed I met others like me. I would hear my pain through other men’s and women’s voices. It began with support groups, both face to face and online. We walked through the world and I don’t think people recognized us, but we recognized each other. I listened to their stories and they listened to mine. In some instances, strong bonds were forged and friendships grew. To the outside world we looked normal…we raised our children, went to work, did the dishes…but if you listen closely, our conversations were different.  Our conversations were about pain and struggle and we often cried or held back tears. Our good byes after a cup of coffee ended with hugs that lingered and transmitted hope and strength to each other. We needed each other to survive, because we didn’t know how we’d get through the next day. Our broken hearts reached out to each other…across the room, the internet and the phone.  Time together with those that understood became a lifeline.

Today I realized another new world where I belong.  It is a world much larger than I ever anticipated. Some days, I am amazed and broken hearted that we are all here.  It is the world of grief…and it crosses time zones and oceans.  Through my writing, I have reached out to those I have never seen and they reach back to me. Through seeking out other’s words I have been linked to a world I never knew existed.  It is a world where I feel less isolated and more connected.  It is a world that I can access any time of day or night.  It is the world where people share their most intimate thoughts and fears and make my loneliness melt away.  I know they understand and I understand them. When my life is overwhelming, I can take a breath, go to my computer and find those who understand even though we’ve never met.  Grief comes in all sorts, shapes and sizes.  Grief can kill you if you are alone and not able to make connections with those who understand, those whose stories you can relate to, those whose words reach into your heart, bring your tears out and give you strength to try again tomorrow.

My deepest wish for all of us is that this wasn’t our journey, but it is. So, my second deepest wish is that our world, our community continues to embrace and hold the lonely and uncomforted. I hope that our words continue bring healing when time does not heal and to provide a world where connections of the heart are felt.  To all of you out there who have the courage to put your pain on a page, to share your grief, your lives, your hopes and your struggles, I am forever grateful.  To those of you who were brave enough to go to support groups and share your stories, listen to my story and let your tears, my tears and our children’s tears flow…I am forever grateful.  Thank you for sharing your stories and for reading and listening to mine.

Ahhh….the holidays…sigh…

As the holidays approach, I can feel the tension in my neck begin to build. I begin to anticipate how this year will look. What will we do? Who will be around us and will I make it through again? I’m an anticipator. I stressfully anticipate and imagine all that could go wrong, all that could go right and really any of the possibilities.  I am hopeful. I am sad. I am grateful and I’m angry…all rolled up into one big holiday stress ball (just put a ribbon on me and I’ll be ready to go). I begin to plan and I begin to wonder how I will manage missing my husband this year. Each year brings some new elements of missing him. Each year brings those same suffocating elements that I have missed all along…only now they seem more amplified than at other times of the year.  This year I add the loss of my dad who died in spring.  So, not only is it me and my boys grieving someone this year, but all my siblings and my mom are added into the mix as we face the first holiday without my dad here with us.

I think this is when it gets so complicated.  As with every different way there is to love there are as many different ways to grieve. The things I loved and miss about my dad are different than those of my family. My boys miss their dad and now their grandfather in a different way than I do. Grief is so individual. What works for me and helps me cope may not help my kids. The holiday season’s focus is family and when families feel broken it seems to me that the focus of the holiday is that our family is broken. Now this is not to say there wasn’t brokenness in our pre-grieving family, it is just a different, somewhat communal brokenness.  We can name something that we all feel loss about and that we all feel is missing.  Although our loss is communal, the way we deal with it is not.  We all deal with this loss in different ways. It can be with compassion or with animosity. It can be with withdrawal or the need to be surrounded with people we love. It can be by sleeping through the day or staying awake and busy all the time. Again, as many ways as there are to love, we have that many ways to grieve.

Much to my dismay, several dear friends lost a parent this year also.  For me, it has been heartbreaking and interesting listening to their stories of loss and sadness. Each of our journeys has differences, each of our families have their own ways to deal with their communal loss. Some how, I feel more detached from the loss of my dad.  I know this is because my husband died before my dad.  I am coping with losing my husband every day of my life. My husband died at 46 leaving my children fatherless very young. I feel grateful that my dad lived to 75 years old.  I had probably more than half my life with my dad alive. So, I don’t know if this detachment I feel is because I have been building grief coping skills the last five years, because I’m shut down a bit because my heart has been broken so thoroughly or because I’m grateful for what I had and my view has been so shifted by my children’s loss.  What I am sure about is the holidays bring about a bevy of feelings, anxiety, sadness and hopefulness.

Hopefulness?

Yes, hopefulness. For every holiday that has passed, I have learned that I can survive loss. I have learned that love never dies and that is why the pain persists in me. I have learned that I was given great gifts…a loving husband and a loving dad.  I have learned as much as I miss their physical presence with me during the holiday, it is a measure of how much I was allowed to love…of how much risk was taken by all of us.  Loving is a risk. Loving is a risk and without it life is hollow. So, now, during the holidays when I feel hollow and I miss my husband, my dad, and all those people who have died around me, I can remember that I can fill that hollow spot, that pain, that overwhelming sadness with the gratefulness that I was loved and was capable of loving.  I can be hopeful because I know that love and loss go hand in hand. Great pain after my husband’s death, great pain after my father’s death is only there because we all loved…no matter how perfect or imperfect that love is.  I can be hopeful because through my grief, I have learned the importance of an open heart no matter how broken, shattered, or smashed that heart may be.  Through the raw experience of grief, I learned the real importance of love.