“There are two kinds of fears: rational and irrational- or in simpler terms, fears that make sense and fears that don't.” 
― Lemony Snicket
 
It’s been a while since I wrote publicly.    Most, well all, of my writing lately has been in a personal journal, but this is something I think needs to be said out loud.

You see, books, therapists, theorists and many other sorts of ‘ists’ all talk about the primary loss and the secondary losses, but they seldom talk about the tertiary losses.  Oh yes, there is a third round of loss after losing your spouse.  Oh yay.

Primary loss is of course my husband.  Secondary losses include his income and companionship, our future together, physical closeness, a sense of who I am.  Some lose their homes.  Some lose friends.  I luckily have not had to suffer through those last two.  But then, according to many of my widowed friends, you have a third round of loss.  That is where I am at right now.

My third round begins with my loss of feeling secure.  Some call it a ‘feeling of doom’, others call it anxiety.  Panic attacks, PTSD, ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’…all names for this dread that smothers me day and night.

I believe that it is hitting me because I am finally reluctantly accepting my husband’s death.  Despite my desperate need for a reset button or for him to come waltzing in saying it was all a terrible nightmare, I am truly realizing that he is gone forever.  I will never see him, touch him, feel him ever again.

And since my world could be shattered in million pieces once, why not a second time or a third time?  The death of my husband has taught me that there is a very thin line between being secure and being tossed about on a whirlwind of fate driven events of which you have no control over.

So I am afraid.  I am afraid of every minute of every day.  I’m afraid I’ll lose my job. I’m afraid my house will burn down while I’m away.  I’m afraid my truck will break down, leaving me stranded.  I’m afraid people will leave me.  I’m afraid that my animals will sicken and die.  I’m afraid of a thousand little things that could happen. 

Most are irrational fears or fears with no basis.  So far, my bosses are happy with my work.  I take care to not leave things on that could start a fire.  If my truck breaks down my family is a phone call away.  My friends have stuck with me this long and have given no indication they were tired of me.  My animals, knock on wood, are all healthy and happy and thriving.  I can give a reason for just about every one of those thousand fears of why I shouldn’t be afraid and yet, I am.

For a while, after my husband’s death, I was unafraid.  Nothing life could throw at me could make me afraid.  After all, I had just gone through one of the worst things possible nothing could be as bad.  But now it is the polar opposite.  Now I fear what life can and most likely will throw at me. 

Because I was slapped so hard on that fateful day, once the numbness wore off, I am constantly ducking anything that remotely resembles a blow.  I learned my lesson as to how fragile reality is.  How quickly things can change and how really ‘not-in-control’ we are of our lives.  It is a realization that took me two years to get to, but now I’m here and I hate it.

I hate having no confidence in myself.  I hate having no confidence in my daily life.  I hate this feeling of just minutes away from flying apart.  I hate this feeling of doom and dread.  I hate it tremendously and yet it does not go away.  I try and talk myself out of it.  I try to fix it chemically (with my doctor’s supervision so please don’t think ‘intervention’).  I even talked to a therapists a couple of times but nothing helps.

Yes, there are things to fear in life.  After all, jobs are lost through no fault of our own.  Wildfires start that can take out hundreds of homes in a few hours and I live in a fire prone area.  Yes, there are crazy drivers out there that can cut in front or behind and cause a wreck.  But should one be afraid all the time of the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘could-happens’?  No…but I am.

I used to be able to go through life knowing, in the back of my mind, that bad things happen but also not worrying about it. After all, it hasn’t happened yet and even so, that is something that happens to other people.  People you hear about.  A friend of a friend.  But now I know, sadly and tragically, that sometimes you are those ‘other’ people.  You are the one that a friend of a friend is talking about.

Life is and always has been a series of problems to figure out and solve.  Some are big like needing a new water tank, some are small like running out of crackers for your soup.  Nothing has changed about that.  But I have changed and that’s what makes it so different now.  I’ll continue to have problems big and small.  I’ll continue to try and figure out ways to solve them.  But now, I can’t seem to shrug them off as easily.  Now they hit hard and sometimes send me in a blind panic.  Now, there are days when the absence of crackers seems bigger than the leaking water tank, as unreasonable as that sounds.  There are some days when I am completely overwhelmed and all I can do is sit and stare mindlessly at old TV reruns. 
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I know, deep inside, that eventually I will control the fear, the panic, the chaos in my brain and start to figure things out again.  This is just another aspect of widowhood I need to ride out. 

“In this sad world of ours sorrow comes to all and it often comes with bitter agony.” – Abraham Lincoln
 
I am so angry at my husband. 

Pretty stupid, right?  How can you be angry at someone who dies?  It’s not like they wanted to die, or did it on purpose…but grief and widowhood has no rhyme or reason.

I’ve been mad at him for a while, but it all came to a head today when I had to get his truck fixed.  This was his job, his responsibility, and once again, I had to step up and get it done.  Just like I’ve had to step up and fix the sink, fix the dehumidifier, fix the coffee pot, fix the dog’s waterer, fix the goat pen….the list goes on and on since he died.

I’m mad at him for leaving me with a mortgage, bills and less income.  I’m mad at him for leaving me with his chores and projects around the ranch.

I’m mad at him for making me drive to and from horse shows by myself, regardless of how sore and tired I am afterwards.

I’m mad at him for leaving me alone night after night in a silent, empty, lonely house.

I’m mad at him for not being on the other end of the phone when I forget and call home to tell him I’ll be late.

I’m mad at him for not being here when I need to talk to someone about my day, my problems, my thoughts.

I am mad at him for taking our life together and shattering it into a trillion unfixable pieces.

I’m mad at him for taking my life with him and destroying my future.

I’m mad at him for not finding some way to cheat death and find a way to come back to me in a Hollywood moment.

I’m mad at him for dying.

There, I said it. 

Unreasonable, irrational, crazy….yes, but it is there all the same.

The plain fact is – widowhood doesn’t make sense.  The emotional rollercoaster doesn’t stop and it takes turns and twists that you could never imagine.

For instance, one moment I’m fine and the next I crumble inside with unbearable grief.  It can come at anytime, anywhere, for any or no reason whatsoever.  I’ve become an expert at covering those moments up when they happen in public or around other people.

Guilt and grief are all mixed up together too.  I’m afraid to really think of the future because I know rationally that future might have someone in it.  But then the guilt of thinking about having someone else in my life while I still love my husband gets twisted around my grief at the thought that there might be someone else who wasn’t my husband because my husband isn’t here anymore.  Like I said – crazy.

And then there is this anger.  I’m angry at my husband, at the doctors who didn’t save him, at God for not giving me the miracle I prayed for so desperately, at my new life that I never wanted and still don’t want and at the world for going about its business and not stopping completely to acknowledge all of the above.  Like I said – irrational.

I’m mad at this whole process that seems never ending.  Just when I think I’m becoming accustomed to being a widow, I am rocked backwards and I feel like I did when this all started.  I’m angry at this whole one step forward, twenty steps back scenario. 

I’m mad that I still can’t throw away the stupid cookies that I bought the day he die, 15 months ago.  They are still in the package in the pantry.  I just move them around to make room for newer groceries. 

I’m mad at how unfair it all is and I’m mad at myself for whining because it is unfair.

I know that life isn’t fair.  I know that things don’t always work out.  I know that things don’t always happen to someone else. And yet, I’m mad that I am that ‘someone else’ for somebody else.

I’m just plain mad and angry and tired and I want a reset button.

I’m mad at Death, riding his pale horse, uncaring about the wreckage he leaves behind.

I get so angry at all of this that sometimes I would like to kill Death myself. 

Widowhood is full of irony too.

“Nothing is so difficult as not deceiving oneself.” 
― Ludwig Wittgenstein
 
I write a lot.  I write in a journal, I write on group pages on Facebook, I write a lot inside my head that just never gets out on paper.  What I don’t do is publish a lot of what I write and the reason is – I’m scared to do it.  Putting one’s self out there for all the world is a terrifying thing, but then again, that is all part of what this blog is about.

You see, widowhood is not just a journey of loneliness and adaptation, it is also a journey of discovery.  A journey of redefinition of who you are and what you will become.  No one becomes a widow and stays the same and when you had such a close marriage as I did becoming a widow means that you died along with your spouse.

You float along on this level of mere existence for months, some even for years.  You inhale, exhale, get up and move in the morning, go through the motions of each day and then lie back in bed at night to stare at the ceiling knowing that the next day will be the same and the same after that and after that. 

You are nothing.  No definition. An automaton.   

You pretend to be who you were but inside you know that you are lying to yourself, your friends, your family.  You smile, you laugh, you talk and engage but underneath there is this dead spot, this numbness that never goes away.  This corpse of who you were, just lying there, rotting away, toxifying your every waking moment.

And like all corpses, it is ugly and truthful.  There is nothing there to hide. All the goodness, the warmth, the strength, the beautiful pieces disappeared when your spouse died.   All the blemishes, all of the worst bits are right where they were left in the open.  There is no outer shell to disguise them or cover them up with charm and personality.  There is no loving spouse to smooth the rough bits over and tell you that you are loved, warts and all.

So now, you are left with two choices – face that rotting carcass and deal with it or let it continue to pollute your life and dictate who you are and what you are becoming.  Neither way is ideal nor what I want to do.  What I want is to be who I was, alongside with my husband, but that is not an option.

And this is the part that is so scary for me to publish.  Because facing who you were means becoming brutally honest with yourself.  Each of those nasty bits must be examined, analyzed and properly discarded.  And to put that out in the public, to be that honest, is to leave myself open to whatever may come.

But to become stronger, one must allow oneself to become vulnerable….no matter how terrifying that prospect.  Whether it is writing a blog displaying those flaws or even just admitting them to yourself.  Either way, it must be done if I am to take those first steps, albeit reluctantly, into my new life.

So who was I before my husband died?  I was prickly, funny, energetic, sarcastic, driven, loving, loyal, envious, a procrastinator, sometimes bitchy, honest, sometimes too honest, hard-working, demanding, vulnerable, confident, not-so-confident, unselfish, friendly, nice, caring….in other words a normal mixed up human being with good and bad traits intertwined.

When my husband died I felt stripped of all of those, even the bad ones.  Over the months I have been slowly reclaiming some of them back.  Truly reclaiming them and not just going through the motions.  Unfortunately, in my anger and my grief, I did not always allow just good traits to enter.  I didn’t want to, but neither did I do anything about it when it happened.

For instance, envy crept back in.  I am envious of other people who have loving relationships.  That spills over into envy of other people who are happy and successful. Which spills over to envious of people who have things that I am struggling to have and keep.  Envy is an insidious toxin.  It weaves its way through everything and every day.  It flairs up and overwhelms you.  It colors the way you see your friends, your family, your life.  It distorts reality and perverts it and if you don’t fight it, it will try to destroy the very thing you are envious of.

I’m not proud that this was one of the first things that I reclaimed, even if unconsciously, and I am constantly struggling to exorcise it from my being.  The first step is recognizing it and I am, at least, at that step.  The next step is harder, to throttle it down each and every time it rears its ugly head.  If something good happens to someone, I try very hard to be happy for them and not envious.  It’s currently a crap shoot about whether I am successful or not, but I am trying each time.

The second thing that re-entered was a two-fold.  Vulnerability and the not-so-confident part.

Becoming a widow, especially becoming one suddenly, rips away any armor that you had.  Your self-esteem plummets, you feel naked and afraid.  This one is not so easy to overcome.  I think to myself that no one will ever love me like my husband did.  How could they?  I am crippled, 53 years old, over weight, in debt, living on a ranch that is falling around my ears. I have little to no social skills. Small talk is beyond my comprehension and no one else wants to talk about the geeky science stuff that I watch and read about.  My favorite things to do are riding my horse and playing video games – two extreme ends of the entertainment spectrum.  I say the wrong things at the wrong times, my filter has never been properly installed, even as a child, and I seldom have anything of value to contribute to any conversation.  My husband loved me despite all that.  But then again, he was a very special guy.  So how am I ever going to be loved again?  That litany replays itself over and over in my head on a never ending loop.  How can I fix this?  I’ll let you know when I find out.

There are other not-so-desirable  traits that popped back in, but you get the picture.  I have pages and pages that I’ve written on this subject which I am too much of a coward to publish for the public.  The old saying that the “truth will set you free” can be taken too literally, so please excuse me when I keep some of the truths to myself.  No one needs to be that free.

But I am throwing out a few of these truths because I think it is important, not to just other widows but to anyone who is looking to reclaim themselves for whatever reasons.  It hurts and is embarrassing to acknowledge them, but that is what needs to be done.

Just like when you clean out a closet, you need to take everything out and look at it.  Think whether you need it or want it.  Decide to keep it or throw it away.  Some things are permanently stuck in that closet so you need to learn to work around them, deal with them, and continue to try and chip away at them until they are gone.

My closet is empty now, with just a few of those permanent ugly bundles I discussed.  There are a few more in there – driven, sometimes bitchy, prickly, procrastinator. None which I purposely kept but they are a part of me anyways.  But alongside them I am trying to add a few of my own choosing.  I am trying to reclaim the good traits – hard-working, loyal, loving, caring, funny, energetic, unselfish, friendly, etc.  They are a lot lighter and smaller than the bad ones and are still a work in progress to make them as permanent and even larger, but it is a battle plan and one that I am fighting daily.

It’s going to take a while.  It took years of being married to become who I was and it will take years of being a widow to remake myself into who I will be. 

Luckily I have friends and family that are very patient.  

“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.” 
― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

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Self-confidence is a tricky thing.  When one loses a spouse, one loses who they are and all that they were.  Especially self-confidence.

Look at it this way – I was whole when my husband was alive.  We were like two little peas in a pod, sharing everything, supporting each other.  Then suddenly he was gone and my pod became an unstable entity.  I have nothing to lean on, nothing to discuss my self-doubts, my failures, my successes with.  My support system has been ripped from me and now I am floundering, trying desperately to re-evaluate all that I am and do.

I just finished a couple of pretty large horse shows and now am reaping the residue of not having my husband with me.  He was such a huge part of it and I need his support desperately.  Like every horse show, there was some good, some bad, but in my mind the bad far outweighs the good.  I feel like I was getting worse towards the end, instead of improving.  I feel like a failure and am questioning my ability to even do the simplest things.  I don’t have my sounding board to negate or justify the rationality of my feelings.

To do reining (which is the equestrian discipline that I do), one must be an A-type personality.  Demanding of one’s self, perfectionist, aggressive in goals, etc, etc…  This leads to a lot of self-criticism,  self-evaluation, an ever changing self-confidence.  Without a stable support system, a downward spiral is inevitable. 

I am in that downward spiral and gaining speed.

I need my husband to look at my doubts and criticisms with that steady eye that he had.  I need him to tell me that yes, I screwed this part up but this part I improved.  I need him to tell me that I do have talent to achieve my goals or I am reaching too high and need to step back.  I need him to tell me that I’m going to be okay because he’s there to support me, win or lose. 

My dilemma is not unique.  In questioning many other widows, this sudden ripping away of our support system causes much the same situation that I am in now.

“So look to yourself!” many of you would say.  But it’s not that easy.  If it was, millions of therapists would be out of a job.  Self-examination is not a talent that everyone has.  I’ve always been my worst critic so I’m not a good judge of myself. I've yet to find a therapist that I can connect with.

“Look to your friends and family” others would say.  Again, not so easy, because with this self-doubt also comes the self-doubt of your relationships.  You tend to start thinking that your friends only tolerate you because they pity you.  That people say nice things to be polite.  That they say things because they don’t want to deal with someone whining.  That the only person who ever really and truly cared about you is dead and you are so very alone.

You start to think that you need to be stronger, more self-reliant and because you are not, you are a failure.

This leads to a diminishing self-worth.  You start to think that people would rather not be bothered with you. That you are repulsive, unlikable.  You tend to start thinking that it is better to just go off and leave everyone alone.  Sit by yourself, do things by yourself.  But this again feeds that downward spiral because the more you think that, the longer you isolate yourself, which leads to intensify your self-loathing until it becomes a macabre merry-go-round that you can never get off.

Like the little train, deep down I think I can do it, but thinking, believing, knowing are three separate states of being with deep chasms between them.  I need help building a bridge over those ominous pits.  I need someone to help me out of this whirlpool of distrust and despair.  Someone to help me look at each of these doubts and vanquish them.  I need my husband back.

When my husband was alive I could soar above the clouds. 

With his death I’ve forgotten how to fly.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Washington Irving

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One year.
One year since I held his hand.
One year since I was safe.
One year since I was whole.
One year of numbness, unbearable grief, loneliness.
One year of survival.
It’s not an anniversary.  It’s not an ‘angel-versary’.
It’s just one year.
When darkness falls, my demons come out.
Laughing, dancing, taunting.
Whispering what should have beens, what could have beens.
Delighting in my despair of what it really is.
When light comes, they scamper away, patiently waiting for the inevitable cycle.
That is when the fog appears.
Distorting time, memories, life.
Forcing me to move through a thick layer of sorrow, push through a deep pool of liquid grief.
I want to stop.  I want to curl up and hide, but I can’t.
Some inner force drives me on.
Friends, family, even the deep love I have for my husband.
All conspire to keep me here through love and support.
All conspire to keep me moving forward.
I resent them and love them at the same time.
But I know, if the roles were reversed, I’d do the same.
On January 27, 2016 at 2:37 pm both my husband and I died.
Who I was, who I was going to be, all died with him.
Now I am a shell.
Empty.
I wait for something to fill the void.
I search for things.  But what little I have found rattles around so small and miniscule as to be unnoticeable.
I try and focus on one thing.  One far off goal to get to.
The daily minutia saps my strength, my resolve.
I imagine my husband’s voice in my head telling me to stay focused, to achieve to live.
I argue back – why? 
My future was with him, I didn’t pick this future, I didn’t want this future, this future is not mine.
And yet it is the future I have.
I have no choice.  I must continue onward without him.
One year gone.
One year survived.
Today I will spend time with my memories.
Tomorrow I will start one more year.

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." – Albert Einstein
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It’s been a long time since I’ve written.  I wanted to chronicle each phase but I’ll be honest….after living through it all day, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about it.  The past few months have been exceedingly rough.  Holidays, dark cold nights in an empty house, financial troubles, work troubles and all of it without the emotional and unwavering support of my husband.  It was pretty depressing. 

Still is, in fact.
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I’ve been living in what is termed a “widow’s fog”.  Time moves differently in here.  I look at the clock and hours have gone by without my even noticing it or accomplishing anything.  Or I look at the clock and think that I have just lived through the longest two minutes of my life.

I’ve stopped looking at the clock.

Instead, I let the days and time roll on as they will.  I try and keep up, not always successful. Or sometimes too successful so I find myself at the end of the day wondering what else to do to fill up this empty space in the time vortex I am swirling around in. 

Nature abhors a vacuum and so does grief.

I do find myself doing odd little things over and over again.  For instance, I went to get a glass of milk. Took the milk out of the refrigerator, went to get a glass, looked out the kitchen window for a few moments and turned and immediately put the milk back in the refrigerator while holding my empty glass.  Then I suddenly could not remember why I was holding an empty glass.  It was only after I had put the glass back and walked out of the kitchen that I remembered. 

This happens quite a lot.

I find myself touching objects, just to make certain that they are real.  Because of this fog that permeates into every aspect of my life, sometimes I’m not sure if what I think happened really happened.  So I need to touch a door, a lamp, a counter….anything to ground myself that I am really here.

I believe it is because half of me doesn’t want to be here.  Half of me is still desperately clinging to the past trying to hold onto my husband as hard as I can.  I find myself imagining what he would say in certain situations or how he would react about something that happened, and in the imagining, he is here with me once again. 

He moves around according to my own physical location.  If I am at the store, he is home waiting for me.  If I am home, he is at the store or running errands.  If I am in the bedroom, he is in the kitchen.  If I am in the kitchen, he is in the bedroom. 

I know that is wishful thinking, but I’m afraid that if I  accept the reality of my situation (and yes, I am excruciatingly aware of the reality of my situation) then I will enter a dark place that I won’t be able to crawl out of.  So I hide from it like a little kid hiding under the covers.  The kid knows that the monsters are out there but as long as the covers stay tight, it’s all safe.

I have even created a fort for me to live in.  I have moved my office into the bedroom, brought the good TV in there to hang on the wall, set up a little work station with everything I need.  I eat, work and sleep in my bedroom.  I decorated it with mementoes of my husband, images of butterflies, inspiring quotes.  I have made it my sanctuary, so much so that when I walk into another room of the house I feel like a stranger.  I tell myself and other people that it is to consolidate during the winter, save money on the heating bill.  But I know that’s not the real reason.

That one room is my home now because that gives me free reign to imagine my husband in more places.  Maybe he’s in the family room watching his cooking shows, or maybe in the kitchen practicing new recipes, or in the office doing the paperwork he hates so much.

I do know that I am starting to accept is death.  I started correcting myself when I speak of him in the present tense. It brings a sharp jolt of pain when I do, but I think I’m getting enough scar tissue to make it hurt less and less each time.

Baby steps.

This fog is an instinctive defense.  I understand that.  It is my brain’s way of helping me process through all of this crap.  Most of the time it is helpful, sometimes, not so much.  When I look back at the last time I posted, I can’t believe it was in August.  In my mind, it was just a few weeks ago.

Time goes slowly and quickly in the same moment.

How?  It all depends on what I’m thinking about.  When I think of my husband’s death it seems time has gone by so quickly.  When I think of my future, it plods along at a snail’s pace.  Same moment, different realities.

Reality is what we make of it.  There are certain aspects that are beyond our control, but how we deal with them is what sets our reality.

In the famous words of Adam Savage from the Mythbusters: “I reject your reality and substitute my own.”  And it’s true. 

This is where I am at right now.  This place.  This moment. 

This is my reality.

If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.
Voltaire


Many things change in widowhood.  Your future, your appetite, your energy, your adaptability, your finances, your home, your friends, your family and your attitude towards life, among other things.

Another thing that change is your views on religion.  Some widows embrace their religion tighter to them, receiving solace and comfort.

Me….not so much.

Because right now I am really, really, really, really, really pissed at God.

Now some people may gasp in horror at my saying this. Decrying blasphemy and righteous indignation on how I can have that attitude towards the Holy Father.  But I’m pretty sure that God is tough enough to handle it and if He’s not…then He’s not the God I grew up with.

You see, I was pissed at God before my husband died, because He let my mother die just a year and a half before.

My mother did not have an easy life.  Two deadbeat husbands, a childhood that was not ideal in any way and a few of her offspring that never seemed to get their act together.  When her last husband died, she started to come into herself.  To enjoy life.   All of my life I had been the one to take care of her through her trials and tribulations.  But for the two years before she died, she was stepping out on her own, taking her independence and finding who she was.

She was happy.

Then, suddenly, she had a massive stroke and was dead 3 days later.

Now, to me…that was just wrong.  Not just the fact that I lost my mother, but that when she was finally happy, finally free….God let her die.

The same with my husband.  We were becoming closer to our goals, we were looking forward to a bright future.  All of our hard work for the past ten years was finally coming into fruition. Things had turned around for us and then – bam – God let him die.

What the hell??

Is there some obscure rule that happiness is unachievable no matter how hard you work?  Because it seems to me that just when it was in my mother’s grasp, she died.  Just when it was in my husband’s and my grasp, he died….and a large part of me died with him.

Now, I’m not one to cry about life not being fair and how everyone should have the same wages, lifestyle, yadda, yadda, yadda.  But still…

Lately I’ve been getting hit after hit until I’m almost numb now.   Personal, financial, work related.  All issues that sap my time and mostly my energy.  It never seems to stop and I feel like I am walking around with my shoulders bowed, near tears, listless with all of the weight of these crisis.  I have no one to share them with, no one to partner up with and now, I don’t even have God.  Because I refuse to talk with Him.  I won’t even go to church because I believe it is rude to visit someone you are ticked off at.

Oh, I’m sure that someone is out there, reading this and thinking, “God is always at my side.”  But do you know what?  I don’t want Him to.  How can I hang out with Someone who has destroyed my life?  And for those saying that God has a plan, or God didn’t let my husband die…I say back: Well God’s plan sucks!  And He did let my husband die.  He could have stopped it, He could have fixed him.  What did Lazarus have that my husband didn’t have?  What made him so special?

A part of me is wondering even more about the existence of God.  If there really was a God then why do hospitals have Pediatric Oncology departments?  Two words that should never, ever go together.  I get the whole free will thing, and all that, but seriously…what three year old wakes up one day and says, “I think I’ll develop a brain tumor today.”

And if everything that is happening in my life is all part of some grand plan of His…then where does my free will come in?  Exactly how does losing my husband benefit me or anyone else?  If anything, the world lost a compassionate man who did his best to help others.  So basically, by letting my husband die, God made the world a little bit worse.

For those that say that God needed my husband more and that’s why He took him, I say to them – That’s bull!  Because no one needed and needs my husband more than me.  No one.  Not even God.

I don’t know if I will ever forgive God for what He let happen.  I don’t ever know if I will ever go back to church.  Heck, we’ve had a new priest for quite a while and I don’t even know his name.

I used to talk to God a lot.  Little prayers, a thank you now and then.  But now, I refuse to even acknowledge him. 

Yes, that sounds stubborn and bull headed but you know what….God made me this way and now He’ll have to live with it.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu


I met an amazing group of people this past weekend.  I attended something called Camp Widow.  I know, two words that really don’t belong together.  But in a sense they do. After all, what is camp?  Besides a place that your parents send you to get a couple weeks of peace during the summer months.

A camp is a place where you are out of your familiar surroundings.  A place where you learn new skills.  A place where you meet new people and hopefully make new friends.

Well, this whole widowhood is definitely not familiar surroundings.  I learned some very important coping skills and I met a lot of new people and hopefully made a few new friends.  So therefore, I went to a camp.

I was never good at camp as a kid.  Being a social misfit, I usually ended up playing with the camp dog or helping take care of the horses or rabbits or whatever wildlife they had. All the other campers would scamper off to arts and crafts and I would lurk in the shadows desperately trying to figure out how long I could hide before some overly enthusiastic camp counsellor would bounce up to me with a toothy smile and a whole mess of happy, happy, joy, joy and force me to glue popsicle sticks together in an attempt to recreate the capital building but usually ended up looking like some odd modern art piece that someone accidentally sat on.   

Even as an adult I am socially inept.  My husband was the extrovert.  I’d follow along in his shadow, content to let him take all of the attention while I just smiled and nodded whenever I heard my name. I do have to admit that I now hide behind my service dog, Tiny.  He is an attention whore and a really cool dog so people gravitate straight to him, bypassing me, which is fine by me.  But I couldn’t stay hidden behind him for too long because those darn widows and widowers wouldn’t let me do that.  Don’t ever get in between a group of widows and something they want.  Believe me, they won’t let you win.  And I’m glad they didn’t.  Because I found that even though I am more often a dork than not, being a dork is okay too.  Some people even liked my dorkiness.  My dorkiness is loved and tolerated by my ranch family, but it does tend to startle strangers quite a bit.  It was pretty hard to startle this bunch.

 Another cool thing about hanging out with a bunch of widows is that when I suddenly stop talking in mid-sentence because I completely lost my train of thought, no one cared.  They either picked up the conversation where I left off or gave me a moment to come back to Earth, all the while nodding with understanding and someone would more than likely say “widow fog” and everyone would laugh or smile.  They also didn’t care if I suddenly had to leave the room.  No one batted an eye when I quietly let myself out of one seminar because it was hitting a little too close to home.  I wasn’t the only one and it felt really good to be understood.  Don’t get me wrong, my wonderful ranch family treats me just the same and I love them dearly for it, but unfortunately there are other people in this world I have to deal with and they tend to get a bit testy when I just drift off in mid-sentence and stare into space.

One thing I learned is that I have been selling myself short.  You see, people attend the camp who have lost their loved ones a month ago, a year ago, all the way up to 10+ years ago and beyond.  Because once a widow, always a widow.  It doesn’t go away.  Many people told me that they admired the fact that I was strong enough to attend when it hadn’t even been six months.  They said that at six months, they would never have been able to do it.  At first I sort of shrugged it off.  I always figured I wasn’t strong.  I just did what had to be done. But then I started thinking about it.

Dammit, I am strong.  Everyone there was strong.  Every single person that attended that camp was strong by just being there.  By still being alive when there were so many moments that they wanted to join their loved ones.  I know I had many moments like that. Luckily I have Tiny the Wonder Dog who kept me here.  You see, he is so attached to me that if I ever left this world, he would be shattered.   I honestly think he would pine away and die.  Strange as it may seem, the love of my service dog has kept me from driving off of a cliff.  But even making that decision still takes strength.

Just because I’m strong didn’t mean I wasn’t broken.  It simply meant that I was able to gather all those shattered bits that are me and carry them throughout whatever I had to do.  Getting out of bed, going to work, grocery shopping…I am strong enough to do all of that.

Sure, every once in a while I have to drop those pieces because they were just too heavy.  But that’s okay.  The dropping part is not what matters, it is the regrouping, catching my breath and picking them up again.

I learned to take pride in my strength.

I also learned that it is okay to be happy.  I have felt guilty because at times I was actually and truly happy.  When I had a good ride on my horse.  Going to a movie with a friend.  Spending time with my ranch family hanging out while waiting for our horses to drip dry after a good workout.  I wondered how I could actually be happy, be content in the moment.  Was I forgetting my husband already?  Did I not love him as deeply as I thought I did?  After all, how can I laugh and have fun when he hasn’t even been dead for six months.

Well I learned that being happy does not diminish the loss I feel.  Being happy does not lessen my love for him.  In one of the seminars, the presenter said something that sort of hit me right between the eyes.  She said, (and I’m paraphrasing a bit) “It’s easy to say you love someone so deeply that you would die for them.  But can you say that you love someone so deeply that you would live for them.”

Think about that.  Yes, I love my husband so much that I would do anything to be with him again, but that’s not what he would want.  He would want me to continue on, to live my life, to enjoy my friends and family, to live.  Do I love him that much to live for him?  The answer is simply ‘yes’.

I learned other things too.  Not so much in the workshops or presentations, but by watching the other widows and widowers.  I saw people who had remarried.  The love they had for their spouse that died was plain to see.  Many were lucky enough to have such a love as I and my husband did.   But they also were able to find love again.  A different love, not more, not less…just different.  And their new spouses were there supporting them as they celebrated their lost loved ones.   Now I am nowhere close to even contemplating that.  That’s so far over the horizon, I can’t even see the beginning of that path.  But it’s nice to know that the path is there, and if I ever choose to follow it, it doesn’t negate what I and my husband had.

One of the biggest things I learned was that I needed to realize that I am no longer the person I was.  One presenter put it this way.  She said that on the day that her husband died, she was born.  And it’s true.  That day in January of this year, my husband died along with the person that I was.  A new person was born that day.  A person with different likes, different priorities, different outlook.  I still don’t know who that person is, but I need to realize that whomever she is, she is never going to be what the old me was.  Yes, I am moving into this new life kicking and screaming the entire way, but deep down inside I know that resistance is futile.  Because there is no going back.  So in a way, I am not only grieving for my husband, I am also grieving for myself.  Eventually I will figure out this new person that I have become.  That will just take time and a bit of trial and error, but I learned that it will happen.

There were some pretty high emotions during the camp, but there were also some pretty hilarious happenings too.  I saw widows and widowers of all races, ages, genders, sexual orientation but I really didn’t see them as that, if that makes sense.  I didn’t really notice race, age, gender, sexual orientation.  I just saw people who had the same struggle that I have, the same overwhelming grief, the same need for comfort and acceptance.  Because even though everyone’s journey through this widowhood is different, there are certain aspects that we all suffer through.  And everyone was there to share and support each other.

But mostly what I saw was hope.  Just that.  Hope.  I’ve been lacking in that department ever since my husband died.  All I could see was this bleak existence I am living in now.  This twilight of not really being alive but not being dead either.  After interacting and talking with these remarkable people, I felt a little spark of hope ignite within me.  I don’t know if it will last. I’m hoping it will (pun intended). But at least it is there now and all because of the amazingly strong widows and widowers at Camp Widow.

Oh, and one last thing I learned during that fantastic weekend:  Death Sucks!  Widows Rock!

The happiness of most people is not ruined by great catastrophes or fatal errors, but by the repetition of slowly destructive little things.

Ernest Dimnet

 

I’ve had a few people inquire why I haven’t written much lately.  How come I don’t have a daily chronicle of widowhood?  The truth is, I do write every day.  Mostly just a phrase here, a thought there.

I then gather up all those little tidbits to make into an article and that’s when I realize that they are mostly the same.  I’m finding that widowhood is a repetitious process.  An empty void interrupted by scheduled and unscheduled events.

The void is just that.  A void when everything feels like it is being sucked away.  My energy, my health, my happiness.  It is a grey, bleak place that seems timeless and endless.  It is where I am most broken.

The void is all around me, circling, waiting to pounce at the worst moments.  Driving down the road and a song comes on the radio that brings back memories.  Watching TV and automatically turning to comment to an empty space.  Grocery shopping and holding up an item and asking, “How about this?” to someone who isn’t there anymore.  Those are the moments when I fall into the void.

The worst time for me is when I am returning home from an errand or an event.  I still automatically pick up my cell phone and dial my husband’s number to tell him that I’m on my way home.  The sharp pain in my chest is almost unbearable when I realize that I have no one to call.  And then I fall headlong into the void where I stay for quite a while.

It’s hard to keep the void at bay.  I busy myself with things and places and chores.  Constantly trying to keep myself away from the gaping maw that threatens to engulf me.  I am not normally a chatty person, but yet I find myself desperately clinging to conversations, trying to divert my attention away from me and towards someone else.  Because I don’t want to think of me.  At least, not the me I am now.

I still don’t know who this broken person is.  I can’t seem to reshape myself.  I can honestly say that at this moment I am merely existing, taking whatever comes the day, throwing myself into any and all projects because the doing is a distraction from the being.

Some of the thoughts I jotted down were mere questions. "How many tears can a person shed?"  Right now, I say an infinite amount.  I have yet to reach my limit.  "How does one handle the extreme loneliness?"  For me, I have my service dog and I cling to him like a lifeline.  I go nowhere without him and he seems to feel my need as he never lets me out of his sight.  My heart aches for those widows that do not have such a loyal and faithful companion.  I am pretty certain that I would not be here if I did not have mine.

Other notes I have address specific issues.  "Need to learn how our automatic gate opens."  I never thought twice about that, but really and truly, if it broke, I’d probably be stuck because I don’t have a clue.  That was within my husband’s domain.  Somewhere there is a manual, but even the thought of searching for it cause a severe drop in energy.

Learning everything that he did, that he took care of…it’s a full time job.  At the same time I still need to work, run the errands that he did, figure out how to do the chores or at least figure out how to pay someone to do the chores that he did.  It’s never ending and at the end of the day I am not done with what I needed to do, simply because I ran out of mental and physical energy.  One aspect which saps my strength is the underlying cause of why I have so much to do.  There is still a voice inside me crying out to the heavens that it is not fair, it is not right, this is not the way it is supposed to be.  And even though I try to tell myself that life isn’t fair and that these things still happen, I can’t quiet that inner voice.  I can’t comfort it.  Mostly because I don’t believe it either.

Another note simply says: “I need you.”

That one pretty much speaks for itself.  I need my husband by my side.  I need his strength, his love, his willingness to stand by my side no matter what.  Unfortunately, there is a very nasty financial situation with a medical company that I have been dealing with for years.  The company has made it a personal vendetta and is prone to engage in a few dirty tactics that often leaves me speechless until I muster up a defense.  Needless to say, when my husband was alive I felt invincible, that there was hope that eventually we would prevail because together, we could handle anything.

Now, I just feel vulnerable, and like a pack of jackals, the medical company has sensed it and started to pound on me again.  Each letter, each action feels like another blow that I can’t duck.  I feel so alone and any interaction with them leaves me driving home in tears, sobbing for the strength and protection I have lost.  I know that I will eventually resolve this situation but I can’t help but wonder if I will break before that happens.   It is wearing on me bit by bit like water dripping on a stone, except that the stone is cracked now and threatening to split into pieces, whereas before it was solid granite.

My last note I wrote just a few days ago.  It says “Make something good happen.”  So I am, hopefully.  I volunteered for an organization that helps widows and widowers.  They have a 3 day ‘camp’ in a couple of weeks, luckily here in San Diego.  There are workshops, seminars, helpful classes on everything from finance to finding love again.  I am looking forward to it.  I have talked to people about it and they say that it is a joyful occasion.  There are some tears, but mostly it is people gathering together who have experienced the same hell and learning how to enjoy life again.  I’ve also volunteered to run a local chapter as there is a North San Diego chapter but not one for South San Diego and what we call the East County.  My hope is that in helping others, I can help myself. 

One last note that I will write about is one I have a hard time obeying.  The notes says to just let myself be.  Simple as that.  That it’s okay if I have to take off of work early because I suddenly am overwhelmed with grief.  That it’s okay to shut the front door and not answer my phone for an evening.  That it’s okay when I suddenly shut down while out with friends or family.  That it’s okay to just be.

I’ll try to write more often.  Even if the posts become a little repetitive.  Because that is what widowhood is about right now.  Repetition.  The same feelings, the same reactions, the same deep breaths, the same minute by minute existence. 

But this is a blog about the journey of being a widow. I said in the beginning that I will try and be completely honest about this journey, the good and the bad.  So I will make a more concerted effort to document each step...even when it is just going around in circles.

We chase after ghosts and spirits and are left holding only memories and dreams. It's not that we want what we can't have; it's that we've held all we could want and then had to watch it slip away.

CHARLES DE LINT


One phrase, or several similar phrases, I have heard since my husband’s death all deal particularly with my husband’s spirit.  That he is watching me, beside me, protecting me, trying to comfort me.  I know that those who tell me this really and truly believe it….and I want to believe it too.

Unfortunately, I’m just not feeling it.

I’ve tried everything to see if I could feel his presence.  Lying perfectly still, relaxing, talking to him, begging, pleading for some little sign…anything.   I’ve even given up eating olives, which I love, because someone told me that olives had a negating effect on a person’s ability to hear and see the paranormal.

Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

At this point in time, I would give and tolerate anything to be able to commune with my husband.  I have daydreams of living like the Ghost and Mrs. Muir.  To have the ability to interact with my husband.  Talk to him, tell him about my day, my troubles.  Even as an ethereal spirit, I would be happy to be with him.

So far…nothing.

I read online about people who have felt their lost loved ones around them.  Or have seen apparitions of their loved ones.  Or have had vivid dreams about their loved ones where they speak and interact with them.

These posts make me extremely jealous.

Usually, by the time I do fall asleep, I do so in an exhausted state and rarely remember my dreams, except with a vague feeling of unease at the nightmarish taint left over. 

In true Ghost Hunter fashion, I’ve asked my husband to make a sound, a knock, a whisper…anything.  But all I’ve ever heard was the ice maker in the refrigerator.  And yes, I’ve ordered a digital recorder in the hopes that I might hear something.  It should be here in 5 – 7 business days with “free economy shipping”.

As the time gets longer and longer without my husband, I find myself clutching at anything that has any memory or association with him.  I’ll be honest, if I can’t have him here physically then I will settle for having him here spiritually.

I do believe in ghosts.  I’ve had encounters and have seen evidence that is hard to debunk.  Other people have seen or witnessed paranormal events at our house (we will never be able to use that plumber again…there are still tread marks on the pavement outside of our gate where he left in an extreme hurry).

Before my husband’s death, we would see shadows darting around, here odd little knocks and rustles.  The four legged furry brigade would all be lined up on the floor, sitting and staring at one spot, tails wagging, as if the ghost was holding a ghostly doggy snack in front of them.

I would hear my husband call my name, or he would hear me call him when neither of us did so.  Although, that part may be debunked as we do have mockingbirds and they can mimic sounds (one whistles to our outside dog constantly and drives him nuts).

One day, while I was in the laundry room at the back of the house, I heard the front door open (it has always had a distinctive squeak we never seem to get around to fixing) and my husband call out that he was home, realistic enough to the point that I answered him and told him I was in the laundry room.  A minute later my cell phone rang and it was my husband telling me that he was still in town and was delayed.

But since my husband’s death, I have seen and heard nothing.  Not even our resident ghost has made an appearance.

Sometimes I will think I see a shadow, but it is usually a bird or the cat or even the shadow of a plane flying overhead.  The four legged furry brigade haven’t sat staring in that corner even once.

I haven’t heard my name called or felt that odd feeling in the back of your neck when you suddenly know you are not alone.

It’s as if, with the passing of my husband, all of the spirits went with him.

I do have hope though.  The lady that cleans our house has felt fingers running up her back and seen people walking across the porch when no one was there.  The ghost used to play with my hair all the time.  Lifting it up, twirling it, sometimes even slightly tugging on it.  But not anymore.

Since my husband died….nothing.

I am envious of my house keeper.  I want to see the shadow and feel those ghostly fingers.  I want to feel as if someone was staring at me right this moment.  Because then I could possibly think that it was my husband and that he didn’t leave me all alone.

To be honest, I think the real reason I want proof that my husband is still here with me, is that then, I can believe that one day we will be together again.  One day we will see each other.  One day I will be complete and whole once more.

I think I could bear the current loneliness, the ache and the emptiness, if I knew that it would not always be this way.  If I knew that somewhere down the road my husband is waiting for me.

Oh, I have imagination enough to daydream about it. I can picture it a dozen ways, each as real as the next.  But I also know that wishing and having are two different things.

Sometimes, I almost think that I can feel my husband’s arms around me when I am most sad.  The ‘still believe in magic’ side of me wants to think that the feeling is real.  The ‘have seen the world’ more realistic side of me tells me it is my imagination.

Every time that someone tells me that he is with me, that he is watching, that he is right beside me, I smile and nod and say thank you.  Because who am I to dismiss what they say, what they believe.  I mean isn’t that what this all boils down to?  Faith?

Faith that there is a heaven.  Faith that loving spirits surround us.

Maybe I’m too practical.

Maybe I want too much.  After all, if my husband truly can be here with me, helping me, guiding me, then why can’t he do simple things that would be extremely helpful?  Such as telling his dog not to pee in the kitchen, or helping to housebreak the pup.  Or better yet, manipulate the lottery so I have the winning numbers.

I know I should probably take these questions to my priest, but right now I’m still mad at God and it wouldn’t be polite to go to Someone’s home when you are mad at Them.  In fact, we’ve had a new priest since and I haven’t even met him yet.  Not certain how my first impression with him would be – “Hello Father, I’m really, really pissed at God right now because my husband died and I’m starting to get pissed at my husband because he is not returning back to me as a ghost and I was wondering if you could tell me why.”

Although that would be a memorable introduction, I’m not sure if the priest wouldn’t immediately try and get me committed.  Does the Catholic Church have a mental institution?

Widowhood is made up of “I wants”.  I want my husband to still be alive.  I want this nightmare to end.  I want to be able to sleep without resorting to chemistry.  I want, I want, I want….

Widowhood is also made up of realities.  I can’t have my husband back alive.  This nightmare does not end.  I will probably be sleeping through chemistry for quite a long while.  Reality just smacks me in the face, constantly.

And that’s the main reason why I want proof of the afterlife.  I want proof that my husband’s spirit is here with me.  I want to incorporate that into my reality.  To give me a little comfort and solace while I face all of the other realities of just living and surviving on a daily basis.

As Shakespeare wrote in Henry IV Part I:

Glendower. - I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
Hotspur. - Why, so can I; or so can any man:
But will they come when you do call for them ?
(1 Henry IV, 3.1)

I just want my husband to answer when I call for him.  That’s not too much to ask for, is it?