An Unwilling Widow
  • Chronicles of an Unwilling Widow

With Great Love...

4/29/2015

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No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

C. S. Lewis

 

It has been ninety days since I last held my husband’s hand.  Since I last felt his touch and his warmth.  It has been ninety days of unwanted solitude, loneliness, bitterness, anguish and pure mental and physical pain.

It has been ninety days since I was broken.

Ninety days of trying desperately to hide from a bleak future where every day is a struggle to just get through minute by minute, second by second.

Ninety days of not being able to wake up from this nightmare.

Ninety days for me to realize that this is not a nightmare, but reality.

Ninety days for me to recognize that this is now my life.

Ninety days. 

Seems like so few when written like that but an infinity when experienced.

Ninety days sounds like a jail sentence for a first time offender, except that my sentence is life without parole and I did nothing wrong.

Now I think it is starting to sink in that my husband will never come back.  And it is painful.  Mentally, emotionally, physically.  I feel myself losing strength, mourning his death all over again because my magical thinking box has been opened and all of those wonderful daydreams of his return are escaping one by one.

It doesn’t help that our anniversary is coming up this Saturday.

I try and shy away from thoughts of his never returning, but I keep poking them, like when you poke at a sore tooth with your tongue.  You know it’s going to hurt, but you just can’t stop from doing it.  So I poke a little at the thought of never seeing him again, then the tears well up, my body hunches over, I feel like I’m dropping into a pit, so I quickly divert myself from that thought.  Only to prod it again a few minutes later.

Almost as if testing to see if I am ready for that thought to develop fully.

I’m not.

The worst part is the repitiveness.

My friends and family want to help, but all I can do is feel the same thing over and over again.  I find myself talking about anything and everything when I am with them so as not to talk about what I really want to.  How much I miss my husband and how much I hate this nightmare.

Every day is the same thing, I miss him, I want him back, I need him.  It’s even repetitive to myself.  I’m in an endless loop that I can’t break free of.  If I am tired of feeling the same thing day after day, of course others would be tired of hearing it day after day.

I know why I’m in this loop.  It’s nothing more exotic than basic fear.  Fear of a bleak future of solitude.  Fear of encountering something I can’t handle alone.  Fear of growing old and feeble with no husband beside me to support each other.  Fear of waking up one day and deciding that I can’t live like this anymore.  But mostly, fear of going through each day for the rest of my life in pain.  Not physical pain, I can handle that.  I do it every day until it has become a norm for me.  But emotional pain this deep is something I’m not used to.  I don’t know if I can make it a norm.

I’ve had deaths in my family.  My oldest brother, my mother, all within a few years of each other.  But none have impacted me as much as my husband’s.   My mother, although tragic and I miss her terribly, was expected.  You know as an adult that eventually you will lose your parents.  You are somewhat prepared.  My brother, he was in poor health, so once again it was something I always kept in the back of my mind.

But my husband was a shock.  We had plans, we were supposed to grow old together, we were supposed to be forever.  And suddenly that was all ripped away.  This is a pain that is so deep that it will never close over.  Hopefully, eventually, I will develop enough scar tissue over it that will allow me to eat and sleep normally again, but it might not.

And that brings up another fear.  A fear that I will move on beyond my husband.  A fear that I will regulate him to the ever growing list of regrets and what ifs and should ofs. Where his memory will just be that, a memory with little or no feeling behind it.  

It’s an irrational fear, but fear is irrational.

The human mind is very good at protecting itself.  And I’m afraid that one day, in its own self-defense, my mind will wall up this teeming cesspool of pain and emotions which would, at the same time, wall up the love I had for him.  I’m afraid that my mind, in self-preservation, will deem my daily exhaustion and dullness as reason to cut me off of my emotions all together.

Someone once said, “With great love, comes great pain.”  I now know that is true.  The greater the love, the greater the pain and I can’t imagine anyone loving each other more than my husband and I did.  So to keep the love I had for him, I have to accept the pain, no matter how unbearable.

If I wall off the pain, push it aside, hide from it, try and tear it out, then I will also be doing that to the love, the feelings of security, of oneness I had with him.  And I can’t do that.  I won’t do that.   So I try to balance on that narrow ledge between despair and hope.  Playing little games with my mind to keep it from saving me from myself.  To keep the fear at bay.

That might be another reason I keep poking at the thought of never being with him, never seeing him again.  To remind myself, not just of the hurt, but of the love we had.

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Right inside my heart...

4/21/2015

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“The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but respect and joy in each other’s life” – Richard Bach

 

What defines a family?

The same DNA?  The same mother and/or father? Growing up in the same house?  The same last name?

The definition of family varies as to whom you are speaking with.

I have dozens of relatives.  Multiple siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins.  But I’ve always been a firm believer that you are stuck with relatives, you choose your family.

I have chosen mine.

Included in my family is one of my brothers, his wife, his children and their spouses and their children.  All told, we number over 20 right there alone and growing.  I have a couple of cousins whom I’m crazy about but that’s as far as the ‘traditional’ members of a family go.

And then I have more family.  These family members consist of friends that have been together through thick and thin. We are family, not by blood, but by decision.

We have been through bad days, financial problems, offspring problems, job problems, heart aches, absences and just about anything else together.  We have also been through death together.  Two of us have the unfortunate label of ‘widow’.  

That is my family.

They say that in times like this, you learn who your real friends are and who aren’t.  Well I am here to tell you that it is true.  I am also happy to tell you that just about everyone I thought of as a good friend and as family stood by me through the worst time in my life and are still standing by me.  A few traditional relatives disappointed me but to be honest, I don’t miss them that much.

Those that would legally be addressed as close relatives are not a part of my family.  We’ve drifted apart as personalities and ideals clashed.  I know I should be devastated that they could do no more than a generic Facebook post when my husband died, but I’m not.  Maybe because I know them so well and know what they are capable of and, more importantly, what they are incapable of.  Some are siblings who could never look beyond their own self-entitlement, some are more distant relatives who are always too preoccupied within their own little world to care about anyone else.  All of their reactions or lack of were no surprise to me.

That’s why those I count as family are so important.  Because we each made a conscious effort to become so.

Sure, there are times when we annoy each other.  But that’s all part of being a family.  We accept each other completely, the good and the bad.  We don’t have to like the failings that each have, but neither do we condemn them for having those failings.  I can trust that even when my faults come glaring forth, my family will not abandon me.  They may kick my butt back into line, but they will still be there.  Just as I would do for them.  My relatives would drop me like a hot potato.

That’s why my family is a blessing. 

One of many in my life.

Some people are shocked that I can actually think of my blessings when my world is still destroyed and shattered beyond repair.  But nothing in nature is completely one thing or another.  There is always a balance.  It may not be an equal balance, but there is a balance.

For instance, I am now living a solitary life.  No one to call home to, no one to care even if I do come home or when.  But I also have an amazing service dog who is a constant companion wherever I go.  It’s not the same as having my husband by my side, but at least I have something, someone beside me.  There are many widows who don’t have that.

I have to do everything by myself now.  But I have family I can call on when and if it is something bigger than I can handle.  There are many who don’t have that.

I am able to support myself and keep my home where I lived so many wondrous years with my husband.  Many widows have had to sell everything, consigning memories to the highest bidder.

I am blessed with having an activity that I enjoy…or should I say that I enjoyed with my husband. I am still working on getting the enjoyment back. 

I ride and show horses.  It was something my husband was a big part of.  He wasn’t a rider himself, but he took pride in doing the ground work, being the support for myself and my ‘show sisters’.

Since his death, I have slowly been getting back into it again.  We recently finished two very big multi-day shows and it was hard.  Extremely hard, because everything reminded me of him.

But again, nature is a balance.

Amid the bitterness of not having him there with me, I found out how many people my husband touched over the years.  People that we only saw at horse shows.  Many came to me to offer their condolences, their support.  Some with words, some with a hug and some with just a nod and a smile as we crossed in the show ring.  All acknowledging my pain and grief and showing that they cared.

Many were a shock, as I thought they were just show acquaintances with whom I only had passing conversation with over the years.  Now I know better and I know that they are my friends. 

These are people who are not given to be overly emotional.  You have to pretty much be a type A personality to do this sport.  We’re a bunch of cowboys and cowgirls who suck it up when things go wrong and just get the job done.  Reining is not for wimps and, as a whole, we’re not really a cuddly bunch.  

But reiners tell it like it is.  So when any of them come up and tell me that if I need anything at all just give them a call, they mean it.  And I had a lot of people do that.

I also have the blessing of being a part of a barn where we support one another even when we are competing against each other.  Our motto is that we all want to win, but if we can’t win then someone from our barn had better win.  They are all part of my family.

When it was my turn in the ring, even though I saw an empty spot where my husband sat each year after year, I also heard and saw the exuberant whistling and cheering from my family.  As if they were trying to drown out the silence from that empty chair.  And it worked.  For a few minutes, I felt that joy and freedom that showing has always given me.  I felt the excitement and the accomplishment that I had before.  It faded as soon as I left the ring, but because of their efforts, I was also left with hope that I will regain the love of the sport that I thought I had lost when I lost my husband.  None of that would have been achievable without them…my family.

My husband was not a famous man.  He was not a perfect man.  He had his good days and his bad days, his good points and his bad points, but he did have a talent for caring about people.  Bringing people into our lives and making them a part of it.  He taught me a lot about that.  And he showed me how to create a family of people whom I love and cherish.  A family who is now stepping up and trying to fill the gap that he left.

There will always be a huge hole in my life, but my family, all of my family, creates a cocoon around that hole, making it a little less raw, a little less painful, a little more bearable.  My family keeps me going, even when I don’t want to.  My family is always there, even when I don’t need them and especially when I do.  My family is always behind me, supporting, encouraging.  By blood or by choice, I have a wonderful family.

And that is my biggest blessing of all.

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The quality of strength...

4/13/2015

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We do not have to become heroes overnight. Just a step at a time, meeting each thing that comes up ... discovering we have the strength to stare it down. – Eleanor Roosevelt



How do you define strength?

Is it the ability to lift hundreds of pounds?  The endurance to withstand the harshest living conditions?  The will to keep pushing forward against all odds?

I imagine that most of you agree with at least one of those definitions.

My definition of strength is the willingness to endure and continue onward, regardless of how the situation looks and feels.  It doesn’t take will power, muscles or even fortitude.  It simply takes the ability to keep putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the terrain, and never stopping.

People tell me that I am strong.  They comment on how well I am handling widowhood, the ranch, the business, the jobs, the bills, the chores…the list is endless.  They ask me how I do it and I answer with a question of my own:  Do I have a choice?

I’m finding that it is absolutely amazing how strong someone can be when there is no other option.  I am strong because I have no choice.  Someone has to work to earn a paycheck, someone has to do all of the chores that used to be shared, someone has to pay bills, go shopping, handle the everyday crisis that is inevitable within any household.  I am that someone because I am the only one left.

I can no longer lie in bed and be pampered by my husband when I am sick or hurting or exhausted.  Because he is not here and life continues.  And that means that I must get up and accomplish certain daily tasks that need to be done.  The four footed furry brigade needs to be fed.  I am now the only income earner so that must be earned.  Someone has to stumble to the kitchen for a glass of water or soup or whatever I need, and no matter how badly I feel, I am that someone.

Once every six weeks I need to have a medical treatment that pretty much knocks me off my feet for 3 days.  My husband took over everything during that time, now I have to do it.  And I do.  I get up and deal with whatever needs to be done, maybe a little slower and not quite steady on my feet, but I do it.  It’s not because I am stronger than anyone else, or braver…although I would stake my stubborn streak against anyone else’s…but I do it because I have no other choice.  

Is it unfair?  Yes.
Is it what I want? No.
It is what it is…
so I must deal with it.

And that is what strength is, to me. 

It’s doing the improbable and sometimes the impossible because that is all we have left to do.

If you looked around at the people you see during the day, you are probably seeing unbelievable strength without even being aware of it.

The single mom at the grocery store with her kids, exhausted after working all day, but still has the strength to smile and listen when her 4 year old gabbles excitably about something he just saw.

The 70 year old veteran standing patiently in line, leaning on his cane, proudly wearing a ball cap with the name of the war that he fought in and survived.  He smiles and teases the clerk, despite the fact that he still has nightmares 50 years later of horrors unimaginable.

The teenager walking down the street, singing and dancing to his iPod, loving the moment, happy in the fact that he just survived another day of high school bullies and not caring what others think about him.

The young man bagging groceries and then running to his second job, trying to earn money enough to keep his young family fed and still falling short each month but determined to keep going.

The woman sitting in the park, smiling, closing her eyes and lifting her face up to feel the warmth of the sun, knowing that her days are numbered due to a cancer there is no cure for.

The list goes on and on and on.

I firmly believe that everyone is capable of great strength.  They just have to have the willingness to use it.

Oh sure, any one of us could simply lay down and give up.  Decide that life is not worth living and use one of the numerous socially accepted methods to end it.  And maybe eventually one of those people I just mentioned will do so.  But I can’t. 

Despite the fact that there are times when I just want to curl up on the fetal position and drown in my puddle of despair and depression, there’s still a part of me that wants to fight, to keep going and that part is much louder than the sobbing, sad little part that wants to give up.

Giving up is not an option for me.

Someone once told me that to overcome my inborn social ineptness, I needed to ‘fake it until I make it’.  Meaning that if I pretend to fit in, if I fake feeling confident and secure, that eventually I will become so.  So I try that.  It doesn’t always work and there are still often times when I am speaking with a group of people and I am absolutely astonished that people actually listened to anything that came out of my mouth.  And yes, I still say stupid things that are awkward and unintelligible.  And yes, I am still astounded when someone says that I am their friend even though we've known each other for years because I still, underneath, don't feel worth enough, but I still try.  Mainly because my husband pushed me to do so while we were together and it has become an ingrained habit.  I am still hopeful that one day I will feel confident and secure, but that's a topic for another post on a later date.

So I pretend that I am calm, cool and collected.  I pretend that I am enjoying the moment.  I pretend that I can handle what life throws at me and I pretend that I am okay.  Except that there is a big lump of pain and anguish lodged in my chest, so real that I can physically feel it.  And that big lump is a part of me constantly crying out that I hate this existence without my husband. It cries out that I want him back and I hate this life where he is not here. And that big lump never goes away and never gets smaller.  But I keep pretending.

There are times when my pretense is shattered and I have to leave suddenly from wherever I am and find someplace isolated to have a good sob.  And then there are times when I actually feel that the pretense may have edged a little over into reality.  Just barely…but it’s still there, very faint, but tangible.

It’s almost as if my pretense is creating a thin layer around that lump, allowing me a tiny bit of relief.  Enabling me to push it aside for just a little while until something causes it to crash back into place.  I am ever hopeful that layer will get thicker and thicker as time goes on, but regardless I will keep pretending.

And that is what I mean by strength being the willingness to endure and continue onward.  Because basically there are only two ways to deal with what life throws at you.  Work with it to overcome it, or leave it altogether.  And the second part has never been an option for me…so once again:

I am strong because I have no other choice.
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More Things in Heaven and Earth...

4/2/2015

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“In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory.”
―
J.R.R. Tolkien


I know I’ve touched on the topic of an afterlife before, but I feel it needs a little more attention. 

When people ask me if I believe in an afterlife, it is sort of like when people ask me if there are other living beings in the universe.  My answer for that question is always that I sincerely hope so because otherwise the universe would be a very lonely place with just us in it.

It’s the same with an afterlife.

If there are little ET’s and Marvin Martians zooming around in space, along with Spock and Worf, why can’t there be spirits residing in Heaven or floating around in celestial planes.

When I think about the afterlife and my husband, I fervently want there to be one.  It distresses me to think that maybe everything that was my husband, all the joy, the humor, the love, the intelligence, the knowledge and the essence of him is gone forever. 

I want the comfort of knowing that something of him still exists outside of my memories.  That his life wasn’t just one large capsule of neurons, protons and electrons that all dissolved when the off switch was flipped.

Many people have different theories about the afterlife.  Those can usually be defined into 3 distinct groups: religion, esotericism and metaphysics.  I imagine that each person has their own unique spin on it.  On what happens, how it looks, where it is, how you get there.  I know that my idea of Heaven is most likely vastly different from someone else’s.

When we are children, we are taught what our parents believe.  Whether it is Sunday school or Temple or just sit around a meadow communing with nature, we are indoctrinated into believing a certain ideal of the afterlife.

Most religions have some aspect of Heaven and Hell.  The Catholics even go one better and throw in a third territory called Purgatory.  The premise for most religions is simple.  If you are good, you go to Heaven.  If you are bad, you go to Hell.  If you are Catholic, you go to Purgatory.

But each religion has a different take on the concepts of good and bad and how you get there. 

For example, I’m a ‘cradle’ Catholic (meaning I was born a Catholic instead of converting later on) and Catholics are doomed from the beginning.  They believe that every baby is already tainted with the original sin, which is why we get baptized right away, almost as soon as our eyes open.   We also have confession where we can repent for all the wrong things we do.  If we’re really sorry for all the bad things, we can become absolved of our sins, and usually, when one is about to die, you pretty much have genuine regret for any and all misdeeds.  This means that we probably won’t necessarily be going downward wishing we had asbestos underwear.  But since we’re also not a saint with a ton of brownie points for good deeds, we won’t be winging our way upward just yet.  That’s why we usually end up in Purgatory.

The realm of Purgatory is where you hang around for a while, while friends and relatives pray for your soul, adding to your good quota and eventually when a new tally is conducted, whoosh, you are shooting up that Stairway to Heaven.  

Well, there is a bit more to it than that, but that’s the general gist of it. 

Some religions believe that every action you take directly throws the dial toward Heaven or Hell and where the dial is set at your death pretty much dictates which direction you’ll be heading.  I think that one is a lot more stressful because face it, we all do bad things once in a while and if your time is up right after committing one of those bad acts, that’s it.  Game over.  No redo.  No running out to do a couple of good deeds to compensate for the bad ones.  Against that, Purgatory doesn’t look so bad.

Some religions believe that we come back as another person.  That our soul drifts around until a baby is born and then attaches itself to that kid.  That actually sort of intrigues me.  It’s like it’s a giant celestial reset button.  Of course, a lot of those religions also believe that you don’t know that you are reborn as another person so that really negates all of those lessons learned from the previous life.  Maybe not such a good gig after all.

The esoteric ideal has more to do with astral planes and energy balls.  I’m not an expert in either esotericism or metaphysics.  I pretty much am a Googler on those subjects, so I’m not going to go into those.  But they have their own take on the afterlife as well.  And even though they would cringe to admit it, these too have the essence of good and evil that is also the basis of more traditional religions.  Except, instead of ending up in a designated place, they are more consequence driven. Meaning do good things, something good happens.  Do bad things and something bad happens.   Which also echoes the religious admonition of “Do onto others…”  Seems like these might not be as removed from the Sunday crowd as they thought.  Isn’t karma a bitch?

I have to admit, I don’t know what to believe.  I know what I want, I know what I hope…but face it…I’ll never know for sure.

When I read on forums how widows have felt their husband’s presence, seen their reflection, heard their name whispered, felt a physical touch I get green with envy and filled with jealousy.  I want that.  I know that I could bear the loneliness, the emptiness better f I wasn’t…well…so alone.

If I could know that my husband was still here.  That our partnership hasn’t been dissolved.  That he still has my back while I navigate through all of the pitfalls and speed bumps in life.  If I could be sure of all that, then I would be able to handle this much better.  Because when he was alive, we could tackle any problem, any trouble, anything at all…together.

Sometimes, I almost feel like he’s there, giving me a hug.  But really and truly, that’s more likely my imagination and longing more than he is really standing with his arms around me like we used to. 

See, that was my safe spot.  My refuge. I would stand leaning back against his chest.  He would put his arms around me and rest his chin on the top of my head.  I would hold onto his arms and feel secure, knowing that the big bad world was out there, not in here where I was protected.

I find myself sometimes leaning backwards as if he was still behind me.  Wanting so badly to feel his touch in reality, not just in memory.  I can close my eyes and remember how warm his arms were, how strong he stood holding me up, how he would sometimes kiss my cheek or my neck and tell me that it will all be okay.  But that is all in my mind even while I’m telling myself that I really and truly hope it’s real and not my imagination.

I hope that I am actually being held by him and not a memory. I hope that he is somewhere happy, just waiting for me to finally catch up to him.  I hope that he is still here…a part of something bigger than we could ever imagine.  I hope that he is hanging around watching me, laughing at the idiotic way I try to cook, always ready to give me a hand when I need it, a kiss when I’m lonely and a swift kick in the pants when I do something stupid.

Because how sad would it be if this was all for nothing.  If everything we did, learned, sang, spoke, danced and laughed is lost forever the second that we do it, what is our purpose? 

Peggy Lee, a blues singer from the 60’s, sang a song called, “Is That All There Is?”  I remember hearing it as a child and thinking how sad a song.  Because it was so defeatist.  As if there was no real reason to do anything because that was it.  But that was when I was still in my innocent childhood with visions of angels and pearly gates and Good and Evil with a capital G and E. 

Now, I have learned that things aren’t so compartmentalized.  That just because it’s on the internet doesn’t make it true.  That there are so many things that we really don’t know about and won’t...until it’s too late to pass the information on.  That one of the most aggravating aspects of being an adult is realizing just how little control and knowledge we have over the real world.

And yet, I sincerely hope with every bit of my being that when my time is done, I do find myself standing in front of those pearly gates being fitted for those wings while my husband waves to me from inside.  That I don’t end up saying - “Is that all there is?”

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    Author

    Beth is an ordinary woman who has found herself to be in an un-ordinary situation.  She wanted to chronicle the journey of widowhood for others who happen to find themselves on the same path.  The good and the bad.

    Past Posts

    All
    01/15/16 Tomorrow's Reality...
    01/27/16 One Year
    02/10/15 What Is A Widow
    02/11/15 On Becoming A Widow...
    02/12/15 Bubble Bubble Toil And...
    02/13/15 On A Pale Horse...
    02/17/15 A Single Cup Of Coffee...
    02/18/15 With Mirth And Laughter...
    02/19/15 Blunt Not The Heart...
    02/20/15 Of Mice And Men...
    02/23/15 To Lay To Rest...
    02/24/15 Sounds Of Silence...
    02/27/15 Partnership Of One...
    03/02/15 O Happy Dagger!
    03/03/15 Perish The Thought...
    03/04/15 We Are Time's Subjects...
    03/06/15 What's In A Name...
    03/09/15 A Bad Interpretation...
    03/11/15 The Fickleness Of Feelings...
    03/12/15 Creatures Great And Small...
    03/19/15 But Thinking Makes It So...
    03/25/15 As Time Goes By...
    04/02/15 More Things In Heaven And Earth...
    04/13/15 The Quality Of Strength...
    04/21/15 Right Inside My Heart...
    04/27/16 Never Simple...
    04/29/15 With Great Love...
    05/01/17 What Do You Know Of Fear?
    05/09/16 The Folly Of Anger...
    05/11/15 A Walking Shadow...
    05/21/15 A Birthday Wish...
    05/30/2015 The World-Wearied Flesh...
    06/02/2015 What God Has Joined Together...
    06/03/15 Lost Possibilities...
    06/10/15 In Spirit Met Thy Well...
    07/16/15 A Broken Unbroken Circle...
    07/28/15 A Love So Strong...
    08/05/15 A Sparrow's Fall...

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