An Unwilling Widow
  • Chronicles of an Unwilling Widow

Lost Possibilities...

6/3/2015

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“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay


 

I’m not having a good day today.

I can’t seem to stop crying and it is all because of a stupid video game.

You see, one of our favorite past times was playing a game called Fallout.  There are several versions and we had been waiting for the next version for quite a few years.  My husband and I planned to get the Xbox One console at the same time.  We had planned to stay home that weekend and just play the game together.  We had looked forward to it.  My husband even followed rumors, leaked info, websites, Facebook, twitter….you name it.  He loved “being on the hunt” as he called it. 

Today they announced that the game will be released and posted a trailer.  It is everything that my husband hoped it would be.  Except for one thing, he won’t be here to play it with me.

That brought up all of the other things that I won’t do anymore with my husband and it also brought up the question – do I continue on with our joint interests or find things that we’ve never done together.

It’s a question that a lot of widows ask themselves.  For several reasons.

One, doing an activity that you did with your spouse brings up painful memories.  Memories of enjoyment, laughter, togetherness.  How can it be as wonderful solo as it was together?  Are we setting ourselves up for disappointment?

Two, if we find that doing that activity brings us the same amount of enjoyment, what do we do with the guilt?  After all…how can we enjoy it so much without our spouse?

There are TV shows I cannot watch anymore.  Deadliest Catch, for instance.  Although I enjoyed watching it, my husband was the true fan.  Now, it’s too painful to watch alone.

Cooking shows are also designated as non-watchable.  My husband loved to cook and would rather watch the Two Fat Ladies than a Victoria Secrets special.  Alton Brown brings me to tears every time he comes on the screen.  So I studiously avoid the Food and Cooking channels.

I do try and watch some shows that we both enjoyed.  Criminal Minds, CSI, shows like that.  I still enjoy them but with an underlying sadness as I watch.

I watch most of my TV in the bedroom lying on the bed with the four footed furry brigade.  I find myself unconsciously reaching over towards my husband’s side, searching for his hand.  We used to watch TV like that a lot.  The emptiness on his side is overwhelming.

Other things are still painful.  Going to the movies.  I’ve seen a few movies since my husband’s death.  Always with friends.  But even as I watch and am enjoy it, there is still that sense that something is wrong, something is missing.

That emptiness is there constantly. No matter where I go or what I do.  No matter how much fun I’m having with my friends or family, it is still there.

Nothing fills that hole in my heart.

So I find myself trying to find new TV shows, new activities, new hobbies.  Things that will hopefully soothe the ragged edges of that hole.  Something that will ease the pain, the rawness. 

I know I will never be able to fill it or fully heal it.  I feel my tears falling into it and there aren’t enough tears in the world to even register within it.  All I can do is try and create scars over it so that it is not so overwhelming.  To help alleviate the ache.

I’ve been a part of a couple for so long, I am frantically searching on redefining myself as a single.

I’m trying to reclaim things that I did with my husband but now do alone.  It isn’t easy.  Sometimes I can’t push past the pain so I have to drop it, put it aside for just a bit, knowing that there is a chance that I will never be able to go back to it.  That part of my life may be over forever.

It’s a struggle, this whole reshaping my life.  Just as water flows along the path of least resistance, so do my thoughts.  I’ve been thinking a certain way for so long.  We instead of I.  Ours instead of mine. Trying to forge the concept of two into one.

I still speak of my husband in the present tense.  I do it automatically.  It’s only when I get strange looks do I realize that I am doing so and I correct myself.  But I really hate speaking of him in the past tense.  I don’t want to because that is one step closer to accepting his death.

One thing I am struggling with is the loneliness.  The isolation.  My husband and I didn’t have children together, so when he died, I was left to live alone.

I do have wonderful friends at the ranch where I ride and train with, and I have a wonderful family that I can call on.  But my husband was my best friend.  We did so many things together and many times it was just the two of us.

So how does a 50-something widow meet new people?  I don’t drink, I hate bars and night clubs, I work from home so I don’t even have the fellowship of co-workers.  I’m in a wheelchair with a service dog, so some places I just can’t get to or get comfortable at.

I thought of joining a grief counselling group, but to be honest, I can barely handle my own grief…I don’t have the energy to take on someone else’s and sharing grief is what those groups are all about.

I did join an online widow/widower forum.  Sometimes they are a comfort to read, but sometimes they are discouraging.  Especially when people write that their spouse died three years ago and they still fall apart about it.  I know I will never get over the death of my husband, but I would like to know that it eases up just a bit.  Especially after three years.

There is a gathering of widows and widowers that will be happening near me in July.  Everyone says it is an uplifting and positive experience, so I signed up for it.  I’m hoping that the reviews are correct. 

But in the meantime, where does someone who likes science fiction and owns a ranch and plays video games and is in her 50’s go to meet others like her?  It’s not a normal combination of hobbies.  In fact, I met my husband through a science fiction venue and he took to being a rancher and a cowboy like a duck to water, after he met me.  There aren’t many men out there like him.  Not that I’m looking for a date.  Just friends.  But even meeting women for friendship is hard.  Not too many women my age enjoy horror films, science fiction, RPG video games and spending all day in the dust and dirt playing with horses.

The fact that I live in a rural area also adds to the difficultness.   Hard to just ‘drop by’ when it means driving an extra 30 minutes just to get anywhere.

I feel like I’m stumbling around searching desperately for a lifeline.  Trying to find where I belong.  I feel lost.  A social orphan.  When I think of myself I have no concrete description of me as a single.

I’m trying to take up different hobbies.  I have an idea of making a quilt out of my husband’s shirts.  I just need to learn how to make a quilt first.  I tried crocheting, not a skillset I have a talent for.  My embroidery is bad enough to make a cat laugh.

I used to love making custom belt buckles and putting together large Lego models.  But both of those lost their appeal when I lost my husband.  Too many painful memories of working on either a buckle or a model and him coming over to give me pointers or his opinion.  It’s just not fun anymore.  So my dozens of model kits sit gathering dust.  My buckle supplies are stuffed into drawers.  I don’t think I’ll ever go back to them.

What most people don’t realize is, when you become a widow, you lose a large part of who you were.  I can’t even remember what it was like to live single.  I lost the main thing that defined me as a person.  I loved being a wife.  I loved being a part of someone.  I loved being two, instead of one. 

I don’t know who I am anymore.  I don’t know who I want to be.  I don’t know who I can be.

Each day that I fight to find me, only emphasizes the fact that I was who I wanted to be, but I can’t be that anymore.  I’m spending more time crying now than I did right after my husband died.  I’m crying for the loss of him and also the loss of me. 

Two people died that day.  One physically, the other figuratively.

I don’t have the answers to any of this.  I’m just wandering through this nightmare searching for a path to follow.  I don’t think I’m going to be able to define who I truly am, until I reconcile with the loss of who I was.  And that’s hard.

But I’ll keep trying.  I did pre-order the game and most likely will end up playing it, alone.  If it is too painful, then I’m sure I can find a niece or nephew to give it to.  I’ll keep looking for something to do, some hobby to take up those empty hours that I used to spend with my husband.

And I’ll keep looking for me…

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What God Has Joined Together...

6/2/2015

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Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us. -  Oscar Wilde

 

I got a tattoo yesterday.  In honor of my husband.  It’s beautiful, an ornate cross with a rose in full bloom.  It has his name and the words “As You Wish”.  Princess Bride fans will immediately recognize the reference.

I love my tattoo….and I hate it.

I love the tattoo itself, the composition, the detail, everything about it.  But I hate the reason I have it.

Do I regret getting it?  No.  Because I want people to see it, I want people to ask me about him, I want people to look at the Princess Bride reference so that I can tell them about what it means.

For those who are unfamiliar with The Princess Bride, I will give you a brief synopsis.

The Princess Bride is the ultimate love story.  It has pirates, evil princes, heroes, giants, vengeance and most of all – true love.  The sort of love that people pray for, strive for, hope for.  The sort of love I and my husband had…have. 

In the story, Wesley (the hero) always says “As you wish.” to Buttercup (the princess) when she orders him about.  After a while she realizes that he is in love with her and she is in love with him.  She learns that each time he said, “As you wish.”  He was really saying “I love you.”

Theirs is a love that has no bounds.  It is that magical feeling of being whole when you are together.

You should rent the movie.

The Princess Bride was one of my husband’s favorite movies and when I would ask him to do something, he would turn to me with a twinkle in his eye, smile and say, “As you wish.”  I knew that he was really saying and I still remember the warmth and love I felt when he said that to me.

So when people who are unfamiliar with the story ask me about my tattoo, I can tell them about a love story that surpassed even the greatest love story ever told.  My story.

Just as in the story itself, everything wasn’t always perfect.  We had disagreements, we even had one or two fights.  But they never lasted more than an hour or so and were extremely rare.  And no matter how angry we were at each other, we were always very careful of what we said.  Neither of us wanted to say something in anger that was used only to score a point or hurt each other.

I know that many are skeptical when I say this.  They may think that I am glossing over any of the bad moments, or exaggerating or white washing our relationship to make it seem idealistic.  But those who know us, would agree with my recollections.  Those who know us could see how much we were perfect for each other.

Because I honestly cannot remember the last time we had a fight.  Instead, I have countless memories of love, togetherness.  Feeling safe when I would lean against him and he would put his arm around me.  Feeling secure that together we could overcome any obstacle, like in the Princess Bride.

I’m lucky that when I look back on my marriage, on those wonderful days, I can look back with love.  What I remember is a love story.  Best friends, lovers, partners.  I had not realized how empty I was until I met my husband.  Together we made a whole.  We fit together perfectly.

Even now, while writing this, I can feel the deep love I have for my husband.  I can feel the warmth of his deep love he had for me.  Even death could not take that away.  I want people to know how wonderful my life was with him.  How much I miss him.  How much I love him.

That is why I got my tattoo.  So when people see it and ask what it means.   I can simply say – “Let me tell you about the greatest love story of all.  My story of true love.”

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The World-Wearied Flesh...

5/30/2015

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We lower our sails; a while we rest
From the unending, endless quest.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Widowhood is repetition.  It is confronting the same grief over and over until it wears you down.  Like water dripping on a rock, eventually turning it into rubble.  How you survive depends on how strong your rock is and how fast your tears are eroding it.

Some days, my rock is strong.  As big and bold as Half Dome in Yosemite National Park.  Some days my rock is barely a pebble that isn’t even big enough to kick down the sidewalk.

My rock grows and shrinks dependent on the moment.

Today I am being worn down by the constant reminders of the absence of my husband.  I feel my tears on my cheek without really recognizing that I am crying.  I can hear them drop onto my strength, my will, my ability to overcome, one by one. 

My rock is sandstone today.  Unable to withstand much pressure before crumbling.

I think what really wears me down is the repetitiveness. The same thoughts running through my head, the same burning ache inside me, the same feeling of despair and isolation, the same fear of the future.  It is exhausting, living through this never ending cycle.  I wake up to it, I fall into a restless sleep because of it.  Day after day, a rerun of this gambit of emotions that is slowly taking over my life.

I get involved with something and am able to, just for a moment, push past the pain and the grief and experience some sort of life.  Then something I see, or hear, or even think about slaps me in the face with the knowledge that though I was once whole, I am now broken, a mere shadow of what I was.

I try and fake it, but I know, and those around me know that I am faking it.  But I politely pretend not to know that they know and they politely pretend not to know and all are content because none of us have ever been taught or had experience in this.  The pretense is safe, neutral ground,

We are socially awkward in death.  We have no frame of reference.  How do I react when I am just so tired I can’t think, but someone does something extremely caring for me?  Do I force a smile that we both know I’m not feeling?  Deep down there is gratitude and love for what they did, but I have no energy with which to dredge it up to the forefront.

How does my friend act when I am at my lowest?  Are they supposed to just stand by until I need them?  Are they supposed to confront my grief and try to help me resolve it?  Are they supposed to ignore it and go on as if nothing is wrong?

And in each instance, how am I supposed to react?  I need guidelines, I need rules and some semblance of order, I need a map to help me wander through this jumble of chaos I find myself in.  I need instructions to pass to friends and family so that they know the illusive etiquette of death.

I remember seeing a piece of driftwood being tossed about in the waves at the beach one day.  As I watched I realized that there is nothing joyous and beautiful in it.  It made me feel as if the wood was desperately trying to get to land and the sea was playing with it, keeping it from safety.  I remember I wanted to get that piece of wood so I didn’t have to watch its struggle anymore.

I feel like that today.  Being swept back and forth in my grief.  Unable to come up for air.  Wanting the waves of grief to just stop for a moment so that I can catch my breath.  So that I can get to dry land.

I find myself without energy to even cry anymore.  My eyes are swollen, painful and red, my chest hurts from the deep sobs, my head pounding in time with my heart beat and yet, I don’t think I’ve tapped into even the slightest amount of grief that I hold within. But I am too tired to cry anymore today.

I am even too tired to give up.

So, even though my rock is small and weak right now, it is still a rock.  I have no more tears left so my rock is safe from diminishing even further.

Instead, I will crawl within myself and lie in the memories of who I was when my husband was with me.  I will find solace and comfort, because there, within, I do know the rules, I do have a guide because there within I have a piece of my husband.

What will happen tomorrow?  I don’t know. 

I guess it will all depend on what size my rock is.


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A Birthday Wish...

5/21/2015

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“A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman's birthday but never remembers her age.” – Robert Frost

 

Today is my birthday.

Normally a happy occasion for most and I have received dozens of well wishes and birthday blessings from friends and family all over, which I greatly love and am truly thankful for.

But there is one glaring absence that I can’t seem to push past.

It also doesn’t help that even the weather is depressing with drizzle and cold.

You see, birthdays were my husband’s joy.  He loved them.  Whether it was his own or someone else’s.  Until I met him, I never really celebrated mine.  If wasn’t for Facebook or junk mail from various stores I shop at, I wouldn’t even know it was my birthday until I saw it posted.  He would always laugh because when he woke up and wished me a happy birthday, I'd give him a blank look because I had forgotten.

Birthdays just weren’t a big thing in my family.  In fact, we thought my sister was born on the wrong day for years because someone first got the date incorrect.  It wasn’t until she needed a passport and we pulled her birth certificate out that we realized it. 

But my husband loved them.  He threw my first birthday party for me.  For my 50th he sent all the way to LA to get a Duffy birthday cake for me.  He would start the day off with a hug and a gleam in his eye, hand me a present that he had gotten months before and then create a wonderful dinner for me.  He would fill the day with little treats and sing Happy Birthday whenever I saw him, which was quite constant since we both worked in the same office.

And that’s what I’m missing so terribly today. Not the presents or the treat, not the well-wishing, not the dinner.  I’m missing his boyish grin, his smile, his enthusiasm, his delight, his corniness.  I can’t seem to think about anything else.

Normally, I would go riding today as it is a training day and we are in the middle of the show season.  I would get birthday hugs and wishes from my ranch family and my husband would be teased about spoiling me today.  He would just grin and tell everyone how old I was and that he should probably trade me in for a newer model.

But I just can’t make myself do that. 

Not today. 

Not that I don’t love my ranch family and I know that they would do anything to make me feel better, but today is one of those days where I just don’t think I can push through.  I don’t think I can overcome the sadness and loneliness.

Not today.

I can't be cheerful today.  Because it’s not a celebration for me.  Sure, I’m another year older, but right now it is not a happy event.  It is making me focus on, not only this birthday, but the birthdays to come.  The birthdays that will never again contain my husband.

I will never again hear him tease me about how much older I am and how he married an old woman, about how I robbed the cradle (he’s four years younger than me).  I will never again hear him go on and on about AARP and social security and walkers and counting my grey hair.

I will never again get that one special hug where he holds me tight and whispers in my ear, “Happy Birthday, My Angel.  I love you.” 

I will never again feel that wonderful contentment of growing older with the only person I want to grow old with.

And that is why today is not a special day for me. 

Maybe next year or the year after.

But not today.

If I could have one birthday wish come true, I would be selfish.  I wouldn’t wish for world peace or the end of poverty.  I wouldn’t wish for the end of hunger or war.  I wouldn’t wish for people to get well and the economy to improve for all.

No, I would wish for one thing and one thing only.

I would wish to look up and see my husband’s face, filled with love and joy and excitement and know that it was all for me, because it is my birthday.  My special day.

But not today.

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A Walking Shadow...

5/11/2015

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A sad soul can kill quicker than a germ – John Steinbeck

Depression affects approximately 14.8 million adults in America, or about 6.7 percent of the population.  Depression can cause physical illness, mental and emotional instability.  It can end a relationship, a marriage and even a life.  Depression is debilitating and fighting it is a constant 24 hour battle.

Drugs can help in the fight, but usually the best cure for depression is to eliminate the reason for the depression or at least redirect the situation that is causing it.

Unfortunately, as a widow, that cause is staring me in the face day and night and cannot be removed or redirected.  It is not a tangible thing, it is a huge gap, an empty hole, a lack of presence.

Amputees often speak of being able to feel their missing limb.  The medical profession calls it phantom pain.  Amputees say that they are often surprised when they look down and see an arm or a leg gone.  It’s as if the body and mind cannot accept the loss.  So as long as they don’t look, everything is as it should be.

That’s how it is with me.  Although, instead of an arm or a leg, I am missing the other half of me.  Being a part of a loving couple for so long has expanded my since of self to include my husband.  Even when he was in the other room or gone on an errand, there was a tangible tether tying us together.  Not binding or constricting, but an almost physical representation of our love and commitment for each other.

But our tether was severed by his death.  I feel like the end that was attached to him is now flailing wildly, frantically in the darkness.  It’s not so much that I feel a phantom pain but instead I feel a great absence.  And that never stops.

Even when I am in the middle of something, I still feel it.  Surrounded by friends and family, I still feel it.  Amidst laughter and gaiety and distractions, I still feel it.

It is slowly chipping away at me, much like water dripping on a rock.  Over the course of time, the water creates a hole and continuously expands it until eventually there is nothing left of the rock.

Every day, I feel like I am a little bit less, a little bit more wounded, a little bit more empty.

I go through the motions.  I do my job, I take care of the four footed furry brigade, I ride my horse, I go out with family, I read my books, watch my TV shows, talk with friends and family and even laugh, yet, none of it really touches me.

I feel cocooned.  Wrapped in a never ending litany that is crying over and over how much I want my husband back.  Even when concentrating on something else, I can still hear it in the corner of my mind, whimpering, begging, pleading for someone to make this not true.  It never ends, it is never quiet, it is becoming a part of me and slowly eroding who I was and molding me into someone I don’t want to be: a widow.

I want and need a reset button.

I admit that I am on happy pills.  I admit that I need those happy pills.  Because I need to function, I need to involve myself into and accomplish daily tasks.  I do not have the luxury of being able to devote myself exclusively to mourning.

I can’t because life intrudes.  Bills arrive in my mailbox that need to be paid, four footed furry things need to be cared for, clothes need to be washed, groceries bought, and a dozen other little things that need to be done each day.  Things that I need to put in the front of the line.  So instead, my grief is put on hold until the late evenings.

In this day and age, seems like everything needs to be scheduled…including mourning.

So all day long, I stuff my feelings of solitude, of loneliness, of excruciating emotional pain into a little box deep inside, only daring to allow a small bit of it loose at night when I have the time to confront it, take care of it, deal with it.  I daren’t open the box completely because I am terrified that I will not survive the onslaught. That I will become so engulfed that all reason and sanity will be lost forever.  

But that box can only hold so much so there is leakage that erodes my soul.  The medical community defines it as depression.  My mind and body define it as devastation and it constantly eats at me. 

Each evening, I release the pressure valve.  Just enough to relieve some of the symptoms because no amount will ever relieve the cause. I cry, I hug one of the furry brigade, I scream, I rant and rave, I beg and plead, I curl up in pain, until I am exhausted and feel that some of the pressure has been removed.

During the day, when the pressure builds too much, I do other things.  I post onto my husband’s Facebook page.  Just little things about what happened that day, or pictures that say how much I love and miss him.  When I really need to cry on his shoulder, I send him private messages.

That seems a little bizarre to do so, but it actually helps.  A dear friend of mine lost her son and she does the same.  She said that it helps her and I believe it.  Probably because we are conditioned to speaking with people via social media.  People who live long distances away and some who’ve we’ve never met in person but still became friends.  So in some way, my mind is justifying this, convincing myself that my husband is just out of reach, but still here and reading his posts.  His lack of response is merely a defective keyboard.  Maybe it’s not healthy but I don’t really care.

I wear his wedding ring around my neck, along with a little cross with some of his ashes.  When it gets too much I clutch at them like a lifeline.  It helps me stabilize, helps me retain my bearings and equilibrium when I am unsteady.  It relieves just enough pressure for me to move on for a bit until it builds up again.

It’s hard to rationalize this whole situation.  I have no basis of comparison.  No life experience to draw on.  Listening and reading of other’s accounts are mere shadows to the reality.  Even as vivid of an imagination as I have cannot comprehend the magnitude of widowhood.

It is an ever present, overwhelming, nightmare that haunts my day and night hours.  One, in which that little voice keeps begging 24 hours a day to wake up from. 

It continues day after day after day with no end in sight.  A continuous monotony of empty days.  An everlasting manipulation of my emotional state that must be constantly monitored so as to prevent falling too far into the abyss.

A constant tug-of-war between what is real and what is desired.  My mind spinning from one to the other, trying to make sense, to figure out a pattern in which I can dive into and gain stability.  But although my mind can justify things seen and heard by matrixing them into something familiar, this is beyond its capabilities.

Widowhood is not something that can be neatly categorized into little psychiatric slots.  It is not something that can be cured with medication.  Unlike depression, it cannot be contained, maintained and understood.

It can only be endured, as we continue onward, a mere shadow of what we once were.

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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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As Time Goes By...

3/25/2015

3 Comments

 
“Grief makes one hour ten.” – Shakespeare

I haven’t been writing much lately because basically nothing has changed over the past few weeks.  The loneliness, the emptiness is still there.  The rage and despair hasn’t left and the grief has not lessened.  If anything, it has increased.

If I ever do mention this to anyone, and I generally don’t because why would someone want to hear the same litany over and over again, but if I ever break down and do mention it, they are almost guaranteed to say something like ‘Give it time’.

But time is a funny thing.

Becoming a widow suddenly warps time and perception.  I look at the clock and see that it is 8 am, then I look again and it is 1 pm and I have done nothing but sit and stare at my keyboard.  I couldn’t begin to tell you what I thought about or what I did during those five hours.

But, on the flipside, I see something that triggers a deep sorrow for the loss of my husband and I shrink into a little ball of agony.  Then, each second feels like an hour and the clock never moves.

Someone once said that the length of a minute depends on which side of the bathroom door you are on.  And it is very true.

My days are full of empty gaps of hours gone in a flash and agonizingly static minutes that never pass.

I’m becoming adept at little time games.  For example, I’ll be done with work and see that I still have three hours until I need to feed the four footed furry brigade. To fill those empty hours, I try to read, setting myself so many chapters or pages.  Or, if I can’t settle enough to read, I watch TV.  I set it on a channel that has hour long shows, like old Law and Order reruns.  I tell myself that at the end of this show an hour is gone.  And the next, and the next, until it is time to feed the four footed furry brigade.  The mindless TV seems to soothe my brain and stop it from fretting for a while.

I find myself shying away from thinking too far into the future, because then all I would see would be endless days and months and years without my husband.  Days of coming home to an empty house, days of having no one to call and say that I was on my way home, days of waking up to an empty side of the bed, days of not talking because there is no one to talk to.

Instead, I pick an event, something small, maybe not even meaningful but something different.  It can’t be too far into the future, maybe just a couple of days, but I make it a milestone to get to and then find something else after that.

The trick is to fill up those slow hours with something, anything and try to pay attention during those hours when everything goes at warp speed.

See, time is not a constant.  Time is nothing but an evolution of things. A changing from one state to another. As some things change quicker, time goes quicker.  If some things change slower, time goes slower.   It’s all relative.  Albert Einstein noted that time was an illusion.  A man travelling at light speed would age slower than a man not.  Because at light speed, the constant change that dictates the passing of time happens at a much slower rate.  So a year for him could be 100 years for the rest of us.  Thus the premise for a half dozen movies about talking apes.

Time is a force.  Mankind has compartmentalized it in a vain effort to contain it, but it can’t be contained.  As long as anything, anywhere, changes its state from one form to another, time marches on.  Time is the human cell growing older.  Evolving.  Time is steel rusting.  Time is plants growing.  Time could even be the evolution of a thought from concept to realization.

It’s perception that dictates the speed of time. 

Time expands and contracts to our individual needs.  Time will seem like it is flying to you, but to the rest of the world, not so much and vice versa.

Have you ever thought that hours have passed, only to look at a clock and find that it has only been minutes?  Or have you thought that something was taking forever only to find that hours have gone by?  When you check your watch or your phone or look at the clock to see what time it is, you are resetting yourself, resolving your own time sense to be in sync with the rest of the world.  Readjusting your perceptions to a constant.  A constant that really has nothing to do with time itself, but more for society to all reference the same speed so that events can be coordinated to happen at the same time.

So, if time is based on perception and each individual, then the phrase ‘Give it time’ means nothing.  Because that would mean that my grief would have to evolve, change, and try and resolve itself to a conclusion.

There is no conclusion and will not be.  As long as I am mentally aware that my husband is no longer with me, my grief will never conclude.  It may change over the years, but I think the change will more likely be that I am becoming accustomed to it, not that it has changed in itself.

So in that aspect, that change, whether in my thinking or my grief, will experience the passing of time, but it will never go away completely. 

The often incorrectly quoted “Time heals all wounds” was first ascribed to Menander, a Greek playwrite in 300 BC.  The correct quote is as follows:  "Time is the healer of all necessary evils."  But personally, I think Menander was way off of the mark.  Healing means that it resolves itself, becomes whole again.  Even I know, in the beginning of this awful journey, that I will never be whole again.

So I disregard Menander and refer instead to Rose Kennedy who said, “It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”

And hopefully that will happen to me, in a manner of time.

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    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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