A different kind of silence

The TV is on. The boys are bickering. I go upstairs because the noise is making me crazy. I putter around the kitchen and it's too quiet, so I turn on the radio.

I'm restless, and the silence hits me. I stand utterly still at the sink and hear everything: The television, the boys, the air conditioner, the fishtank, the radio, the refrigerator, the katydids, the traffic, the cicadas. And the silence.

A silence that resists all attempts to fill it, a silence that WILL be heard. A silence that whispers what I've lost with every breath I take, a silence that echoes through my body with every beat of my heart.

Silence was once my close friend, a shelter I retreated to for strength and peace; I willingly yielded to her embrace, finding there the loving presence of God. Now, though, I find the aching absence of my beloved. The silence screams out his death until I can bear it no more, but there is no place to go where I cannot hear it.

And since I cannot bear this silence, I must simply let go and let it surround me. Since I cannot hide from it, I must let it find me. Since silence is no longer my shelter, I must let it be my storm... I must let it ravage my coastline and give me new contours. I must let it churn up what lies hidden in my depths -- both things beautiful and things deformed.

And after the storm, perhaps the silence will once again be my shelter, once again give me peace and strength, once again be where I find the love of my God and of my beloved.

Approaching the one-year anniversary

August 1 is around the corner, the start of the month that many of us love to hate. I'll be on the road on Monday, so I thought I'd start this thread today.

Heather, Kim, Tim, Liz... and too many more to name off the top of my head... we've walked the road together, reaching the 1-year mark all too soon. I cannot say how much it has meant to have you in my life -- I don't even want to contemplate where my head would be without my virtual companions.

So... How are we doing so far?

For myself, this last year has gone by so fast, faster than I ever would have believed. But my life with Nick already feels impossibly long ago, because I am so different. It's like that massive change experienced the first year we were married, or the first year we were parents: Everything is different, even though the day-to-dayness remains mostly the same.

I still can't believe he's dead... It took only a few months to get used to his being "gone," but how can that man whom I loved with my entire being really be dead? He was so very alive, coming into his own in so many ways, and he was the center of our boys' lives. It's still so hard to believe that he is dead. I guess that's because he is still with me in so many ways. The echo of his laugh, the constant nudge to do the right thing, the strength of his faith... the mountains of unsorted papers, the shelves of science textbooks, the drawer of his socks...

This last month has been terribly hard for me, as August 8 looms in front of me. So much "one-year-ago" stuff, bitter memories, sweet memories, blurring together in the face of the inevitable. I expect the coming week to be hellacious. I took Nick to the ER on August 1; they found a brain tumor and one week later he was dead. The nightmare of that week lingers with me still, sometimes overwhelming me. I've become numb again in the last few weeks, not feeling much of anything, moving mostly on autopilot and wondering who the hell I am and what I'm supposed to do.

Even so, I am entering this coming week, this coming year, with more of myself than I could ever have thought possible. Yes, a huge part of me has gone with Nick, stays with him in eternal memory, the eternal now. But I am also most definitely here, living in the present, with occasional glimpses of possible futures. Some parts of the future scare the bejeebers out of me; others beckon me with tender hopes.

And you, my August friends -- how are you faring? Let us continue walking the road with one another, drawing strength and comfort from one another's presence.

Widows who never got to say goodbye

I'm part of this group as well. Nick went into surgery to biopsy the monster in his brain, and he never woke up. I was at his bedside almost 24 hours a day for 4 days. I wept as I said goodbye to him, hoping and believing and praying that he could hear me. I wept for all the things we didn't have a chance to say to each other, the things you would say if you knew...

But the truth is that he and I said those things every day, we lived them every day. We were always so loving and gentle with each other. In 13 years together, we never called each other an ugly name, we never failed to kiss each other good morning and good night, we never went a day without saying "I love you" again and again, we never went a day without praying to God in thanksgiving.

Do I wish he and I could have talked about the monster in his brain, about my future without him? Yes. Do I wish we could have told each other how much we loved each other and how grateful we were for each other? Yes. Do I wish I could have gotten one last kiss? Yes. Do I wish we could have said "Goodbye, and see you at the heavenly banquet"? Yes.

Do I believe that he knew I was there, that he could hear my voice and feel my love? Absolutely. Take comfort in the love that bound your hearts together. How could the person who knew more about you than anyone else in the world, the person to whom you revealed your truest self -- How could that person NOT know you were there, NOT hear your voice, NOT feel your love?

Take comfort for love is stronger than death, and just as a part of your heart went with him, a part of his heart stays here with you.

Eleven months ...

... and I hate this. I really really hate this.

So I'm quitting. I don't want to be doing this anymore. I don't want to be a widow anymore.

The DGIs expect us to be over it in a year. Well, I've always been precocious. Here I am at 11 months, and I officially declare myself: OVER IT.

I'm done grieving. I'm done crying. I'm done noticing that there's a huge hole where my heart used to be. I'm done thinking about all the things we should be doing together. I'm done looking at my boys and thinking of their tremendous loss. I'm done with the whole thing. I'm done done done.

I always manage to find the words to comfort and encourage other people, but there really are no such words. I always manage to have the listening ear for whatever someone needs to say, but there really is nothing to say. I always remember to pray for those I love, but I really cannot pray for myself.

So I quit. I hereby renounce my membership in this stupid STUPID club that I didn't want to join anyway. Can I have my membership fee back? Please? It really was too high a price to pay, and I really don't want to be here.

Please. PLEASE. Please let me go home, let me go back to my old life. Please give him back to me. That's all I ask. Please.

My beloved is mine, and I am his.

On faith, Les Miserables, and screen savers

My sister and I are very close, very dear friends, but she is (no surprise) a DGI. But she's one that it's hard to get mad at, because she really does love me and she really does want me to be "all better." Everybody needs a big sister who just wants to take care of you.

Anyway, she's not only a DGI about widowhood, but also about faith. She believes in God, but that's about it, and she's never understood my church stuff, why I got involved in it and why I'm still there, or what any of it means.

The other day, when I was feeling very down and weepy, we were on the phone, and she said, "Well, doesn't having faith make things easier for you?" I stumbled and stammered, and finally said NO. "But isn't that the whole point of the various religions, to make sense out of death, to bring comfort when people die?" Ummm NO. "Well, I'm sorry... I thought that having church and all would make things better for you."

I thought about that first question a lot over the next few days: Doesn't having faith make things easier for me? Yes, it does, because I believe so completely in the loving presence of God. No, it doesn't, because I still miss my dear Nicholas more than I can possibly say. Yes, it does, because I know our hearts are joined forever. No, it doesn't, because my precious little boys don't understand that. Yes, it does, because I believe I can turn to Nick and ask him to help me. No, it doesn't, because I need him to be here washing dishes and changing dirty diapers.

You get the idea. In fact, if you're reading this, you already know exactly what I mean.

Les Mis... I've been listening to the soundtrack a lot this week, really enjoying the rich music and letting it move me. There's another thread here about Les Mis and the various songs that we widows hear and understand differently than we did when our loves were still alive.

Screen savers... I've started using Nick's laptop. Its screen saver is a program that pulls up a slideshow comprised of pictures in a randomly chosen photo album. It might be Christmas or vacaton pics, or photos from the Hubble telescope that he downloaded... you never know.

This morning, I was cleaning the kitchen and reading the board, moving back and forth from sink to laptop, with Les Mis in the background. The song Empty Chairs at Empty Tables came on... that moving piece where the survivor mourns the dead, he remembers them alive -- all their hopes and dream for the future -- and is faced with the unanswerable question of WHY they are gone but he remains.

I was really feeling the loss and grief when I walked back to the laptop, and I got a kick in the gut from the screen saver. It was the album of photos from when Nick was ordained a deacon. It was a terrible underscoring of what we'd lost. "Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for..." Nick sacrificed so much to be a deacon; our whole family did. It was the true calling of his heart. Why did he die just one year after being ordained; why was he called to that ministry, if he wasn't gong to be allowed to serve for many years? He put so much into it... WHY WHY WHY

Then Empty Chairs ends, and the bells start ringing, with the joyous chorale proclaiming the wedding feast of Marius and Cosette. And the Why was answered... or it became irrelevant. Nick is now where he always wanted to be, serving at the banquet table of the Lord. And what a great feast it must be, with all our loved ones gathered around, each one saving a seat for us.

So, to my sister: No, right here, right now, my faith does not make this easier. The loss is unutterable, the missing him overwhelming, the need for his presence in my daily life unending. But, when I can find myself in the Eternal Now, when I remember that he is forever and always a part of me and I of him -- which means that he is with me Now and I am with him Now -- then yes, my faith does make this easier.

I hope this is coherent... it all hung together and made sense to me this morning. I'm not sure it does now.

"Do you still believe in God?"

My response to a widow who asked the question:

I have spent a long time thinking about how to respond to this thread. Any of you who know me or who have read my previous posts know that as an Eastern Catholic I absolutely reject the idea of God having caused/allowed Nick to die of a brain tumor, that I reject the idea of God needing Nick more or of God wanting Nick to be in a better place, that I firmly believe that God weeps with me, that God did not create us for pain and death but for love and glory. I’ve written words to that effect in a number of other threads.

But I think I want to say more here.

Thirty years ago, I utterly rejected God. Any God who would allow me to have such a life of pain was no God that I wanted anything to do with. But God did not reject me, and I eventually realized that I owed my very life to God, and not just my existence as part of creation. And so I gave myself into God’s hands and started a journey that over 15 years led from atheism to the Eastern Catholic Church.

Nick and I gave ourselves to each other and our love to God. He dedicated himself to serving God and loving his family. I don’t need to tell any of you that when he died, I died as well. My world was torn asunder, my heart ripped into shreds. I lay down and wailed and gnashed my teeth like a wounded animal. But I didn’t die. I could not believe that I didn’t die. So I stood up and did the only thing I could: I took a deep breath and stepped gently into the next moment. And the next one. And the next one. And I know that I did not breathe or step under my own power, that I was held secure by the protective presence of God, supported by the compassionate prayers of my friends and family.

Do I still believe in God? I believe in God more completely now than I ever have in my life. As Nick lay dying in the ICU, I finally understood one of the core teachings of my church: That Death is an insult to God, the only power in the universe not created by God. I looked at my beloved and knew that the tumor in his brain was a monster straight from the bowels of hell, a manifestation of Evil in the world. I even tried to exorcize the demon, calling on all the powers of heaven to cast the monster back to hell whence it came. And when my beloved died, I wept and wept and wept — and I knew that God wept with me, that my tears and God’s tears were indistinguishable.

And now, nearly 9 months later... I still step gently into the next moment. I still know that my tears are one with God’s tears. I still place myself in God’s hands. I still lean on the prayers of my faith community. And I feel myself standing taller, my roots growing deeper.

I did not mean to write so much... but once I got started I couldn't stop.

Musings on Grief and Conversion, Part Two

Now that Lent is over, and we are in the Easter season, I thought I'd post a followup to my original post.

As I originally said, I wasn't in "repentance" mode for Lent, at least not in the way we usually think of it. I began thinking of repentance more as change, as opening myself to new ways of understanding the road before me. So I stretched myself naked before God and said, "Here I am."

And, lo! I was changed.

The one question I have never asked since Nicholas' death is "Why". I firmly believe that there is no Great Purpose behind any of our terrible losses, that death is an insult to God. I firmly believe that God created us for love and glory, not for death and sorrow.

In my prostrations before God this Lent, I began to understand that all the love and beauty and peace of my beloved Nicholas remains with me, that the essence of his truest self is at this moment celebrating the glory of God.

And in that moment of seeing this truth, I was changed.

One homily during Holy Week said that the purpose of creation itself is to reveal the presence of God. I realized that is surely what Nick had done for me in our marriage, what the essence of Catholic marriage is: two people revealing the presence of God to each other. As I reflected on this mystery, I began to understand that Nick CONTINUES to reveal God to me. In my "conversations" with Nick, I am drawn closer to God; in my prayers, I find more of Nick's presence than his absence.

And as my prayers to God get intertwined with my conversations to Nick, I am changed.

My journey of grief has become utterly enmeshed with my journey of conversion, my ever seeking the road that brings me closer to the Divine Presence. I know that my journey is far from over, that there is more grief and more conversion before me... yet each step, each turn, each stumble, brings me closer to becoming more truly myself.

They miss us too

A few weeks ago, one of my priests told me that aside from watching over the boys and me, Nick also misses us. That thought brought me so much comfort, but when I shared it with a widder friend, he asked, "How does he know?" I couldn't answer that question, but I've been thinking about it...

We are always writing about how a part of us is missing, how we have this terrible hole in our hearts and lives. And we all understand that -- our lives and beings were intertwined with our beloved's. And since we have become as one -- I'm hearing Tony and Maria now...

TONY
Make of our hands one hand,
Make of our hearts one heart,
Make of our vows one last vow:
Only death will part us now.

MARIA
Make of our lives one life,
Day after day, one life.

BOTH
Now it begins, now we start
One hand, one heart;
Even death won't part us now.

Make of our lives one life,
Day after day, one life.
Now it begins, now we start
One hand, one heart,
Even death won't part us now.

-- since we have become as one, surely they know that something is missing as well.

But the difference for them is that -- in the words of my Eastern Catholic tradition -- they are in a place where there is no pain, no grief, no sighing. They are part of the eternal now, so while they know we are not with them in our now, they also know that we will be with them again at the heavenly banquet. They miss us -- how can they not? -- and yet they are with us...

Musings on Grief and Conversion, Part One

You don’t have to be on this board for very long before reading that the grieving process takes a very long time, that waves of grief will hit us again and again, that even many years down the road, the anniversary of our beloved’s death will have the power to knock the wind out of us. I am beginning to think that grief is actually a lifelong process.

We are at the midpoint of Great Lent, the time set aside for self-examination before God and repentance in preparation for the great feast of Pascha. This year I have been broken open and laid out utterly naked before God. Yet I have not found my way to "repentance." I cannot get through my grief to find that mindset in my heart or head..

But what is repentance? And how am I connecting it to grief? In the broadest possible terms repentance is turning away from that which separates us from God — or if you are not a religious person, turning away from that which prevents us from reaching our fullest human potential. It is turning away from a place of brokenness and death and turning toward restoration and life. Repentance is actually a lifelong conversion (which literally means “turning around”) process. It’s not something we do once and are done with forever. We must always be examining ourselves to reject the darkness within and embrace the eternal light.

And the work of grief is similar: I have been dragged down into the maws of death, brought face to face with the darkest enemy of the human heart. I must turn away from death — even though it is has seized my beloved — and turn toward life. I must turn away from the life I loved so profoundly and turn toward a new life. I must be willing to change from the woman I was to the woman God wants me to be now. And this is work, powerfully hard work, brutally painful work.

And I think that like the work of conversion, the work of grief may never be done. It may become easier, may become more integrated into my person, but it may, like conversion, be the work of a lifetime. The Greek word for repentance is metanoia, a word that implies a total transformation of one’s thinking and understanding. And surely this is what grief demands of me.

Where is he?

In response to a widow who wrote: I realized last night that everywhere I go I am looking for my husband. (he has been gone 16 mo) I think unconsciously I have been doing this since the accident, but just realized last night I cannot find him....NOWHERE is he to be found.

Oh yes!

I would wander the house after the kids were in bed. Aimlessly wander from one room to another. Sit on the sofa for a few minutes staring blankly at the tv. Get up and go toward the garage door. Go to the kitchen. Sit on the sofa. Get up and go upstairs. Sit on the sofa. Get up and look out the window.

It suddenly hit me that I was waiting for Nick to come home. Once I realized that was what I was doing, I didn't do it quite so much, but I still do. And I still ask (out loud), "Nick, where are you? Why don't you come back to me?"

My love has been taken away from me, and I don't know where to find him.

Only one true love?

I think we have to believe in the possibility of a new true love. I know that I will never love another man the way I loved Nick, that nobody will ever love me the way he did. But I may be beginning to be ready to think about believing that a new and different love just might be possible some day. (Did I put in enough distancing qualifiers?) A new love would be very different from the one between Nick and me, but that would not make it any less true.

Here's to believing in many possible futures!

Where is "There"?

In response to a post talking about "getting there"

This really is the hardest part... Trying to imagine what "there" looks like. As part of a couple, we had no problem imagining our future with our loves. And since we knew what we wanted our lives to look like, we could pretty well figure out what we needed to do to make that happen, to get "there."

But now --- what the h are we supposed to do? And I guess that's where faith comes in -- faith in God, faith in ourselves, faith in the universe, faith in the efficacy of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, whatever. Believing in an unimaginable future allows us to get there.

Enough rambling.

Wishing everyone a measure of faith in the journey.

On children and grief

Written to a widow in anguish over her children's pain

I found a 6-week bereavement group for my 6-year-old. Being there really helped him -- they gave him some tools for expressing his feelings. All the signs at school are fine -- doing well with work, engaged in activities, likes being with his buddies, no hostility, etc...

We all made it through the holidays okay (including two family birthdays), but then I crashed in the New Year. Shortly after I crashed, my son did as well. Things spiraled down for a few weeks, before I realized I had to take control. I went to a counselor who saw me the first week, and both me and my son the 2nd. The 3rd week, it was just me again, and she said my son was fine and didn't need to be there.

Why not? Because I was doing better, so he was too. Our kids are so tied into us, and they are terrific barometers of how we are doing. When I cry, my 2-year-old cries. When I'm happy, he's happy. It's just the way it is.

Right after my husband died, my brother-in-law talked to me. He grew up without a father, and he said, "When Mom was okay, I was okay. When Mom was not okay, I was not okay." I always keep that in the front of my mind -- it makes me take care of myself.

Just remember that what your kids need is the certainty your love -- and they surely have that!

Six Months

Well, today it really is 6 months. I never thought I'd make it this far -- not because I thought I would fall and fail, but because it all seems so impossible. How can he really be dead, this beautiful wonderful man I have loved so utterly?

It still seems unbelievable that he is gone. And I still don't know how I'm going to make it through this, but I guess it's enough just to know that I will.

Thank god that times like Sunday night don't come too often, and thank god for this place where people have felt the same things.

And I thank each of you for offering me your support and compassion. You know how much it means.

The 6-month crash

Okay, I'm posting in this section 2 days ahead of schedule. So shoot me. Please. Wouldn't you do that for an injured animal? Put it out of its misery?

I just spent 5 minutes (more? I don't know) circling a tight path on the floor, chewing on my hand, moaning and whimpering like a wounded beast.

I know it will get better. I know I won't always feel this way. But I need somebody to tell me how, how I'm going to get better, how I'm going to get through this.

Please.

Zombie

My response to a widow who wrote:

... I am a complete zombie. People ask me what do I do all day. Well, hum, I have a 3 yr old and 6 yr old and I am running at maybe 20%. My mind is running at 100 miles per hour, yet it takes every ounce of energy to put away the laundry or make a phone call.

This is the long part and I fear it only gets longer. You read where people don't call as much and feel you should move on. I never thought that would be true. But it is. Everybody else's day-to-day life continues the same.

I feel like I am waiting. Waiting for what? I do not know but it feels like waiting. I walk around the house saying "Make it happen, Make it happen" to try to motivate myself to get started on moving forward. I'm not sure if it is working.

You've nailed it for me (except I have a 2 yr old and a 6 yr old). I'm a week behind you, and I, too feel like I'm waiting for something to change. At about 3 months, I realized that I was waiting for Nick to come home. But I know that's not going to happen, so I'm trying to figure out what it is I'm waiting for this time.

And here's something weird -- I don't know if I can express it well -- I have felt no pain, no elephant sitting on my chest, no searing agony in my heart, no kick to the solar plexus. It seems like my body should be carrying some reflection of the misery of my heart and soul. I hear people talking about their pain, and people tell me that they can't imagine my pain... and all I can think is, "but it doesn't hurt." And it seems like it should. I guess I'm still numb... or maybe God's being merciful because if my body felt the pain that my spirit does I'd need a round-the-clock morphine drip.

Sigh. Take a deep breath and move into the next moment.

Where my WidowRoad began

Nicholas died of a glioblastoma, one week after it was diagnosed. He started getting really bad headaches in early July 2004; his doctor thought they might be related to the new asthma/allergy drugs he was taking. "Stop taking them and call me in a month." (He was dead in a month, you glassbowl!)

He started having dizzy spells, and the headaches got worse and worse. When he blacked out on Sunday, August 1, I took him straight to the ER. I knew it was not good. The ER doctor said, "Your husband has a brain tumor. I don't know what kind it is, but it's big and it's right in the middle of his brain. I'm sorry."

They did a biopsy on August 4, to confirm their suspicions of a glioblastoma. Nick started having seizures on the way to the recovery room and he never regained consciousness. On Sunday, August 8, just one week after they found the monster, I had to tell the doctors to take away the things that were keeping him alive. Nobody should ever have to do that for someone they love! He just slipped away so peacefully... "Time of death, 9:12 p.m." -- a phrase that haunts my waking nightmares.

I later learned that the glioblastoma multiform is the worst of all the brain tumors, that Nick never had any chance of survival. For him, it was the best thing -- he didn't have to endure the pointless chemo and radiation, he didn't have to know that he was losing his beautiful mind, he didn't have to watch us watch him be devoured by the monster in his brain.

For me, it was unbearable. We purposely didn't talk about "it" before the biopsy -- no use getting worked up about something until we know exactly what we're dealing with. So we never said our goodbyes; we never said all the things you would say to your dearest love if you knew...

Another thing I hate hearing

... is how "strong" I am. How people "admire" me for my "bravery" and my "dignity." How "inspiring" my example is.

I AM NOT STRONG!!! I am doing the things I need to do because my two little boys need me to do them. But I am not strong. I am so small, so tiny in the face of the huge monster that has devoured my life. The beast is huge and ugly and there is nothing I can do to get rid of it. It stands there blocking my way, just daring me to try...

Yes, I get out of bed every day and I get the boys to school and the house is reasonably clean and most of the laundry is folded and I've gotten the finances squared away and and and and ... But this is not strength. It is survival.

Vent vent vent

Can you tell I'm fed up and tired?

Five months

In response to a new member's post

Nick died 5 months ago on this Saturday; the last I touched him was burying my face next his in the casket. I didn't care about the oil and ashes covering my face and clothes. I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to go with him. And if I didn't have to stay here for my boys, I probably would have gone with him.

Go home and cry and be there where your love dwells. If you want to be alone, go alone; if you don't want to be alone, take someone with you. Listen to your heart and don't look up. Because as you said, looking into the future is more than you can bear. Take a deep breath, and do the only thing you can: Step gently into the next moment.