A work in progress

My active blog is here.

Much of my journaling about the WidowRoad has taken the form of posts to a website for Young Widows. I'm really pleased with some of the things I've written there, and I want to pull them all together. Some of the pieces describe my personal insights into the journey; others are expressions of sheer pain.

I've already collected a number of them into a WordPerfect file, because I dreaded losing them should something happen to the widow board. I will start posting those on this blog; the dates on them are the dates on which they were originally posted on the board. Other writings will be added slowly. Entries before January 2005 are from emails exchanged with friends.

This will truly reflect my journey on the WidowRoad, a road which does not exist except as I walk it, a road which is a work in progress.

Since these are all past posts, I will indicate here when I last added one to the site. That way if anyone really is visiting this space, you'll know right away if I've added something.

Last updated: May 15, 2006
I added an entry for August 2004.

And now for something completely different ...

This post generated a far greater response than I ever imagined: It's taken on a life of its own.

Confessions of a Widow

One of the awesome things about the YWBB is that we know we can say things here that we can't say elsewhere... things we MIGHT tell our best friend, but would never say to our family.

With that in mind... (hehehehehe)

• I am hornier now than I have been at any time since my mid 20s.
• My kids have been eating fish sticks and canned soup for a week.
• I really don't CARE what people think about my absence from church for the last few months.
• I bought my first "toy" 9 months after Nick died.
• I have no idea how much money I have in my checking account.
• I haven't worn a bra all weekend, not even to the grocery store -- and those of you who know me know how "significant" that is.

Other confessions generated by responses to my original post:

• I have consumed more alcohol in the 18 months since Nick died than I did in the 13 years we were together.
• Ramen, lots of ramen.
• According to Quicken, I spent $1,773.92 at my local liquor stores in 2005. Granted, I had help consuming all that wine, vodka, and B&B, but that doesn't even include drinks at friends' houses or widder dinners.
• My mouth has become a sewer. I never cared much for foul language, but now ... egads
• I won't pour myself a glass of wine in the afternoon ... so I just swig it from the bottle.
• Shave my legs? Only when someone who matters is likely to see them! (I shave my pits slightly more often.)
• I spend more waking hours in front of the computer than anywhere else.
• I've started spanking my 3YO something my DH and I agreed we would never do.
• As a side effect of trying to reduce the CFCs* from my diet, I have developed a craving for gummis... gummi worms, gummi bears, gummi fish, sour grubs, and so on....
  * CFCs = calories from chocolate

"How do we continue on? How do we do this?"

My response to a widder on the YWBB:

You don't "continue on." You don't do "this." "This" is so much bigger than any of us can comprehend. So you take a deep breath and do the only thing you can: Step gently into the next moment. You can do that, and you know you can, because you have made it this far.

When I was new to the WidowRoad, I used the analogy of a sidewalk, with each square representing a moment, a minute, an hour, a day... a relentless infinity of time. The horrible thing was that I could see countless squares of the sidewalk stretching on and on before me, and Nick wasn't in any of them. I couldn't bear to look up as I walked, seeing all those empty squares in front of me. I kept my head down, my eyes on my feet; I focused on the moment right in front of me, the task right before me.

Sometimes, even that was too much for me. But gradually I could lift my head and look back to see how far I'd come. Gradually, I could look around to see the world around me. Gradually I could look at the road in front of me. It still pains me that Nick isn't there; I still hate every bit of it. But I can do it. I know I can do it. So I take my own advice and do the only thing I can: Breathe deeply and step gently into the next moment.

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.