"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.

How can anything ever be "fine" again?

My email to him is in black, with his response in green...

Abouna, my apologies for pressing the "send" button yesterday. I really didn't need to do that.

There is no need to apologize. If you’re still doing it two years from now we can talk about it.

I'm really "fine" for the most part. As long as I can just look at the task right in front of me, I'm okay. I can do all the day-to-day things, because that's what I do. It's when I start looking ahead that I start to fall apart. I can't bear to see all those tomorrows stretched out in front of me and not see Nick in any of them. That's when I start weeping all over again. Or when I realize that I will never again hear Stephen joyfully shout, "Daddy! Daddy!" and run to the top of the stairs to greet him at the end of the day. What a terrible loss!

Try your best to live in and for the moment. Give some thought to how many things you may have lost sleep over concerning your future with Nick. The virtue of hope is about what God may have beyond our present imagining.

And I can't begin to tell you how incredibly hard it was to be in church on Sunday: to see the men in black in the choir, and not see Nick; to hear the voices singing and not hear his; to see the deacon serving, and it not be him, and it's never going to be him. How can I be in that space and not think about him and not miss him and not ache and break all over again?

Did I say I was fine? I'm not, but you know that. I guess part of what's so unreal is that the day-to-day stuff is.All the material pieces of my life are set ... [snip] ... All these little pieces --- which aren't so little --- are in place, AND I have a tremendous community supporting me. So looking at the big picture, everything is "fine," the boys and I will be "fine."

Please reread that paragraph and think of the alternatives. I often observed that financial security somewhat lightens the grief process. Small consolation but not insignificant.

But there's just this one problem... this one huge gaping hole torn in the fabric of my existence.... how can anything possibly ever be "fine" again?

HOPE.

It will be; I know it. I just can't imagine it, I can't picture it.

HOPE is beyond what we can imagine. If I can imagine it then it is an expectation and not hope.

Because I can't picture my life without Nick in it. Because he IS in it. Always and forever unto ages of ages. Amen.

YES.

I begin to understand the scripture read at our wedding --- love is stronger than death --- and I wonder why the West has that ridiculous line in the wedding vow, "until death do us part." Because he is every bit as much a part of me now as he ever was. And that's when I can take a deep breath and know that I really will be alright. Some day. And always and forever.

YES and NO. Yes, Nick will always be part of your life but, in fact, death does PART us from one another and that is why the hurt is there.

You and Nick fulfilled all three promises you made on the day of your wedding.

• You came freely and without reservation.
• You loved and love one another for the rest of your lives.
• You accepted children and are raising them in the Gospel way.

You did not do two and three in the way you expected almost twelve years ago.

Enough for today’s homily.

Late-night sobbing

Fr. Andrew presided at our wedding; he was our spiritual director for 12 years and continues to be mine; he baptized our first son; he preached at Nick's ordination to the diaconate; he never expected to be preaching at Nick's funeral. I am adding some of our correspondence to this blog, because those emails were my journal before I found the YWBB.


August 22, 2004

Fr. Andrew,

It seems so wrong not to be in touch with you. I have to write to you even though I have nothing to say. Rather, there are no words for what I have to say.

I trust you understand.

I understand completely and have been thinking of you today.

I've been thinking that by now the house is probably empty of vistor-helpers and the new pain is setting in.

Do not hesitate to do just what you did here.

I too am at a loss for words but keep you in thought and prayer.

Abouna Andrew

August 23, 2004

Okay.

It's late at night, and I've been sobbing for 20 minutes and I hear everyone's voices telling me to call them anytime, "really I mean it, day or night." But why call when I have nothing to say and crying into the phone really doesn't cut it? And whom should I call? My family would feel bad because they're so far away and can't help me. And local friends would volunteer or even insist on coming over, and then what? The tears are exhausted and there's nothing left but apologies for calling at this ridiculous hour.

I guess that's the good thing about email... I know I'm not waking you up just to tell you I'm miserable.

Terrible news

I sent this email to a few friends; brief and to the point, but it's all I was capable of doing at the time. I had kept a core list of intimates informed of what was going on early in the previous week. My good friend PMAS took over when Nick entered the coma.

I can hardly believe I am writing this note.

Nick was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor last Sunday, August 1st. He died last night, August 8th, shortly after 9 pm.

I thought you would want to know... I covet your prayers for our two beautiful boys.