Saturday, July 25, 2015
8 years. This post below from 5 Years still captures my feelings as well as I can explain.
I love you Joe, and I will always miss you.
And I am so sorry.
Because when I really sit and think of you, when I strip away all the pain and heartache and anger and guilt and the details of life that play into the emotions of the tragedy of your death... when I think of you aside from our kids, our marriage, and all that's wrapped up in life... when I think of just you....those words- "I'm sorry" whisper constantly in my head. Not as your wife, your kids' mother, your love, not as any of that....just as your friend and confidant on this earth that knew so much of who you were, I wish I could look you in the eye and tell you how sorry I am this happened to you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One of the deepest pains of my life is that as a mother, I will not ever again see my children with their father.
I long to see my daughter with her father in a way that I cannot explain. Trying to put it in words almost makes me feel angry because I don't believe there are any words that do the feeling justice. She was so little when he died. She is so much like him.
I am angry that this joy will never be part of my life experience. I will never again have that pleasure as a mother on this earth, ever.
And she will never experience the pleasure as a daughter of being with her father again on this earth, ever.
There are many, many layers of loss that come with death. Some of them are felt only by me, some only by my children and some only by you. We all loved Joe differently. His death impacted us differently.
It's been a crazy 5 years. I consider myself incredibly blessed in every way imaginable and have a life that is wonderful. I consider us to have moved through an incredibly difficult time as unscathed as possible under the absolute best of conditions. Still, it all hurts, and we are permanently impacted by what happened.
After 5 years, I am confident in saying that it always will hurt. Life is not easy. Not for anyone, I know that. We all have pains and scars that run deep and stem from a wide variety of personal tragedies. It is a brave choice to keep moving forward, to want better for ourselves, to search for peace and happiness. As adults I hope my children understand this-
Happiness is a choice, not a feeling that comes to us and stays indefinitely.
There will be times in life that they are effortlessly happy, and there will also be hardships, sickness, loss, and sadness. Days when they may not want to get out of bed. Days when they want to wallow in how unfair life is. I hope they allow themselves to feel that hurt, and then make a choice to not let it define who they are....to focus on the good things in their lives and be grateful for what they have. And move forward.
I acknowledge that for every time my heart aches at the thought of not seeing my children with their father, there are a thousand other beautiful, wonderful things I DO get to see. In my mind I accept the pains as they come to me and then consciously move the spotlight to what I do have. It is hard at times, but it is the only way. And it works. And it IS work. It is work to live happily.
I will always love Joe and be grateful for all that he gave me. I received the comment once (not meant to comfort) "You can find another husband and move on" and to me that is the most cold-hearted comment a widow can receive. It belittles the loss, it belittles marriage, and it implies that people can be replaced. And in my life, Joe will never be replaced. He was my husband and that meant something to me. I loved him with a fullness and innocence that is gone forever. I will never forget him, try to replace him or "move on" from him in any way that separates me from the beauty of his impact on my life. I will continue to live, be corageous enough to risk love, continue to believe that great things are in store for me. But I will never forget Joe. He is the father of my children. The man that chose me to be his wife. The man that shared anything I asked and was true to me "til death do us part".
He is part of me.
Forever.
We will always be his. He will always be ours.
Monday, December 29, 2014
Hard to look at
I made these little cards in probably 2001 for each person in my family. They are credit card sized double-sided laminated paper and on each one I wrote specific reasons why I love each person. I wanted my family to know and remember that no matter what happens in their lives they always have someone that loves them (me).
The reasons for loving on each card are basic. They are personality or physical trait driven and organic in terms of the essence of what makes each person up. They are specific to who each person is. They are the characteristics that will stay with them through life.
They are not things people regularly comment on or offer praise for. They are traits mostly taken for granted and often overlooked. They may be quietly acknowledged but their presence mostly come and go without any words spoken about them.
So the cards speak.
And acknowledge.
To let each person know the "little things" are special.
And recognized.
And they are loved.
For being them.
Of course I made one for Joe and it has been in a drawer in my kitchen and I have glanced at it here and there over the years. By "glanced" I mean- picked it up, barely read a word and put it back in its spot because it's hard for me to look at. I meant every word of every sentence on every card I made, his included. His card was washed several times because he carried it in his pocket or in his wallet. That in itself makes my eyes sting with tears. To know that it meant something to him- enough to carry it with him- is so special to me. One side is no longer laminated and hard to read. I've kept it safe though because I know what is on it. The specific things that I miss the most. The things that made Joe, Joe. Many are things I wish my children knew, and what I desperately wish they could have experienced first-hand.
I am grateful that I had the opportunity to let Joe know the ways I loved him. And more grateful that he was open to accept what I wrote. I am grateful
That he let the card speak.
And acknowledge.
And let him know all the little things that were special.
And recognized.
And that he was and is loved.
For being him.
Even after he is gone.
The reasons for loving on each card are basic. They are personality or physical trait driven and organic in terms of the essence of what makes each person up. They are specific to who each person is. They are the characteristics that will stay with them through life.
They are not things people regularly comment on or offer praise for. They are traits mostly taken for granted and often overlooked. They may be quietly acknowledged but their presence mostly come and go without any words spoken about them.
So the cards speak.
And acknowledge.
To let each person know the "little things" are special.
And recognized.
And they are loved.
For being them.
Of course I made one for Joe and it has been in a drawer in my kitchen and I have glanced at it here and there over the years. By "glanced" I mean- picked it up, barely read a word and put it back in its spot because it's hard for me to look at. I meant every word of every sentence on every card I made, his included. His card was washed several times because he carried it in his pocket or in his wallet. That in itself makes my eyes sting with tears. To know that it meant something to him- enough to carry it with him- is so special to me. One side is no longer laminated and hard to read. I've kept it safe though because I know what is on it. The specific things that I miss the most. The things that made Joe, Joe. Many are things I wish my children knew, and what I desperately wish they could have experienced first-hand.
I am grateful that I had the opportunity to let Joe know the ways I loved him. And more grateful that he was open to accept what I wrote. I am grateful
That he let the card speak.
And acknowledge.
And let him know all the little things that were special.
And recognized.
And that he was and is loved.
For being him.
Even after he is gone.
Especially after he is gone.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Five Years
This week is set up exactly like the week Joe died. On Sunday night I saw him for the last time alive. He left from camp to go back home. Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday I talked to him on the phone. Emailed with him up until 4:30 on Wednesday.
And that was it.
So it's been 5 years since I saw him, 5 years since he died.
There is something about "5 years" that makes this year seem like a bigger event. I suppose after 5 years there's no denying, he's not coming back. 5 years is a long time.
In some ways it feels like a long time, in many ways it does not.
These days in July are hard every year. For me it's 10 days of memories- hurtful, happy and painful all confusingly intertwined. 10 days when highly charged emotions sit just below the surface, ready to explode and constantly bubbling to the surface. I blink a lot of tears back. I talk a lot and try to keep busy with anything I can. I have flashes of memories I'd rather forget that are brought to my mind by the similarity of the time of year, weather, sounds and smells. The 10 days start with Luke's birthday, 6 days later Joe's death and 4 days later my wedding anniversary which is no longer.
Every single one of those things is a huge life-altering event and they come at me in ten days. Maybe I should be glad that I get them overwith in a short period of time, but truthfully it just feels crushing sometimes. Part of me would like to go straight from June to August, but of course a bigger part of me would never in a million years want to miss watching my son have a birthday. To help him celebrate and be excited by it like you only are when you are a kid. These days of the year should be a happy time. And I do my best to make them go by with laughter and fun around me. But the pain is there also. My heart holds an ache with every year that ticks by as my children get older.
One of the deepest pains of my life is that as a mother, I will not ever again see my children with their father.
I long to see my daughter with her father in a way that I cannot explain. Trying to put it in words almost makes me feel angry because I don't believe there are any words that do the feeling justice. She was so little when he died. She is so much like him.
I am angry that this joy will never be part of my life experience. I will never again have that pleasure as a mother on this earth, ever.
And she will never experience the pleasure as a daughter of being with her father again on this earth, ever.
There are many, many layers of loss that come with death. Some of them are felt only by me, some only by my children and some only by you. We all loved Joe differently. His death impacted us differently.
It's been a crazy 5 years. I consider myself incredibly blessed in every way imaginable and have a life that is wonderful. I consider us to have moved through an incredibly difficult time as unscathed as possible under the absolute best of conditions. Still, it all hurts, and we are permanently impacted by what happened.
After 5 years, I am confident in saying that it always will hurt. Life is not easy. Not for anyone, I know that. We all have pains and scars that run deep and stem from a wide variety of personal tragedies. It is a brave choice to keep moving forward, to want better for ourselves, to search for peace and happiness. As adults I hope my children understand this-
Happiness is a choice, not a feeling that comes to us and stays indefinitely.
There will be times in life that they are effortlessly happy, and there will also be hardships, sickness, loss, and sadness. Days when they may not want to get out of bed. Days when they want to wallow in how unfair life is. I hope they allow themselves to feel that hurt, and then make a choice to not let it define who they are....to focus on the good things in their lives and be grateful for what they have. And move forward.
I acknowledge that for every time my heart aches at the thought of not seeing my children with their father, there are a thousand other beautiful, wonderful things I DO get to see. In my mind I accept the pains as they come to me and then consciously move the spotlight to what I do have. It is hard at times, but it is the only way. And it works. And it IS work. It is work to live happily.
I will always love Joe and be grateful for all that he gave me. I received the comment once (not meant to comfort) "You can find another husband and move on" and to me that is the most cold-hearted comment a widow can receive. It belittles the loss, it belittles marriage, and it implies that people can be replaced. And in my life, Joe will never be replaced. He was my husband and that meant something to me. I loved him with a fullness and innocence that is gone forever. I will never forget him, try to replace him or "move on" from him in any way that separates me from the beauty of his impact on my life. I will continue to live, be corageous enough to risk love, continue to believe that great things are in store for me. But I will never forget Joe. He is the father of my children. The man that chose me to be his wife. The man that shared anything I asked and was true to me "til death do us part".
He is part of me.
Forever.
We will always be his. He will always be ours.
And we move forward.
.
And that was it.
So it's been 5 years since I saw him, 5 years since he died.
There is something about "5 years" that makes this year seem like a bigger event. I suppose after 5 years there's no denying, he's not coming back. 5 years is a long time.
In some ways it feels like a long time, in many ways it does not.
These days in July are hard every year. For me it's 10 days of memories- hurtful, happy and painful all confusingly intertwined. 10 days when highly charged emotions sit just below the surface, ready to explode and constantly bubbling to the surface. I blink a lot of tears back. I talk a lot and try to keep busy with anything I can. I have flashes of memories I'd rather forget that are brought to my mind by the similarity of the time of year, weather, sounds and smells. The 10 days start with Luke's birthday, 6 days later Joe's death and 4 days later my wedding anniversary which is no longer.
Every single one of those things is a huge life-altering event and they come at me in ten days. Maybe I should be glad that I get them overwith in a short period of time, but truthfully it just feels crushing sometimes. Part of me would like to go straight from June to August, but of course a bigger part of me would never in a million years want to miss watching my son have a birthday. To help him celebrate and be excited by it like you only are when you are a kid. These days of the year should be a happy time. And I do my best to make them go by with laughter and fun around me. But the pain is there also. My heart holds an ache with every year that ticks by as my children get older.
One of the deepest pains of my life is that as a mother, I will not ever again see my children with their father.
I long to see my daughter with her father in a way that I cannot explain. Trying to put it in words almost makes me feel angry because I don't believe there are any words that do the feeling justice. She was so little when he died. She is so much like him.
I am angry that this joy will never be part of my life experience. I will never again have that pleasure as a mother on this earth, ever.
And she will never experience the pleasure as a daughter of being with her father again on this earth, ever.
There are many, many layers of loss that come with death. Some of them are felt only by me, some only by my children and some only by you. We all loved Joe differently. His death impacted us differently.
It's been a crazy 5 years. I consider myself incredibly blessed in every way imaginable and have a life that is wonderful. I consider us to have moved through an incredibly difficult time as unscathed as possible under the absolute best of conditions. Still, it all hurts, and we are permanently impacted by what happened.
After 5 years, I am confident in saying that it always will hurt. Life is not easy. Not for anyone, I know that. We all have pains and scars that run deep and stem from a wide variety of personal tragedies. It is a brave choice to keep moving forward, to want better for ourselves, to search for peace and happiness. As adults I hope my children understand this-
Happiness is a choice, not a feeling that comes to us and stays indefinitely.
There will be times in life that they are effortlessly happy, and there will also be hardships, sickness, loss, and sadness. Days when they may not want to get out of bed. Days when they want to wallow in how unfair life is. I hope they allow themselves to feel that hurt, and then make a choice to not let it define who they are....to focus on the good things in their lives and be grateful for what they have. And move forward.
I acknowledge that for every time my heart aches at the thought of not seeing my children with their father, there are a thousand other beautiful, wonderful things I DO get to see. In my mind I accept the pains as they come to me and then consciously move the spotlight to what I do have. It is hard at times, but it is the only way. And it works. And it IS work. It is work to live happily.
I will always love Joe and be grateful for all that he gave me. I received the comment once (not meant to comfort) "You can find another husband and move on" and to me that is the most cold-hearted comment a widow can receive. It belittles the loss, it belittles marriage, and it implies that people can be replaced. And in my life, Joe will never be replaced. He was my husband and that meant something to me. I loved him with a fullness and innocence that is gone forever. I will never forget him, try to replace him or "move on" from him in any way that separates me from the beauty of his impact on my life. I will continue to live, be corageous enough to risk love, continue to believe that great things are in store for me. But I will never forget Joe. He is the father of my children. The man that chose me to be his wife. The man that shared anything I asked and was true to me "til death do us part".
He is part of me.
Forever.
We will always be his. He will always be ours.
And we move forward.
.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
I'm about to make the final payment on Joe's
truck. He only drove it for a short time before he died, but he loved it. I
haven't been able to get myself to sell it, even though it hasn't made a lot of
sense to keep it. When I drive it, I feel a little closer to him. For a long time
I'd open the center console and look at the change in the slots and imagine his
hands putting it in there. I think of him driving to the dump on Saturdays with
Carlie, and how happy he was doing that. He was such a happy guy, always finding joy in the littlest of things. He had fun along the way in life, it is something to be admired.
Paying off the truck feels strange to me. I will be happy to not make the payment anymore, but something about it feels sad. Somewhere inside me I must have felt it was something I was doing for him, maybe a way I was keeping him with me. It's another end to a very long chain of endings.
Paying off the truck feels strange to me. I will be happy to not make the payment anymore, but something about it feels sad. Somewhere inside me I must have felt it was something I was doing for him, maybe a way I was keeping him with me. It's another end to a very long chain of endings.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
A widow friend of mine posted the poem below on her blog a while back. I remember reading this poem a long, long time ago and liking it a lot. I was probably early twenties at the time. I thought I understood it then. I did not. Not the way I do now.
Comes The Dawn
Veronica A. Shoffstall, 1971
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...
With every goodbye you learn.
I really can't read that without having tears come to my eyes. My life has changed so much in the last 4 years. I have had many ups and downs, many steps forward and many steps backward. I honestly cannot believe how much time has passed, how my kids have changed, how I have changed. I can't believe how our lives have continued on, the things we have done, without Joe with us. I have made new friends who I love dearly, who I can't imagine my life without. Not a day goes by when I don't look at one of my kids and think how Joe would love to see them as they are now. Every new step I take without him, every big decision, every small one that I know he'd be involved with, feels like a step away from him and I hate it still. Yet at the same time there is no other way. I never talk about all the things swirling in my head, because I know it is impossible for anyone to understand, and I can't explain things with the depth that they feel to me. But it's still always in there, and probably always will be.
I know that my "self" as I knew her, died that day with Joe. All of a sudden my whole present and future changed. I was going to grow old with this man. We were going to raise our babies together and live a life that we planned. All of it was gone in an instant. The moment I saw that motorcycle on the ground a new person was born. I am still navigating a life that I never dreamed of, with all its ups and downs, greatness and sadness, and learning about the person I have become; the good parts, the bad parts and everything (new) in between.
Comes The Dawn
Veronica A. Shoffstall, 1971
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...
With every goodbye you learn.
I really can't read that without having tears come to my eyes. My life has changed so much in the last 4 years. I have had many ups and downs, many steps forward and many steps backward. I honestly cannot believe how much time has passed, how my kids have changed, how I have changed. I can't believe how our lives have continued on, the things we have done, without Joe with us. I have made new friends who I love dearly, who I can't imagine my life without. Not a day goes by when I don't look at one of my kids and think how Joe would love to see them as they are now. Every new step I take without him, every big decision, every small one that I know he'd be involved with, feels like a step away from him and I hate it still. Yet at the same time there is no other way. I never talk about all the things swirling in my head, because I know it is impossible for anyone to understand, and I can't explain things with the depth that they feel to me. But it's still always in there, and probably always will be.
I know that my "self" as I knew her, died that day with Joe. All of a sudden my whole present and future changed. I was going to grow old with this man. We were going to raise our babies together and live a life that we planned. All of it was gone in an instant. The moment I saw that motorcycle on the ground a new person was born. I am still navigating a life that I never dreamed of, with all its ups and downs, greatness and sadness, and learning about the person I have become; the good parts, the bad parts and everything (new) in between.
Friday, May 20, 2011
.
I read this quote in a book recently and although the book itself was just okay, I have thought about the quote below a thousand times since reading it. The guy is referring to his wife (Mary) who he was once deeply, deeply in love with, but their marriage did not last.
"I carry a tattoo of Mary on my arm that I wear like a badge, a jewel, a wound, a way to remind myself that love and pain, like blood and ink, swim in the same sea." - Scott Weiland
I think the reason why I like these words so much is because they remind me we are all a sum of all that has happened in our lives, and we should not ignore those things, ever. We should not go on and try to forget pain and pretend it never happened. To go on and face the future with hope despite all the hurt in our past, is courageous.
Pain is a reminder, that love is real.
And in my opinion, in the end, love is all there is.
.
I read this quote in a book recently and although the book itself was just okay, I have thought about the quote below a thousand times since reading it. The guy is referring to his wife (Mary) who he was once deeply, deeply in love with, but their marriage did not last.
"I carry a tattoo of Mary on my arm that I wear like a badge, a jewel, a wound, a way to remind myself that love and pain, like blood and ink, swim in the same sea." - Scott Weiland
I think the reason why I like these words so much is because they remind me we are all a sum of all that has happened in our lives, and we should not ignore those things, ever. We should not go on and try to forget pain and pretend it never happened. To go on and face the future with hope despite all the hurt in our past, is courageous.
Pain is a reminder, that love is real.
And in my opinion, in the end, love is all there is.
.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
.
.
Passed by the door to get to Heaven
Seven trumpets big and bright
You hear it coming in the middle of the night
A caution to the children
Time to turn your crimson white
We’ve all got reservations
Trials will come suddenly
And without explanation
But you were born with goodness
You were born with goodness
Wherever you go now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you
On that dusty road
And if you get blind, well that’s alright
Wicked winds blow with grace and might
Cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
Break your word over me
Sinking in the quicksand
Break your word
Don’t you see?
You’re breaking me down now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you on that dusty road
When no one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
No one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
..........................-Brandon Flowers, Right Behind You
.
.
.
.
.
Passed by the door to get to Heaven
Seven trumpets big and bright
You hear it coming in the middle of the night
A caution to the children
Time to turn your crimson white
We’ve all got reservations
Trials will come suddenly
And without explanation
But you were born with goodness
You were born with goodness
Wherever you go now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you
On that dusty road
And if you get blind, well that’s alright
Wicked winds blow with grace and might
Cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
Break your word over me
Sinking in the quicksand
Break your word
Don’t you see?
You’re breaking me down now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you on that dusty road
When no one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
No one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
..........................-Brandon Flowers, Right Behind You
.
.
.
.
Monday, December 13, 2010
.
.
.
Soon after school ended last year, I took my kids to the cemetery for the first time. Luke was 8 and Alyssa, 6. Almost three years since their father died.
I hadn't intended to take them on this particular day, but then I never planned or intended to take them on any day of my choosing. I always knew that we would go by their schedule- when they asked to go there, I would take them.
We were on our way home from somewhere, all of us happy and fooling around in the car. All of a sudden Luke asked "Can we go the cemetery mom?"
My heart sank and I felt like I couldn't breath. My first instinct was to say "No, not today" and I wondered why on earth, how on earth he could be thinking of the cemetery when we were having so much fun....fresh out of school on summer vacation, a gorgeous day, lots of promise for more laughs to come. Then it hit me, of course he would be thinking of his father on this day. Just as I do. Even when things are good, great even, they are just never quite right.
"Yes" I said.
We drove passed our house and up the hill to the cemetery where Joe is buried. I had no idea what I was going to say to my kids, though I had thought of this moment a million times since he died. Suddenly I was at a complete loss for words and could only think to take my next breath.. My kids drive by the cemetery twice a day, every day when they ride the school bus. I have told them there is a bench at their daddy's grave and because of that they know right where it is. My heart breaks to think of them looking out the bus window at where their father is buried. It's just not right.
We drove in and I stopped the car. They both got out and walked straight to the bench and looked down at the name for the first time. There in big letters, their own last name was inscribed:
C H A L I F O U R
I could see the mixture of emotions on both of their faces. As a kid you must not be able to help but think it's kind of neat to see your name written on a beautiful piece of granite, so important-looking and official. Yet somewhere deep down I could tell they were feeling the pain of what it meant to have that name there. Alyssa literally stood quiet for a minute and then skipped off singing to herself, looking at other gravestone and flowers. She was escaping. She had her fill of what this meant to be here and at another time, in another moment, she would process more of this event, but for now, she was done.
I stood there not saying a word, just looking at my kids and their reactions. Luke was looking down at the marker with Joe's name and the date of his birth and his death on it. He looked up at me and I could see the stress in his eyes. He blinked back some tears as he looked at me. I did nothing but look at him, ready for whatever happened next, but having no idea what that would be.
"So how does this work?" he asked. "Daddy's body is down there?" He asked questions he knew the answers to, but he needed to hear me say them.
"Yes Luke, his body is in kind of a fancy box called a coffin buried under here" I knelt down and touched the marker with Joe's name on it. For a moment I felt the strangest dynamic with Luke, no longer mother and son, but equals, two souls facing extreme pain in loss. I felt like a child in some way, knowing all the logistical details but having no real, concrete answers for many of the questions death presents. I looked at Luke wanting so badly to do right by him, to be strong and answer his questions. I have no idea what it is like for him or for Alyssa or any child who has lost a parent. I just try my best to watch and help them through their grief as best I can.
"Can he hear what we're saying?"
"His body doesn't work anymore. His ears don't work and he's not alive, so no, he can't hear what we're saying from down there." I answered.
"Wouldn't it be cool if we could just go down there and open it up and say "Hi daddy" and he would be there?"
I knew what he was saying. Wouldn't it be great if he were still alive. If we could see him, talk to him, if he was still here, with us. I half-smiled at Luke and stood up again.
Luke stood there a few more seconds and then looked to his sister. He ran off in her direction to look at other names and dates on more stones.
For now, he was done.
.
.
.
.
.
Soon after school ended last year, I took my kids to the cemetery for the first time. Luke was 8 and Alyssa, 6. Almost three years since their father died.
I hadn't intended to take them on this particular day, but then I never planned or intended to take them on any day of my choosing. I always knew that we would go by their schedule- when they asked to go there, I would take them.
We were on our way home from somewhere, all of us happy and fooling around in the car. All of a sudden Luke asked "Can we go the cemetery mom?"
My heart sank and I felt like I couldn't breath. My first instinct was to say "No, not today" and I wondered why on earth, how on earth he could be thinking of the cemetery when we were having so much fun....fresh out of school on summer vacation, a gorgeous day, lots of promise for more laughs to come. Then it hit me, of course he would be thinking of his father on this day. Just as I do. Even when things are good, great even, they are just never quite right.
"Yes" I said.
We drove passed our house and up the hill to the cemetery where Joe is buried. I had no idea what I was going to say to my kids, though I had thought of this moment a million times since he died. Suddenly I was at a complete loss for words and could only think to take my next breath.. My kids drive by the cemetery twice a day, every day when they ride the school bus. I have told them there is a bench at their daddy's grave and because of that they know right where it is. My heart breaks to think of them looking out the bus window at where their father is buried. It's just not right.
We drove in and I stopped the car. They both got out and walked straight to the bench and looked down at the name for the first time. There in big letters, their own last name was inscribed:
C H A L I F O U R
I could see the mixture of emotions on both of their faces. As a kid you must not be able to help but think it's kind of neat to see your name written on a beautiful piece of granite, so important-looking and official. Yet somewhere deep down I could tell they were feeling the pain of what it meant to have that name there. Alyssa literally stood quiet for a minute and then skipped off singing to herself, looking at other gravestone and flowers. She was escaping. She had her fill of what this meant to be here and at another time, in another moment, she would process more of this event, but for now, she was done.
I stood there not saying a word, just looking at my kids and their reactions. Luke was looking down at the marker with Joe's name and the date of his birth and his death on it. He looked up at me and I could see the stress in his eyes. He blinked back some tears as he looked at me. I did nothing but look at him, ready for whatever happened next, but having no idea what that would be.
"So how does this work?" he asked. "Daddy's body is down there?" He asked questions he knew the answers to, but he needed to hear me say them.
"Yes Luke, his body is in kind of a fancy box called a coffin buried under here" I knelt down and touched the marker with Joe's name on it. For a moment I felt the strangest dynamic with Luke, no longer mother and son, but equals, two souls facing extreme pain in loss. I felt like a child in some way, knowing all the logistical details but having no real, concrete answers for many of the questions death presents. I looked at Luke wanting so badly to do right by him, to be strong and answer his questions. I have no idea what it is like for him or for Alyssa or any child who has lost a parent. I just try my best to watch and help them through their grief as best I can.
"Can he hear what we're saying?"
"His body doesn't work anymore. His ears don't work and he's not alive, so no, he can't hear what we're saying from down there." I answered.
"Wouldn't it be cool if we could just go down there and open it up and say "Hi daddy" and he would be there?"
I knew what he was saying. Wouldn't it be great if he were still alive. If we could see him, talk to him, if he was still here, with us. I half-smiled at Luke and stood up again.
Luke stood there a few more seconds and then looked to his sister. He ran off in her direction to look at other names and dates on more stones.
For now, he was done.
.
.
.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I started writing this blog after Joe died because I could barely speak a word from my mouth about how I felt inside. My family and friends would ask me how I was doing, or I would see it in their eyes that they wanted to know what they could do for me, but I never knew what to say. I felt at a loss to talk about any subject relating to Joe because words seemed to grossly trivialize my emotions. But I did not want to cut my friends and family off. I needed them. So I did the best I could, here.
In the early days and months LEFT was literally the only way that most people in my life knew what I was thinking about and (generally speaking) how I was feeling. I could write here on my terms (at night, after my kids were in bed) and about subjects that were weighing heavily on me. I cried many, many tears over almost every one of these posts. I have never masked the fact that this blog is 100% about me (however it does not define 100% of who I am). It has been uncomfortable at times for me to write some of the stuff that I have. There is a lot of pain here and it is real. But I tried my best to be as forthcoming as possible with my emotions for many reasons, one of which is because I truly believe that honesty and truth are powerful, and they are the building blocks that someday will set me free to a life less haunted by loss.
The self-centered nature of this blog (like the hundreds of other widow/widower blogs out there) was never questioned by most readers, in fact many thanked me for keeping the line of communication open in some way. They told me that it helped them to grieve too. I do not fully understand why people would want to see so much pain written down (especially by or about someone they love), but I fully realize that is because I am not in their shoes. And I completey respect and am thankful for that and for whatever brings people here. I write from a widow's perspective because that is what I am and that is all I know in terms of this loss.
That being said I have faced criticism for LEFT as well (think "get over it already"; -or- (the absurd) "your husband takes blame in the accident also"). However I know that whether the criticism comes from people who know me or do not, those people face their own demons in life that they will probably always misdirect on others. So I do my best to disregard and keep writing.
After about a year of documenting things here there was an unexpected twist in the healing I recevied from LEFT. Other widows started emailing me about specific posts or about my blog in general. They would thank me for putting into words what they had been unable to. They would tell me their stories and describe similar circumstances to mine. Young widows, all over the country, raising young children alone. Living lives that were thrust upon them suddenly by unthinkable tragedy. People from all walks of life, with an array of family lives, resources, friends and circumstances. Women who lost their spouses to illness, vehicle accidents, work-related accidents, suicide and murder. Every story is heart-wrenching and each email I recieve with one of these stories brings mixed emotions. A kinship of sorts, a bond with another human being that is sincere and real, yet I hate the circumstances that brought us together. I wish they didn't have to write the emails and I wish I wasn't recieving them.
Those emails from widows are a big reason why I have continued to write in the last year. It's not to say that I didn't need to write, because I do. But I have other places in which to write to purge my thoughts. However the relationships with other widows gave me something that I could not get when I wrote in a notebook or on a computer. They made me feel less alone. They let me know that, not only am I not alone, there are MANY people traveling a similar path to mine. You may not see many in your town or maybe a few in a city, but collectively we are many; young widows raising children. A group no one wants to be a part of, but a group nonetheless. When I write posts like this or this, I know that they not only hear what I say but understand it in an intimate way. They do not judge me when I feel angry and there is no need for further explaination when I say things. Once again in life, it is human relationships that are the silver lining to tragic situations.
Recently though, even with the good things that I receive from this blog, I have been considering ending it altogether. It seems I am feeling a little too uncomfortable with being so public about the things that I struggle with or that are on my mind. But all morning I had this aching feeling that I need someone to understand how I feel today. So here I am and to my widowed friends I say:
My youngest child started first grade today.
I know you hear me, and I am so thankful that you are listening.
.
.
.
.
In the early days and months LEFT was literally the only way that most people in my life knew what I was thinking about and (generally speaking) how I was feeling. I could write here on my terms (at night, after my kids were in bed) and about subjects that were weighing heavily on me. I cried many, many tears over almost every one of these posts. I have never masked the fact that this blog is 100% about me (however it does not define 100% of who I am). It has been uncomfortable at times for me to write some of the stuff that I have. There is a lot of pain here and it is real. But I tried my best to be as forthcoming as possible with my emotions for many reasons, one of which is because I truly believe that honesty and truth are powerful, and they are the building blocks that someday will set me free to a life less haunted by loss.
The self-centered nature of this blog (like the hundreds of other widow/widower blogs out there) was never questioned by most readers, in fact many thanked me for keeping the line of communication open in some way. They told me that it helped them to grieve too. I do not fully understand why people would want to see so much pain written down (especially by or about someone they love), but I fully realize that is because I am not in their shoes. And I completey respect and am thankful for that and for whatever brings people here. I write from a widow's perspective because that is what I am and that is all I know in terms of this loss.
That being said I have faced criticism for LEFT as well (think "get over it already"; -or- (the absurd) "your husband takes blame in the accident also"). However I know that whether the criticism comes from people who know me or do not, those people face their own demons in life that they will probably always misdirect on others. So I do my best to disregard and keep writing.
After about a year of documenting things here there was an unexpected twist in the healing I recevied from LEFT. Other widows started emailing me about specific posts or about my blog in general. They would thank me for putting into words what they had been unable to. They would tell me their stories and describe similar circumstances to mine. Young widows, all over the country, raising young children alone. Living lives that were thrust upon them suddenly by unthinkable tragedy. People from all walks of life, with an array of family lives, resources, friends and circumstances. Women who lost their spouses to illness, vehicle accidents, work-related accidents, suicide and murder. Every story is heart-wrenching and each email I recieve with one of these stories brings mixed emotions. A kinship of sorts, a bond with another human being that is sincere and real, yet I hate the circumstances that brought us together. I wish they didn't have to write the emails and I wish I wasn't recieving them.
Those emails from widows are a big reason why I have continued to write in the last year. It's not to say that I didn't need to write, because I do. But I have other places in which to write to purge my thoughts. However the relationships with other widows gave me something that I could not get when I wrote in a notebook or on a computer. They made me feel less alone. They let me know that, not only am I not alone, there are MANY people traveling a similar path to mine. You may not see many in your town or maybe a few in a city, but collectively we are many; young widows raising children. A group no one wants to be a part of, but a group nonetheless. When I write posts like this or this, I know that they not only hear what I say but understand it in an intimate way. They do not judge me when I feel angry and there is no need for further explaination when I say things. Once again in life, it is human relationships that are the silver lining to tragic situations.
Recently though, even with the good things that I receive from this blog, I have been considering ending it altogether. It seems I am feeling a little too uncomfortable with being so public about the things that I struggle with or that are on my mind. But all morning I had this aching feeling that I need someone to understand how I feel today. So here I am and to my widowed friends I say:
My youngest child started first grade today.
I know you hear me, and I am so thankful that you are listening.
.
.
.
.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Balance
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.
.
In the last two days I have seen three waterfalls with my children, one of which we had a great hike to; showed them several neat things in NH that I loved as a child including the Mount Washington Hotel and the Elephants Head; seen two gorgeous skies at sunset and one beautiful sunrise; kayaked by myself on a peaceful lake; gone for a nice walk with my kids and dog; seen one of my best friends in the world spur-of-the-moment and her 2 funny kids; had supper with my babies at a restaurant; sat and watched them run through fountains in a park; shopped with them at a couple cool stores that we all equally love; we’ve all taken outdoor showers in the beautiful woods of Vermont; sat in a hot tub with my daughter and swam with her in our lake; tossed a toy for my dog to fetch a gazillion times off my sister’s dock; spent time with my mother and father; did a puzzle with my daughter; laughed hard at my son’s wit and sat by a beautiful rocky river with my kids all by ourselves.
.
Yeah, our lives are pretty great.
.
.
.
.
.
In the last two days I have seen three waterfalls with my children, one of which we had a great hike to; showed them several neat things in NH that I loved as a child including the Mount Washington Hotel and the Elephants Head; seen two gorgeous skies at sunset and one beautiful sunrise; kayaked by myself on a peaceful lake; gone for a nice walk with my kids and dog; seen one of my best friends in the world spur-of-the-moment and her 2 funny kids; had supper with my babies at a restaurant; sat and watched them run through fountains in a park; shopped with them at a couple cool stores that we all equally love; we’ve all taken outdoor showers in the beautiful woods of Vermont; sat in a hot tub with my daughter and swam with her in our lake; tossed a toy for my dog to fetch a gazillion times off my sister’s dock; spent time with my mother and father; did a puzzle with my daughter; laughed hard at my son’s wit and sat by a beautiful rocky river with my kids all by ourselves.
.
Yeah, our lives are pretty great.
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.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Stuck
I wonder if anyone could possibly understand the mind of a 38-year-old widow with 2 little kids. That is not a statement of self-pity and I am not looking for praise. I know as I write it that any person could write the same sentence about their own life (fill in the blanks "...the mind of a X-year-old X with X...") I know that life is hard for everyone and every person has their struggles. For the first time in my life when I look at my face in the mirror I recognize that I am getting older. It is a conscious thought now, where it never used to be. I can't help but feel that if Joe were here it would matter a little less, because we'd both be in the same boat. I look at my kids and wonder some days how we will ever get through this. The weak moments are hard to acknowledge. My mind wanders to awful places of what would happen to them if something were to happen to me, to my health, or due to an accident or whatever. How could two children endure so much pain? The thought terrorizes my mind. And I know it's useless to worry. Every time my kids and I leave wherever we are to go home I wonder...."What exactly am I going home to?" and I feel empty. I have always loved my house and truly can't imagine not living in it, but I think it is holding me back. I am stuck living a life that was supposed to be but isn't. I wonder if anyone could possibly understand a 38-year-old widow with two little kids. Nope. I don't think so. Why would you want to? It is a self-centered fantasy........a far-away dream....to have someone understand your feelings and listen to your fears and act as if you are not crazy for having them. Someone you don't have to hide from. It's a dream.....of days gone by.
Friday, July 30, 2010
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Yesterday would have been our 10th wedding anniversary. I am pretty sure that Joe would have wished a pleasant and peaceful day for me and our children; a day to reflect on a beautiful marriage and love out of which two of the sweetest kids on the planet were born.
I am equally sure that if he could have looked down on us yesterday he would have been just as disgusted as I was at our day.
We miss him.
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Yesterday would have been our 10th wedding anniversary. I am pretty sure that Joe would have wished a pleasant and peaceful day for me and our children; a day to reflect on a beautiful marriage and love out of which two of the sweetest kids on the planet were born.
I am equally sure that if he could have looked down on us yesterday he would have been just as disgusted as I was at our day.
We miss him.
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Thursday, July 22, 2010
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.
Three years since I saw my husband alive.
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So much time has passed, yet, it could have been yesterday. When will I stop wincing to hear the word "dead"; or be able to remember Joe without feeling pain? When will my mind stop revolving around what "was" instead of what "is". I cannot imagine a day when my life is new, free from feelings of what happened. When will the cycle of feelings of love/hate/anger and guilt stop and just leave me with peace. When will my life be mine again and when will I stop being a widow?
.
I cringed once at a grief counselor saying that it takes at least two years to begin to move on. I did not think I could endure the pain for two years. It's been three years and I am still struggling. In some ways things are better and in some ways they are more complicated and just as painful as ever. I still have nights when I go to bed with ice on my eyes in an effort to look normal and hide hours of crying from my kids. And in the morning when they ask me why I look funny I tell them I am tired. I don't want to do it anymore. I want peace.
.
Each birthday for one of my children reminds me of how deeply I am still mourning a life that will never be.
.
I still have flashbacks of that day and the days that followed, especially this time of year. Horrible, terrible, awful feelings and memories that evoke feelings in me that I cannot explain. I still drive up that hill as I did on that day when I saw the police office directing traffic and I think "this is where my life ended". My life ended that day. In an split second I was changed and a new life began. One that I cannot understand.
.
.
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.
.
Three years since I saw my husband alive.
.
.
.
So much time has passed, yet, it could have been yesterday. When will I stop wincing to hear the word "dead"; or be able to remember Joe without feeling pain? When will my mind stop revolving around what "was" instead of what "is". I cannot imagine a day when my life is new, free from feelings of what happened. When will the cycle of feelings of love/hate/anger and guilt stop and just leave me with peace. When will my life be mine again and when will I stop being a widow?
.
I cringed once at a grief counselor saying that it takes at least two years to begin to move on. I did not think I could endure the pain for two years. It's been three years and I am still struggling. In some ways things are better and in some ways they are more complicated and just as painful as ever. I still have nights when I go to bed with ice on my eyes in an effort to look normal and hide hours of crying from my kids. And in the morning when they ask me why I look funny I tell them I am tired. I don't want to do it anymore. I want peace.
.
Each birthday for one of my children reminds me of how deeply I am still mourning a life that will never be.
.
I still have flashbacks of that day and the days that followed, especially this time of year. Horrible, terrible, awful feelings and memories that evoke feelings in me that I cannot explain. I still drive up that hill as I did on that day when I saw the police office directing traffic and I think "this is where my life ended". My life ended that day. In an split second I was changed and a new life began. One that I cannot understand.
.
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Friday, July 2, 2010
Spring was always my favorite season. But now........not so much. It is such a difficult time of year for me for so many reasons. First comes the warmer weather and the first days when you hear motorcycles and I can practically feel those people enjoying their first rides of the year. Joe could not wait each year and the first day when the weather even slightly resembled warmth, he was on his bike. I hear the rumble from my house during Spring and I think of him constantly.
Then comes the end-of-year school things; and (gulp) Father's Day. Every year I ask the teachers in advance what they will be doing so I can prepare my kids for what they will do when all the other kids are making something for their dads. This year was no exception. It's difficult to say the least. The barrage of advertisement for Father's Day doesn't help either and I hate wondering what goes through my kids minds when they hear or see them. This year despite our plan on what Alyssa would do in school when the kids were making a Father's Day card (she asked if she could still make one for daddy and put it in her "daddy box"- a box where she keeps things..whatever she wants...that reminds her of her daddy- which I said yes to) things still did not go well. First, after I told her it would be fine to make a card and put it in her daddy box, I felt the need to make sure that she understand that she will not be able to give the card to daddy; in a nutshell, that he is not coming back. As her mother I am constantly listening and watching the tiniest of behaviors in her that might give me a clue as to how she is processing her loss. I think that sometimes she believes or convinces herself that her daddy is just "gone" but he'll be back at some point a long time from now. It may seem mean for me to tell my children that their father is not coming back, but I know that it is the right thing to do. It pains me so much....all of it....from her asking to still make the card for him to me asking her if she understands that she will not be able to give it to him. It all hurts in such a tremendous way that I cannot explain with words. And there is more. When Alyssa came home with her card she said that when the teacher announced the assignment she got up and walked to her and said "but Mrs. Mason I don't have a daddy". As she told me this story she began to cry. I hugged her and told her I was sorry. I didn't know what else to say. My poor daughter. It is impossible to know how many times a mother's heart can break.
In addition to Father's Day there is Motorcycle Week in my state in which tens of thousands of bikes attend. It is a big reminder of Joe not only because of constantly seeing and hearing motorcycles, but also because there are always accidents and many years people lose their lives. When I see pictures on the news of twisted motorcycles laying on pavement or hear the stories of the crashes it brings back a lot of painful memories.
After that there is the hot weather and camp in Vermont. Camp is the last place where I saw my husband alive. The last image I have of him is him with his head tilted up blowing me a kiss as he walked away from me. It is where we spent weekends and vacations in the summer. It has always been hard for me to go there since he died, yet it is what we do in the summer. What else can I do? My kids love it there. LOVE IT. We have family and friends and summer would not be summer without camp. I love it there too, but getting there is hard. Almost three years later it is still hard for me to think of going on vacation and not having Joe come. I should be used to it by now. But there is something about packing up my house and going there that rattles me and makes me have days where I want to lay on the floor and cry. I can't explain it. I wish I didn't have to.
There is also my son's birthday (July 19); the anniversary of Joe's death (July 25th) and our wedding anniversary (July 29). This year we would have been married ten years. In a cruel twist-through no fault of his own- Luke has a countdown posted on the wall to a made-up opening game of his made-up hockey league. He decided his opening game would be on July 29th (I am sure he has no idea as to the significance of the date). So every day he counts down the days until July 29th. Sometimes the universe just sucks. But what can you do.
So, I guess my point here with all this is that this time of year- end of Spring into Summer is a difficult time. Full of so many wonderful and exciting things but also tinged with pain and many reminders of what should've and could've been. And what happened.
Tonight I got a fortune from a fortune cookie that said "Don't waste time on what could have been". I'm trying to understand if that's too crass to take into account in my situation or if it's good advice.
I want to end by saying something on an entirely different note. Although I have all of this "stuff" in my life, the fact that I am tremendously blessed is not lost on me. I know that the life I live is full and rich and privileged in terms of family and friends and love and health and so many other gifts. Although many days I tire of hearing my own voice reprimanding my children, there is no greater pleasure for me than to look at them and see them smiling and laughing and being silly and having fun. I watch them play sometimes and my heart is full- bursting with love for these two little people. I cannot imagine a more beautiful girl than my daughter, with her bold and bossy and aggressive personality, yet her long beautiful hair blowing in the wind like a princess. And to watch Luke be so constantly happy, joking (really joking..like making you laugh out loud because he is so funny) and full of fun is something that I marvel at. To think that this little guy has lost so much, a father who he has real memories of, yet he still lives on happily and bravely is such a beautiful and inspiring thing.
Those two kids make life meaningful. And beautiful. And I love them.
.
.
.
Then comes the end-of-year school things; and (gulp) Father's Day. Every year I ask the teachers in advance what they will be doing so I can prepare my kids for what they will do when all the other kids are making something for their dads. This year was no exception. It's difficult to say the least. The barrage of advertisement for Father's Day doesn't help either and I hate wondering what goes through my kids minds when they hear or see them. This year despite our plan on what Alyssa would do in school when the kids were making a Father's Day card (she asked if she could still make one for daddy and put it in her "daddy box"- a box where she keeps things..whatever she wants...that reminds her of her daddy- which I said yes to) things still did not go well. First, after I told her it would be fine to make a card and put it in her daddy box, I felt the need to make sure that she understand that she will not be able to give the card to daddy; in a nutshell, that he is not coming back. As her mother I am constantly listening and watching the tiniest of behaviors in her that might give me a clue as to how she is processing her loss. I think that sometimes she believes or convinces herself that her daddy is just "gone" but he'll be back at some point a long time from now. It may seem mean for me to tell my children that their father is not coming back, but I know that it is the right thing to do. It pains me so much....all of it....from her asking to still make the card for him to me asking her if she understands that she will not be able to give it to him. It all hurts in such a tremendous way that I cannot explain with words. And there is more. When Alyssa came home with her card she said that when the teacher announced the assignment she got up and walked to her and said "but Mrs. Mason I don't have a daddy". As she told me this story she began to cry. I hugged her and told her I was sorry. I didn't know what else to say. My poor daughter. It is impossible to know how many times a mother's heart can break.
In addition to Father's Day there is Motorcycle Week in my state in which tens of thousands of bikes attend. It is a big reminder of Joe not only because of constantly seeing and hearing motorcycles, but also because there are always accidents and many years people lose their lives. When I see pictures on the news of twisted motorcycles laying on pavement or hear the stories of the crashes it brings back a lot of painful memories.
After that there is the hot weather and camp in Vermont. Camp is the last place where I saw my husband alive. The last image I have of him is him with his head tilted up blowing me a kiss as he walked away from me. It is where we spent weekends and vacations in the summer. It has always been hard for me to go there since he died, yet it is what we do in the summer. What else can I do? My kids love it there. LOVE IT. We have family and friends and summer would not be summer without camp. I love it there too, but getting there is hard. Almost three years later it is still hard for me to think of going on vacation and not having Joe come. I should be used to it by now. But there is something about packing up my house and going there that rattles me and makes me have days where I want to lay on the floor and cry. I can't explain it. I wish I didn't have to.
There is also my son's birthday (July 19); the anniversary of Joe's death (July 25th) and our wedding anniversary (July 29). This year we would have been married ten years. In a cruel twist-through no fault of his own- Luke has a countdown posted on the wall to a made-up opening game of his made-up hockey league. He decided his opening game would be on July 29th (I am sure he has no idea as to the significance of the date). So every day he counts down the days until July 29th. Sometimes the universe just sucks. But what can you do.
So, I guess my point here with all this is that this time of year- end of Spring into Summer is a difficult time. Full of so many wonderful and exciting things but also tinged with pain and many reminders of what should've and could've been. And what happened.
Tonight I got a fortune from a fortune cookie that said "Don't waste time on what could have been". I'm trying to understand if that's too crass to take into account in my situation or if it's good advice.
I want to end by saying something on an entirely different note. Although I have all of this "stuff" in my life, the fact that I am tremendously blessed is not lost on me. I know that the life I live is full and rich and privileged in terms of family and friends and love and health and so many other gifts. Although many days I tire of hearing my own voice reprimanding my children, there is no greater pleasure for me than to look at them and see them smiling and laughing and being silly and having fun. I watch them play sometimes and my heart is full- bursting with love for these two little people. I cannot imagine a more beautiful girl than my daughter, with her bold and bossy and aggressive personality, yet her long beautiful hair blowing in the wind like a princess. And to watch Luke be so constantly happy, joking (really joking..like making you laugh out loud because he is so funny) and full of fun is something that I marvel at. To think that this little guy has lost so much, a father who he has real memories of, yet he still lives on happily and bravely is such a beautiful and inspiring thing.
Those two kids make life meaningful. And beautiful. And I love them.
.
.
.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I am having a hard time being a single-widowed-mother of young children.
Having young children is challenging for all parents under all different circumstances, I think, right? I just.....I find my patience so lacking and I'm sick of hearing my own voice constantly reprimanding them. Nothing gets done without me spearheading it. No socks get found, no drink gets poured, no meal prepared, no groceries fill the cupboards, no grass gets cut, no schedule followed, on and on. It's endless. I KNOW! I can hear you all thinking, "hey, that's what being a parent is for everyone" and I know that. I am just sick of it at the moment. I'm tired of hearing whining (Alyssa's current favorite tone to use) and I want some stuff to get done without having to beg or explain or ask 10 times. I want to see a little initiative without having to be told everything. I want someone else to pick up a few things for me at the store on their way home (obviously not happening); I want someone else thinking when the grass needs to be cut; or the house needs to be powerwashed, or the deck needs to be built. I'm just so sick of it all. Sick of it. It's stressful. Every moment someone or some*thing* in my life is being neglected. If I am working on a project or doing stuff around my house (constant) I feel guilty for not spending time with my kids. If I am out doing errands while the kids are in school I feel guilty I am not taking my dog for a walk. If I am hanging out with my kids I am neglecting all my chores. It's endless. Endless. A constant cycle of thoughts of what I should be doing and feeling like I never do anything right. It makes me short-tempered and no fun to be around.
So to my babies, I am sorry.
Most days I feel like I am just barely holding everything together. I feel like I should be better at this. I am not working yet still I feel like I can't get my shit together enough to have everything run smoothly. I am stressed and full of guilt. On top of this I am trying to work out my own life, make sense of myself and who I see when I look in the mirror. I get so angry at the state of my life (followed of course by tremendous guilt because I am blessed with so many wonderful people and things). I am angry though that I married a man who only got to live a short life; that my children utter the phrase "I don't have a dad" to new kids they meet (of course despite me telling them the obvious contrary and giving them alternate responses---but they are too young and so are the kids they are talking to to understand any of it); angry that I have to raise my children without their father present in any way; angry that all the responsibility is placed on me. And I feel incapable at times and not up to the challenge because I have issues on my own to work out. I just don't know. I was definitely a work-in-progress before Joe died. My own problems didn't disappear that day. They are all still with me. And on top of them a lot more stuff that needs attention.
Having young children is challenging for all parents under all different circumstances, I think, right? I just.....I find my patience so lacking and I'm sick of hearing my own voice constantly reprimanding them. Nothing gets done without me spearheading it. No socks get found, no drink gets poured, no meal prepared, no groceries fill the cupboards, no grass gets cut, no schedule followed, on and on. It's endless. I KNOW! I can hear you all thinking, "hey, that's what being a parent is for everyone" and I know that. I am just sick of it at the moment. I'm tired of hearing whining (Alyssa's current favorite tone to use) and I want some stuff to get done without having to beg or explain or ask 10 times. I want to see a little initiative without having to be told everything. I want someone else to pick up a few things for me at the store on their way home (obviously not happening); I want someone else thinking when the grass needs to be cut; or the house needs to be powerwashed, or the deck needs to be built. I'm just so sick of it all. Sick of it. It's stressful. Every moment someone or some*thing* in my life is being neglected. If I am working on a project or doing stuff around my house (constant) I feel guilty for not spending time with my kids. If I am out doing errands while the kids are in school I feel guilty I am not taking my dog for a walk. If I am hanging out with my kids I am neglecting all my chores. It's endless. Endless. A constant cycle of thoughts of what I should be doing and feeling like I never do anything right. It makes me short-tempered and no fun to be around.
So to my babies, I am sorry.
Most days I feel like I am just barely holding everything together. I feel like I should be better at this. I am not working yet still I feel like I can't get my shit together enough to have everything run smoothly. I am stressed and full of guilt. On top of this I am trying to work out my own life, make sense of myself and who I see when I look in the mirror. I get so angry at the state of my life (followed of course by tremendous guilt because I am blessed with so many wonderful people and things). I am angry though that I married a man who only got to live a short life; that my children utter the phrase "I don't have a dad" to new kids they meet (of course despite me telling them the obvious contrary and giving them alternate responses---but they are too young and so are the kids they are talking to to understand any of it); angry that I have to raise my children without their father present in any way; angry that all the responsibility is placed on me. And I feel incapable at times and not up to the challenge because I have issues on my own to work out. I just don't know. I was definitely a work-in-progress before Joe died. My own problems didn't disappear that day. They are all still with me. And on top of them a lot more stuff that needs attention.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Six years ago at this time I was in a hospital room with my husband waiting for our second child to be born. Truthfully, "waiting" doesn't seem to be the right word.....it conjures up a peaceful-type scecario. Giving birth to Alyssa was faaaar from peaceful. I remember wondering what the doctors and nurses could do, short of kill me, to make it all stop. And then she was born. It was fast (relatively speaking) and furious. And then I was alone in the room for a long time.
When Luke was born I had time to admire him with Joe for a few minutes before they took him away to weigh him and clean him up. With Alyssa, I did not even see her, they whisked her away, and then everyone was gone. Everyone. I really didn't think much about it at the time until nurses started coming in and saying "don't worry, everything is fine" which of course made me think "what do you mean, everything is fine"?... So then I was worried. After what I think was over an hour, Joe came back in the room, and soon after that Alyssa did too. She seemed fine and being completely exhausted I didn't focus on what happened during that time until much later. Weeks and months later I would ask Joe what exactly went on during that time and he always got a particular look on his face. The most I ever got out of him was that Alyssa was having trouble breathing and they were trying to clear the fluid from her lungs. But it went on for a long time. There are literally no topics that I can think of that I had trouble getting information out of Joe about. I asked a gazillion questions and he answered all of them. We talked about everything. But this topic was different for some reason and he said very, very little. I could never put my finger on why this topic of conversation felt different or what he might not be telling me. I just will never know.
On this day when Alyssa was born, my heart aches so deeply. For me, Luke and Alyssa's birthdays at a very basic level are 100% about Joe and I. They were born from our love and after 9 months, we were together, bringing them into the world. I feel so desperately sad Joe is not here to see his daughter turn 6. It all hurts. I am envious of parents who watch their kids blow out their candles with nothing but happiness in their hearts. For me there is happiness, yes, and a feeling of gratefulness, yes, but always, always mixed with deep sadness- just below the surface- of what is missing.
I don't know exactly what happened in that room when they took Alyssa away. Only her daddy knows and surely would remember if he were here. He spent her first hour alive with her, as her only parent watching over her.
Alyssa's birthday has been on my mind in another way for quite some time. Ironically, it makes me think of Luke. He had just turned 6 when I sat in front of him and told him that his daddy died. Alyssa's birthday makes me feel so aware of where she is in her childhood developmentally, and where Luke was. She's just a little girl. Luke was just a little boy. What awful news to get as a child. What an understatement. No way to process what they've just been told. No way to make sense of how it will change their lives. No way to even know what they have lost.
We had Alyssa's party and gifts and festivities yesterday. In her mind her birthday is pretty much over, a done deal. But today is truly the day. This morning as she was sitting at the island waiting for her toast, I walked to her and looked at her sweet face for a minute and then said "Happy Birthday". A smile came over her face as she was reminded that today is indeed her "real" special day. After another minute of looking at her I said "I love you". To her it was a fleeting special quiet moment between her and I, and then the rest of the day goes on. For me, something else.
.
.
.
When Luke was born I had time to admire him with Joe for a few minutes before they took him away to weigh him and clean him up. With Alyssa, I did not even see her, they whisked her away, and then everyone was gone. Everyone. I really didn't think much about it at the time until nurses started coming in and saying "don't worry, everything is fine" which of course made me think "what do you mean, everything is fine"?... So then I was worried. After what I think was over an hour, Joe came back in the room, and soon after that Alyssa did too. She seemed fine and being completely exhausted I didn't focus on what happened during that time until much later. Weeks and months later I would ask Joe what exactly went on during that time and he always got a particular look on his face. The most I ever got out of him was that Alyssa was having trouble breathing and they were trying to clear the fluid from her lungs. But it went on for a long time. There are literally no topics that I can think of that I had trouble getting information out of Joe about. I asked a gazillion questions and he answered all of them. We talked about everything. But this topic was different for some reason and he said very, very little. I could never put my finger on why this topic of conversation felt different or what he might not be telling me. I just will never know.
On this day when Alyssa was born, my heart aches so deeply. For me, Luke and Alyssa's birthdays at a very basic level are 100% about Joe and I. They were born from our love and after 9 months, we were together, bringing them into the world. I feel so desperately sad Joe is not here to see his daughter turn 6. It all hurts. I am envious of parents who watch their kids blow out their candles with nothing but happiness in their hearts. For me there is happiness, yes, and a feeling of gratefulness, yes, but always, always mixed with deep sadness- just below the surface- of what is missing.
I don't know exactly what happened in that room when they took Alyssa away. Only her daddy knows and surely would remember if he were here. He spent her first hour alive with her, as her only parent watching over her.
Alyssa's birthday has been on my mind in another way for quite some time. Ironically, it makes me think of Luke. He had just turned 6 when I sat in front of him and told him that his daddy died. Alyssa's birthday makes me feel so aware of where she is in her childhood developmentally, and where Luke was. She's just a little girl. Luke was just a little boy. What awful news to get as a child. What an understatement. No way to process what they've just been told. No way to make sense of how it will change their lives. No way to even know what they have lost.
We had Alyssa's party and gifts and festivities yesterday. In her mind her birthday is pretty much over, a done deal. But today is truly the day. This morning as she was sitting at the island waiting for her toast, I walked to her and looked at her sweet face for a minute and then said "Happy Birthday". A smile came over her face as she was reminded that today is indeed her "real" special day. After another minute of looking at her I said "I love you". To her it was a fleeting special quiet moment between her and I, and then the rest of the day goes on. For me, something else.
.
.
.
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