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.
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