Reading another widow's blog, I have realized what I have been trying to put into words yet could not so eloquently find the words in my soul to put it all together.
http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/2012/05/language-of-grief.html
She went spiraling into the world of widowhood a week before I made my grand entrance onto the red carpet.
The essence, it's emotionally dividing to talk about grief and joy in the same life. You struggle to not want to disgrace and water down the love and joy you had. Everything is tainted by the glasses of death and loss yet you have a drive to live, to love, to have joy and fulfillment...connection. And, truly our loved ones on the other side want that.
By the way, SSLF (Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation), the source through which this particular blog was posted, is absolutely fantastic!!
http://www.sslf.org/
I didn't do much more than blog stalk this site at first...but eventually I emailed a few widows, commented on their blogs, asked them questions.
And I felt normal.
It's a great venue for finding help, finding insight and finding resources. If you know a widow...send this link along!! After Chris died, I found out there are wonderful resources for widows...if you are older or military. The only community I found of younger widows...stay at home moms, moms with younger kids was online.
Last night I watched a news story about a club for tall people... everyone should have a place where they can define themselves by something other than the thing which seems to overwhelmingly define them.
Widowhood is my badge. It's my journey. It's my story.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Surround Yourself With Love
Literally.
Yesterday was spent attempting to finish up photo books for the kids about their daddy. I have pictures spanning his lifetime and captions about the events and places. I want something physical to be left should I not be there to tell them. They are simply snippets and perhaps for me it's for my peace of mind but I wanted each to have their own copy to look at, remember and refer to. It's a project I started a week after Chris died and have tried to tackle several times without success. The task was too heavy, the pictures in mass a painful hole in my heart.
Alone in the house yesterday I was going to get a hold on the cleaning and instead thought, today is it. I'm doing it. Ha! Only ha because it took 90 minutes to comb through a box to find a specific picture only to discover it wasn't there. Despite this set back I finished finding pictures, uploaded them and worked furiously on the book. It's still not complete, but I'm working!!
At one point I had to stop to get Maya from preschool. On the way home we chatted about school and I told her about the book I was making. On the way in I grabbed two giant stacks of pictures which we had set aside for the slide show at Chris' memorial and Maya asked to see them. She sat on the living room floor and took out the first stack while I ran upstairs.
Walking back into the living room, my breath caught and my eyes filled with salty tears as I reminded myself to breathe.
There she was, diligently going about her labor of love. My gut response was to put them away, but really, this is her love, her journey and though painful for me, it was so sweet and so innocent.
Maya went through pictures and talked about ones she remembered, asked about others she did not all the while surrounding herself with the memories of a world that seems so far removed.
At one point I asked if she would like to make any drawings to include in our book project of memories she had. She sadly put her chin down and said "I don't remember much." I've never heard her say this and sadly, I know it's true. I do know, however, that once we start talking, memories return about events and places we have been and relief sets in.
Maya spent the next 3 hours drawing pictures then continued for another after dinner and returned to it again this morning. They started with just her and daddy, went on to a camping trip we took the summer before he died and then they evolved to this alternate world where Riley knows daddy or Pickachu goes shopping with daddy.
There it is, this other universe in which Chris exists and in which memories are blurred with reality. {sigh}
Yesterday was spent attempting to finish up photo books for the kids about their daddy. I have pictures spanning his lifetime and captions about the events and places. I want something physical to be left should I not be there to tell them. They are simply snippets and perhaps for me it's for my peace of mind but I wanted each to have their own copy to look at, remember and refer to. It's a project I started a week after Chris died and have tried to tackle several times without success. The task was too heavy, the pictures in mass a painful hole in my heart.
Alone in the house yesterday I was going to get a hold on the cleaning and instead thought, today is it. I'm doing it. Ha! Only ha because it took 90 minutes to comb through a box to find a specific picture only to discover it wasn't there. Despite this set back I finished finding pictures, uploaded them and worked furiously on the book. It's still not complete, but I'm working!!
At one point I had to stop to get Maya from preschool. On the way home we chatted about school and I told her about the book I was making. On the way in I grabbed two giant stacks of pictures which we had set aside for the slide show at Chris' memorial and Maya asked to see them. She sat on the living room floor and took out the first stack while I ran upstairs.
Walking back into the living room, my breath caught and my eyes filled with salty tears as I reminded myself to breathe.
There she was, diligently going about her labor of love. My gut response was to put them away, but really, this is her love, her journey and though painful for me, it was so sweet and so innocent.
Maya went through pictures and talked about ones she remembered, asked about others she did not all the while surrounding herself with the memories of a world that seems so far removed.
At one point I asked if she would like to make any drawings to include in our book project of memories she had. She sadly put her chin down and said "I don't remember much." I've never heard her say this and sadly, I know it's true. I do know, however, that once we start talking, memories return about events and places we have been and relief sets in.
Maya spent the next 3 hours drawing pictures then continued for another after dinner and returned to it again this morning. They started with just her and daddy, went on to a camping trip we took the summer before he died and then they evolved to this alternate world where Riley knows daddy or Pickachu goes shopping with daddy.
There it is, this other universe in which Chris exists and in which memories are blurred with reality. {sigh}
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Good Reads
Today has been occupied by trying to kick this stuff clogging my head and the nighttime cold meds I took last night which make me feel like I'm seriously drugged up. On top of that, I was perusing Good Reads and general book club websites for a book; it's my month to choose and holy cow, there is pressure!!
I digress...
I have been on and off Good Reads but really simply forget to enter books in...though really I thought I had so maybe I have multiple accounts? Hmmmpf....
As I stopped onto Good Reads I decided to enter a couple recent books in and one was Good Grief by Lolly Winston. I rated it and wrote a review then scrolled down to check out other reviews. Lots of excellent reviews and then the words "As a widow" caught my eye. Red flag, red flag, Sabrina. Stop reading.
The woman talked about the impossibility of the woman doing so well at the end of the first year and at the closing of the novel.
I rolled my eyes and then caught myself.
Yes, it was impossible for this reviewer to be in the position to feel as though she was doing "that well at the end of the first year" because this journey, as is life's journey, a personal, individually paced journey. My thought is, open your heart and your mind to the possibility. I understand so many view relationships within the first year of a spouse's death as disrespectful to the deceased and irresponsible of the widow or widower. I wondered if Chris would feel disrespected by my attempt to gage my journey as well as my ability to feel a connection to another person, truly I know he would not. So much prayer and self contemplation went in to these steps. So much.....
We all have our own pace in life. Relationships begun in the first year have many caverns and shadows to explore. They require patience, understanding, love, and recognition. The deceased will always have a place in the family. They will always be a parent to the children and the love they had and their place in the family is imperative to remember. I'm not sure, however, if it is exclusive to first year relationships; I believe it is significant to all widow relationships. I suppose I believe care must be taken in a fast paced relationship, as well as in a slow paced journey of self discovery after a spouse's death. Either journey has it's joys as well as it's caverns.
I'm always bothered by these proclamations because truly, I would never do anything to disrespect Chris, our life, his memory or the lives of his children.
Perhaps she couldn't imagine it, but I can and I love this truth.
I digress...
I have been on and off Good Reads but really simply forget to enter books in...though really I thought I had so maybe I have multiple accounts? Hmmmpf....
As I stopped onto Good Reads I decided to enter a couple recent books in and one was Good Grief by Lolly Winston. I rated it and wrote a review then scrolled down to check out other reviews. Lots of excellent reviews and then the words "As a widow" caught my eye. Red flag, red flag, Sabrina. Stop reading.
The woman talked about the impossibility of the woman doing so well at the end of the first year and at the closing of the novel.
I rolled my eyes and then caught myself.
Yes, it was impossible for this reviewer to be in the position to feel as though she was doing "that well at the end of the first year" because this journey, as is life's journey, a personal, individually paced journey. My thought is, open your heart and your mind to the possibility. I understand so many view relationships within the first year of a spouse's death as disrespectful to the deceased and irresponsible of the widow or widower. I wondered if Chris would feel disrespected by my attempt to gage my journey as well as my ability to feel a connection to another person, truly I know he would not. So much prayer and self contemplation went in to these steps. So much.....
We all have our own pace in life. Relationships begun in the first year have many caverns and shadows to explore. They require patience, understanding, love, and recognition. The deceased will always have a place in the family. They will always be a parent to the children and the love they had and their place in the family is imperative to remember. I'm not sure, however, if it is exclusive to first year relationships; I believe it is significant to all widow relationships. I suppose I believe care must be taken in a fast paced relationship, as well as in a slow paced journey of self discovery after a spouse's death. Either journey has it's joys as well as it's caverns.
I'm always bothered by these proclamations because truly, I would never do anything to disrespect Chris, our life, his memory or the lives of his children.
Perhaps she couldn't imagine it, but I can and I love this truth.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The House
The day Chris died it was a cocoon, a productive cover of wood which made me both claustrophobic and comforted.
To this home I brought both of my babies home to our family. I had dreams and hopes. Made memories, too many to hold on to. Felt confident that this home would be the setting of so many memories, the foundation of my family.
In the course of a single hour this house became a shadow of what I thought it would be.
It's been difficult to say and few have heard me address the issue because of the emotional gravity of the topic.
I was supposed to make a plethora of happy memories here. I was supposed to one day come to the conclusion we had outgrown the home and needed to move on. I was supposed to look over the house with a tear in my eye, remembering the happy and looking forward to the future.
I need out.
This house and all it held for me now feels like it holds me hostage. I love this house but it haunts me.
Tonight I crouched to help Owen potty while half asleep and glanced into the shower to envision Chris and for a moment I wondered what his last moment was like and recalled yelling at him to not leave his children, his head rested on the corner of the bathtub.
I wander the house, the yard and recall amazing memories. The bathroom haunts me. I refused to allow myself to avoid the space. I used it that day. It took a few weeks to shower there but I did. I spent hours remodeling the room in order to reclaim the space. Reclaiming the space did not allow me to reclaim the space in my psyche.
I find myself replaying the events moment by moment as I shampoo my hair. I tell myself to stop, it's morbid, it's painful, it's unproductive. I force myself to remember happy. I force myself to remember that Chris would have hated that he died in that way...that he died at all. As I run my brush through my hair with the hot air blowing, I recall his clothes still behind the door, the laundry basket filled with work clothes, standing in the bathtub fully clothed the day after Chris' death trying to remember what had happened the day before, hearing the operator tell me to pull all 240lbs wet lbs of Chris out of the tub and looking incredulously at the phone.
We've been talking about moving. We won't until fall, should we be able to figure out how to pull it all together. Like dominos so many things need to come together. One of them is getting married. I would rather sell this house but I am upside down in the loan and paying to get out would take up too much of the savings and selling it as a short sale wouldn't allow me to be on a new loan which we need in order to get out of this house.
I sat on the deck tonight enjoying the light breeze, excited about the work we have been putting into the back yard. We've removed the back deck cover I have hated since I set foot in this house. I love it!! There is finally a breeze on the deck and through the back door. The large garden has been weeded, matted and barked. It looks fabulous! I love the yard. My kids love the yard. Can I just live in the yard? Nobody died in the yard.
At first I was determined to gut it out. I could do it. I wouldn't show weakness. I was going to reclaim it. I've come to realize no amount of reclaiming, writing, blogging, talking will reclaim the venue of the greatest tragedy of my life.
So what to do?
I need out. The replay of events is running my brain ragged.
To this home I brought both of my babies home to our family. I had dreams and hopes. Made memories, too many to hold on to. Felt confident that this home would be the setting of so many memories, the foundation of my family.
In the course of a single hour this house became a shadow of what I thought it would be.
It's been difficult to say and few have heard me address the issue because of the emotional gravity of the topic.
I was supposed to make a plethora of happy memories here. I was supposed to one day come to the conclusion we had outgrown the home and needed to move on. I was supposed to look over the house with a tear in my eye, remembering the happy and looking forward to the future.
I need out.
This house and all it held for me now feels like it holds me hostage. I love this house but it haunts me.
Tonight I crouched to help Owen potty while half asleep and glanced into the shower to envision Chris and for a moment I wondered what his last moment was like and recalled yelling at him to not leave his children, his head rested on the corner of the bathtub.
I wander the house, the yard and recall amazing memories. The bathroom haunts me. I refused to allow myself to avoid the space. I used it that day. It took a few weeks to shower there but I did. I spent hours remodeling the room in order to reclaim the space. Reclaiming the space did not allow me to reclaim the space in my psyche.
I find myself replaying the events moment by moment as I shampoo my hair. I tell myself to stop, it's morbid, it's painful, it's unproductive. I force myself to remember happy. I force myself to remember that Chris would have hated that he died in that way...that he died at all. As I run my brush through my hair with the hot air blowing, I recall his clothes still behind the door, the laundry basket filled with work clothes, standing in the bathtub fully clothed the day after Chris' death trying to remember what had happened the day before, hearing the operator tell me to pull all 240lbs wet lbs of Chris out of the tub and looking incredulously at the phone.
We've been talking about moving. We won't until fall, should we be able to figure out how to pull it all together. Like dominos so many things need to come together. One of them is getting married. I would rather sell this house but I am upside down in the loan and paying to get out would take up too much of the savings and selling it as a short sale wouldn't allow me to be on a new loan which we need in order to get out of this house.
I sat on the deck tonight enjoying the light breeze, excited about the work we have been putting into the back yard. We've removed the back deck cover I have hated since I set foot in this house. I love it!! There is finally a breeze on the deck and through the back door. The large garden has been weeded, matted and barked. It looks fabulous! I love the yard. My kids love the yard. Can I just live in the yard? Nobody died in the yard.
At first I was determined to gut it out. I could do it. I wouldn't show weakness. I was going to reclaim it. I've come to realize no amount of reclaiming, writing, blogging, talking will reclaim the venue of the greatest tragedy of my life.
So what to do?
I need out. The replay of events is running my brain ragged.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)