Focusing....a few weeks late

*  I originally wrote this a month ago, but like all of my writing these days, it sat in draft form til it was outdated *

Last week, sitting in front of a class of first graders, I silently pleaded with the document camera to focus. Focus so that no more sticky 6 year old hands would shoot into the air so the innocent eyed owner could declare that the words were blurry again, and again, and again.....  It didn't focus.  Up shot 24 anxious little hands.

Fast forward to today where I am trying to push the focus button on my life....and on the thoughts coming out of my head.  Instead of crisp, detailed words, I'm battling a blur of unkept emotion streaming from an unclear series of events.

Pre Sabrina, didn't believe in signs.  Post, I believe strongly in signs.  Some may view it as a stretch to find connection with those who have moved beyond our human existence.  Perhaps that's true.  Perhaps it's a way for the psyche to deal with empty and new.    Many know of a moment I woke up in the midst of some extraordinarily trying times, 'hearing' Chris' voice.  Urging me to listen.  I didn't.  I. Did. Not.  I did not understand how imperative listening could be.  Back tracking....after Chris died I felt him, his being, in my house for days after.  I felt him on my skin, in my heart, holding onto my spirit.  Until one morning, I woke and he had slipped away-again.  It wasn't that I let go.  Surely it wouldn't be because he wanted to go.  Absolutely, it was time for me to begin taking steps forward, toward the life I needed to create.  As long as he held me I wouldn't have moved.  I would have stood motionless in those moments, afraid his spirit would be shaken free by sudden movements.  He helped me begin my road toward the immense crevasse of grief which would eventually lead toward my own healing. And, yes, once again, I hesitate to realize the involvement of my own psyche here. Yet, now, I listen.  Intently. Often my signs are found on the radio, a commercial, the music playing in the background of a busy bar.  Sure, it could be coincidence.  However, in my heart, I hear his affirmation and guidance in these moments. Most recently, I heard a song playing on Maya's IPad as she sat at the kitchen counter.  My heart had been heavy as I sorted through some of life's....life-i-ess.  I hadn't heard the song in years and as it played the tears stung behind my eyes and my heart was heavy.  In that moment, in those tears, I found my footing.   Perhaps the whole encounter sounds religious.  For me, it's spiritual and just plain human.  In the past 6 months, I've opened my eyes more to these moments, savored the affirmation on my heart and smiled more got many reasons...

What's amusing to me is that, despite all off this, often, I find myself adding a disclaimer to Chris' death.  We were 'only' married 5 1/2 years.  We were 'only' together for 8 years.  Only.  Meaning that his death meant less than had I lost him after 10 or 20 or 50 years.  There in is the catch.  Fifty years was what I had intended.  In the balance of life I've fought the idea of the loss as a failure.  Despite this, I would choose that path every time.  I would choose that loss every time.  I would choose my life, as chaotic and heavy, full and rewarding, every damn time.  Even the tears.  Who knew I'd become such a crier.  It's seriously a bit silly at times.

As a most recent bystander to loss, it has amazed me how deeply I feel for another's grief.  My own scars apparent as I navigate the perfect words to say or the perfect way to help.  But, there is no perfect.   I find myself drawn into the abyss of reassuring that life will resume as it once did, but in reality it never will.  Obligations remain, life's players stay the same, yet nothing resumes as it once was.  Grief so grossly violates the path of life and forces you down the fork you would otherwise have ignored.

At the crux, easily I could see myself walking through life focused on how I was screwed, how I didn't react fast enough, how I doubt I'll ever quite be enough for my kids, how I've dealt with horribly narcissistic people the past 5 years.  In order to grow and allow space for happiness, I have to let go of the negative, of what's causing drag and leaving the taste of failure on my palate.  Truly, living is an awfully big adventure.  Focusing....

Weight of a Soul

Rain fell softly against the deck's plastic roof, echoing vaguely through my head.  The blades of grass, damp with rain, blending together into a dark green haze speckled with the remnants of fall. The agonizing scream echoed off the trees, penetrating the leaves as my brain registered the origin as my own trembling vocal chords.  Then it stopped and the silence of the day returned with the pattering of rain, while the scream secured itself in my soul, anchoring its conscious existence to my heart.

Then it registered, my capri pajama pants, the eggplant tank top from my last pregnancy, oversized WWU sweatshirt and my glasses.  Teeth and hair unbrushed.  And no bra.  Why didn't I put a bra on?

My bra, my contacts, a hair brush and clothes .  I need them to cover my naked vulnerability.  When your heart is ripped from your chest, that's what's left.  Naked, vulnerable and an unidentifiable emotion filling my chest so completely that it makes me feel empty.

I look at those around me but all I can see is him, collapsed in the shower, the signs of death which made my heart race.  I feel the hair on his chest as my trembling hands compress his heart, begging the blood to flow through his veins while my raspy voice counts loud enough to be heard by the calm, female voice on the other end of the line, my phone perched on the corner of the bathtub. The bathroom steam escapes into the rest of the house, death slipping down the stairs, a dense fog pervasive in every inch, overcoming everyone bound by its walls.  My prayers alternate between begging Chris to stay and pleading with God to keep my children innocent of the visual that is permeating my skin, affixing itself to the dark corners of my soul.

And then I'm back.  Explaining it all to myself.  Rationalizing the events as though there was no other way for them to transpire.  The ragged breath escaping my burning lungs as I suddenly realize I've been holding onto it for much to long in the exhausted grasp of my soul.  I laugh too, at the realization that I'm unsure about what to do with all of this except slip it back into the bifold files from whence I drew it.

Four years and the question that orbits in my psyche is what have I learned.

The self-deprecating, pitiful part of my soul says nothing.  Four years in and my heart is etched with mistrust and pain so deeply that the sinews of my old life hardly hold it together.  Perhaps insurance would call it a complete loss and I wonder if I carry enough coverage to replace the damaged pieces.  If only it were a flat needing repair. Perhaps that would make this ride smooth...a simple repair to the external vessel. However, in reality, the vessel is the least of my concerns.

Each day I expect my psyche to stop searching for him .  Instead my pulse races when a man, two machines over at the gym, looks up and I see an uncanny resemblance to Chris.  Sure that I am alarming him, I try to focus on my workout only to realize I'm staring again.  But what would I say? You look like my dead husband seems a smidge creepy.  I drive across town and see a truck identical to the one Chris owned when we first met and I almost miss my turn as my inner voice encourages me to follow, just in case.  In my house I grasp for the energy he left behind but my hands come up empty. In the life we once shared exists very little of him.  The life itself evolved out of necessity and even the position he once took pride in has been consumed by the void of what's left.

Starting from scratch.  Closing the book or turning the page.  Figuring out how much weight a soul can take.

I'd like to say, then a smile creeps onto my lips and I trust.  In fact, I typed that first but realized the lie that resonated in my words.  I will say there is a vast dichotomy in reality and expectation.  Despite this, life truly is a landscape smitten with steep mountains and palatial valleys.  Though I wish I could reverse the events of November 17, 2010, the blessing of being on this vast Earth and allowed to savor this life through my breathtaking children doesn't escape my soul.  Through them I hold on to everything that is authentic.

Call me...maybe?!?!

Call Me Maybe blared on the I Pad from the back seat of my filthy expedition, for the twenty or thirtieth time, as we journeyed back over pass, back to life-away from our twenty-four hour trek to the lake, the woods, the fresh air and friends who know our idiosyncrasies.  

I giggled as I pondered my current life and listened to my kids sing every lyric, wondering if they have any clue what they are singing about.

I laughed myself because returning to my house is an emotional process., which truly isn't funny-but aren't most of us happy to return to our sanctuaries?  So much sh** has gone down behind my green front door... last summer I was going to paint it orange.  I was under this delusion that the direction of my life would alter if the door I walked through each time I entered the wooden confines of my memories was painted a different color.  After contemplating this minor change one day, I shrugged and haven't looked at the paint can since.

Sometimes walking through this front door reminds me of all that has been here and all that has gone... sometimes the air feels heavy in my lungs and sometimes I merely glance around as the weight of the walls bear down.  

Call Me, Maybe?  maybe...  I probably won't answer.  If you are closely acquainted with me or my cell phone, you know that phone calls are scarce and texts are verbose.  When my phone rings my pulse quickens and I contemplate quickly tossing either my cookies or my phone out the closest window.  If I take the time to dial your number, answer.  It took a lot for me to call.....  It's possible a professional should address that.

Really though, the song caused a much deeper moment in the twenty-fourth repeat than I anticipated.

November 17th it will be 4 years since Chris earned his wings and I was thrust into widowhood.

A month ago was the one year mark of living as a single mom.....again, after my marriage self-destructed.

This was a year of self discovery, some self celebration as well as a healthy dose of self loathing.  Though I'm fiercely independent and find moments of solitude necessary in filling my own cup, I'm also missing the phone calls intended for me.  You know the ones, the daily check ins, the quick I loves yous.  Don't judge, just sayin'.  At the same time I've discovered that dating is not for the faint of heart but that's a story and a lesson in self to divulge another day.  I love fiercely, only let go with great difficulty and hold on to those who have held a place in my heart because they are few... is that a character flaw?

Ok...what's the point?  Right now, I'm not exactly sure what the point of this post or this moment is.

Sometimes it's about holding on, watching the horizon, slipping my hand into hope, loosening my grasp on things that need to breathe, and putting my sails up-hoping to catch the wind.  Sometimes it's about watching the storm approaching, hearing the wind coming high up in the trees and finding something to hold me at center.

Contemplating 38 years on this Earth, a new career, growing kids, singlehood, and the overbearing load of responsibility, I'm attempting to come up for air and take in the peace, the moments of joy, and release the sadness.

Where I used to write so freely, I now find the words stuck between my thoughts and my fingers in this place where emotions wash out to sea.

Here's to Truth

There are moments when eyes and heart deceive the brain to interject a false reality.  In those moments the spoken word of truth often dissipates the fogginess to reveal what is true despite the desperate attempts of the heart to shield itself from the certainty of desolation on the pages where it hurts to look.

Truth.

I'm getting divorced.  I've been getting divorced.  Finalization of dissolution is imminent.

Perhaps if you're reading this and you hadn't noticed the absence, your chin dropped.  More likely than not, you know or perhaps were at least mildly curious.  I don't air my dirty laundry on Facebook or spend my days creating a false pretense by which to slam those with whom I am no longer. Instead, this reality, like many others, was mine to keep and the future wishes of happiness sincere.

Even now, details are moot as the reality has crept into existence.

I wish no ill will and do not long to make anyone's life miserable or laden with rumors.  There is only truth and two people hold that key.  For the rest of you, I hope you hold love, compassion and hope.

I have found this truth difficult and lonely.  Fully does my brain realize this is my choice.  I made this choice with a thoughtful mind and heart, however, my heart doesn't always agree with my brain in moments when I am lost in my stark white reality and wishing for a softening of the blazing sun as it sets yet my heart is lost in vast, gulping sobs of pain causing an utter faintness in my breath.

Here's to truth.  Not a celebration of certainty but a step toward a softer reality.

1,095 days

One thousand, ninety-five days.

Last week I didn't want to get dressed.  My yoga pats were calling to me from their drawer and I succumbed to several days of rocking the mysterious, "I might be on my way to the gym" look.  I didn't recognize it immediately.  On Friday, day four of casual Friday, I realized the elephant was back.  Perched on my soul was grief.  Pesky grief, always sneaking on in even when I'm watching, even when I have been expecting her.

Of course, on Friday when she arrived and I acknowledged her presence, we became reacquainted with our daily routine.  She suggested I go about as if it were casual Friday and I suggested I should at least do my hair.  She encouraged me to stay in bed while I suggested perhaps I should clean up the book my dog thought he would shred while I was ironically at book club the night before.  You see Grief, she's a pest like that.  Always encouraging me to take a few steps back so when the right hook makes contact with my cheekbone, I'm completely rocked right off my feet.  Griefs kind of a bitch like that.

Milestones, anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, Wednesdays, 17's, Great Wolf Lodge, my niece's birthday, Thanksgiving planning, taking a shower, hearing the water running.  They all come back to haunt me when grief pays me a visit.  She's a bit of a dictator, trying to control my life.

Once I accepted her presence as necessary, it was time to take the walk.

I have retold myself the story of the morning Chris died thousands of times.  I've done it late at night in bed, while sitting in Maya's class sorting papers, at the doctor's office waiting for Owen to get stitches, while vacuuming the floor, while watching my kids coming down the waterslide at Great Wolf Lodge, on the flight to California.  The story has become part of many experiences since its actual happening.  It became my way of remembering as well as a method of numbing myself to the events.  At times when the reel in my head has come to the end, I stop in my tracks, shocked that the story is real.

If you're reading this, you probably already know the story.

So,here's what I know about the story now.

It's difficult to allow myself to release the guilt.  My heart knows it's not healthy.  My brain knows it's counterproductive.  But the guilt, though it has faded, still exists.  Would have, could have, should have.

Love doesn't die.

Those who sped to my rescue after my panicked phone calls on November 17, 2010, continue to come to my rescue physically, socially, emotionally.

As much as I have tried, the final image I have of Chris is seared into my soul.  As much as others tell me to replace it with happier images, it does not budge.  I loathe that his happy go lucky, laid back smile is replaced in my soul by an image I have described to very few.  Acting as the gatekeeper, few have come to understand the image as it exists in me.

As I continued to feel Chris' spirit and talk to him in the hours and days following his death, I still talk to and feel his occasional presence.  I hear his voice and pray for his hand in guiding the decisions I make and watching over the beautiful pieces of his heart that were left in my care.

The story, though heart breaking in its existence, never ends.  Chris lives on in my heart.  He lives on in the personality of a son who barely knew him.  He lives on through the devoted love of a daughter who asks often to be reminded of the man he was.  He lives on in the stinky old hound dog he just had to have 8 years ago, who now comforts my heart in the lonely nights. He lives on in this house that teeters between haunting my mortality and enveloping my heart with peace.  His spirit lives on because the love and essence in which he lived his life was so pure.

In the days following Chris' death, I couldn't sleep.  I was trying to rest at night on couch cushions arranged on the living room floor, unable to bear the sight of the bedroom we had once shared.  One of my best friends slept on the couch and my parents slept on an air mattress surrounding me.  My heart was in so much pain that the essence of my being felt empty and numb.  Then it happened, I woke up and felt my soul again, and with the searing pain, I had this song in my heart

Chris created an easy silence in my soul and kept the craziness of life and the world at a calm hum for me.  Today I remember you on the third anniversary of the day you earned your angel wings and pray you left this world knowing how adored you truly are.  Always.

Strength, panties and reminders

Strong.

Such a relative term. 

Is it emotional, physical, psychological, social, moral? 

Being strong is not always positive.

Nor it is always a choice.

And definitely it's not always deriving from a self determined life route.

Often I find strength to be the subject of conversation in my life.  Usually I toss back the idea that anyone has the ability to have strength in this given situation.  Truly, the alternative is melting into the universe and allowing your children to spiral out of control with no adult guidance to see them through.  Trust me, I've pondered the melting into the universe thing.  A rocket popscicle left on the back porch by a distracted toddler who comes back an hour later to find just the stick and a drippy, syrupy mess.  That idea really is just shot to pieces.  Screaming toddler, nasty mess, stick disposal.  Melting into the universe is clearly not easy.

Now this is sounding bitter.  Truly at the heart of this is that maybe being strong or having the strength to endure one's trials is not the compliment we all intend it to be.  While we are here, I might just lump looking good during a tedious, heart wrenching trial into this.

Looking Good.

I was afraid I would terrify my children with the pasty, dark eye circled, greasy haired, scatter brained mommy who emerged in the days following Chris' death.  (For heaven sakes I was mysteriously sleeping on the living room floor with one of my best friends and my parents.)  Truly we all know that make-up can clear most of that up in a jif.  When I was told I looked well, I would wonder if they were lying or if by some miracle my grief wasn't showing.  It's sort of like a nasty panty line or that unmistakable moment where you realize you can see the pattern of your panties through your pants.  No matter what you do in that moment, there they are, surprise!  Grief is the same.  

I digress....always.  Nasty, nasty habit.

I want each of you to look at yourself in the mirror and make note that if it were you, you would have done the same.  No, seriously.  You would not have stayed in bed.  You would not have lost your mind, I promise!  I'm not down playing my coping ability, I get that we each have our own way of dealing with things.  Nor am I necessarily boasting yours.  I'm merely saying, you too would promise yourself to not let the existence of your children spin out of control.  You would not let the world collapse around them or leave their fate to a Plinko board.  (Yeah I'm not sure what the Price is Right reference is all about, but I'm leaving it).  You would put one foot in front of the other, smile when socially appropriate, brush away the tears of your friends, tell everyone you are well, learn the strange way the widowed end up consoling their friends and family, breathe, try to remember to eat and try not to forget about what your life was like once upon a time ago.  You would.  That's why I am friends with you.  

But no worries, if you forget you can do this, I will remind you.  After all, you reminded me.

Srength and Courage

I'm opinionated.  I have trouble holding my tongue.  Eventually, I will comment.

Grief, however, is a subject I truly try to hold my tongue on. 

My grief has been commented on by so many.  I know, then, why the heck do I write a blog?  (Or maybe I should say, why did I since my updates are very outdated.)  My blog, I realized, resonated.  It explained, expanded on and gave life to feelings I couldn't explain in words thus allowing others to "see" my grief instead of just assuming I was strong.  I hated that comment.  You are so strong.  What the heck else could I be?  I digress.

Logically I know my experience has been analyzed, criticized and supported maybe not all at once, but essentially that's what I have felt.  I have read and heard harsh words that I will attempt to refrain from addressing and quite honestly I know others have been said that I have not been privy to.  Really, I try to take a "hope it never happens to you" attitude.  Not in a mean way, more in a, I don't want you to have this judgement or this pain or have to understand why I have made the choices I have.  I don't want anyone to know the crushing loss of a husband.  To stand on their back deck screaming into the rain as strangers look on from within their house.   

Ok, here it is.  My Point.

Watching grief from afar is interesting.  An acquaintance died suddenly last fall leaving her husband and two small children.  Another acquaintance from high school died after an ongoing illness leaving a husband and small son.

Mostly I have watched these experiences unfold and transform with a prayer on my breath and beams of strength being sent into the universe from my heart.  Reading and thinking about their experiences made me sob.  The mere act of watching from afar has made me cognizant of many things but really, mostly it has made much more clear to me the experience had by others who are not truly at the epicenter of the death but who are close by.  They are the people suffering greatly, trying to support those at the epicenter yet navigate their own life challenges as presented by the death of this loved one.  

This morning I read a brief post from a widower who has decided to date.  He commented that many won't understand.  All I could think was, "ain't that the truth."

It was a difficult desire to explain and defend (at times).  Then it made me angry I should even have to defend it.  I'm not crazy, I never was.  I never put myself or my children in harms way.  I was vocal about my grief, I was processing and reprocessing.  I was reading and trying to lead my children.  I was honest.  I was angry when people around me doubted my ability to navigate.  Now I wonder what they saw, what they felt.  At the time, all I could think about was that I was the one who was here.  Chris was gone and now it was time to support me.  Chris had God on his side, he no longer needed the loyalty of friends and family.

A little too simplistic, I know.  And wildly harsh.  

Now, I get it a little better.  Everyone needs to have their grief experience honored and acknowledged.  It's hard to understand anothers grief because you just are not them and purely are not meant to understand.   

Truly I was lucky that in all of it I only had two real fall outs...ugly, drag out, mean word fall outs.  Sadly, I will admit I haven't forgiven the hurtful words but do hope they both have had their opportunity to move through their own personal journeys.  Grief is debilitating and harsh judgement is sometimes the fall out of that reality. 

Perhaps this is point number two.  Life is hard.  It's our job to look at those in our world and acknowledge that their journey is important too.  Strive to support and love everyone through their own journey.  Acknowledge that everyone reaches their destination in a different manner and via their own path but no matter what, it is what is right for them.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. -Lao Tzu

Arrival

It arrived so suddenly though I had expected it, waited for it with an anxious heart.

At the moment it arrived, I wasn't ready.  My mind tried to tune it out, change the path, avoid the destination.  I was waiting but I was not ready.

"I don't want you to go to heaven."  My kiddo sat trying to hold back tears with tiny sausage fingers.

Did that give it away to any of you?  Owen.

Me:  "I'm not going to heaven sweetie, I am staying here with you to be your mommy,"

Owen:  "But I was a baby once and I had a daddy that I loved and he went to heaven."

Yes, I gasped too.

I gasped so audibly that the air in the room rushed into my heart and opened the wound that I have spent much time tediously mending into a usable condition.

Owen's tiny little sausage fingers almost clawed at his eyes that were brimming with tears.  He was sad.  So simple.  In that moment I couldn't help but wonder why he felt the need to cover the crying.

We talked honestly about heaven, about his daddy, about being sad.  I told tiny fibs about staying here with him forever.  I sent out silent prayers to God that he make that part true. Really I begged.  It's my nightmare.  Nothing can happen to me.  Not now.  No cancer, no car accident, no ailment I can't cure with Tylenol and a nap.  Nothing.

Crushing is the weight of that conversation.

The follow up...I knew it was coming.  And it did.  On the next night.

Perhaps it's the song I sing at bed time, on his request.  We call it Serenade.  The Dixie Chicks call it Lullyby.  The lyrics ask, "How long do you want to be loved?  Is forever enough because I'm never, never giving you up."

Never giving up.  That's sort of my motto.  Hours after Chris died, I vowed I would not let this world fall down on them.  I would never give up.   

The follow up went a bit like this, Owen: "I'm sad.  I want my daddy here not in heaven. I love my daddy."

Me too buddy.

I do what mommy's do.  I reassured my sweet boy that his daddy loves him so much, that his daddy watches over him, that we can still love people who are in heaven and they love us in return and we feel it.

It's as simple as that.  The arrival of feeling.  Previously it was all fact.  Daddy is dead.  Daddy's heart was not working right and nobody knew it.  The associated feelings are now present in the mind and heart of my little man.

It's in this moment I recall the conversation with a friend who lost her mom at a very young age.  Her insight.. grief is evolving.  We grieve and re-grieve in different ways over time depending on circumstance and age.  I knew it was true by simply living the past 2 1/2 years watching Maya's every word, every nightmare, every story.  But Owen had yet to arrive.  His arrival has rocked my boat and made me question my ability to steady three ships in the storm of grief.   

The arrival of Owen's grief, I was waiting but I was not ready.  

  

Often I find myself mentally transcribing what I would write should I actually find myself sitting in front of my computer with a moment to spare.

Tonight I would have written about Chris' panic every time Maya split her lip open as a toddler (which was pretty close to daily til she was 2) and how I would calmly step in.  He would always ask how I was so calm with so much blood.  Tonight she split her lip and there was tons of drippity droppity blood.   

Last week my post would have been about Maya's nightmares, which have started again.... Last week she was terrified screaming "Run Owen, Run.  Hurry, Run!"  I will be honest.  I couldn't get myself to ask what she was dreaming about.  Big fail.  I didn't want to know.  I'm too often haunted by the dreams Chris had about Owen just before his death. 

Two weeks ago my post would have sweetly remembered the moment I said "I, do."  The declaration which has lead me on this whirl wind adventure of life I had never even remotely imagined. 

In March I perhaps would have told you about the fabulous La Faux and how for just a moment in the midst of drag queens and acrobats I couldn't help think of all the amazing restaurants Chris loved on Capitol Hill.

My point.

I need to write. 

It's cathartic.  It's hard.  At times I have no words for my feelings. 

Grief is every present, in differing degrees and involving a wide range of experiences and characters.  But it's there.  Some times it slips by like a whisper from the lips while during other moments it's the explosion of symbols, impossible to ignore.

Grief.

10.17.2012

I don't know how others do it...make it through these days.

Yesterday my head ached so badly that I convinced Maya to skip movie night at school to stay home and make cookies.  The thought of a gym full of exuberant kids made me feel nauseous.

It was painful.  It was grief.  My body ached.  I spent the day longing to lay in the cool sheets of my bed.

In the aftermath, two years ago, I forced every footstep, made my legs keep moving, willed my mind to keep going.  It's hard for me to stop, to step back, to give myself true space when I need it.

It makes me feel weak.

I know it's just in my mind.

But I've arrived, feeling weak, raw, vulnerable.  I hate it.  It feels disorganized and difficult to complete grasp.

In this moment I secretly feel vaguely proud.  Proud that I am doing it.  Proud that I have moments of weakness.  Proud that my feet keep moving and I keep doing my best.  Proud of who I am and hopeful of who I will become.

Today I will relive it over and over.  The sights, the smells, the sound.  The conversations will float back to me.  The phone calls.  My dad.  My sister in law.  The 911 operator.  The ones I overheard to my sister, my brother-in-law, my friends.  And the ones I imagined, to Chris' best friend....

No I probably won't talk to anyone about it.

My mind is so full of thoughts yet so empty of structure.  Writing is easy.  Speaking, is impossible.

Two year ago my husband died.  He was my friend, my chosen companion, the amazing father to our two precious children.  He was one of the people I respected most in this world.  He had experienced so much and brought extreme peace into my life.  He was full of love, laughter, intelligence and had a wicked streak of goofiness.

In my mind I hear his voice.  In my heart I feel his love.  In my world I feel his influence, encouraging me to keep going, to keep evolving, to accept my faults and to hope for the future.

Rest in Peace Christopher Michael Carpenter.

I will remember, always, always always,     

White Knuckling It

Two years.      730 days.    17520 hours.

These anniversaries become glass half full sorts of events.  Ok, truthfully grief is an honest look at the empty glass with feeble attempts at seeing it half full.  

Two years of head spinning, life changing events.  Freeing and overwhelming all at the same time. 

Two years of grasping at hope, holding on to faith and surreptitiously drinking in the love that surrounds me.

What's difficult about anniversaries like this is feeling in step, in sync with the last hours you had on this earth.  In these moments I can feel you close.  I sit looking up the stairs you walked up just minutes before you collapsed and see in you my minds eye as if it happened only moments before.  I wonder if I quickly walk over if I will see your footprints imprinted on the carpet.

In these final hours I open the cupboard for a glass and the mug that you left, half full of coffee on the bathroom counter screams to me, begging me touch it as if it would still be warm from your touch.

I was annoyed you were taking so long in the shower.  

I close the bathroom door and see your red Cougar Camp shirt and Addidas shorts in a pile and reach for them only to realize they have long since been packed away.   

The dampness on the floor of the bathtub coating my socks as I leaned over you leave my feet cold.  I can hear the water running, my sleeved soaked from reaching through to turn it off.   

My heartbeat loud in my ears.  The rapid breaths escaping my body.  My hands on your chest, awkwardly pressing your body into the ground.  My words to you sounding like a lifetime movie.  Please don't leave your kids.  They need you....

My heart willing Maya to stay in the living room despite my frantic phone call on speaker and Owen's cries watching my chaos, my counting... 39, 40, 41 and then the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

But I see you and I know the truth.  You weren't leaving, you were gone. 

In my head it sounds unfamiliar, like someone else's story but I can feel it in my bones.

They ache.  Grief isn't just sadness...tears, depression.  It's the heavy down quilt, warm yet suffocating.  Alternating feelings of nausea and despondency.  Agony, anguish, desolation, despair.  A sickly sweet wretchedness oozing, sticky, messy.  Disorganized.

It's what I hate about grief the most.  It's disorganized, unpredictable. 

Now I yearn for you to know Maya and Owen.  She was barely writing the letters for her name when you died and now she's reading books, doing math, writing sentences.  Owen could speak only a handful of words and now he's "reading" me whole books he has memorized, counting to 30, spelling his name, making us all laugh.  They ride bikes, roller skate, play elaborate make believe games and are always looking for warm arms to snuggle in.

There lives and enormous pressure in my heart driving me to remember everything.  Your personality, your voice, your laughter, the way you moved through a room, how we were as a family.  But its so much and I feel overwhelmed.  The more I try to remember the more I feel slip from my hands.

I have not dreaded the days leading up to this anniversary though they have clouded my mind and engulfed my energy but am fearing the memories of the aftermath.  With few exceptions those days are foggy and full of nothing more but attempting to continue moving, breathing, feeling.

It's with this I look around and wonder if you are here.  I long for affirmation that you are fine.  I search for signs that you are close.  While others dream full, animated, colorful, lucid dreams, I wake up blank and are left with wonder about your final destination.

on the calendar

There is so much to say and truly by not posting in order I will need to go back and fill in the beautiful details of my life but as the inkling creeps up, pushing me to blog it usually is about the stress.  Don't get me wrong, my life is filled with so much beauty.  Unfortunately beauty and peace don't require cathartic writing to process fully.  They just are because they are beautiful.  It's the ugly, uncomfortable feelings that I need out into the abyss of written words to completely analyze, turn over and process.

For the past two weeks, the monster has been there...the two thousand pound elephant trying to remain invisible in the room.  Really I feel like he just sort of follows me. As we started a new school year there were so many people I feel I needed to "let in" on our family as well as ones I felt the need to warn.  Not every parent is ready to have their child come home asking about death. 

I opened my calendar a few weeks ago to put my niece's birthday party down and took a deep breath, then realized I was taking a deep breath.

My calendar is very different now...it's electronic and not just the free WPZ calendar hanging in my kitchen.  It contains pick ups and drop offs for Riley.  It documents days of kindergarten and preschool and social security deposits.  All things foreign two years ago. 

The words...Sarah's birthday.  Pumpkin Patch.  Halloween.  Charissa's Birthday.  Thanksgiving.  dot my calendar in an unintentionally suffocating manner.  With them I have memories like a slide show float through my mind.  For moments I remember the days leading up to it. 

I'm a believer in signs.  If you read my blog in "the beginning", you know I was looking for them behind every door, in ever dark corner and really felt quite empty handed.  It took a few months for me to decide my signs were much more simple. 

I left the pumpkin patch today, soaking wet, driving to our next stop and saw a beautiful rainbow.  The colors so vivid.  Just as I thought we would catch it, that the pot of Gold would be in the field next to us, it would move.  But in this rainbow I found a moment of peace, a feeling of hope, a hand of comfort telling me that life is as it should be and that despite it all, my heart can rest.  Telling me that even though he is gone, illusive, just out of reach, he is always there watching over us. 

My signs have never been big.  I haven't had dreams so vivid I woke thinking they were real.  I rely on smaller signs.  The week Chris died he told me about this song he heard on the radio that he wanted to put on his IPod by Kings of Leon.  When I catch a chord of that song, I say Hi.  Coincidences?  Probably  but in my psychological schema I use them to find peace, to make a connection to my grief and to smile. 

As I watched Maya and Owen at the pumpkin patch today I couldn't help but catch my breath at how much they have grown.  This past week I ran across a copy of  Chris' obituary in the filing cabinet and sat down to read it.  It's sad... are there more eloquent words to say that?  What struck me most were the words about the bond between Chris and Maya.  It makes me wonder if she would be a different kid if she still had that.  Obvious things would be different but I look at her anxieties and sigh...and wonder, why my babies?  Really, my connection to them is crazy... Since Chris died, every time I look at them across the room, cuddle in bed or simple touch their cheeks, an electricity bursts inside of me and I feel toward them something I had not felt ever.  My bond to them carries me through and pushes me to do more, be more and become more than I had ever imagined..

Birthdays

This has been a crazy few weeks.

Three birthdays in 6 days....Owen, Riley then Shaun.

Three "home" parties and one bounce house combined party for the littles.

I was partied out.

Birthdays are such a milestone for me.  I feel like I have accomplished something with every birthday I celebrate for one of my children.  It entails loads of memories.  Pregnancy, labor, birthing, sleepy newborn days.  It's the realization of how much my children have grown.

It's the pain of realizing how much time has passed.  Owen has aged 20 months since Chris died.  His vocabulary has grown by thousands of words.  Though it's far off, in February he will be the age Maya was when Chris died. I have no idea how I will feel then, but I look at him and realize how young Maya truly was.

Owen is such an incredible little boy. He is truly funny, and he knows it.  He makes faces Chris did and I wonder how he knows how to make them. Where does he see them...

There is a fourth birthday in all of this.

Chris' 36th birthday is August 11th.  We will be camping with friend's that weekend.  I told myself THAT would be the day we would celebrate Chris.  But then there is the question of how.  I wanted to do the floating lanterns, like Rapunzel BUT I'm thinking it's a bad, bad idea in Eastern Wa.  I'm thinking it will be a balloon release.  Maybe we will write messages to put on or in the balloons.

And then I have a "poor me" moment and wish this wasn't the reality for my kids and me.  What did we do...

But truly, even I know in those moments that the universe doesn't work that way.  It just is. It's life.  It moves like a river and it's just a matter of accepting that and learning how to master its flow.

In Search

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. 

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}

 

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.       

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.

Dream Interpretation

Yet again I had a dream a few nights ago about Chris yet not about Chris.

My dream begins suddenly in a one bedroom apartment.  I spin slowly in a circle, taking in every inch.  The kitchen filled with cups and plates and boxes of food; the dining room table set with place mats, glasses, plates, silverware; the living room's walls lined with tall white shelves filled with books, boxes, knick knacks.

In my dream I knew it was Chris' apartment though it was like no apartment I have ever seen.

I wander from the living room into the bedroom where the tall shelves continue and a large desk containing a desk top computer is filled with papers and more books and file folders.

I reach up to open a desk cupboard to reveal full shelves of crafting items (ok you can laugh, Chris DID NOT craft so I'm not sure what this was about).  But, I reach up to touch bottles of glue and tubes of glitter.

In my dream I know Chris is dead yet I don't really question why he lives in this apartment nor do I wonder about our kids.  In an odd addition I am accompanied in the apartment by two girls whom I know are my friends but resemble no real life person I am familiar with.

I woke up thinking, huh??

The back story:  I had just started a book called Good Grief by Lolly Winston.  The main character is a widow who has no children and whose husband had died after a battle with cancer and she is a hot mess. 

I finished this book last night and loved, loved, loved it.  It's a book about a woman like me trying to hold her crap together yet realizing she just might not be able to.  Read this book...seriously.  It will be insightful to know this world so intimately either for yourself or for a friend.  If you have not been personally touched by my journey, I guarantee you will be touched by that of another.  Lolly Winston brings Sophia, the widow, to life.  Her pain and laughter were mine.  Sophia feels like a member of my widow community, another of whom I can say I don't know in person yet I know because I can feel her journey in the beating of my heart.

The back story to my back story.  When Chris died I combed through his belongings...his drawers, his clothing, his notebooks, his books, his van... I wanted to find something, anything to prove he had been there, he was real and he was still present.  The reality was that Chris was an extreme minimalist. I could hardly find a scrap of paper with his writing on it.  I felt like he disappeared and all that was left was a closet of clothes, walls filled with pictures and a toothbrush.  I would cry big heaving sobs, asking out loud, "Where the fuck are you Chris?"  It was like he vanished in a puff of smoke in a magic act.  An illusion.  Only it was real. 

This dream was me remembering the pain of reaching and longing for that.

It's at moments like this I realize how evident and close the pain and sadness of the loss truly is.  I still look around and wonder to myself where he went.  To dust he returned. 

Last night I sat watching Owen eating popcorn and watching a movie dressed in his pajamas and Lightening McQueen slippers and I marveled at who he is becoming.  He has become a major indicator of how much time has passed.  When Chris died Owen was one day short of 16 months old.  On Thursday 18 months will have passed since Chris last glanced at Owen as he walked up the stairs to shower.  Owen's life has more than doubled in time.  And then I realize all that Chris has missed.....

The journey

Widowhood has caused me to become easily impacted by the feelings and opinions of others.

It started in the fog of the early days.  I couldn't make a decision or think a process all the way through.  A month after Chris' death I could hardly find my way all the way through making dinner.  I longed for the ability to perform normal, ever day mundane tasks without feeling physically and mentally overwhelmed by the complexity of things such as the vacuum.

So many people are impacted by death in vastly different ways.  The unfortunate yet fortunate nature of grief is that we all experience it differently thus trying to comprehend another on their journey is difficult.

I've spent much time examining my life, my decisions, my children, my ability to love.

I've spent much time defending my life, my decisions, my children, my ability to love.

It's my impression that it's difficult to understand my ability to move forward, to put one foot in front of the other, to find grief in the midst of all the pain.  It's difficult to build love in the midst of pain.  It was incomprehensible when I realized perhaps I had found love.  I didn't understand how that could be.  Making a connection so deeply with a stranger always feels unlikely, impossible. 

Love finds us in different ways.

Chris was a long sought after love.  I had searched for him and given up, until one day...he was there.

Shaun is a love who fell into my life in an unexpected fashion...and there he was filled with love for me in my imperfect state, for my pain and its longevity, for my children and for my journey in all of its complexities. 

When all is said and done, nobody has the true ability understand another's journey but we have the ability to respect it. 

I'm tired of defending mine. 

Love and Admiration

Saturday night was rough.

Shaun was at drill for the weekend and out in the hills of Yakima cell reception is scarce.  The lonely days of single parenting catch up to me quickly. 

I had these pangs.  I miss Chris. 

I am not sure what started it.  Maybe an email I had been thinking about for over a week.  I knew what his response would be to it.  Truly I should have "listened" to him.  I didn't, but that's another issue.

I sat that night thinking about Jeremiah.

Last Monday I brought Owen to Maya's swim lesson which I don't often do since he wants to swim so badly, I feel like it's cruel.  Owen spotted his uncle sitting around the corner and off he went to see him.  I'm not sure what exactly causes the tears to well up when I see the two of them together...maybe it's the similarities the brothers have, maybe it's that this is the closest biological connection Owen has to his dad, maybe it's the pain I see in Jer's eyes.

Saturday night I thought about how much Chris loved and admired Jer.  He was his friend and his brother.  I've never known how to convey this but I have a feeling of urgency about it.   

The second year, almost half way through.  Some things are difficult to face...

I was looking through pictures with Maya and saw a picture I took of Chris' van the day his coworkers came to get it.  I can hardly remember it being in our driveway or the way it sounded when he back it in. 

Yet, every morning as I shower the scene replays in my mind as if it just happened.  It's the cruel aspect of a traumatic experience.  At times it overwhelms the happier moments to make itself known in very ugly ways.

Moving forward there is so much happiness and love yet the pain is excruciating.  There is so much to communicate, talk through, overthink ... and sometimes it just isn't as reality driven as you think.  But it's life as I know it.

Shaun and I talk frequently about the complications our life entails, there are so many aspects to wrap our heads around and three little people on three different paths because of two separate events that need the guidance and love of so many.

At the end of the day, I look into their faces and see the reality of it all.  They love and are being loved fiercely and truly love is what makes this ride worthwhile.