tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18562309253241240582024-03-13T12:53:09.107-06:00One Day At A TimeMy husband and best friend, Craig Garvin, was killed in a car accident on March 16, 2010. This is our story.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-4333686318960579212016-03-16T19:42:00.002-06:002016-03-16T19:42:45.931-06:006 YearsI dreamed about you the other night. I spoke to you. Finally. It seemed like hours before I realized it was you. Why is that? As soon as I did, as soon as my brain caught up with me and I figured out that it was your face, and your eyes, I panicked. I panicked because I knew you’d leave. <br />
<br />
I begged you not to. Wrapped my arms around you, pleaded with you to stay. Please stay this time. Don’t go. Not yet. <br />
<br />
You told me you couldn’t. That I knew you couldn’t. Just a few more minutes, but then you’d have to go.<br />
<br />
Even still.<br />
<br />
Six years on and even still, I want you to stay, need you to stay. I want to tell you everything. I want to catch you up. Even though I know it’s impossible, that there could never be enough time.<br />
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I had her, Craig. The most perfect daughter. She’s sweet and she’s funny. Delicious rolls and beautiful blue eyes. She’s everything.<br />
<br />
For some reason she makes me think of you. Not reminds me of you, but makes me think about you, and us, and how everything that has happened has led up to her. This perfect little creature. <br />
<br />
I find myself mourning you all over again. <br />
<br />
For a different reason now. It’s another thing you are missing, another thing I can’t tell you about. And I want to. Because you would understand how long I waited, how hard it was to have her. How much I love being with her and how deeply lonely it can be when it’s just the two of us. I want to see you marvel at how she is the perfect mix of me and her father, his eyes and my nose. I want to hear you say congratulations, that you knew it would happen, that this is what you always wanted for me.<br />
<br />
But I can’t. <br />
<br />
I want to tell you about how it makes me afraid now. Want to put my head on your shoulder, listen to you listen to me about how I can’t have peace anymore. How I will always worry. Because in the pit of my stomach I know, really know, that I cannot protect her from everything. That no matter how safe I make her, no matter how careful I am, there will always be things that I cannot protect her from, people I cannot protect her against. There could always be someone driving home from a night shift, drifting off to sleep behind the wheel. I lay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, and try to convince myself to stop being so afraid.<br />
<br />
But I can’t.<br />
<br />
I desperately want to be the kind of woman I want her to aspire to. Strong and brave and fierce. Career in one hand, happiness in the other. I want her to be full of ideas and inspiration, to take on the world without pause. To be resilient. I want to show her how to be independent, to thrive, to always find joy. <br />
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But I can’t.<br />
<br />
I feel as though I am failing already. Because I don’t feel like the hopeful, optimistic mothers I see around me. Their children are their delight and the futures are open. I want to feel these things. So badly. Instead I feel that fear, that worry, that someone somewhere could snatch her away from me. It happened with you, and I couldn’t stop it. No matter how vigilant and careful I was, I couldn’t stop it. What if I can’t stop it again? <br />
<br />
All the strides I thought I took over the last six years seem to have disappeared. A few hours in the delivery room and I am back to that scared, trembling creature I was the day you were taken away. In truth it started before that, as soon as I found out I was pregnant. I so badly wanted to enjoy it. I earned that, after everything. <br />
<br />
But I couldn’t. <br />
<br />
I remember being happy. Do you remember? We were. Not always, but sometimes. Right before your accident we were happy. I was planning your birthday surprise, enjoying work, looking forward to the end of busy season. We had plans. Plans for the next twenty years. Plans for dinner that night. And I couldn’t wait. It felt as if I stopped being vigilant, stopped worrying and then it happened. So when I saw that little blue plus sign that I waited so long for, suffered so much for, I just couldn’t let myself be happy. Imagine what could have happened if I’d let myself be happy.<br />
<br />
Instead I worried. And was afraid. And worried some more. I thought if I could just make it to her birth, I could relax. If I could just get her here. And I did and it was hard and it was painful but I did. And I had that one sweet moment of total relief, of joy.<br />
<br />
But it didn’t take long for the fear to come creeping back.<br />
<br />
And I wonder sometimes what kind of legacy that must be. That the way I still feel you in my life is like a shadow, always hovering near the corner of my eye, that dread in the pit of my stomach. I know what fear is now, know that there are things to be afraid of. That you can love someone and lose them in the blink of an eye. <br />
<br />
I don’t want it to be this way.<br />
<br />
I want to remember you and smile. I want to think fondly of you, to talk about you with warmth. I want the way you touched my life to be happiness.<br />
<br />
These are the things I wish I could tell you.<br />
<br />
I think you would understand.<br />
<br />
I wish you could.<br />
<br />
I love you, I miss you. Don’t forget me. <br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-30546392171126945452014-03-18T21:09:00.001-06:002014-03-18T21:42:11.724-06:00The Real Stages of Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KjVSuaC5F8c/UykKOpekJFI/AAAAAAAAAE8/idUOF-IZy88/s1600/Grief.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KjVSuaC5F8c/UykKOpekJFI/AAAAAAAAAE8/idUOF-IZy88/s320/Grief.JPG" /></a></div>Here is a fun little fact most people don't know: The "Stages of Grief" (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) were actually written about someone coming to terms with their own death, not the death of someone they loved.<br />
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How do I know this? <br />
<br />
1) A rather reliable shrink told me.<br />
<br />
2) Because I've grieved.<br />
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Which means, if you are dealing with the loss of a loved one, you can throw that list right out the window. In fact, please do.<br />
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Grief is actually not a linear path. It has no set sequence, no list you check off as you make your way along.<br />
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The truth is, it looks rather like the picture above - a jumbled mess.<br />
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And, as many times as you've heard me say it, no two paths are the same.<br />
<br />
Today I want to talk about those emotional "stages" in grief because someone chose to point out on the anniversary of my husband's death that we should not get "caught up in anger" about the loss of our loved ones. This strikes a particular chord with me for three reasons:<br />
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1) It made me angry.<br />
<br />
2) Anger is an emotion - it is neither right nor wrong and, thus, morally neutral (i.e. neither something we "should" or "should not" do).<br />
<br />
3) Anger is a perfectly natural, normal, and healthy part of grieving.<br />
<br />
Today I thought I'd look back on the last four years without Craig and give you a bit of a rundown of my own personal "stages" of grief, to show you what my own emotional journey looked like. It goes a little something like this:<br />
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1) SHOCK. Complete and utter, mind-numbing shock. Like everything happening around me had a sort of dream-like quality, as if it wasn't real but rather something I was watching on television. If I reached out and touched it, the set would just turn off. Only it didn't.<br />
<br />
2) Horror. So much horror. Imagining the details, the breaking of bones, the blood, the violence, the pain and suffering Craig went through. That this could happen to anyone. That this could happen to the person that I loved so dearly. <br />
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3) Anger. At God, at myself, at everyone around me. At fate, at the other driver, at bad luck, and bad timing. And the police, at the investigators, at the court system, at the lawyers, and the insurance companies. At that bank and every other institution who made it as hard for me as possible, for no reason at all. All out, blood boiling, rage. Seeing spots. <br />
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4) Total despair. Lying on the floor, clutching Craig's clothing, unable to get up for days, despair. A despair so deep and so big I felt it in every part of me. My wrists ached with it. My teeth throbbed. My ribs heaved. My ankles, my toes, my heart, my shoulders, my head... every single part of me felt that despair.<br />
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5) Stages 1 - 4 on repeat, back and forth, switching places, for weeks and weeks and months and months.<br />
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6) Loneliness. Not, gosh-I-hate-having-no-plans-on-a-Friday-night loneliness. But the kind of loneliness that comes from having a friend so connected and so close that every thought that bounced around in your head all day was sent over to them. Every action, every breath was in anticipation of telling them, showing them, laughing with them. Then coming home, walking in the door, and feeling an emptiness so complete and so thick the very walls around you felt menacing. <br />
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7) Fear. Fear down to your very bones. That this is it. That you will never see them again, hear them again, touch them again. That all the pain and the despair and the loneliness and the anger will never end. That there is no reprieve. That this is not an injury that heals or a wound that will get better... that all these things will stay with you forever and ever. That every step outside your front door could be your last. That it never happened at all.<br />
<br />
8) Confusion. About everything. Who am I now? What do I do next? What would he want? What does everyone else want? What are they expecting from me? How am I supposed to do this? Where did I put my keys? Why is my milk in the pantry and my shoes in the fridge?<br />
<br />
9) Stages 1 - 8 on repeat, back and forth, switching places, for weeks and weeks and months and months.<br />
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10) Grim determination. It is time to lug around that boulder. It is chained to you forever, so you'd better get used to dragging it. Bend at the knees, put your weight into it, and start struggling inch by miserable inch. Often accompanied by: misery, angst, despair, more anger, and even more fear.<br />
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11) Even more anger. The more details that emerge, the more cliches you hear, the more the unfairness settles in.<br />
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12) Emptiness. The feeling of being gutted. Of watching everyone around you carry on with their lives, as though nothing had happened at all. It is just you who struggles to get out of bed in the morning. Just you who cries at stop lights or in the candy aisle at grocery stores. It is just you flipping through worn memories at night and looking longingly for hours at photographs that will never, ever be the real thing. Not even close. There is nothing left. Nothing.<br />
<br />
13) Sprinklings of joy. Here and there. Very, very tiny at first. Mustard seed tiny. A split second. Maybe the feeling of sunshine on your face after months of forgetting "outside" was a real thing. Suddenly waking up and discovering you can taste your food for a second - it isn't all made of sawdust. A hug that feels good instead of just sad.<br />
<br />
14) Guilt. Because how can you smile and forget for even one second? Because you can go on living, even against your own will. Because no matter what you know logically, inside your worn, aching heart and wrists and bones and eyes there is a yearning for a life beyond this and an understanding that you did not earn it.<br />
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15) Still anger. Because it hasn't gotten any fairer, any righter, any less permanent.<br />
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16) Stages 1 - 15, on repeat, back and forth, switching places, for weeks and weeks and months and months. Eventually years and years.<br />
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17) Calm. Not an acceptance, no. Because you can never really accept that this is it, that it is over, that a person so alive can just suddenly cease to exist. But calm that comes from dragging the weight of it with you, learning to live with it rather than just survive it.<br />
<br />
18) And, yes, still sometimes anger.<br />
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19) Still despair, still loneliness, still shock. Less often, further apart. But still very much there.<br />
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20) Stages 1 - 20, on repeat, back and forth, switching places, forever.<br />
<br />
<br />
You can choose to live after you lose someone. You can choose to move forward (though not "on") with your life. You can choose to seek out new experiences, new wonder, new joy.<br />
<br />
You cannot choose your feelings. Feelings are something you experience, uninvited. If you could choose them, wouldn't we all simply choose bliss at all times? Pain happens to us. Anger. Fear. Sadness. Despair. Loneliness. We can channel these feelings into something, propelling us forward. We can ride the wave, experiencing them, choosing not to fight it. We can reflect on them, analyze them, attempt to understand. But ultimately, they come at us against our will. <br />
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To imply otherwise, is not only unkind, it is wrong.<br />
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We are entitled to feel grief.<br />
<br />
For most, grief will include all the feelings I outlined above. <br />
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Yes, this includes anger. It is okay to be angry your loved one is gone. <br />
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It is okay to be angry about how and why it happened. It is okay to feel that anger on day 1 as well as day 1,460.<br />
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I know this because I have. And I do. <br />
<br />
Even still.<br />
<br />
If you are grieving, be gentle with yourself. Let yourself feel. You are allowed to. If you know someone who is grieving, try to understand, they will feel what they will feel, whether you approve or not. It is their journey, not yours. They are entitled to it.<br />
<br />
Without your "should-ing". <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-67006952628633751232013-08-04T17:15:00.001-06:002013-08-04T17:15:42.735-06:00The Second DeathI think, perhaps, death would be much easier to endure if we only had to suffer it once.<br />
<br />
Losing Craig was beyond painful. Suffocatingly so. To have someone there and then just... gone. No goodbyes, no farewells, no chance to fight. Movies have lured us into a false sense of what is real. We think that when death comes, we will get the chance to fight it off. That if we persevere, are good, remain true, somehow we just might be able to thrust it backwards. In movies, love conquers all, endures forever, and even cruel fate can be usurped.<br />
<br />
The truth is much less elegant.<br />
<br />
Death is ugly. It is mean, it is cruel. It doesn't just steal towards you in the dark of night. It comes on days that are bright and sunny, when you are smiling and laughing, utterly unprepared. It just comes and takes. You don't always get to fight. In fact, you rarely know it has come until after it has gone.<br />
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The emptiness death leaves behind is the worst kind of pain. There is no remedy, no cure, no solace. Time does not heal all wounds. It just puts distance between you and that wound. But the injury never loses its sting. You just grow more accustomed to hurting.<br />
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The first death, the physical one, is when our loved one is taken from us. <br />
<br />
The injustice of it... we weep, we scream, we beg. But it is so permanent. So terrifyingly permanent. There are no trades for more time, no bartering that is possible. Rather than the depth of our love saving us as we think it should, it merely makes the loss that much more apparent.<br />
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We learn to get by with nothing, desperately trying to fill that ache with tasks that need to be finished, photos we clutch at night, clothes that carry the smell of the one we love. But still, really, we have nothing.<br />
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The empty spaces fill with fear. <br />
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Fear that we will never see our loved one again, fear that there is nothing beyond our life here, that they have disappeared from existence entirely. That we will too. Fear that fate is fickle, that nothing is sacred, that we will never be safe again.<br />
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Most importantly we fear forgetting. <br />
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That the person we once loved so desperately, so fully, will fade from our memory, that we will have moments of laughter without guilt, that life will go on without them.<br />
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This is the second death.<br />
<br />
The first, raw, quick, over before we have a chance to comprehend. It rips and tears and is gone, leaving pain. So much pain.<br />
<br />
The second death takes its time. It is years. Slow, long years. <br />
<br />
Days go by and we get older while our loved one does not. Not just hours but days, even weeks, go by without us shedding a tear. We carry around photos but don't look at them as often. Clothes are given away. Things that collect dust are eventually thrown out. What was once the most important item in the world, even if just a lowly cufflink, now becomes one more reminder that no longer seems to remind.<br />
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Then one day we realize we no longer hear our loved one's voice in our head, knocking our thoughts about at all hours of the day.<br />
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We can't remember quite what that crease by their left eye looked like when they smiled.<br />
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We pick at our memories now, fewer and fewer of them, worn thin by overuse.<br />
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Eventually we cannot recall their voice exactly. Photos seem two-dimensional.<br />
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We ache over what we felt. Only we can't remember it all quite so well now.<br />
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It is terrifying.<br />
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This new kind of death is just as permanent as the first. How can you remember something that is now gone? How can you feel the touch of someone's skin when it is no longer there? How can you hear someone call your name so sweetly when they have been silent for years?<br />
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So you mourn.<br />
<br />
You mourn all over again.<br />
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This second loss stripping you of the poor shadow of a person you so carefully clutched. The world you built up, trinkets and photos and notes to remind you, collecting dust and not bringing forth memories with quite the potency they once did.<br />
<br />
It is like losing someone twice.<br />
<br />
<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-57372132110021531982013-03-17T20:37:00.001-06:002013-03-17T20:37:17.766-06:003 YearsNormally on each anniversary I pen a letter to Craig here on my blog, filling him on on what he has missed, what I want to tell him. Somehow I imagine these letters floating about in cyberspace, making their way to him by osmosis. I talk to Craig every day, but I like the ritual of summarizing my year for him on such an important date. <br />
<br />
I've been crafting this year's letter in my head for a few weeks now.<br />
<br />
Sadly, I didn't quite get to positing it yesterday. Not because I didn't have time or because I didn't want to. For some reason, this year above any other, I was sucker-punched by the anniversary. I spent most of the day trying to distract myself, trying to hold it together, trying to forget who I was, what had happened. Sometimes the anticipation of these big days can build and build, weighted with expectation, dragging you further into grief.<br />
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This year I felt especially isolated, particularly alone. <br />
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I had expectations about being three years out, I think. Ridiculous ones.<br />
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That, by this point, I would be fine, I would be ok, I would be better. As if "better" somehow has any meaning.<br />
<br />
Except... I'm not fine, I'm not ok, I'm not really better.<br />
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By that I mean, I still feel every inch a widow. I still walk around, carrying it with me every day. I still feel that grief and that loss all the time. I still miss him, I still talk to him, I still wish he was here.<br />
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It still catches in my throat and breaks my heart. <br />
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I still feel that pinch in my chest and have to look away to swallow back tears.<br />
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I still feel the taint of death on my life.<br />
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I was asked yesterday if I had any peace over what happened. My answer?<br />
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No.<br />
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I don't think that peace is possible. Peace implies some sort of acceptance. A sense of calm or ease with how things are.<br />
<br />
Rather, I think I have, like the countless widows before me, found a way to live with the grief. It is my constant companion. I carry it with me because I never stop being aware of that loss. I function, I go to work, I live my life. I even have joy. But I still have the grief with me.<br />
<br />
This is not a matter of choice.<br />
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Grief and loss shapes us. We can't help but have that nagging feeling something is missing. Imagine you are piling your family into the car before a long road trip but you left little Johnny at the kitchen table - instently you can feel that disorientation because someone is missing, that you are forgetting something very important. <br />
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That is how it has felt, every day, for 3 years.<br />
<br />
So, because of this, my 3 year letter will be a little shorter than others:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
Dear Craig,<br />
<br />
I still love you. I still miss you. I'm still waiting. <br />
<br />
Your Emily</i><br />
<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-69547291199131913732013-02-10T15:56:00.001-07:002013-02-10T15:56:22.825-07:00My Grief is Bigger Than Your GriefThis week I had a rather miserable experience with someone supposedly in the bereavement industry. I say supposedly because she seemed a bit of a fraud (ok, not a bit) and broke the cardinal rule of grieving: comparing one person's grief to someone else's.<br />
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Now I'm not going to say I'm innocent of this infraction. In the early days of my grief journey, I found myself doing this quite a bit. A great deal of that came from a place of confusion and heartache and, frankly, a deep desire to actually find someone I could relate to, who was going through exactly what I was going through. <br />
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Of course I never did find that person because, as I learned, you can't. No two grief journeys are the same. No two losses are the same. No two loved ones are the same. What we do have, are shared themes. The feelings of hopelessness, despair, anger. Asking ourselves over and over what happened and why. Wondering where that person is now. You get the idea. These are the things that bond us in our loss.<br />
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Now I'm not about to declare that all grief is the same either. I've lost grandparents, pets, friends, and a husband. Losing my husband was definitely the hardest for me. Emphasis on the <i>for me</i>. As I said, every person is different. Some people may experience what has been dubbed, "complicated grief". This often occurs when the death is violent, sudden/unexpected, or occurs at a very young age. It can be so shocking to the bereaved, they experience a traumatic type of grief, impacting every area of their life for prolonged periods.<br />
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After working with memebers of the widowed community for the last couple years, I have heard, time and time again, the debate rage over which is worse: a sudden death or one after a long illness. In fact, I heard a fellow widow say it just the other day - that their loss was much harder because they had to see their spouse suffer for so long. Not only is this statement offensive because it minimizes the grief of those who have had sudden losses, but it is factually incorrect. Numerous studies have been done to evaluate which type of loss is more difficult to overcome. When I say numerous, I mean dozens and dozens. The conclusion? Every single study declared their results inconclusive. With a long drawn out illness you must watch your spouse suffer in pain, losing their dignity, their health, their happiness. With a sudden loss, you may be utterly unprepared, never even getting to say goodbye. You see where I am going with this? They both suck. Period.<br />
<br />
In getting back to my little incident this week, the "professional" told me that losing my husband didn't even compare to losing a child. That losing a child is ten times worse. She even said, "You can always go out and get another spouse." Silly me, I must have passed that aisle in the grocery store: Replacement Husbands. Complete with handy tool belt, socks to leave lying around, and on sale now! <br />
<br />
I asked her if she'd ever lost either a husband or a child. No, she hadn't. When I asked her how she could possibly know which was worse, she told me that as a mother, she knew. Which, to me, would sort of be like saying that as a wife, I knew losing a husband was worse. It was ridiculous. <br />
<br />
Her comments were so hostile and antagonistic (not to mention completely ignorant), it took pretty much everything in me not to upend her coffee table and scream, "HULK SMASH!" She proceeded to tear me a new one for a good 20 minutes while my blood pressure shot through the roof and I mentally slipped away to my happy place (lalalala la la la la la la laaaaa). I tried to calmly and rationally explain that while I had never lost a grown child, I had lost a baby, and they both sucked. That grief was grief and you can never possibly imagine the pain of losing a spouse, until you go through it yourself (something I recognize about losing a child and the primary reason I wouldn't argue that one is worse). It was all for naught, however. I ended up leaving, tears streaming down my face, storming back to my car (Sidenote: Sorry to the poor man I was walking behind who kept looking over his shoulder at me looking more and more terrified).<br />
<br />
It was amazing that after all these years, someone's ignorance like that could still get to me. And so much! I was distraught the rest of the day and ranted about it to anyone who would listen for the rest of the week. The lack of empathy and total lack of professionalism where shocking. <br />
<br />
So what makes people fly off the handle and enter into these silly competitions of comparing their grief? (Or in her case, comparing the grief of other people, not even her own)?<br />
<br />
Partly I think it is a lack of awareness. Sometimes this is just a natural part of the early grieving process - we only see our pain because it is so big, it blocks out anything else (or anyone else). For some, I think it is a way of making themselves feel better. If my grief is worse than anyone else's, it explains why I haven't gotten out of bed in four days and my hair still smells like Cheetos. For others, perhaps like the woman I spoke to, they want to be the expert. They want to sound authoritative and more knowledgeable than anyone else. Or maybe they are just uncaring asshats. Who knows.<br />
<br />
Because, you see, the My-Grief-Is-Bigger-Than-Your-Grief Competition only has losers. No winners. <br />
<br />
Because grief sucks. <br />
<br />
Period. <br />
<br />
All grief. <br />
<br />
Whether you lost a spouse, a child, a parent, a sibling, it doesn't matter. There are so many factors that can impact grief: where you are at in your life, your relationship with who you lost, unresolved issues or feelings, watching them suffer, losing them suddenly, not getting to say goodbye, and so on and so forth. Every loss is so unique that "measuring" the grief is impossible. <br />
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Not to mention you can alienate and hurt the people around you, quite badly.<br />
<br />
So if you ever find yourself accidentally letting slip a My-Grief-Is-Bigger-Than-Your-Grief, I urge you to take a moment, consider the person in front of you, and put yourself in their shoes. Try to imagine their pain, feel their grief.<br />
<br />
There.<br />
<br />
You see?<br />
<br />
It's awful too.<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-56827185453835190572013-01-31T20:30:00.000-07:002013-01-31T20:30:18.906-07:00MomentosThis week was "momento night" at the grief group I'm co-facilitating. <br />
<br />
The idea is, each of the widow(er)s brings in an item to share with the group from their late spouse. The item can be anything: a piece of clothing, jewellery, a photo, something their spouse made, their favourite book, etc. It then gives the griever an opportunity to share in depth about their husband/wife. Perhaps tell a story, share a memory, or talk about something that has helped them in their journey.<br />
<br />
It's always a very emotional night for everyone and can bring up many, many tears.<br />
<br />
Part of my job as a co-facilitator is to bring in an item of my own to help get the ball rolling.<br />
<br />
I knew this was coming before I ever signed up (because I remember it from my own group), but still I procrastinated picking something out. It's not that I don't want to share about Craig. Rather, I carry so many momentos with me all the time, I knew it would be tough to find one that really captured his essence, the spirit of who he was, and exactly how much he means to me. <br />
<br />
Basically a couple hours before I had to go I finally decided I could put it off no more.<br />
<br />
I pulled out my "boxes" and began what I thought would be a quick glance through to find something I liked.<br />
<br />
The very first box had Craig's license plate, bent and mangled, right on top. Underneath that was the stack of photos from the accident that were in the newspaper and on tv. Under that, card after card, letter after letter, from the funeral. Yes, I kept every single one. <br />
<br />
The next box was all the photos from the funeral and the one after that had Craig's journals, diaries, and love letters.<br />
<br />
There weren't a ton of boxes, but it sure felt like it.<br />
<br />
Just lifing the lid from that very first box, seeing the broken glass and dirt still streaked on everything I pulled from the car, was like a sucker punch to the gut.<br />
<br />
I ended up sitting on the floor, crying my eyes out, pouring over each item one at a time. Two hours later I realized I was going to be late and frantically rushed to wipe the snot and mascara off my face, dashing out the door.<br />
<br />
It made me realize something very important.<br />
<br />
I was telling someone that it upset me because I rarely looked at that stuff anymore. In fact, it's probably been about a year since I pulled out the boxes and went through them like that. <br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because I don't want to remember the sad stuff anymore.<br />
<br />
I keep Craig's picture (a couple of them actually) in my office. When I sit down to write, there he is, grinning back at me. <br />
<br />
I have a photo of him I keep in my wallet where he tragically wrote, "hopefully you won't need this picture of me to remember my face in 20 years" across the back.<br />
<br />
I have 2 letters from him (my favourite out of the 100+ I've kept) in my purse. In it he tells me that I am smarter than I think, that I am brave, that I can do anything. I don't need to read them anymore. I know the words off by heart.<br />
<br />
On my right hand is my ring - the one I designed that is made from both sets of our wedding bands. <br />
<br />
In my car I keep the jade bear talisman he bought for me on our first trip to Radium. I feel safer when I drive just knowing it is hanging from my rearview mirror. <br />
<br />
These are the things that make me smile. They make me feel better.<br />
<br />
At some point along the way, a shift happened.<br />
<br />
I began to remember my husband as my friend, my lover, the guy who could always make me smile. Instead of reliving scenes of the accident, I relived the scenes from our life. Instead of agonizing over his final moments, I laughed about the way he'd dance with me in the kitchen. Instead of pain and suffering, I started to feel joy and happiness that I got to have him, for what little time I did.<br />
<br />
It's not that I don't care about the accident. It's that the accident was preceded by one hell of a decade. And that decade is the one that I want to look back on.<br />
<br />
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the momento I brought was a card he gave me on my birthday. Inside it he wrote:<br />
<br />
"I would have hoped that being older in body and mind that you would have blossomed into a mature young woman.<br />
However, I can see you plan on staying young forever.<br />
Please stay young forever, I don't want to be left behind.<br />
At times in our life our own spark goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another.<br />
You are my spark."<br />
<br />
Like I said, these are the things worth remembering.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-59120975248387066052012-12-18T10:06:00.001-07:002012-12-18T10:10:17.546-07:00This is MY FAULTToday I have to break one of my rules. <br />
<br />
Normally I refrain from getting swallowed up in religious or political debates in social media, but this one hits too close to home.<br />
<br />
Since Friday my Facebook news feed has been awash with shared pictures, quotes, and articles blaming the tragic shooting in Connecticut on gun control laws, a lack of God in schools, and poor parenting. Every time I see one of these I click away and try not to seethe with anger. With frustration. With disgust.<br />
<br />
It makes my stomach churn to think of these families watching the news and going online to see these kinds of comments. Why? These comments are not helpful. Not at all. They hurt. Believe me, I know. When my husband was killed, I sat for hours watching people’s comments saying he deserved to die for talking on his cell phone while driving (he wasn’t) or that he was probably speeding (he wasn’t) or that it was all part of God’s plan (it isn’t). Not only was each one of these a painful accusatory jab at the wrong person, but they minimized my grief. The danger in these statements is that they carry a clear, underlying message: If something bad happens to you, it must be your fault. You didn’t pray enough, you weren’t a strong enough Christian, somehow you had it coming. We don’t know all the details and in all likelihood this shooter suffered from a mental illness. Would you tell someone with a broken leg or cancer that they deserved it or that they just didn’t pray hard enough? Of course not.<br />
<br />
Do you know what was helpful? <br />
<br />
People who said to me, this is tragic. This is horrible. This is not how his life was meant to end. This should never have happened. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. They came by with food, they sat and listened to me cry, they drove me to work.<br />
<br />
These are the people who cared. <br />
<br />
If you are sitting back, behind your keyboard, lazily reposting someone else’s speech or comments on this tragedy being a result of God being kicked out of our schools or ignored by society, I ask you this: What are you actually doing to help? <br />
<br />
Those types of posts can be hurtful, offensive, and cruel. Instead of blaming society, our gun laws, or a lack of faith, maybe you should be contemplating your own role. Because if this is really because God has been kicked out of schools and ignored by society, perhaps the more appropriate message is this:<br />
<br />
<i>This is my fault.<br />
<br />
MY fault.<br />
<br />
I DID THIS.<br />
<br />
Last week I lied to my husband about how much I spent at the store. I was short with my children. I was jealous and bitter. I allowed my competitive nature to take over instead of my loving nature. I gossiped viciously about my sister. I slandered. I embellished a story to make myself look more favourable and someone else worse. I lusted after someone who wasn’t my spouse. I was too lazy to clear my sidewalk after it snowed, not really caring my postman could fall and hurt him/herself. I sped. I cut someone off in traffic. I got angry with the clerk at McDonald’s who got my order wrong. I cheated on a test. I took credit for someone else’s work. I saw starving children on the news and changed the channel. I got angry someone who wasn’t a part of my family was invited for Christmas – they aren’t one of us. I slacked off at work. I knew my mom was having a bad day but instead of calling her, I went out to dinner. I didn’t listen, I didn’t offer support, I didn’t act. I chose anger over kindness. I chose pride over humility. I chose indifference over love. This tragedy is the fault of people like me, doing these things, every day. <br />
<br />
I AM society. <br />
<br />
MY actions are God’s work in society. <br />
<br />
This is MY FAULT.<br />
</i><br />
<br />
Instead of sitting back, blaming other people and other things, why not act with love EVERY DAY.<br />
<br />
Don’t repost some trite quote on Facebook. Help the families instead. Show them they are loved, that you care, that their tragedy is more important than your religious or political agenda. Send them a letter of love and support. If you live too far away to shovel their walkways or bring over food, give to local mental health organizations to support families dealing with mental illness. Encourage your friends on Facebook to do the same. You can find info on that here: <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-conn-shooting-victims-families-community/story?id=17998635">http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-conn-shooting-victims-families-community/story?id=17998635</a><br />
<br />
This time of year is the perfect time to ACT with love, instead of just talking. Did you know you can send care packages filled with cookies, toiletries, and gifts to soldiers overseas? Here’s how in Canada: <a href="http://www.forces.gc.ca/site/commun/message/addresses-2-eng.asp">http://www.forces.gc.ca/site/commun/message/addresses-2-eng.asp<br />
</a><br />
How about giving to a local charity or inviting someone over for the holidays who is grieving, single, or alone? Shovel your neighbour’s walkway instead of just yours. Stop speeding. Tip generously. Live with the kindness, the grace, the forgiveness, the generosity, and the love of the God you keep saying others have kicked out of society. <br />
<br />
Show the world what it looks like when He is welcomed back in.<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-28211463948086726342012-12-11T16:18:00.000-07:002012-12-11T16:18:24.772-07:001,000 Sleepless NightsOn Monday I woke up from 1,000 nights. <br />
<br />
1,000 nights without my Craig.<br />
<br />
1,000 days of missing him, of wondering what happened, of not understanding.<br />
<br />
1,000 days of tears, of heartache, of anger. <br />
<br />
1,000 days of fighting, of breathing, of putting one foot in front of the other.<br />
<br />
1,000 feels so big. <br />
<br />
It sounds so long.<br />
<br />
But in the grand scheme of things, it's barely a blip. My heart understands this better than my head. <br />
<br />
I wish I had words of wisdom, beautiful things I had learned. Something to mark those 1,000 days.<br />
<br />
But in truth, I feel just as lost at times as I did 1,000 days ago.<br />
<br />
I still don't know why this happened. <br />
<br />
I still don't understand how God, if He exists, could have looked away.<br />
<br />
I still can't fathom the magnitude of losing Craig, of where he is now.<br />
<br />
I still miss my best friend. So much. Every day.<br />
<br />
1,000 days is just time. A human construct, how we mark the slow ticking of a clock. It has absolutely no relevance when it comes to loss. <br />
<br />
Loss is still loss, even 1,000 days later.<br />
<br />
If anything, it magnifies that loss. Because now we can finally begin to see just how long time can stretch, what it can encompass. 1,000 days means 3 missed birthdays, 3 missed Christmases, 2 nephews' births missed.<br />
<br />
It is missing hearing your name called by someone, over and over. Missing experiences, missing jokes, missing laughter, missing fights. It means missing drives to work, visiting with your in-laws, cooking dinner together, sipping coffee on the weekends, curling up to a movie, moving furniture, visiting garage sales, walking in the cold, skating on the pond.<br />
<br />
It means missing waking up to someone's face that you know better than your own, eyes that light up whenever you walk in a room, a grin that could make you laugh no matter how mad you might be. It is missing notes left to make you smile and the world's worst macaroni & cheese, made just for you. <br />
<br />
1,000 feels like forever. <br />
<br />
It crawled by. <br />
<br />
It flew past. <br />
<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-4199609276295800842012-11-06T15:07:00.001-07:002012-11-06T15:13:10.532-07:00Taking the PlungeWell, after almost a year of interviews, training, counselling, and meetings it's finally time... I am now officially a volunteer with Alberta Health Services! The program that gave me so much in my early days of grief is now one I get to give back to. In January I start as a co-facilitator for my first official grief group!<br />
<br />
I am so excited.<br />
<br />
Like, ridiculously excited.<br />
<br />
Seems so weird, right? <br />
<br />
Only it's not. I was chatting with a fellow volunteer at our last meeting and we both said the same thing - that we can't wait to help someone else, to do something, to be to someone else what this group was for us. <br />
<br />
I've found with any type of grief, and being widowed at such a young age in particular, you can feel like the only person in the world going through what you are going through. Everyone around you seems happy and normal and the world keeps chugging along as though nothing has happened. Meanwhile you are drowning in sorrow, feeling left behind more and more every day. <br />
<br />
While everyone else is worrying about traffic, paying bills, and what to cook for dinner, you struggle to get out of bed, wear the same shirt four days in a row, and eat cheerios off the floor for breakfast. While they head off to work and meet up with friends for lunch, you cry in the grocery store over your husband's favourite gummi candy and replay the answering machine recording 38 times in a row. They catch their favourite tv show before heading to bed at night while you clutch your spouse's old sweater, inhaling as deeply as you can for imaginary traces of his cologne.<br />
<br />
Add to that the fact that most of your friends haven't even lost grandparents, let alone a spouse. You become "special"... only not in a way you ever would have wanted. In fact, being ordinary becomes the long lost dream you never knew you had. Oh what you wouldn't give to be plain and boring and have a simple, happy life like everybody else.<br />
<br />
And then you find your grief group. <br />
<br />
And there staring back at you are twenty other people who feel exactly the way you do, struggling through the same thing, searching desperately for someone, anyone who understands. And the stories are heartbreaking and awful. You cry. They cry. You heal. They heal. There is something about coming together with strangers over something as heavy as the loss of a spouse that can turn you into instant friends for life. <br />
<br />
I don't know what I would have done without my grief group or the fellow wids I met online. Meeting in the midst of such shared turmoil brought us together and brought much-needed comfort. Oh, you ate cheerios off the floor? Me too! SO much easier than cooking, right? Oh, drinking coffee makes you cry? Me too! Wait. That shirt looks like it belongs to a man and hasn't been washed in three months. Mine too!<br />
<br />
I love this program and believe in it. It works wonders. For me, it was one of the single greatest tools for processing my grief. It is the first recommendation that comes out of my mouth when people ask about dealing with their own loss. Even for the shy and introverted (yes, believe it or not, that includes me) it can be deeply therapeutic. You can talk or listen, soaking it all in. There is so much to learn from others and great comfort in knowing that you are, in fact, not alone at all. And not nearly as weird as you thought. Mostly.<br />
<br />
So I can't wait to get started. I hope I can help as much as others helped me. I hope I can be as strong as others were for me. I hope their life is changed by this program and they realize they are not alone. That they belong, they are loved, and they can survive.<br />
<br />
Just like me.<br />
Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-24823859943393999252012-07-08T10:42:00.000-06:002012-07-08T10:42:00.872-06:00Your Voice In My HeadI've gotten so used to talking to you that sometimes I forget I am not.<br />
<br />
I whisper words in empty rooms and always, always the air whispers back. It tricks me by doing it in your voice. It wears your puzzled expression. It laughs when you laugh. <br />
<br />
I hear it say all the things you would say. Running through the back of my mind is the question - is it saying these things because you would say them, because you ARE saying them, or because it's what I want you to say?<br />
<br />
Sometimes I ask you what you think of my dress, how I look, do you like my hair this way? You never saw my hair this way. I wear dresses now. You would love them.<br />
<br />
Other times it is just the same phrase, muttered over and over, each time more urgently than the last. Why did you leave me? <br />
<br />
Sometimes it changes.<br />
<br />
Why did you me <i>here</i>?<br />
<br />
Why did you leave me <i>like this</i>?<br />
<br />
Why did you leave me <i>with these people</i>?<br />
<br />
Why did you leave me <i>behind</i>?<br />
<br />
They are not questions, really. Just statements.<br />
<br />
They are the only things you never answer. I just feel you looking at me, so sadly. Like you pity me. As if you want to tell me an answer that you know I want to hear. An answer you can't give me. Because I know it anyway and there would be no point. There is never a point.<br />
<br />
I wonder if I'm going mad. If I already was.<br />
<br />
It is an indulgence. To think these things. To imagine you in my head. But is my own and so I allow myself this one small thing. When everything has been taken it is only the things left in your mind that can comfort you.<br />
<br />
I feel that I must explain myself. Justify everything. Why I did this, why I did that. But you know. You already know. You could have predicted my moves down to the letter. We loved each other that way. I'd like you to get mad, just to see your expression change. But you won't. You never do.<br />
<br />
Maybe it is not you, then, that I need to explain things to. Maybe it is me. To make sense of the absurdity of what has happened. It is like taking a house torn apart by a tornado and trying to put it back together with eleastic bands. I never get further than the door handle. It falls off in my hand.<br />
<br />
I imagine you there, sitting, always sitting. Waiting. Watching. You seem bemused. I don't know why. They made your face so weird in that casket. They failed to miss the spot you always missed when you shaved. I hated them for that. It made you not real. And that's the face I see you in. Smirking. Not unfriendly. Just slightly confused, slightly amused.<br />
<br />
Do you wonder too? What has happened?<br />
<br />
I hope at least one of us can make sense of this. Although I'd rather it be me. Is that selfish? I want all the answers. You would never have needed them. If there is a way to make things make sense, I need to find it. You were much better at accepting things just as they are. I like this about you. Liked. <br />
<br />
You make a very frustrating ghost. No hauntings or special tokens. You just hover, saying little. Poking up from time to time when I summon you. It's not very much, you know. Perhaps you could do better? Probably not. You aren't really real.<br />
<br />
What more can I say? I miss you. I love you. You forgot some things. Make sure you stop by to pick them up.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-18388832451110510472012-06-30T21:45:00.001-06:002012-06-30T21:45:05.201-06:00Crying In Cars (And Other Inapropriate Places)If there's one thing I've learned (and it probably is the only thing), it's that you should cry whenever the moment hits. Saving that shit up just makes you hemorrhage tears while snot dribbles down your nose because you just can't hold it in anymore after seeking the pink pig gummy candy on the floor of the grocery store. For reals.<br />
<br />
I'd like to blame this week's episode of Crying In Random Places on hormones or a special anniversary. But the truth is, it's basically just my fault. I haven't had a good cry in almost three weeks (stop judging me... lots of people cry more than that... probably) and was getting a little too cocky about it.<br />
<br />
And really, this week was the perfect shitstorm of tear inducers. My nephew finished school and brought home his in-class journal featuring a nonsensical child's viewpoint of his uncle Craig's death (I want to be someone's favourite because I play with them and because I'm their favourite just because). I wasn't sleeping very well and work was kind of stressing me out. Oh and did I mention I'm on a stupid diet that makes me hangry 24/7 to the point where I actually thought to myself like some kind of sicko the other day, hm, maybe this salad will taste good without any dressing on it. You see? I was out of my mind. Clearly.<br />
<br />
Somewhere around Thursday my brain gave up and on the drive home, when some a-hole cut me off, I burst into tears. Not the pretty kind either. I am not a pretty crier. I am an ugly snot-dribbling, wailing, hiccupping, red-nosed bag of misery when I cry. One of the many reasons I like to cry by myself. Nobody there to look away awkwardly or try to put a paper bag over my head so they can stand to comfort me properly. I bawled the whole way home and still wasn't done.<br />
<br />
My husband came home and made the mistake of trying to be nice to me. This turned into an argument which turned into even more tears and a chilly night of fighting over the blankets. The next morning I was busted in the office sniffling away. Thankfully I'm one of the only ones in that early and my dark sunglasses are huge enough to cover half my face. It did not occur to me until later that walking around in dark sunglasses in a well-lit office probably looks kind of strange too. Oh well.<br />
<br />
A couple days of miserable wailing and finally, this morning, I started to feel better. Gorging on homemade pie probably helped. My god, I have been hungry.<br />
<br />
I take these stretches of time as they come. I know this comes with the territory of being widowed. You cry, you blow your nose, you cry some more. Sometimes it lasts twenty minutes, sometimes several days. I go through periods of time where it hits me all over again - I have lost my husband. I. Have. Lost. My. Husband. He is gone. While never as overwhelming as hearing that news the first time, it nevertheless brings me to my knees, ransacking me all over again.<br />
<br />
Only this time I know. I know that it will ease. That the crying will stop. That I will be happy again in a few hours, days, or weeks. There is happiness on the other side of this. Because this is what grief looks like, two years later. The heartache is still there, the loneliness, the feeling that something is always missing. But it is broken up with moments of happiness, of enjoyment, of things that don't revolve around death. <br />
<br />
You just have to ride out the wave. <br />
<br />
And repack the Kleenex supply in your car for the next round.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-2219619911830788972012-05-22T15:27:00.001-06:002012-05-22T15:27:33.701-06:00A Little Bit of LokiThis weekend I went and watched the Avengers. <br />
<br />
It has been out for a couple weeks now but I've been putting it off, not sure I'd see it all.<br />
<br />
Mostly because I didn't want to be the idiot sobbing at the back of the theatre blowing her nose at the funny parts or when Loki makes his epic appearance all badass and whatnot.<br />
<br />
Turns out those fears were completely justified. I was and I did. As a random sidenote - it's really hard to see through 3D glasses when they are misted over with salty tears.<br />
<br />
No, it was not a sad movie. <br />
<br />
In fact, it was pretty cool. No. That's not right. It was amazing. And epic. And everything Craig and I have waited for all these years.<br />
<br />
Craig was a comic book nerd. Which amused me to no end considering how much of a jock he was. Like many a closetted comic book nerd, he hoarded his collection possessivey and spent hour after endless hour painstakingly caring for them and savouring them. He would never let me read more than one at a time - something that always reminded me of my own father and his precious collection.<br />
<br />
After a couple years of dating I finally gave up and started helping him with his collection, tracking down rare editions, wasting hours and hours at garage sales and farmers' markets searching for missing pieces. It became our favourite go-to activity for most weekends. I even attending Comic Con with him one year and was introduced to a whole new world. A scary, scary world. Just kidding. But not.<br />
<br />
We started following the superhero movie craze long before it was a craze and obsessed over every detail of every movie, often seeing them several times in theatres in their opening weeks. We loved Iron Man, didn't care for the Hulk. Superman wasn't relatable but Spiderman was just like us. We argued over plot twists and adherence to the comics, who was too short or too serious or too whatever. Which detail was missed, which was overdone, which was just right.<br />
<br />
Nothing excited Craig more than knowing looking forward to the Avengers movie, which was far too many years in the coming.<br />
<br />
We theorized for hours about who'd be in it, which superheroes would be best, who the baddy would be.<br />
<br />
We loved it.<br />
<br />
And, of course, Loki was his favourite villain of all time. He loved him. Poor Loki, always the underdog, unloved, not wanted, always struggling, always failing. For some reason, Craig loved him more than any of the good guys. Appreciated that Loki was just born at the wrong time, in the wrong place, bullied, ignored.<br />
<br />
When Iron Man II came out, I struggled to see it. I didn't enjoy it. It was too hard. <br />
<br />
By the time Thor came out enough time had passed I didn't feel too bad. Of course it helped that neither of us really liked him as a character and didn't see it going anywhere (so much for that).<br />
<br />
But The Big Avengers Movie was what we really wanted, anticipated, couldn't wait for.<br />
<br />
So I sat there in the theatre this weekend, sobbing amongst the fellow nerds, oh so grateful for the ridiculous volume of the movie that nobody could hear me over.<br />
<br />
It's not fair.<br />
<br />
It's not fair that Craig waited so long, wanted to see this so bad, and can't.<br />
<br />
It's not fair that they waited forever to make this movie, making him miss it.<br />
<br />
It's not fair that the world kept going, that movies were still made, even after he was gone.<br />
<br />
It's not fair that the things he loved were allowed to carry on without him, as if nothing had happened.<br />
<br />
And it was not fair that I had to see it without him.<br />
<br />
That we didn't get to gush over Loki, his absolute favourite villain, that he had to miss.<br />
<br />
That we didn't get to squeal together over "Clench up, Legolas".<br />
<br />
That he didn't get to roll his eyes at me over my love of Mark Ruffalo.<br />
<br />
It hurt so much to see that without him. To try to enjoy something we should have been enjoying together. To reap the rewards of all his hard nerdwork he put into getting me up to speed on these characters, without him there to pat himself on the back for it.<br />
<br />
There are so many things he misses now.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I hope, wherever he is, he still gets to see them. That it's not so unimportant that he doesn't care. Or maybe I don't hope that. It's hard to say.<br />
<br />
I just wish he was here.<br />
<br />
I wish he was sitting next to me.<br />
<br />
So I could be cheering with the rest of the crowd, instead of crying.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-47187557832769999342012-04-14T13:44:00.001-06:002012-04-14T13:44:39.702-06:00Bill of Rights for Grief<i>(Source: http://family.lifegoesstrong.com/article/bill-rights-grieving)<br />
</i><br />
1. You have the right to take whatever path you take through your grief without judgment.<br />
<br />
2. You have the right to ignore or incorporate any or all of the MOUNTAINS of advice you will get.<br />
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3. You have the right to say: "No thank you."<br />
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4. You have the right to grieve for whatever you have lost, including things you never had but ache for, like phantom limb pain.<br />
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5. You have the right to ask people to bring you pizza, not platitudes.<br />
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6. You have the right to your own definition of grief. For someone else the loss may have some unknowable reason; it may be a journey, a blessing 'in disguise', bad karma, a teachable moment, part of a plan, a test, a process, a choice. It doesn't have to be any of those things for you. It can simply be where you are at the time. Or it can be senseless, stupid, meaningless and profoundly awful.<br />
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7. You have the right not to be grateful, reasonable, inspired or inspiring.<br />
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8. You have the right not to feel or believe or be comforted by any of the following: "he's in a better place; his work here was done; she's in your heart; it's a blessing; it's no one's fault; time heals all wounds; you'll find a new one; it could have been worse." <br />
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9. You have the right to buzz around, filling your life with activities and people so you don't have to feel a thing.<br />
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10. You have the right to feel what you can feel when you can feel it. Be numb when you are numb. Seek comfort when you can stand to. Sometimes the deep fog of grief can make all intimacy too painful - any feelings unbearable. You have the right not to bear them even when everyone around you says you MUST FEEL YOUR FEELINGS OR YOU WILL NEVER MOVE ON.<br />
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11. You have the right not to "move on."<br />
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12. You have the right to ungodly, ugly, blind rage.<br />
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13. You have the right to feel complete, utter hoplessness and despair, and to say – out loud – over and over, that it will never get better, you will never feel better – without everyone shushing you.<br />
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14. You have the right to eat or sing or say whatever you want. <br />
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15. You have the right to be inalterably changed. The person you were before the death of your loved one is gone. You are now someone else. You don't know who yet. It's your right to find out.<br />
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16. You have the right to experience the many tricky, shape-shifting forms grief takes in whatever order you experience them: Here it looks like rage. There it takes the shape of obsession. It has many forms. They are all true. They are all lies. <br />
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17. You have the right to stay where you are. Sometimes there are no signs at all and you are moving through grief's darkest depths without knowing it. It's like starting on the bottom floor of an elevator in the deepest core of the earth. Each floor you go up, the doors open, only to reveal more darkness. It all looks and feels the same, but it is not. You are moving toward where you need to be.<br />
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18. You have the right to self-pity, selfishness, self-loathing, self-awareness. You have the right to be YOURSELF. Deep grief is a profoundly lonely experience, and yet, it binds us all. We all walk beside you, which will give you comfort when you are ready.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-26338916918060122692012-04-14T13:24:00.001-06:002012-04-14T13:25:02.380-06:00Crash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1_ilU61x5LQ/T4nO0iV5v4I/AAAAAAAAAEg/rLwf2BHnxU0/s1600/IMG_4910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1_ilU61x5LQ/T4nO0iV5v4I/AAAAAAAAAEg/rLwf2BHnxU0/s400/IMG_4910.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Hm.<br />
<br />
Guess I'm still mad.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-55406140581389311132012-03-16T07:35:00.001-06:002012-03-16T07:35:27.409-06:00Two YearsTwo years is no time at all. Two years is forever. Time can slip like water through your fingers or freeze like ice in your veins. <br />
<br />
The mind plays tricks on you, whether you are awake or asleep. In my dreams, without my walls of logic and rationale to protect it, my mind slips backwards in time, lulls me into a world where none of this happened. I still wake up, reach across an empty bed, and feel you die all over again. Though I still do not see you outright in my dreams, I can sense you there, just out of reach. I wake up sweating, panicked, terrified that something terrible is about to happen. Then I remember: it already has. Even in the light of day, I am fooled. Little things, slips of focus. For a brief second, I am eager to tell you something. Then I remember. I drive a road we drove a thousand times and it is like dipping into our past and for that one small second I forget that you are not there with me.<br />
<br />
I don’t just think of you from time to time. People assume that the passing of hours, months, and years means that you will slip from conscious thought. But you don’t. You are always there. I talk to you a hundred times a day. Whispered words, sad smiles, bits of my day I want to store up and save for you in a story like I used to. You never answer back. At most, I hear your little sigh, “Oh Sal.” It is not enough. It will never be enough.<br />
<br />
Time trudges on without you. I have recovered from the initial shock of this. That time itself did not collapse when you left. It should have. Instead, the world carried on as though nothing had happened. As though the most important part of it didn’t suddenly disappear. Politicians bicker, babies are born, bills must be paid. Many times it is like watching through a frosted pane of glass. I see it all happening as though it is happening to someone else. Why does this part of my life often feel like it is the dream and before was actually real? Other times you are so far away I think perhaps I imagined you altogether.<br />
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It has been so long for everyone else that I mostly keep you to myself now. To bring you up, to speak of you, to relive our life garners strange looks, tilts of the head, and awkward escapes from my presence. I am the only one who remembers. I have no choice. You haunt me. Just as you said you would. It is like we have our own secret life that nobody knows. This secret is the heaviest burden I have ever had to bear. It is like scrambling up a mountainside with a boulder strapped to you, dragging it slowly, painfully through the mud. While everyone else takes an escalator.<br />
<br />
I should hate you. Resent you. Wish you had never been. That I could undo that entire part of my life and keep it from happening. Save myself. But I cannot bring myself to it. The truth is, those memories are all mine. They are precious. I take them out, turn them over, look at them from every angle, over and over. I was loved. It was real. We were real.<br />
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Two years is just a number. An arbitrarily assigned date. It means nothing, really. Each day hurts as much as the one before. Each day I miss you regardless. But these dates, these numbers, still carry weight. Even to me. They mark something. Years with, years without. They are like the beads on a rosary, I count them over and over and over, whispering prayers as they slip through my fingers.<br />
<br />
There is little else to say that I have not said a thousand times already. I miss you. I love you. Don’t forget me. You know the words by now. <br />
<br />
Come back to me. One day. Promise me. <br />
<br />
Remember me.<br />
<br />
Just as I remember you.<br />Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-15417408283659649652012-02-16T06:48:00.000-07:002012-02-16T06:48:06.524-07:00A Little Help?Ok, so most of you know that about six months after Craig passed away I did a major shake-up of my career. I quit my stable, secure job I'd had at a large oil and gas firm for almost five years and went back to school.<br />
<br />
I sold my house, moved, and started all over again.<br />
<br />
It was terrifying.<br />
<br />
I'm about halfway through my degree and after a bit of a rocky start, I'm finally getting a handle on things. Unfortunately, the Calgary employment market isn't what it used to be and that year off work leaves a bit of a gap in my resume, even though I was in school at the time.<br />
<br />
I'm currently trying out for an internship at a large oil and gas company here in Calgary but I need some help. It's a part of the Alberta's Next Top Accountant competition and in order to win the job I have to get the most "likes" on my tryout video online.<br />
<br />
So if you are able, please help me out by clicking the link below and then "liking" my video (it's the little thumbs-up icon to the right of the video you need to click). I would be so grateful and know it would go a long way to beefing up my resume and helping me get my career back on track.<br />
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http://nexttopaccountant.ca/?p=70<br />
<br />
Thank you!<br />
<br />Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-41076041042811132692012-02-14T06:28:00.001-07:002012-02-14T06:29:46.470-07:00Because It Makes Me LaughSo a million years ago, give or take, Craig and I finally got all grown up and decided to get an apartment of our own.<br />
<br />
Well, technically I got tired of living in a basement and got an apartment of my own, dragging Craig with me.<br />
<br />
We were finally grown ups and loved every minute of it. At least for that first week. The rent was a mere $700 a month for 546 square feet of pure... bliss? Ok, so the bedroom was too small to fit a bed (which we didn't even have) and with no couches we were forced to watch our 14" tv while lying on blankets on the floor. Oh and that 14" tv? It was too old to hook our dvd player up to so we were forced to watch beta. For those of you who don't remember beta... well... good grief I'm old.<br />
<br />
Only one person could be in the kitchen at a time and you couldn't load dishes into the dishwasher while still in the kitchen so you either had to, a) wash them by hand in the teeny tiny sink, or b) stand outside the kitchen to load the dishwasher while someone else stood inside the kitchen passing you the dishes that had been sitting on the counters, stove, or in the oven (when we ran out of room on the counters... pretty much every day).<br />
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We didn't have a dining room or a table - just a sort of breakfast bar that became a pseudo shelf for our desk since we had nowhere else to put stuff. Those first couple weeks we ate dinner off of ice cream bucket lids and tupperware.<br />
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The washer and dryer were stackable which is just a fancy way of saying you could only wash about two pairs of socks at a time. We did have a deck, though. All ten beautiful square feet of it. The dust from construction in the area was so bad if you went out there you usually left footprints akin to those after a serious snowfall. Whenever the global fireworks festival came in August we would scrunch ourselves up against the far corner of this deck and catch the left 50% of the show. It was magical.<br />
<br />
It only took about a year for the nerves to fray and my patience to run out. I'd found us a nice little place for not much more a month, down the street from my parents, that had not one, but TWO bathrooms. This, I knew, would be the secret to matrimonial success - no more sharing sinks or having to wait for someone else to finish in the bathroom. We got three good sized bedrooms, an actual place for a table (which, ironically, took us over a year to buy anyway), and a real kitchen with cupboard doors you could open and everything. I was only too thrilled to dump that apartment and head for our new life, never looking back.<br />
<br />
It actually shocked the heck out of me when Craig became all nostalgic about that shoebox of an apartment. We bickered there constantly and always seemed to be crawling on top of each other just to get anything done. For some reason he saw this as "being close". While I complained about having to try to cook in a cramped kitchen and was forever bashing my head on cupboard doors and low-lying light fixtures, he watched wistfully as his wife made him a home cooked meal, marvelling at my "cuteness" (read: clumsiness). While I hated dragging groceries up three flights of stairs because of an elevator that never worked, he relished the exercise and would take them full speed, two at a time, grinning with glee. <br />
<br />
When it actually came to moving day, I couldn't have been happier. Craig, however, was sad. He wanted to remember those days in the crummy apartment for the rest of our lives. Some thing he could tell our grandkids about and remember fondly in our old age. I, of course, wanted no part in this.<br />
<br />
So, oblivious to my disbelief, he decided to run around frantically and catalogue as much as he could of the old apartment. These photos are a few of the ones he took that day. They are my favourites, obviously:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cv4aZ6nLfRo/Tzpc6s4EEGI/AAAAAAAAADk/LmAHUqE9KnU/s1600/Scan0116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="266" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cv4aZ6nLfRo/Tzpc6s4EEGI/AAAAAAAAADk/LmAHUqE9KnU/s400/Scan0116.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iLRbIzju_vI/TzpdCg4InDI/AAAAAAAAADw/fw0RqmIJsXc/s1600/Scan0117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iLRbIzju_vI/TzpdCg4InDI/AAAAAAAAADw/fw0RqmIJsXc/s400/Scan0117.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fkSwNGJ-2vs/TzpdMfg3VpI/AAAAAAAAAD8/eMq9J4Osslk/s1600/Scan0118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="266" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fkSwNGJ-2vs/TzpdMfg3VpI/AAAAAAAAAD8/eMq9J4Osslk/s400/Scan0118.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Now I look at these and I can't help but laugh. Instead of the two of us on our rockers perusing memories of our "first crappy apartment", it's just me. I don't love these because I loved that apartment. Far from it. I don't think I could ever have the affection for it that Craig did.<br />
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Instead I love them because of what they represent. Craig's enthusiasm for cataloguing our lives as though someday we might forget. He was meticulous about keeping old cards, notes, photographs, and trinkets that held special meaning to him. Like a magpie he would squirrel away these tokens like shiny objects, taking them out from time to time to reminisce. <br />
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I always loved that about him and was delighted to uncover these treasures, one at a time, after he passed away.<br />
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In the end, he didn't just catalogue our lives for himself. He catalogued them for me.<br />
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They became a way for me to remember. To pick up these trinkets and photographs, turn them over in my hands, and smile about where they came from.<br />
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All the little pieces of our lives, neatly wrapped up and ready for me.<br />
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And though he may never know this, I am truly grateful for this gift he left me.<br />
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I do take them out and remember these moments in our life. Sometimes it's like he's looking at them with me, hovering just over my should to point and say, "See, Sal? Look at how skinny I used to be!"Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-68147705075292890162012-02-13T10:42:00.003-07:002012-02-13T10:42:49.778-07:00How Valentine's Day Really LooksWhen you are first widowed, the pain is so big and so real, it manifests physically. I remember having very severe chest pain (first time I actually took "die of a broken heart" as more than an overblown cliche), back aches, constant nausea (good for weight loss, bad for being social), and no ability to sleep on my own whatsoever. Everything hurts. Not just emotionally, but your whole body too. <br />
<br />
Then time marches on and that pain begins to ebb. It fades, slowly, so very slowly you don't even notice it happening at the time.<br />
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Eventually it turns into a big empty space where the hurt used to be.<br />
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You walk around with this. A big empty bubble, ready to burst at any moment from the slightest provocation. When it bursts... well, duck and run for cover because the hurt comes back tenfold.<br />
<br />
It's been almost two years now. <br />
<br />
This time of year is hard for me. It has a lot of memories. Mostly I associate it with this sick feeling of dread. That something bad happened/could happen/might happen/did happen. It makes me reflective. Probably unecessarily so. <br />
<br />
This time last year, Valentine's Day made me sick. Not because my boyfriend wasn't great (he was... and is) but because it still remains a fixed point in time that I actually remember spending with Craig. You see, most days drift by in your life without you even noticing. A million little things that slide by, some funny, some sweet, some sad. It's like the little ripples in a wave. You see the bigger wave, but the little ones, no matter how special or beautiful, sort of slide by.<br />
<br />
But big days, days like Valentine's Day or anniversaries or Christmas, stand out because of their fixed date. <br />
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So those I can remember.<br />
<br />
I remember exactly what we did.<br />
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I remember what we said.<br />
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I remember how it felt.<br />
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I've told the story of Craig's lack of Valentine's Day forethought before and the resulting Coach bag I love so much, so I won't bother recounting it here. Last year, the one year anniversary of that date, was thick with heartache for me.<br />
<br />
This year, with more time having passed, I feel less.<br />
<br />
This is not to say it doesn't make me sad or make me miss him. It doesn't mean I love him less than I ever did. It just means that I feel... less.<br />
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I try not to let myself get too carried away on what-ifs anymore. I know that once I allow myself to follow a train of thought, like "I wonder what we would be doing today if he was still here..." there will be no stopping the hamster wheel in my mind that can race for days, round and round, obsessing over the possibilities.<br />
<br />
I've learned from experience how this can create someone new to mourn. Because as time goes on, you inevitably imagine the person with the slightest of alterations, so small you barely notice them at the time. Before you know it, that person you are remembering isn't the same as the one you lost. And I'd much rather keep those memories of Craig intact, preserved, exactly as he was.<br />
<br />
This Valentine's Day I'll be rocking out alone, studying for exams, probably finishing off the night with a glass of wine. Or bottle. Depending on how things go.<br />
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I can't promise dinner won't be McDonald's accompanied by a box of Kleenex.<br />
<br />
Or I might just laugh my way through some old emails.<br />
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I might take Coach out to look at, I might not.<br />
<br />
Either way, I think I'll feel a little calmer, a little softer, a little less sad than last year.<br />
<br />
And that's progress.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-9829715419760403412012-02-09T06:59:00.002-07:002012-02-09T06:59:23.991-07:00Because Awesome Friends are AwesomeI don't have a whole lot to say today. My posts have been a little darker as of late. What can I say? It's been a rough go of things for the last couple months.<br />
<br />
But I've started settling back into the routine of school and for some reason (clearly magical in nature) I actually feel like I'm not drowning this go around. I like my classes. All of them. Well. Except one where I have to do group work every day. Note to course developers: accountants don't like playing with others. That's why we are accountants!<br />
<br />
I have a few exciting projects on the go that I'm actually looking forward to. One is a competition for a summer internship at Husky. Shameless plug: Please visit this website and vote for me! http://nexttopaccountant.ca/?p=70<br />
<br />
But more than that I have two great buds suffering through the workload with me this semester making my classes a heck of a lot more fun. Yes, we are that obnoxious trio at the front of the room constantly giggling and talking about eating cake. Normally after class we head home but get stalled right before leaving campus and end up yakking for an hour in the freezing cold because we just can't shut up long enough to actually get going. Besides, we are all way too interesting and funny.<br />
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Suffice to say, after the way I struggled last semester, having someone to giggle with innapropriately during lectures and share notes with makes it all a lot easier to deal with. <br />
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And did I mention they don't get weird when I talk about Craig?<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
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They are awesome.<br />
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So here's to awesome friends being awesome! <br />
<br />
(but don't let it go to your heads guys... I'll mark you down on peer evaluations if you get too cocky)Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-61768762289862821852012-01-27T12:53:00.004-07:002012-01-27T12:53:49.357-07:00The Trade-OffI read an interesting article this week that cited a survey done amongst widow(er)s who stated, almost unanimously, they would give up an entire year of their life for one more day with their deceased spouse.<br />
<br />
At first, I found this statistic rather jarring.<br />
<br />
I have no idea if they posed the question outright or if "one year" was simply one of the options to choose from, but I found the very idea bizarre. Had any of these widdas come up with that on their own? Is this part of the bargaining process we go through when we lose a spouse? Dear God, I promise to die a year earlier if I could just have one more day with my husband.<br />
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The thought had never really occurred to me before. Largely because my bargaining process went a little more like this: Dear God, thanks for nothing. Please help me survive this now. Help me find a way to pay next month's phone bill. Help me get to work without getting in an accident. Help me survive my coworkers and their misguided attempts at helping. Give me someone to talk to. I promise I'll stop hating everyone. Why did you do this to me? How could you? I hate you... no wait, I don't. Please don't smite me.<br />
<br />
Suffice to say the idea of bargaining a little more time with Craig has been working it's way through my brain all week. What would I give up?<br />
<br />
To throw a year out there seems almost too glib. Which year? The last year of my life (preferably at 95 or something) or some other random year? And is it unfair to A to throw out what could be one of our years together for someone who is already gone? <br />
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Then I thought, what would I do with that one day, anyhow?<br />
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I can't imagine taking Craig somewhere or trying to show him what my life is like now. What a waste of time.<br />
<br />
Would I cook him dinner or would we go out for McDonald's just to keep things quick?<br />
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What would we talk about?<br />
<br />
I think I realized I don't really have a whole day's worth of things to say to Craig anymore, assuming he'd just sit there patiently listening the entire time.<br />
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And I don't really have things to say. <br />
<br />
More like yell.<br />
<br />
I'd probably scream my head off at him for leaving me, for making everything so hard. For not paying more attention when he was driving. I'd probably interrogate him about what happened and then not even listen to what he was saying because it still makes me so mad. I'd yell at him for the family mess and everything that has happened with them since. <br />
<br />
Somewhere among this obsessive train of thought I realized one very important thing:<br />
<br />
I'm still pretty mad.<br />
<br />
It's been almost 2 years and I love Craig as much as I ever did and want to yell at him as much as I did the first day. I kind of figured that would have changed by now.<br />
<br />
Which inevitably brought me around to one rather depressing thought: How much have I healed, really?<br />
<br />
Not nearly as much as I thought I would have.<br />
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And the only person that really leaves me mad at is me. <br />
<br />
You see, Craig's death involved a lot of trade-offs. I had to swap out my job to go back to school. I have less debt but somehow more financial insecurity. I have a house but I lost our home. I have a new car but now I hate to drive. <br />
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I used to have a laundry list of things I wanted in my life that would make me "happy". Craig always gave me a hard time that for every thing on that list I checked off, I'd somehow find a new one to add on. <br />
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Now it seems I've checked the majority of those boxes (ok, I still haven't won the lottery) but that "happy" feeling is still eluding me. <br />
<br />
And I think it's because I'm disappointed in myself at not getting as far as I'd planned.<br />
<br />
I didn't quit my job because I found something better. I quit because my brain stopped working right and I couldn't stay sharp and focused anymore and it was only a matter of time before I flubbed something up beyond repair.<br />
<br />
I went back to school but I stuggle with it constantly. It is too hard for me sometimes. Most times, in fact.<br />
<br />
I still don't have it "emotionally together" and stay home at least a couple times a month because I just can't will myself to get out of bed and pretend to be a normal human.<br />
<br />
I haven't finished my book, reached enlightenment, or changed the world.<br />
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I'm still carrying those extra pounds.<br />
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I'm still just boring old me, only slightly more defective.<br />
<br />
This, more than anything, depresses me.<br />
<br />
To think that my life was somehow traded for Craig's and I really haven't done much of anything with it. And the worst part of that is, I've been trying my hardest.<br />
<br />
I know all about survivor's guilt - I'm a walking billboard for it. You will tell me that there was nothing I could do, that I couldn't trade places with Craig anyhow. Maybe you'll tell me it was his time to go, not mine. There is a greater cosmic plan at work.<br />
<br />
You can tell me all these things.<br />
<br />
But I can't make myself believe you.<br />
<br />
Every day I walk around happy, I think perhaps I shouldn't be, it's not fair. Every time I try to achieve something, I drown in guilt that I should get something that he should have had. Every minute I get to keep going is a minute he didn't get.<br />
<br />
I wish I had a magical answer or perhaps that awesome machine from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind where I could just brain wipe whatever sucked in my life. So I could unknow the things that make me immobile.<br />
<br />
I think perhaps THAT would make me happy.<br />
<br />Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-6047600923258556082011-12-05T19:34:00.001-07:002011-12-05T19:59:59.947-07:00Maybe The Grinch Had It RightThis year I've decided I'm not doing Christmas.<br />
<br />
Not at all.<br />
<br />
Officially I am removing myself from this holiday.<br />
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Seems weird and grinchy and all those other things, I know, but I have a few perfectly good reasons.<br />
<br />
It started about 10 years ago when my super sweet boyfriend became the first boyfriend any of us girls had dated to come to a family holiday. And before you roll your eyes at that one, remember that I come from a family with four sisters so this was no small accomplishment. I'd jokingly throw in that my dad was lurking near the door with a shotgun only it's not really a joke.<br />
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Craig was charming and funny and perfect. I proudly paraded him around like some sort of prize turkey.<br />
<br />
He never missed a Christmas after that.<br />
<br />
Until last year. <br />
<br />
To say it was the hardest holiday of my life would be a gross understatement. Throw in some insane family drama and hitting a deer Christmas morning and I think you've found the cause of my hair falling out (please God let me not be bald by the time I'm 30).<br />
<br />
There is something about this holiday that has the ability to kick you in the gut emotionally like nothing else.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's the sappy Christmas tunes (which, yes, I used to love singing off-key as loud as I could with Craig in the kitchen) or the excess of booze removing the filter ability we normaly work with every day (hello holiday egg nog!) or perhaps it's the constant smell of baked goods drawing us back into warm and fuzzy childhood moments. Whatever the reason, this holiday manages to sucker punch you on all five senses.<br />
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This year my family is heading out of town which certainly casts an additional "lonely" glow but, in truth, I know it's really all about Craig for me.<br />
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The first carol I heard on the radio a few days ago (yes, a miracle, but I've been avoiding those Christmas carol playing stations like the plague knowing it would come to this - only upbeat pop garbage for me!) I got hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong I just about had to pull over. Since I was in the middle of rush hour traffic I opted for sobbing like a lunatic instead (no tissues in the car made for one dribbling mess).<br />
<br />
I hate that Christmas used to be my favourite holiday. I would nag Craig from about August onwards about putting up the tree. Normally he'd throw his hands in the air in disgust sometime around mid-November and finally relent. I would always start my Christmas shopping in September and Craig and I would waste hours on overly-detailed wish lists and fantasty purchases. Christmas baking was done weeks in advance and definitely added to my traditional 'holiday 10' with the overabundance I'd prepare (normally gifted to any and every family member I could find). <br />
<br />
We'd watch every holiday movie under the sun, curled up on the couch in blankets drinking eggnog with the tree all lit up. We even had a tradition of buying a new ornament every year to commemorate whatever big event happened for us that year - when we got married it was a shell ornament from Maui, when we got Pocket it was a little kitty. <br />
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Last year I took the dried flowers from the funeral and strung them up in glass baubles. <br />
<br />
They weren't really all that festive. <br />
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And of course there was the fire channel. A favourite of Craig's that drove me around the bend. He'd always want to put it on and I'd always holler at him to quit being so cheap and just buy a real damn fireplace. I'd rather be watching the Simpsons. A couple months after his death I was going through his things and found a video tape labeled "Craig's Hot Video". Naturally I was horrified figuring it was something illicit I'd rather not see. Naturally this made me want to watch it more. Two and half hours of the fire channel, taped through his VCR. Presumably so he could rewatch it all year round. I cried for three days. I'd have given anything to see him siting on the couch, watching it again. I promise this time I'd let him.<br />
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These are just a few of the thousand tiny moments that made Christmas for me. There were others, just as sweet or just as sad. All perfect. Opening special gifts, laughter, fighting over the remote, teaching our sisters how to play Mario brothers, lying on the floor to play trucks with our nephew... the list goes on and on and on.<br />
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Only every single part of Christmas doesn't feel like much of a celebration to me anymore. <br />
<br />
It feels like a painful, heavy reminder of what I had and what is now gone.<br />
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It makes missing him unbearable.<br />
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It doesn't feel light and happy to me. It feels heavy and sad.<br />
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You could argue that these are things we need to face, to move on, to come to grips with it. That hiding from a holiday is hardly the grown-up approach.<br />
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The thing is, I'm not sure I can.<br />
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Even if I could, I'm not sure I'd want to.<br />
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I don't feel like pretending to be festive when I'm not. I hate the idea of forgetting all these special moments. It is suffocating to pretend that nothing has happend, when it has. To act like nobody is missing, when they are.<br />
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That, to me, feels like the greater injustice.<br />
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<br />
<br />Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-29880492080202417322011-11-11T14:01:00.001-07:002011-11-11T14:12:06.147-07:00A Little ExcerptFor those of you curious about <i>The Bad Widow's Handbook</i>, I thought I'd post a little piece from what I've written so far. I'm almost halfway there (22,966 words as of right now) and it's finally taking some shape!<br />
<br />
Anyway, thanks for all the encouragement I've received from everyone. Hope you enjoy!<br />
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<br />
There should really be some sort of course you have to take before becoming widowed.<br />
<br />
They have them for driving cars and doing taxes, so why not dealing with death?<br />
<br />
Most of us are woefully unprepared and, sadly, do not realize it until it’s way too late. By the time you get around to trying to figure out what in the heck you are supposed to be doing, it’s been over a year and you are still climbing into bed with dirty laundry at night and putting your keys away in the fridge when you come home after work.<br />
<br />
There should be tests you need to pass before they let you go back to work or re-enter society to prevent you from doing crazy things like sobbing in the middle of the candy aisle at the grocery store and driving around all night without headlights on while belting out Christmas carols through the driver’s side window in the middle of April.<br />
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You should have to wear some sort of t-shirt or nametag or flashing neon sign that identifies you just like a new driver sticker on the back of a bumper. On second thought, there should be one on the back of your bumper too. The way I figure it, the rest of the world should be given the heads up for both your benefit and theirs. It could read something like:<br />
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<i>Warning: Newly widowed. May randomly burst into tears at inopportune moments completely unprovoked.</i><br />
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Or perhaps:<br />
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<i>Hello, my name is Widowed, please do not become alarmed if I randomly hug you.</i><br />
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Or maybe:<br />
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<i>Beware of widow. Batshit crazy.</i><br />
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It would neatly take care of the problem of people having no clue what is going on with you and, as a result, giving you strange looks in public for blubbering on park benches while eating three cheeseburgers and wiping snot across your sleeve. It would also lessen the burden of having to explain, between gulping sobs, why you are wearing two wedding bands, only one shoe, and a sweater spotted with unidentifiable stains reeking of cologne.<br />
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There should be little flashcards with tips on what to say that you can hand out to family and friends during awkward moments like when your five-year old nephew loudly questions whether he will see Uncle Craig at Christmas this year or when you announce at work you will be dealing with “death stuff” for the weekend but that they should definitely enjoy the sunshine.<br />
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A widow license declaring your current status would sure speed things along when you get pulled over by the cops for sitting in the middle of an intersection sobbing uncontrollably while traffic is forced to re-route around you or when you have to go pick up your husband’s ashes from the funeral home and nobody believes you that you are his wife and not his daughter. <br />
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Much like the home security systems that put the little sticker up on your front window, you should be able to get one that warns there is a widow residing within. The pizza man might stop making remarks about how often you order and the mailman could finally begin to understand why there always seems to be promotional envelopes for pickup with “sorry, dead” scribbled viciously over your husband’s name along with “return to f*cking sender.” Maybe then your neighbours might feel sorry for you and offer to cut your lawn instead of just sitting there drinking lemonade while you stumble about for hours wrapped in lawn mower cords and grass clippings, screaming obscenities at the heavens and cursing your husband’s name for never teaching you how to turn the damn thing on.<br />
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Along with the visit to your office to tell you your husband won’t be coming home, the cops could provide an automatic key finder so instead of searching every corner of the house before finally happening upon them when reaching for the bottle of wine you keep on hand, you could just head straight for the fridge (or your pair of winter boots or recycling bin or couch cushion) where you left them last thanks to the incessant beeping they now make. They could supply you with a handy dandy checklist on what happens next and how to do stupid things you never imagined you’d have to like putting windshield washer fluid in your car, killing spiders, or picking out music for your husband’s funeral that somehow exemplifies his life without resorting to gangsta rap.<br />
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You should be assigned a 24-7 friend/confidante/babysitter/ass-wiper who can come over to clean your toilet for you, make sure you eat something other than pickles, and listen to your insane rantings at 3 a.m. Preferably someone who will look the other way when you don’t shower for a week or eat ravioli straight out of the can while sitting on an entire box of crushed Cheerios scattered across the kitchen floor. Their primary responsible would be the procurement of hot beverages for comfort and alcoholic beverages for, well, also comfort. They’d help you track down that one stupid photo of your husband where he’s actually looking into the camera and smiling from last year’s Christmas party to be blown up for the obituary and would fill in the endless mounds of paperwork that you’ll need to submit to the government so they can tell you that you are too young to qualify for widowhood and receive the normal death benefits that accompany such a status. They could make sure you wear clean clothes on occasion and act as a bodyguard to protect you from the nosey neighbours who accost you every time you go to the mailbox, demanding to know whose car it was parked near your house the day before. They could write thank-you cards for the funeral and negotiate with insurance companies and reassure you daily that you are not crazy, despite the mountain of evidence to the contrary.<br />
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And much like any other professional certification these days, you should get little gold stars and letters after your name for managing to continue to earn a paycheque despite now having the attention span of a two year old, for remembering to pay your bills even though they are trivial and stupid in comparison to your new life, and for somehow managing not to smack others in the face for rather insensitive comments like, "Must be nice to finally be single!"<br />
<br />
For some reason, nobody has ever bothered to do this sort of stuff, despite the growing market for death thanks to drunk drivers, homicidal maniacs, and idiots who fall asleep at the wheel.<br />
<br />
I’m going to write a letter to the government to get this going.<br />
<br />
Just as soon as I climb out of bed. <br />
<br />
Later this afternoon.<br />
<br />
Maybe.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-16881120548027849382011-11-08T17:33:00.001-07:002011-11-08T17:35:04.282-07:00NaNoWriMoWell folks, it's November again. And that means National Novel Writing Month!<br />
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This is one of those crazy, hair-brained contests for pseudo-writers like me. The idea is to quit making excuses and putting it off - to get down to business and hammer out a book. The objective is 50,000 words in one measly month. So totally ridiculous. <br />
<br />
Of course I'm doing it.<br />
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It's one of those always-wanted-to-try things that I never quite got around to. But this year is the year! I'm kicking my own arse and putting pen to paper. Well. Fingers to keyboard. Who writes by hand anymore? I'm pretty sure I'd get a cramp.<br />
<br />
They say to write what you know and there's nothing I know better than... me! So I'm pulling together a book that is sort of an extension of this blog entitled The Bad Widow's Handbook. Basically a more or less true account of my life over the last couple years and the craziness that is being a young widow.<br />
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I'm only a week in and have made a good dent in my work but my focus is starting to drop a bit. I've realized sitting down to write an actual novel takes a lot more work than this lazy blogger imagined. It requires thought. And attention. And focus for more than five minutes. Something my A.D.D. combined with my Widda Brain just doesn't really allow for.<br />
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But I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet. I'm hoping throwing this out there into cyberspace will help force me into knuckling down to get some actual writing done. Embarassment over not finishing can be a good motivator too. <br />
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This has been one hell of a journey and I'm hoping putting it all together into something coherent will help act as some free therapy. Except good free therapy instead of the crazy-hippy-in-a-tent-on-the-side-of-the-road-who-smells-like-patchouli free therapy (yes, I had to google how to spell patchouli).<br />
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So help me out with some motivation here - harass me, remind me, throw sticks at me... whatever it takes! <br />
<br />
50,000 words, here I come!Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-75149549219308146042011-06-25T10:37:00.000-06:002011-06-25T10:37:42.779-06:00My New GardenFor the first time in my adult life, I planted a garden last week.<br />
<br />
It was arduous.<br />
<br />
56 feet long, 2 feet deep, you do the math.<br />
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Nothing but cracked, dry ground. I had to fight for every inch. I turned it all over by hand, de-weeded, made a beautiful border, mixed top soil, planted, watered, and then collapsed into an exhausted heep. Two days of work. My quads will never be the same.<br />
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Now normally I have a hate-on for all things creepy crawly but for some reason, while gardening, my girly squeals are somewhat manageable. There were worms galore, spiders, and even a ladybug I managed to not freak out over.<br />
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I love my garden. <br />
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And just the other day, the first few teeny tiny little buds began to break ground. Then I allowed myself to squeal like a girl. In delight, of course.<br />
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Gardens and spring go hand in hand, don't they?<br />
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Renewal, rebirth.<br />
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I love the symbolism in this.<br />
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Because at its core is the idea that no matter what, anything can be made new.<br />
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No matter how broken, no matter how wretched, no matter how hopeless... everything can be made new, can be made better, can be made beautiful again.<br />
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It has been over 15 months since my life imploded. It feels like 15 years.<br />
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Hours spent trapped in loneliness, isolation, and heartache. Sorrow covers you and swallows you up, leaving no room for anything else.<br />
<br />
But time elapsed.<br />
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Slowly. Very, very slowly.<br />
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I had to put in so much work. Fight for every inch.<br />
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I was lucky enough to have some wonderful people in my life to pluck me out of my grief and set me shakily back on the ground.<br />
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I even had one close friendship that sparked into a wonderful new relationship, my future husband.<br />
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My life is changing, being made over. <br />
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New experiences, new places, new people.<br />
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I feel like a different person now. <br />
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New. <br />
<br />
And it feels really good.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856230925324124058.post-21104440963230950622011-05-10T10:57:00.000-06:002011-05-10T10:57:07.807-06:00To A Very Special NurseI don't post nearly as much as I used to. Some of that is not feeling like I ever have time and some of that is just being in a place in my life where I am starting to have peace again. <br />
<br />
But I was reminded that this week is National Nursing Week and it occurred to me to write a little something about a nurse I am truly grateful for.<br />
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She was a neighbour of ours, on her way to dropping her kids off at daycare. Hectic morning, hectic life. She crested that little dip on 84th and there was Craig's car and the wreckage from the collision only minutes prior. She was the first person on scene.<br />
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Her training kicked in and she called her husband to come meet her and get her kids out of the car and away from the whole scene. She checked the other driver and headed straight for Craig's car. It was so badly damaged she had to crawl in through one of the windows and all she could reach was his hand. She was scratched up by the broken glass and shards of metal and still sat there for over ten minutes until the police arrived, holding his hand and praying for him.<br />
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It took me months to be able to speak to her after his accident. I was so grateful for her honesty, her ability to recount all the worst parts of the story, no matter how painful it was for either of us. She was one of the few people who knew enough to refrain from trying to coddle or protect me, that the pain was in the details and I needed all those details.<br />
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She told me Craig was not conscious, that he was struggling to breathe, that she could see slight movement under his eyelids. She described to me the last few moments of his life - a time I would have given anything to be there for. <br />
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In some ways I experienced a lot of anger over not being the person to be there. I felt it was my responsibility. That I was his wife and I NEEDED to be there. This is something most people may not understand, but however traumatized I would have been, I would still rather have been there to hold his hand and tell him everything was going to be ok, than have been sitting at work, chatting with a friend, completely oblivious.<br />
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I was told later that the police all but dragged her out of the car, that she refused to leave. She was crying and praying and insistent that someone stay for Craig. <br />
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I often wondered what the chances were that a nurse would be the first to show up. Pretty rare, right? But given how horrific the accident was, I'm not sure someone else could have handled it as well. It took almost six months for her to be able to fully recount the story to me and for me to be able to hear it. It is something that stayed with her, that affected her in a huge way.<br />
<br />
But because of her someone was there to hold his hand, to pray over him, to show him that he was not alone. I hope that he was aware of her there and that he was not afraid. I like to think she was at least a comfort to him in those final moments. And what an incredible gift that is.<br />
<br />
So this week I just want to remember that nurse, and all the wonderful nurses out there, and say thank you for doing what you do, saving lives, and taking care of our loved ones when they need it most. You are all amazing.Emily (Garvin) Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05673955923711869273noreply@blogger.com5