Normally 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.
I've been crafting this year's letter in my head for a few weeks now.
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.
This year I felt especially isolated, particularly alone.
I had expectations about being three years out, I think. Ridiculous ones.
That, by this point, I would be fine, I would be ok, I would be better. As if "better" somehow has any meaning.
Except... I'm not fine, I'm not ok, I'm not really better.
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.
It still catches in my throat and breaks my heart.
I still feel that pinch in my chest and have to look away to swallow back tears.
I still feel the taint of death on my life.
I was asked yesterday if I had any peace over what happened. My answer?
No.
I don't think that peace is possible. Peace implies some sort of acceptance. A sense of calm or ease with how things are.
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.
This is not a matter of choice.
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.
That is how it has felt, every day, for 3 years.
So, because of this, my 3 year letter will be a little shorter than others:
Dear Craig,
I still love you. I still miss you. I'm still waiting.
Your Emily
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
My Grief is Bigger Than Your Grief
This 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.
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.
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.
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 for me. 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.
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.
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!
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.
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).
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.
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)?
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.
Because, you see, the My-Grief-Is-Bigger-Than-Your-Grief Competition only has losers. No winners.
Because grief sucks.
Period.
All grief.
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.
Not to mention you can alienate and hurt the people around you, quite badly.
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.
There.
You see?
It's awful too.
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.
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.
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 for me. 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.
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.
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!
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.
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).
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.
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)?
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.
Because, you see, the My-Grief-Is-Bigger-Than-Your-Grief Competition only has losers. No winners.
Because grief sucks.
Period.
All grief.
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.
Not to mention you can alienate and hurt the people around you, quite badly.
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.
There.
You see?
It's awful too.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Momentos
This week was "momento night" at the grief group I'm co-facilitating.
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.
It's always a very emotional night for everyone and can bring up many, many tears.
Part of my job as a co-facilitator is to bring in an item of my own to help get the ball rolling.
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.
Basically a couple hours before I had to go I finally decided I could put it off no more.
I pulled out my "boxes" and began what I thought would be a quick glance through to find something I liked.
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.
The next box was all the photos from the funeral and the one after that had Craig's journals, diaries, and love letters.
There weren't a ton of boxes, but it sure felt like it.
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.
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.
It made me realize something very important.
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.
Why?
Because I don't want to remember the sad stuff anymore.
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.
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.
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.
On my right hand is my ring - the one I designed that is made from both sets of our wedding bands.
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.
These are the things that make me smile. They make me feel better.
At some point along the way, a shift happened.
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.
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.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the momento I brought was a card he gave me on my birthday. Inside it he wrote:
"I would have hoped that being older in body and mind that you would have blossomed into a mature young woman.
However, I can see you plan on staying young forever.
Please stay young forever, I don't want to be left behind.
At times in our life our own spark goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another.
You are my spark."
Like I said, these are the things worth remembering.
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.
It's always a very emotional night for everyone and can bring up many, many tears.
Part of my job as a co-facilitator is to bring in an item of my own to help get the ball rolling.
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.
Basically a couple hours before I had to go I finally decided I could put it off no more.
I pulled out my "boxes" and began what I thought would be a quick glance through to find something I liked.
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.
The next box was all the photos from the funeral and the one after that had Craig's journals, diaries, and love letters.
There weren't a ton of boxes, but it sure felt like it.
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.
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.
It made me realize something very important.
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.
Why?
Because I don't want to remember the sad stuff anymore.
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.
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.
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.
On my right hand is my ring - the one I designed that is made from both sets of our wedding bands.
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.
These are the things that make me smile. They make me feel better.
At some point along the way, a shift happened.
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.
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.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the momento I brought was a card he gave me on my birthday. Inside it he wrote:
"I would have hoped that being older in body and mind that you would have blossomed into a mature young woman.
However, I can see you plan on staying young forever.
Please stay young forever, I don't want to be left behind.
At times in our life our own spark goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another.
You are my spark."
Like I said, these are the things worth remembering.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
This is MY FAULT
Today I have to break one of my rules.
Normally I refrain from getting swallowed up in religious or political debates in social media, but this one hits too close to home.
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.
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.
Do you know what was helpful?
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.
These are the people who cared.
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?
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:
This is my fault.
MY fault.
I DID THIS.
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.
I AM society.
MY actions are God’s work in society.
This is MY FAULT.
Instead of sitting back, blaming other people and other things, why not act with love EVERY DAY.
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: http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-conn-shooting-victims-families-community/story?id=17998635
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: http://www.forces.gc.ca/site/commun/message/addresses-2-eng.asp
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.
Show the world what it looks like when He is welcomed back in.
Normally I refrain from getting swallowed up in religious or political debates in social media, but this one hits too close to home.
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.
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.
Do you know what was helpful?
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.
These are the people who cared.
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?
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:
This is my fault.
MY fault.
I DID THIS.
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.
I AM society.
MY actions are God’s work in society.
This is MY FAULT.
Instead of sitting back, blaming other people and other things, why not act with love EVERY DAY.
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: http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-conn-shooting-victims-families-community/story?id=17998635
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: http://www.forces.gc.ca/site/commun/message/addresses-2-eng.asp
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.
Show the world what it looks like when He is welcomed back in.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
1,000 Sleepless Nights
On Monday I woke up from 1,000 nights.
1,000 nights without my Craig.
1,000 days of missing him, of wondering what happened, of not understanding.
1,000 days of tears, of heartache, of anger.
1,000 days of fighting, of breathing, of putting one foot in front of the other.
1,000 feels so big.
It sounds so long.
But in the grand scheme of things, it's barely a blip. My heart understands this better than my head.
I wish I had words of wisdom, beautiful things I had learned. Something to mark those 1,000 days.
But in truth, I feel just as lost at times as I did 1,000 days ago.
I still don't know why this happened.
I still don't understand how God, if He exists, could have looked away.
I still can't fathom the magnitude of losing Craig, of where he is now.
I still miss my best friend. So much. Every day.
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.
Loss is still loss, even 1,000 days later.
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.
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.
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.
1,000 feels like forever.
It crawled by.
It flew past.
1,000 nights without my Craig.
1,000 days of missing him, of wondering what happened, of not understanding.
1,000 days of tears, of heartache, of anger.
1,000 days of fighting, of breathing, of putting one foot in front of the other.
1,000 feels so big.
It sounds so long.
But in the grand scheme of things, it's barely a blip. My heart understands this better than my head.
I wish I had words of wisdom, beautiful things I had learned. Something to mark those 1,000 days.
But in truth, I feel just as lost at times as I did 1,000 days ago.
I still don't know why this happened.
I still don't understand how God, if He exists, could have looked away.
I still can't fathom the magnitude of losing Craig, of where he is now.
I still miss my best friend. So much. Every day.
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.
Loss is still loss, even 1,000 days later.
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.
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.
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.
1,000 feels like forever.
It crawled by.
It flew past.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Taking the Plunge
Well, 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!
I am so excited.
Like, ridiculously excited.
Seems so weird, right?
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.
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.
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.
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.
And then you find your grief group.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Just like me.
I am so excited.
Like, ridiculously excited.
Seems so weird, right?
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.
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.
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.
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.
And then you find your grief group.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Just like me.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Your Voice In My Head
I've gotten so used to talking to you that sometimes I forget I am not.
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.
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?
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.
Other times it is just the same phrase, muttered over and over, each time more urgently than the last. Why did you leave me?
Sometimes it changes.
Why did you me here?
Why did you leave me like this?
Why did you leave me with these people?
Why did you leave me behind?
They are not questions, really. Just statements.
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.
I wonder if I'm going mad. If I already was.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Do you wonder too? What has happened?
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.
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.
What more can I say? I miss you. I love you. You forgot some things. Make sure you stop by to pick them up.
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.
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?
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.
Other times it is just the same phrase, muttered over and over, each time more urgently than the last. Why did you leave me?
Sometimes it changes.
Why did you me here?
Why did you leave me like this?
Why did you leave me with these people?
Why did you leave me behind?
They are not questions, really. Just statements.
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.
I wonder if I'm going mad. If I already was.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Do you wonder too? What has happened?
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.
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.
What more can I say? I miss you. I love you. You forgot some things. Make sure you stop by to pick them up.
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