I'm A What?!?

Newsflash: I'm a widow. With a capital 'W'.

Did you know?

I didn't.

As weird as it sounds, I haven't felt like a widow since Craig's accident. The first few months I'd have kicked anyone's arse who tried to call me one, muttering obscenities under my breath and shouting something to the effect of, "I'm not a widow! I'm married, my husband just isn't here right now."

Never quite got a handle on the 'single' tag either. For some reason this alludes to all sorts of adjectives that I haven't been in a decade and, therefore, couldn't possibly be now.

But I started going to a spousal grief support group last week. The first one was a little rocky, but last night's was much better. We broke into smaller groups which was great for me since it let me talk a lot more. And you know how I love to talk.

But it was the first time I felt like I actually fitted into a group. Like I actually belonged somewhere.

And then it hit me.

I'm a widow.

I. Am. A. Widow.

.....

OMG I'm A FREAKING WIDOW!

Yeah, you'd think it would have occurred to me at some point already, but for some reason it was just a word. I never felt like it was ok to be sad or cry or grieve. I'm 26 for crying out loud, who loses someone that young? Only old people are widows, not me.

But there it was, last night, steamrolling over me.

I am a widow.

Craig's widow.

I get to be sad.

I get to miss him.

I get to grieve.

I even get to act a little nuts sometimes.

It's ok.

This is me now. I don't have to hurry up and get over it or pretend I'm ok for everyone else. I'm allowed to be sad.

I thought it would be more depressing for this realization to hit me, but for some reason it was liberating. A huge relief.

If other people don't get it or are made uncomfortable by it, oh well.

Deal with it.

I'm a widow.

I'm One Wonky Puzzle Piece

Being the anal retentive/control freak/organizational wizard that I am, there is almost nothing I love more than sitting down and finishing one hell of a puzzle.

I'm talking thousands of itty bitty pieces, some horribly complex building as a picture, so big it fills the whole table and the better part of a weekend.

But nothing drives me crazier than finding that one wonky piece that got bent the last time you tossed everything into the box.

You can bend it back, but it never quite goes flat again and good luck ever making it fit its neighbours just right again. Everything else is smooth and perfect but that damn piece - it just sticks out like sore thumb.

I feel like that piece.

When the rest of my friends are talking diapers and engagement rings, I think about nothing but ashes and car accidents.

I am supposed to be in my 20s here. One of those decades you want to recount and relive for the rest of your life.

Not bloody likely.

I hate that I can't relate to my twenty-something friends anymore. I hate that the things we used to laugh and giggle about I just don't understand anymore. I hate that I feel completely left behind.

And good luck fitting into the 'Widow Club'. Even in my 'Young Spousal' group I am the youngest, by at least a decade. When the rest of the widows are talking pension plans and grandchildren I'm still fixated on whether I'll get to have babies one day and how I'm going to pay off my student loan.

There isn't anywhere I fit in anymore.

I'm a wonky puzzle piece that just won't lie flat.

Damn you, Craig, for being my best friend for 10 years and then disappearing when I need you most. Damn you.

You were the one place I always fit.

Because right now, I know we would be wonky together.

Brand New Apartments

When Craig and I first moved out together we rented this tiny little apartment on the third floor of a complex in a less-than-desireable area of town.

It wasn't cozy, it was cramped. One of those places where you can only have one person in the kitchen at any one time. And you can't open a lower cupboard and the fridge or dishwasher at the same time.

None of our things fit, we had to sleep on the tiniest bed (translation: I like to sprawl and Craig woke up many a night with my foot in his ribs or elbow in his eye... although in my defense, he snored an awful lot and, therefore, I feel, had it coming).

And every month or so some homemade chef with a bad case of the munchies would burn their batch of 'special brownies' at 2 am, setting the fire alarms off, and causing a mass evacuation in the midst of a blizzard.

Ah, the good times.

Eventually I couldn't handle it any more and begged and pleaded until Craig gave in and we moved into our current home. I could not have been happier to see that place in my rearview mirror.

It struck me as so odd that Craig insisted on going around taking photos of the apartment right before we moved. He later explained to me that he had enjoyed the misery of our little apartment, that he loved that we would have this to compare everything to for the rest of our lives, and that we could tell our kids the story of how we survived this place much in the same way our fathers bragged about walking 20 miles to school, uphill both ways.

Given the proximity of that apartment to our new home, we often ended up driving by the complex on the way to and from work. Whenever they were renting they would put up balloons and a sign. Given Calgary's low vacancy rate in recent years, the sign wasn't up that often. But when it did show up, it proudly declared:

"BRAND NEW apartments! Now renting!"

For some reason, this struck me and Craig as utterly hilarious. For starters, the place was hardly as shiny and bright as the sign optimistically made it out to be. The walls had a special I've-been-smoked-in hew and the carpet had that wonderful most-frequently-used-path worn out between the couch and refridgerator. And lets not forget the broken glass strewn throughout the parking lot from many a midnight drunken escapade courtesy of our colorful neighbours.

But the real kicker had to be the 'BRAND NEW' part of that sign. They weren't anything close to new when we lived there five years ago so I'm not exactly sure how they managed to get away with this generous little adjective.

Whenever we would drive by and the sign was up, we would try to beat the other to the punch and shout, "BRAND NEW!" at the top of our lungs. Inevitably we would both crack up, howling with laughter over that ridiculous sign.

Well I guess the Calgary housing crunch is easing slightly because that dang sign has been up more and more lately. And no matter what my mood is, who I'm with, or what I'm talking about the very sight of it is enough to bring on a tidal wave of grief.

I hate that we had so many more fun times together that we'll never get to experience.

We'll never laugh at that sign again and no matter how well I might explain the joke, nobody else will ever find it as funny as we did.

And I do so miss our jokes.

I miss the way we would laugh and laugh until we cried.

I miss how Craig would act do or say anthing, keeping at it relentlessly, just to make me smile.

I miss my buddy.

I miss my friend.

The Train Whistle

This week I survived moving.

Nobody likes moving. It's tedious, time consuming, and dirty. I discovered dust bunnies behind bookshelves the size of a small dog and grime behind my stove that had to be scraped off with a spatula.

And don't even get me started on the lifting. Me = no muscles. Apparently.

But with a lot of help, I did it, and it is more or less done (for now).

Unfortunately, packing up my life was every bit as heartbreaking as I thought it would be. Possibly even worse. The first few days at the new place I didn't do much more than cry and holler and yell. There is something about taking all the things that make up your life and shoving them into boxes that is unsettling and just a little bit sad.

Of course I had the added challenge of deciding what to keep and what to throw away.

Now, I am an avid declutterer. I hate clutter. And knick-knacks. And things that don't have a proper place. It's the CDO (which is basically like OCD but all the letters are in alphabetical order where they belong).

Anyway, as a natural part of the decluttering and packing I had to throw or give away a large number of Craig's things. Some I have absorbed permanently into my life and will be staying, but many others were given away to the Salvation Army or family members who wanted them. Clothes, shoes, toiletries, gadgits, whatsits, you name it. Some things I would have fought and screamed to keep months ago I was able to let go without much more than a minor twinge of guilt.

Now as with most packing, sometimes you just get to the end of a week of it, you are sick of it, and you can't stand to see even one more piece of bloody bubble wrap. So I had a couple boxes where I pretty much just chucked whatever was in my drawer into the box and voila! All done!

Well I finally started unpacking some of those last night (in the hunt for earrings - long story, apparently I have fat ear lobes) and came upon something I forgot I even had.

Craig's train whistle.

I have no idea where or when he got this thing. Probably on some family trip or from a relative as a gift. I'm not even sure he remembered. He showed it to me a couple years ago when he was cleaning out some boxes. It's one of those little children's wooden whistles that you blow on and it sounds like a train.

Of course I teased him that he had a toy for little kids (we'll just ignore the dolls action figures thing here). But of course it didn't take long for me to start playing around with it.

If I was bored and wanted Craig to come entertain me, I would blow on the whistle.

If I was having a rough day and wanted a hug, I would blow on the whistle.

If Craig was getting to wrapped up in his studies and I felt he needed a break, I would blow on the whistle.

If I felt ignored for video games or the computer, I would blow on the whistle.

If we were having a serious moment or argument and I wanted to break the tension, I would blow on the whistle.

If I just wanted Craig to come to me, I would blow on the whistle.

And he always did.

It became a sort of secret code with us. No matter what was going on or what we were doing, if I blowed on that whistle he would drop whatever he was doing and come to me.

Always.

Something in me broke when I saw that whistle in that cardboard box.

Because now when I blow on it, he won't come to me.

All the train whistles in the world won't make him come running.

These are the little things that break you.

Day after day.

The Finality of Rock

Craig's tombstone is finally in place.

Technically it is a monument, out of rock. I suppose this makes it fitting since Craig's name originates from 'crag', which actually means 'rock'. I always used to tell him that he was my rock, my Craig.

Only this rock is not my Craig.

It is not the one I would have chosen for him.

And it breaks my heart.

He does not belong inscribed on some piece of marble, his photograph and two sets of dates all that is left to tell the world who he is.

If I could, I would have created one for the two of us, not just for him and his parents, so that he and I could be together for eternity just as he promised. I would have used it to tell the world who he really was.

"Here lies Craig Garvin, my beloved, the lover of my soul.
He was taken from us far too soon but even if we had grown old together, as promised, I would still have begged the heavens for just one more day.

He was loved by many, his smile lit up every room he entered, and he meant the world to those that mattered.

Forever and always, my love, I am your beloved and you are mine.
The spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly."

I hate the finality of this piece of rock.

I hate that there is a marker locked away in a cemetary for him.

It just isn't right.

None of this is.

Craig, my love, where did you go?

Come back to me.

Come back.

The Glass Wall

So I was chatting away with (okay, kind of babbling to) our pastor this morning and we were talking about how isolating it can be going through something this difficult in your life (grief, loss, illness, etc).

As a general rule, humans avoid pain at all costs. And often times, the people closest to you will avoid you because of it (FYI you can't catch widow).

He asked me if I've felt isolated because of it. Separate from other people in my life.

And then this image pops into my head.

It's like being one one side of a glass wall and everyone else you know is on the other side. And the glass is half-frosted and smudgy and you can't quite see through it. It's all hazy on your side and you can just see the shapes of the people on the other side, their outlines, that they are milling about in a large crowd.

And you are shouting as loudly as you can for them to look at you, to see you, to understand you. You are trying to make them notice you and hear what you are saying, to understand what it is you are going through and how profound and life changing it is. You can't help but wonder to yourself, why can't they hear me? Why aren't they looking up? I have had this enormous thing happend in my life, that is all-consuming, and now see the entire world in a whole new light. How can they not as well?

But the glass is soundproof.

And difficult to see through.

And they haven't even noticed you shouting, all this time.

So they don't even look up.

And then you realize, there is no way to make them understand. No matter how eloquent your words, how clever your analogies, how carefully you explain it... they simply cannot cross over to your side and understand until they have experienced this kind of pain and loss firsthand.

It is very lonely on the other side of that wall.

It's just you, alone in your thoughts. Your life is changed forever and you want desperately to bring everyone with you but it is a journey you must make alone.

And then out of the nowhere, someone else pops onto your side of the glass. Sometimes for just a few minutes, sometimes someone you don't even know. But they are there. And for just that little blessed while, they get it. They understand the hurt. They are hurting too.

I have been very fortunate to have a few people on my side of the wall. A friend from 8 years ago who lost his son and mother, who understood what hurt really is. He was only here for a couple months, but having someone who finally got it made all the difference in the world.

And today my pastor, going through his own heartache, truly understood and stood on my side of the glass with me.

I hate that they have to hurt so much to understand.

But I am just so grateful to have that person there with me, even if it's only for a short while.

The World of Dreams

It's 3:00 a.m. and I can't sleep.

Why?

Something Craig did once, some repressed memory, just popped into my head in the middle of a dream and woke me up. You know those incredibly lucid dreams where you actually acknowledge that it's just a dream while you are still in it? One of those.

Reminds me of that movie, Inception (not a good one for the newly widowed by the way). If you haven't seen it, I'm totally giving away the ending here so avert your eyes if you don't want to know.

Basically they have a way of creating a world that someone else can dream in so they can talk to that person (or essentially their subconscious) to find out all kinds of things. I am probably butchering this a little but the main character is so distraught over the death of his wife that his subconscious keeps pulling her into every dream world he enters, trying to find a way to be with her as long as possible. Only it's not really her, just a manifestation of his memories and feelings about her.

Needless to say, the concept is one I can relate to. Who wouldn't want to find a way to bring their loved one back to life, even if it was just the shadow of them?

Yes, I was that loud and annoying movie-goer who sobbed through this entire movie in the theatre.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before but I have been unable to really dream about Craig since the accident. I hear from other widows all the time that they have amazing dreams about their spouses, sometimes every night. That they see them, touch them, talk to them every night when they sleep. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hit with a little stab of jealousy every time I hear this. I've only had 2 dreams with Craig in them and they were quite early on and not particularly comforting.

In one he came back to me as a corpse after I had frantically been looking for him and he wouldn't react or move or even speak to me except to tell me that he really was dead. All the while I frantically tried to get the attention of the police officers to show them they were wrong. I kept shouting, 'Look! He's really here! He really is alive! I told you that you had the wrong body.'

In another, I saw him at the scene of the accident and he was battered and bloodied and reaching for me and all I could do was scream and try to get the blood and broken glass off my arms.

Yes, I have issues.

Clearly.

Anyway, even in the dream that woke me up tonight I did not see Craig. Merely remembered something from years and years ago. My subconscious clearly at work, trying to piece something together.

Even in our dreams we are haunted, I guess.