Lessons learned

1. Grief doesn’t go away

While time moves on and healing spreads gently through the soul, grief never leaves. It’s always there sitting quietly in a corner, waiting. Then a scene on a tv show, a song playing in the grocery store, a dream, a memory, an anniversary comes along and suddenly I notice its presence has never left. It fills my body with heaviness and an ache grows in my heart as it recalls the places that had been torn. Like running your thumb over a scar that stands as a reminder that flesh may heal but will never be the same.

2. The pain subsides  

Like a horror scene when a victim tries to flee an angry swarm of insects, every inch of me was covered and screaming with the pain of grief and despair, except there was no death to release me from it. I didn’t see a way out. I couldn’t imagine a world where every step wasn’t agony. The psychological torment felt like it would never end. But that was not the truth. Slowly I began to notice moments of reprieve. I would take a deep breath of the salty ocean air and find myself enjoying the warmth of the sun on my skin. Those moments turned into hours which turned into days which turned into months. In that time, my experience of grief changed as well. It no longer felt like Prometheus’s eagle was ripping my heart out every day. Eventually, grief showed up without the pain attached. No longer is it sharp and chaotic, now it is heavy but gentle.

 

3. Healing is your responsibility 

My trauma was not my fault, but no one else could heal me. Only I had that power. It was my choice and my work alone. I have seen examples of widows wallowing in their grief. They use their loss to excuse awful behavior and demand everyone make accommodations for them. I had to leave all the Facebook widow groups that I was in because I saw too much excusing bad choices and enabling people to remain in a stunted state. Working on healing when your life is shattered feels like an impossible task. People these days hate anything that looks like personal responsibility. As much as I wish it was otherwise, unfortunately, no one can do the healing work for you. It is a choice and alas, recovery is not instantaneous. Healing is a slow process and the work is not always obvious from the outside or even to yourself. Healing from trauma is like watching a tree grow. There doesn’t seem like any difference from day to day, but when you look back at where it started the change is undeniable. 

4. You cannot heal without help 

While healing is ultimately up to the individual, it is impossible to heal in isolation. We are social creatures. We NEED one another. If you have a physical injury or illness you need a doctor and help from friends and family. The same is true for mental health. You need a mental health professional and a support network to help you through it.

5. Rebuilding does not mean forgetting

When navigating life after loss there is almost always a sense of guilt. My life would be unrecognizable to Brian. I’m in a new house, with a new car. I have a fiancé and I have dogs, not his beloved cat. None of the people I see on a regular basis knew Brian. I have worked hard to make a new life, but that does not mean Brian has been erased from it. He has not been erased from my life or memory.

6. Your loved one cannot remain the center of your life 

You cannot build a life around loss. You never forget your loss, but you can’t live at their grave either. 

7. You can do hard things

If there is one thing that I have learned in the last 13 years is that we are resilient creatures. While I would never wish my experience on anyone, I can recognize in myself the strengths that have come from working through it. I now possess an indestructible hope, an inner steel that has been strengthened by the fire and pounding of adversity. No matter how dark it seems, I know beyond doubt that there is still light and I will see it again. Trauma didn’t make me strong, I had to become strong to face it. I remember being asked by a new acquaintance, “So 2020 has been the worst year ever, huh?” I actually chuckled a bit. Was it stressful, yes, was it the worst? Not even close. Knowing it could never be worse than 2010 gave me the hope and endurance I needed to get through. For others, 2020 was their 2010. They were experiencing the fire for the first time and didn’t know when or if it would ever end. Now, 13 years later I hope they have come to the same conclusions I have. Even though the fire is agony, it will not last forever. The ashes, no matter how desolate, will become the soil from which a new garden grows.

Year eleven

Eleven years seems like an unfathomable amount of time to be apart from someone. Yet, today marks eleven years since I last heard the breath of my late husband Brian. 

So much happens in eleven years that it feels nearly impossible to compare that to the much shorter time that Brian and I were actually together as a couple and then as husband and wife. While we measure life in time, we also measure it in experience, maturity, growth, and so many other things. 

Whether it’s eleven years today, or twenty years nine years from now, or when it was just one year ten years ago, the gap, the void, the person missing from this earth remains the same. His place in my heart is not filled. 

Time is a healer in many ways. But healing doesn’t always take away the scar or the injury or the pain. There is often still evidence of the loss that occurred and that is especially true in death. My heart grew and expanded to accept new love and family and adventure. My soul did the same. But the ache and the scar remain. They’re not the same as they were eleven years ago when I felt my earth shatter but it’s still palpable like an injury that flares up right before a thunderstorm. You know when it’s coming. 

We don’t fill the void of losing the ones we love. But our life becomes whole in new ways we never expected. And those people help us navigate these painful times when we miss those loved ones so very much. It’s strange to kiss your fiancé goodbye as he heads off to work and he tells you he hopes you don’t have too sad of a day - knowing you’re actively mourning your late husband. Life is incredibly strange. It’s not linear by any means. It’s fluid and messy and beautiful. 

On year eleven, I miss you Brian. Just as I did the other years, but it’s different too. And I’m sad and happy about that. More and more as the years go by, I am most sad for those who didn’t get to meet your optimism, your smile, your courage, and laughter, and charm. At times like these I can only imagine how refreshing your personality would be to so many. I love you always. 

Change is coming

I feel change. Change in me. And, changes around me. If Brian’s death has taught me anything it is that change is the only thing that is constant in life.

Change is the only thing that you can know for certain.

October 6 is officially ten years since Brian died.  

Wow.  

And, in truth, the counting of days earned in widowhood is no longer super important to me. For me, Brian has been dead a long, long time and that is all that any of these dates mean anymore. I have missed him for a bloody long time; and I know that I have a lifetime of missing ahead of me...so screw the dates. I am thoroughly bored of counting days. Brian died and I will not allow myself to become some type of math wizard who can recall his days dead like a savant.

I choose to remember the days he lived instead of the days he has been dead. I choose to remember the good man he was and all that we shared. I move forward remembering the LOVE more than the loss. The way I choose to focus on the love, rather than the obvious loss has helped me survive outliving him.

So much has changed in these last ten years.  Some changes have been awful and other changes have been for the better. I am not going to go through and painstakingly list these things by name; it is enough to say that when your person dies not all the change it sets in motion is lousy. I recognize that, in some very significant ways, I have become a better woman these last ten years.

I have changed so much since Brian died. I often wonder if he could come back to life if we would need some time to readjust to each other. I am not the woman Brian knew and loved anymore.  Parts of that woman still exist, but his death has irreparably changed me. I accept this. I have to.

I am quieter now. I spend a fair bit of time just staring out into the beyond wondering what the hell has happened to my life. I think and I think and I overthink some more. I have sat with my grief for ten years now and there is really nothing mind blowing left for me to discover.

Brian died. I didn’t. My responsibility is to myself. Now, I must live my own life. Thats  is what he’d want for me, and honestly, it doesn’t matter what Brian wants for me. Brian isn’t here. Only I am. I want to live again...for me.

If I am to properly honor Brian then I will go forward and live a beautiful life. I will laugh and I will travel and see this amazing world. I will go to all the places he told me about and I will put my footprints on the earth in each of the places I thought he and I would go together. And, yes this is all bittersweet, but it is the life I’ve got. What else can I do but live it.

So, that is the plan. I will start to live boldly again.  I will smile and I will feel joy again. And, I will engage in good conversation with people I just met. I will do all these things that Brian used to do so well. I will do these things because I can. I did not die and it is about time I live. 

By living a wonderful life, all the goodness of Brian lives on in me. 

This is how his Girl keeps him alive. This is how this girl keeps herself alive.

Ten years and changing. 

#KeepItBrian

The deepest loss.

It's still true. No other loss in my life has compared to that of losing my husband Brian when he was 32. Cancer is a cruel and painful disease.

Every year, I wonder and worry what this day will hold for me. Usually it's a need to keep myself busy and distracted.

Brian was a bright and shining light in my life. We felt so lucky to have one another and that was evident in our relationship.  He was kind and fun, radiating joy. Even after his diagnosis, he focused on winning and always made the nurses and support staff smile and want to visit his room. 

When I think of overcoming battles, it's his courage that I reflect upon and draw strength from. He amazed me with his resilience throughout that battle.  Up until the last few hours of his life, when all the options were gone, he was determined to survive.

I wish you could have known him.  That's what I miss most; because he was a great person, he was kind, and he was funny. He made friends wherever he went. I know if you had met him, you would leave that meeting with a smile on your face.

So today, on his 42nd birthday, I hope you'll share a smile and a kind and uplifting word.  With your family, coworkers, friends, a stranger.

Keep it Brian.

Drowning

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve had to find different ways to grieve. There are days that I don’t even want it on my mind. But tonight I’m weak.

I looked at pictures, mostly the ones with you in them, and I laughed and cried a little reminiscing by myself. I can’t help that all I think about is how you were taken way too soon. It’s not the same here without you.

I know you’re in a better place, and one day I’ll see you again. But it’s killing me that we can’t be face to face. I miss my best friend.

Missing you comes in waves, and tonight I’m drowning.

You deserved more

On the eve of your 8th Angel Day...

Most of the time, I can deal with your death. I can hold back the tears and accept that you’re gone.

I force myself to believe the cliche words that get thrown around, about how only the good die young and how God takes His favorites first. About how it was your time and how everything happens for a reason.

But sometimes, that silver linings attitude fades away and all I can feel is anger. Hurt. Betrayal.

I’m sorry that I can’t be strong all the time. That there are days when I question my faith. Days when I hate the world and every person inside of it. Days when I’m bitter about the way life turned out.

I’m sorry that I can’t walk around with unflinching hope when I know how shitty this world is. I’m sorry I’m not perfect. I’m sorry I carry so much anger inside.

I’m pissed, because you left your family behind. You left people who still needed your love, your voice, your hugs, your kisses. People who cared about you more than they cared about themselves. People who would do anything to have one more minute with you.

I’m pissed, because I keep seeing these shitty people running around without a care in the world, living for decades longer than you had the chance to. Because the goodness in your heart should have earned you more days, months, years.

I’m pissed, because you deserved better. You deserved to celebrate more milestones. You deserved to see the people around you grow up. You deserved to grow old yourself and pass away peacefully in your sleep after ninety years of living your best life.

I’m pissed, because it’s not fair. That sounds whiny to say, childish, but it’s the truth. What happened to you wasn’t fair. What happened to your family wasn’t fair. Nothing about your death was fair.

I miss you. And I hate that I miss you, because I shouldn’t have to. I should be able to call you up. I should be able to send you texts. I should be able to see you face-to-face anytime I want.

You should still be here, right now, sending me texts to ask how I’ve been doing. You should still be here, right now, giving me a reason to laugh instead of cry. You should still be here, right now, alive and well.

No matter how many cliches are thrown at me about how only the good die young, no matter how many of those sayings I choose to believe to find some semblance of comfort, I will always believe that your death was bullshit.

I will always believe that there was some sort of mistake, that you didn’t deserve it. 

I will always believe that you deserved so much more.

Time is a liar

Why am I looking for you again?

Did my brain not get the memo: husband dead, not coming back.

I used to believe that all possibilities existed at once. Not anymore.

Time is real now. And reality never repeats itself.

A sad thought, really.

Time never meant anything to me. There was no reason to care about gray hair or wrinkles, your life experience and my lack of it. When our spirits intertwined, so too did our past, our present, our future. Our relationship was on an even keel.

But now? Now that I no longer feel you with me, I realize that time does exist. It is not the changing of seasons, another birthday,  or even the ticking of the clock, that proves it for me.

It is the loss of your spirit that was once a part of mine. I always felt that loved ones who died were still a part of me, made me who I am. But really, I was never intertwined with their spirit like I was with yours. I never really felt the loss that made me believe time was real.

And now that time is real and it will never repeat, my feelings of loss increases.

I thought I was a part of your past, your youth, your spirit, and you were a part of mine.

But that isn't true, is it. It never was true. I lost something I thought was eternal.

What do I do with this? Am I even thinking straight?

It's been seven years since I said goodbye, and it feels like yesterday.

Time is not a gentle healer.