Two years and...

A most extraordinary thing has happened. I met someone.

He makes me want to smile. He makes me want to laugh. He makes me want to be happy. He makes me smile. He makes me laugh. He makes me happy.

I thought I found this a little while ago, but I was wrong. That guy taught me that it is ok to love again and it really is ok to move forward...but he wasn't the guy who makes me want to be me.

I've learned these last few months that I can miss Brian. I can love Brian. I can also miss and love him now from a distance.

That is my two year milestone. I am really, truly, honestly, remarkably ok because I have Brian in my heart forever, even in a new relationship.

And even if this new relationship isn't quite official yet, I know I am going to be just fine.

The goal

If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m a huge fan of finding quotes that help get me through the day (or hour…or minute). It always helps to have a little motivation or inspiration during my weakest moments.  Not surprisingly, one of my favorite quotes was shared with me through a friend, and it seems to sum up everything I’m feeling. She said, “It’s not moving on. It's carrying on."

With this in mind, I’ve done my best to carry on and live my life in a way that would make Brian proud. It's devastating, frustrating and agonizing when I stop to think about how we were planning a life and a future for the two of us. We were building a life together. Instead, I find myself forced to make major life decisions on my own, which often leaves me angry and confused. Yet, I’m doing my best to see through the haze and rediscover what it means to be happy.

I’m hesitant to say I’m starting over. It seems to me that this is more like a new chapter in the ongoing story of my life, in which Brian will always be a major character. As part of this new chapter, I’m encouraging myself to get out of the house and explore. I want to meet more people and try new things. It’s far too easy for me to sit at home and stew in my thoughts. Don’t get me wrong…I have bad days and it’s not always easy to dive right in and meet new people. In fact, just the other day I found myself sitting on the couch with a pile of used tissues the size of Mt. Everest piling up next to me. The tears just kept coming.

However, I’m trying my best to not let these moments define me and my life. I accept them when they come, but I always try to remember the things I want to do in the years ahead and the adventures Brian wants me to have. For example, Brian promised me we’d go skydiving together, but he told me I wasn’t allowed to chicken out. We never got the chance to follow through with our deal, but after he died, I made a promise to myself and to Brian that I’d still jump out of a plane. It will be a nice reminder that buried under the sadness and hurt is the ability to still feel an overwhelming sense of joy.

I hope to have many exciting adventures in the days, months, and years ahead. Maybe one day I’ll find love again and have someone to share experiences with. I know without question that Brian wants that for me. Yet, I also know, from recent experiences in the dating/relationship pool, that I’ll never “move on”.

To me, there is no such thing. Brian will forever have a piece of my heart and will be with me everywhere I go. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My goal right now is to keep carrying on in pursuit of brighter days.

I feel (fill in the blank).

I just feel ______.

I'd really love to fill that blank with some word, something to put a definition behind.
I just don't know about anything anymore; uncertain about how I feel about the world and about myself. And now I can't just blame apathy because I know I'm feeling something. It's 3:37 am and I only know that I don't know anything.

Today, I asked myself "What am I looking for? What do I want?"

I suppose I meant from life. The only answer that I could think of was that I'm searching for some place/point/moment in time where everything isn't so gray. Where colors mean something, and I can look at a beautiful day and know what that's supposed to mean.

I think I am sad again. Before I think I was depressed, now I don't know. I think I'm just sad. At the moment I can't really say I hate anything. I feel anxiety when I think of my situation and try to pinpoint what I feel.

There are things I can't fix. These things that will never be fixed no matter how much I try to put a pretty bow around it. There are people I'd like to see again but I know I never will no matter how much I wish it.

Life just is.

It's not fair but that's life.

I’m just tired. I’ve been doing this for what feels like a lifetime and it's getting old. No matter what direction I take in life, I end up right back where I started.

There’s supposed to be some sort of happy ending but there isn’t.

There’s just me.

I am not contributing anything to this world. What is the point of being alive if you matter to no one? There is no point. Something inside of us makes us want to believe in the greater good...the fairy tale ending.

The story of endurance, and through that endurance, success.

That story may be true for some but it is not true for all. Some people are not loved or wanted. What does it benefit anyone to live in misery and then die alone? We are here to make a difference. To cry, laugh, grow, and in the end, say our lives meant something, no matter how small. What about those whose lives mean nothing? What about the people who are so insignificant that all that they are: their voice, their fingers, their thoughts, their dreams, can be wiped away and burned into dust without so much as a glance from the world.

Have you ever wished someone wonderful would just walk into your life one day who was always kind, upbeat, and caring, and wanted to always check up on you, spend time with you and try to cheer you up? Someone who never seemed to get sad and possessed some sort of mysterious immunity to hardship and loss? You would get to see them everyday and they were always very happy to see you.

You might wonder if they were either insane or had an ulterior motive at first, but you eventually realize they were simply friendly and good.

Wouldn't it be nice to have someone like that in your life? They could end up either as your best friend or even the love of your life.

I got lucky once. It most likely won't happen again. And that is not bitterness...that is the truth.

So today, I feel ______.

mending

Yes, I can feel my heart mending. Not healing, really, because I don't think it will ever be completely healed, but it will mend and have a permanent scar upon it.

But in the mending process I'm also finding out that it's growing a bit larger.

 

You see, I have met someone and we are truly enjoying each other and learning to care for each other.

 

I used to wonder how this would happen, especially since my heart was damaged beyond repair. But I get it now.

 

I thought that growth had stopped when Brian died, but I was wrong. It did stop...for a while. 

 

For almost two years, actually.

 

But now it's starting to grow. I can feel it stretching to a bigger size and I have to say that I LOVE the feeling.

 

Who knows where this new relationship will lead, and even if it doesn't, it will have proved to me that my heart is capable of growing in spite of its horrific loss.

 

It will have proved that I can move forward and that life can still be enjoyed and even celebrated for the things we encounter and learn. 

 

Don't get me wrong...Brian will never leave my heart...ever. He will just stay in a certain part of it from now on...and I'm sure he's just fine with that.

Love: ability or liability?

I’m on the fence about this one. And I’ll tell you why. I know you must be thinking that it’s because I’ve loved and lost...and that’s partially true. The truth is, I think I’m on the fence about it because I’m old.

I have loved. And I have lost. And, when it comes to love...I’ve gotten old.

I know that many of you are sitting there rolling your eyes and getting ready to hibernate your computers, thinking, “33? 33? And she says she’s old?”

But I think, when it comes to love we tend to age pretty quickly.

Since I’ve been trying to build a love life the second time around, I’m less open to new things. I went from losing my husband...to wanting to fill that void in my life...to learning (the hard way) that that wasn’t going to happen...to learning (and loving) how to be by myself...to trying to learn how to be with someone else again.

I went from feeling like love is a liability...to learning that it’s an ability.

The truth is, I actually think that most people my age (and older...and some, maybe younger) probably feel the same way. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been widowed, divorced, or never married: If you have made it to a certain age and have found yourself single...we’re probably all in the same boat.

I’m less bendable (mentally and physically). I’m more patient about learning about myself and somewhat less patient about someone else learning about himself (bitchy, but true). And I’m slowly getting to the point where I just like my life...even though it wasn’t the life I thought I was going to have.

Previously married or not...isn’t that kind of true?

In my first, vulnerable single days after 32 (yikes)...love was a liability. There was so much at stake. My sanity, for one. Breaking up or something not working out would have been enough to send me into a tailspin of epic proportions. I fluctuated between not having the time or heart to deal with someone else’s shit to not wanting someone else to have to deal with my own. I flopped around, like a fish out of water, hoping that someone would have the heart to gently throw me back in.

Relationships didn’t work out. And, true to the cliché... “it’s not you...it’s me.” Love meant heartbreak. Abandonment. Happiness, but with a price. It didn’t matter how much I was loved...I sabotaged anything I could get my hands on.

In short...I was the liability.

Golly, I wish I had thought to put that on my online dating profile. Just think of what a hot ticket I would have been.

There came a point (and truthfully...I don’t know when it happened) that that stopped. The ability to love grew. Like a toddler, it learned to walk. And in the childhood phase it learned to run. I like to think that it’s a teenager now: It’ll test you, but ultimately it’s something you might like in a few years so you should take a risk and stick with it for a little while.

I’ve started thinking that the ability to love is not something you just have. It’s something you learn. And sometimes relearn. And sometimes try and abandon while you’re relearning. And sometimes come back to on New Year’s Eve when you’re frustrated with being alone, have had too much wine, and register for eHarmony when you swore you would never do it again.

The point is...I don’t think that the ability to love just happens. Just like any other “ability” you have, you have to learn it. You didn’t just walk out of your mother’s womb...you had to figure it out. You may be a musical genius, but that didn’t happen without some effort.

Superman didn’t know what the hell to do with that cape the first time around...they just didn’t include that part in the movie.

Forever young

Okay...okay...I know I'm far from what our society considers "old."

I'm 33...and had just turned 32 two weeks before Brian died. He was 32 when he died.

Even though I am not "old" I can't help but despise each year that passes without Brian. I remember when I surpassed him in age, and *gasp* I was a year older than him...

I will continue to get older, while he will stay forever young.

I look at photos from these last two years and see the new wrinkles and gray hair that he never saw. I look at photos and know that one day I will look far different than what I looked like when he was alive.

But as much as I despise old Father Time...and the wrinkles that come along with him...

I love knowing I have them from the smiles I've been able to have since his passing...the "are you serious!?" faces, the laugh til your face hurts, the sitting in the sun content smile...the squinting lines from all the moments I shed the layers of grief and loss from my being.

As Brandi Carlile sang her song "My Story":

"...All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am. So many stories of where I've been and how I got to where I am..."

So I'll embrace the lines, the stories and the wrinkles I will continue to create as I get older.

Moving on because he was here

The minute I knew Brian was dead, time has never again made any sense to me or straightened itself out.

It's amazing how I can feel like seconds have gone by since I've last seen him, while at the same time feeling like it's been an eternity since I've heard his voice. Days get confused, milestones and memories start to overlap and get confusing, and worst of all - when time stopped for me, it continued on for the rest of the world.

Lately, I've been feeling so far away from the day Brian died. Not him, but that day - so much life has happened in between since then that it feels light years away. I keep having flashbacks of that day while feeling so far removed from it. Like I've gotten used to this day to day without him that sometimes I hardly remember where I was before. It's a horrifying feeling.

But then I step in the shower and see a bottle of shampoo...one still remaining from the few that were bought mysteriously and stocked in my house after Brian died, and I realize that it wasn't that long ago...

He was just here.

Or I walk past the closet where some of his shirts hang that still carries the scent of him and remember that...

He was just here.

It's a hard truth to face to know that time will continue to move forward without Brian. That each day we all get a little further from him, less people will think about him, and we will continue to grow and change without him. And no matter how far away he feels, and no matter how much time doesn't seem to make sense...

He was just here.

Brian's little brother Edwin got married this weekend. There was no best man because that was Brian's job. Edwin wore Brian's shiny black shoes. He may have lost his big brother, but time has marched on and he married his love, starting a new life without his brother to give him away.

From the American flags in the flower arrangements, to Edwin's shoes, in his eyes, overflowing with love for his new bride...

Brian was just here.

Not Guilty

I often find that I have trouble recalling the life "before Brian was sick" because he was well and then "sick!" just like that. I know cancer doesn't happen that way but the diagnosis felt like that.

I keep striving for those memories of us that make me smile... sometimes I think his death watered them all down. I also think about all the things he remembered that I didn't and I could ask "what was the name of that place where we had the great dinner..." and he would know.

So when he died some of my memories went with him...memories he carried for the both of us. I hate that feeling when I can almost remember but not the full thing. I worry a day will come and he too will seem so very far away.

I sometimes lay in bed and try to conjur the feeling of him in the bed beside me. The curve of his back. The way I would fit myself around him and rest my mouth on his shoulder blade. I used to kiss him awake. I try to make myself remember that.

Yes, it often makes me cry, but I want to keep him, keep that memory of how I woke up every day. So I bring it back every so often so it won't leave me. Because...he was just here...only 1 year and 8 months ago. Sometimes it feels like an eternity.

There is tremendous guilt associated with moving on without him but life hasn't given me an option. I don't want to remain stuck in my grief because it is such a debilitating place to be, yet the guilt associated with moving forward brings feelings of betrayal.

Trying to keep one foot in the past and one foot in the future is a challenging place to be. I wish it was different, maybe one day it will be.

Moving forward without guilt is one of the hardest things to do...maybe impossible.

Then I tell myself that I have to live a life that Brian would be proud of, and he wanted me to be happy, not guilty.

What would Brian do?

I'd like to say that my experience as a widow has given me the courage to make changes fearlessly - life is short right?

Clearly I've learned that lesson! The truth is, I was prone to make big changes before Brian died, and that hasn't changed much since.

Actually, that isn't quite true.

My thought process prior to making a change is what's different. Before Brian, I would consider the pros and cons, and move fearlessly forward not a doubt in my mind.

After losing him? I still do it, but not nearly as fearlessly as before. The risks are just different and the thoughts that go through my mind are less optimistic and have a similar flow:

What if I die?

My luck hasn't been so good in recent years.

What if something bad happens?

Life is short.

It's only money, you can't take it with you.

I could get hit by a truck tomorrow (my favorite).

Is this a life or death decision?

My family/friends will think I'm irresponsible.

If I get cancer and am lying on my death bed will I regret not trying...?

What would Brian do?

If I'm not having a good time, it's my own damned fault.

Why the hell not?

The thought process isn't identical each time, sometimes I end up with a different decision. Most of the time though, I end up in with a "let's do this!" sort of decision. But not before I hit the "what if something bad happens" question and take a good long pause. That one, that's the big one.

I never thought of that before Brian got sick. It never occurred to me that something REALLY bad could happen. It just wasn't on my radar.

Now? Now I know better. Bad, bad shit happens. It happens a lot.

Fortunately a few years down the road, I'm not letting it change the outcome, it just changes my thought process to get there.

What if something bad happens? It may. It can. It has. In fact, it will. But I have no control over that. I can't let the possibility block my path forward.

What would Brian do? If I'm not having a good time, it's my own damned fault. Why the hell not?!

Let's do this! :)

Acceptance

Since Brian's death, grief has created a long struggle between the desire to overcome daily challenges and the need to accept the realities that widowhood has brought into my life.

The concept of acceptance when applied to Brian's death was not okay with me. Somehow I felt that accepting his death was a horrible combination of giving up and giving in to the pressure I felt to be "better."

The way people said the word always sounded so FINAL to me.

So, instead of heading toward the horrifying land of acceptance...I stubbornly planned around any roadblock that would slow what I thought was forward life progress, but I trudged forward with no clear destination. I think I believed that if I kept moving I could outrun the need to accept the fact that the man I loved was not coming home.

One woman I met just a few months after Brian died shared this idea with me, and I have never forgotten her words. When she was surrounded by the pain of either loss or loneliness after the death of her husband, she would challenge herself to "rest in the middle."

She allowed herself to not know the answer; to sit in the stillness; and gave herself permission to not ask why, when, what or how.

This was a foreign concept to my stubborn, planning, determined mind. I remember wondering HOW exactly she did that.

Since resting would require being still, would acceptance sneak up on me unbidden while I wasn't busy doing?

What I can see now, that was not so clear then, is that I was terrified of being frozen in grief. If I stopped, what would happen to me? Would the darkness swallow me up? Would accepting Brian's death mean he was forgotten? What would I have to let go of in order to meet the acceptance criteria?

I have struggled with this answer for almost two years, and it has taken me every bit of that time to find a path towards acceptance that didn't feel like giving up, or somehow failing Brian.

Eventually I embraced the concept that my life is a tapestry. By making my every relationship, word, effort, endeavor, friendship, challenge, and tragedy a part of my life work...nothing is ever left behind.

Accepting Brian into my life tapestry, and weaving a pattern with his love so beautiful that it becomes a piece of the whole that is noticeably more vibrant than many others, gave acceptance a purpose.

His love shines through my weaving, but only if I can allow him to become part of me instead of an idea outside of myself. That thought turned out to be a form of acceptance I could live with...and a worthy place for the kind of love Brian and I shared.

Every day we are faced with choices about what to add to our own piece of life art. Your loss will color the final product, but so will your love.

The lost moments we so long for are often the smallest gestures, the quietest moments, the most unimportant seeming details...you are still creating those every day, and are slowly stitching them into your own personal tapestry.

Stitch with flourish.

Tears

They leak out of my eyes and run down my face in small rivers. I am now used to their comings and goings; they are unbidden at times, whilst at other times they are triggered by a memory...by a song.

Sometimes they fall from my face in a gushing waterfall to wet my blouse or fall to the floor at my feet, while other times they dry on my cheeks leaving their faint trace of salt.

They are like a nosy neighbor...if you don't let them in every so often, they catch you off guard when you'd rather they left you alone...I know them too well.

They have haunted me lately, often waking me from sleep, or unleashing in the shower, late at night when I am alone...but not wanting to be alone...wanting...needing him to be HERE with me. Where I can rest my head on his chest and finally exhale.

Focus

A comment made by a friend got me thinking about the fact that people who have lost someone instrumental in their lives tend to view the world from a new, and unwanted, vantage point.

After Brian's death I remember thinking that death swooped in and stole my rose colored glasses...leaving me with a pair of dark shades instead. I was quite certain that rose was no longer my color.

This darker world view made every life celebration bittersweet...or sometimes just plain bitter. Movies became minefields, attending weddings became tortuous, walking down the street beside hand holding couples made me feel nauseous, and stopping for lunch alone during my workday often reduced me to tears. While grey was the dominant color in my life I generally felt either sad or numb, with not much in between.

Sometimes when a bit of color would filter through the haze (a flash of genuine happiness for example), I felt almost burned. My instinct became turning away from the sun and pulling my new shades down over my eyes to keep the world in a comfortable state of darkness.

I can't tell you exactly when my shades started allowing the penetration of light...but they did. One day I genuinely smiled. Another day I laughed so hard that my sides hurt. Every now and then I could walk down the street without counting the couples I passed. And I even went to a wedding and found myself caught up in the love of the moment instead of listening to the voice in my head detailing the ways that death may these two part.

When I realized that I had made it through a wedding without the bitter taste of disappointment in my mouth, I knew that the gloom was finally lifting.

Death has changed the way I look at every single thing in my life. Lately I have been thinking of life as a camera. We don't always get to select the lens, but we can adjust the focus.

I can't change the fact that Brian died, but I can choose to focus on how lucky I was to love him.

I will never sit through a film that includes losing a loved one without a pang of sorrow, but I can choose to employ that compassion in my everyday life. When I see very old couples assisting each other out of a car I still wonder why not us...but I can choose to think "good for you."

Sometimes getting the focus right is still not easy. When a wave of grief comes from somewhere unexpected I am often temporarily unable to adjust my focus, but I am learning that finding the right focus takes practice.

And each day gives me a new opportunity to pick up my camera.

I'm struggling with a wave...

...that yet again, I never saw coming.

I have no idea where it came from, nor why it chose to hit now, especially since I haven't experienced a wave in more time than I can remember.

Yes, they still come, though they come only infrequently now. Thankfully. But when they come, they are still powerful. They still come to me by complete surprise, sneaking up on my while my eyes are on the shore, not scanning the horizon, watching for them, like in the old days. They still have the power to knock me to my knees, and to threaten to pull me under with their powerful undertow.

But I am stronger now.  My legs may go out from under me, but I will not be pulled out to sea so easily.
I may stay on my knees for a while, but I will not be beaten by this wave.


And that is a very important thing to know.

Two years ago, I would not have said that.  I could not have said that. The waves that hit me relentlessly, one after another, did threaten to pull me out to sea. And after so many waves, I wanted to be pulled out.
I was beyond exhausted. I had no strength left.

Or so I thought.

But here I am...almost two years later, not doubting at all the strength that is within me.

And I guess that that is the point of my words today.


To tell myself that even though the waves do come this far out...they are coming less frequently and they will not pull me under anymore.

Because I am stronger day by day, month by month, year by year.

I'm sad.
I'm missing him.
I'm missing what our family was "before."
I'm missing so very much.

And I'm struggling.
In spite of having love in my life.
In spite of being loved the way Brian loved me.
In spite of...

The waves still come.
But I will survive.
This wave does not have the power the earlier ones had.

I suppose that waves will always come. No matter how many years go by. No matter who's in my life.
No matter how much I am loved and how much I love. I will always miss that man and what we had.

I will always miss what we never had the chance to have.

But I will continue to get stronger.

another dream

Original date 11 May 2012

In saying "goodbye," I'm not closing a door on the first half of my life...and definitely not on Brian.

I am choosing to look forward to what may, or may not, lie ahead. I could no more forget Brian than I can kill myself by holding my breath. It's physically impossible.

I can choose to look towards the future without wishing that I had the past. We all wish we had who we had. I think that if we hold on too tightly to that wish, it blurs our ability to see the future.

The timing of this, like every single other aspect of grief, is unique. I could not have done this 2 years ago. I could not have done it 3 months ago.

I will never forget Brian, but will carry him with me wherever I go and with whomever I'm with.

He's a part of my heart, you see. And as long as my heart beats, he's here...moving forward with me, not causing me to stop and stare only at what I can't have...my past with him.

Ok...so about the dream...

It was around midnight.

I'd been at a hotel for almost an entire week. I had on a great dress. I knew I'd be dancing like crazy...and I did dance...which is totaly weird because I have two left feet.

There was a table in the middle of the dance floor. I knew that each person there would receive a glass heart, with some paper on which to write a note, and some ribbon with which to tie said note on the heart.

Then the hearts would be thrown into the ocean around midnight.

I wasn't interested. I didn't even take a heart. I didn't give this more than a nano second's thought. Actually,

I thought I'd be in bed sound asleep when this jaunt out to the ocean happened.  I danced with various people and I danced with Todd.  He danced with various people. We had fun in the picture booth.

Those hearts on that oddly placed table kept attracting my attention for some reason. I tried to ignore them.

I was not interested.

But at the last minute, I grabbed one. I took it with me and sat it down at my spot at the table. And then I went off to dance some more.

Then, before I all knew it, a five minute warning was given before the march to the beach would begin. So I went back to the table.

And I stared at that heart.

The heart I had no intention of using. I had nothing to say, after all. It's been almost 2 years. I've said all I can think of. Besides, I don't really think that Brian can hear me.

So I sat down and stared at the heart. And then I slowly unwrapped it, wondering why I was even giving it that much attention. Before I knew it, I had reached into my bag and brought out a pen. Still wondering what the heck I was doing, I began to write. I didn't write a lot...I didn't have to. All I wrote was this: "Brian, I will love you forever. Kimmy"

See? Nothing poetic. Nothing worthy of the prose. Just a simple note. And still, I had no intention of doing anything with it. But I wrapped the note onto the heart anyway. And then I got up and started for the ocean.

And then suddenly, Todd had to rush upstairs and left me on the dance floor.

So I hustled out of the doors and across the patios and onto the bridge that led to the beach. I still had no intention of doing anything with the wrapped up heart that I held in my hand.

I was a sight to see...barefoot and formal, picking my way through the sand to head up to the pounding surf.

I looked behind me to see if Todd had returned yet. He had not. I hung back for a few more minutes, watching others march right into the surf and hurl their hearts out into the Atlantic.

And then, before I realized what I was doing, I was walking into the surf. I'm not sure how I got there... I don't remember making the decision to go...I just found myself there.

The water was cold as it surged up over my ankles and up my calves. But I only seemed to notice it for a moment. And then I stopped and I talked. To Brian. It didn't occur to me at that moment that I didn't believe he could hear me. I just pictured him, standing there, facing me in the surf.

I didn't plan on seeing him. I didn't plan on talking to him. None of this was planned.

But then I told him what I'd been learning to say for two years. I told him that I love him, and that I will always love him, but that it was time to say "Goodbye."

I thanked him for everything he was to me. I told him that I still look forward to seeing him in Heaven, when it's my time to get there. But for now, he's part of the "before Kimberly." And I needed to say "Goodbye" so that I could turn around and face the future.

Without him.
Not the future I had planned...ever.
And not the goodbye I had thought about...ever.

But I've had two years to get used to the idea that he is not coming back. No matter how much I love him.

And with that "goodbye" I tossed my heart into the Atlantic.

My glass heart.

My real heart stayed in my chest...against all odds. I half expected to bury it in that ocean along with the glass heart.

But my heart, my very real, very alive, beating heart, stayed inside of my body. Where it should be.

And I turned around and started walking out of the surf. I had tears in my eyes, and my head was bowed, but I was not sobbing. I felt more surprised than anything.

Surprised that I was able to actually say "goodbye" to what was past without having a huge meltdown. Surprised that I felt so at peace.

After I walked out of the water and up on the beach for a bit, I finally looked up. And I saw Todd coming out to meet me. And I thought of the irony...and of the meaning of this night...to me, anyway.

I had just said "Goodbye" to the most important person in my life...to my very first and very, very true love, and turned away from where I left that heart, only to see this man in front of me.

The man who is in my present and who is in my future.

I couldn't help but smile at that thought. And I knew, without a doubt, that that was what Brian would want for me.

That that is how it should be.

His death is my reality, no matter how much I hate it, or how much I want to wake up and find it didn't happen. It did happen and that is my reality.

And there's a man who stands before me. He loves me. He's crazy about me. As I am for him. He is my now, and my future.

And he doesn't deserve me constantly looking over my shoulder for what was. For what can never be again.

Yes, that hurts. But it also feels like I've been given my freedom to live...to move forward. And Brian is the one who gave that to me as I tossed my heart into that ocean.

Something I never thought I'd do. Something I didn't plan to do. Something I had no interest in doing.

And yet...I did.

Brian will always be a part of my heart. That's a fact of my life. But I needed to say "Goodbye."

in between

Original date 10 May 2012

It was not physical or material. This love lacked inhibition and boundary. It was limitless and free of expectation or regret. It was effortless, all-encompassing love; given, received, and understood. I think it's rare in life to experience this kind of love.

In any relationship it ebbs and flows, but once you've had it, you crave it like no lustful urge you've ever had. I was filled with it on my wedding day, and again when my husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

If only we had the ability to live life as though it was so new or so close to the end that all we could do is give and show and become love. It seems that beginnings and endings teach us about this kind of love.

It is in between that we tend to forget.

Anyone who has had an experience like this knows the power in these words. It is what I have been trying to formulate words for and translate from my heart that I've been unable to do for so long.

But it could not be truer. When you lose something so precious, you crave to fill the space. You crave to feel something genuine, something authentic. Everything seems arbitrary up against something so important that you become frustrated with other people's pettiness. You lap up the moments that matter.

I am about to face another beginning...the beginning of my life with Todd. Facing this new adventure in my life brings me closer to that nostalgia of remembering what life is all about: love.

So I'm more sentimental, I try to be more careful with my last words to people, I steal extra moments with people I love. And grief tends to keep me running along with the same theme and keeps it closer to me for longer.

But that doesn't mean I don't fall into the 'in between' category every now and again. I catch myself doing it now, and at the end of the day, I can recognize it in a way I couldn't before.

And I start over every day.

It's a pledge I made to myself and to Brian that this was the way that I would love from now on. My life is forever changed, so there's no way I can act like it isn't.

Love fiercely. Don't get stuck in the in between.

all along

Original date 5 May 2012

There's a poignant quote from a book that I truly related to in the first days and months after my love's death:

"My heart was chilled to ice. I felt ill with grief. But there was no time for frozen shock. Something in me did not want to give up on life, was unwilling to let go, wanted to fight the very end. Where that part of me got the heart, I don’t know."

I didn't know how I could still live...still breathe...without my other half on earth...by my side.

I turned on all things and people around me...believed in nothing....loathed my fear that deterred me from taking my own life.

But now I know.

Know how that part of me remembered I had the heart to keep living, to keep breathing...but most importantly, to keep growing, giving, and healing.

He did.

You see, Brian was not in the Marine Corps for his life career...only 11 years...as a way to feel challenged in life....to feel as if he was making a difference...to feel passion for something outside of himself and for those around him.

I never quite understood it. Understood the ability to be willing to risk one's own life for another he barely knew. To pursue a career that no one around him could even fathom doing.

And yet Brian followed his heart . Became whole. Helped his comrades grow...pursue their dreams....find purpose. The same purpose he was once looking for but had found...if only for a short period in time.

That's how I had the heart to keep going.

He showed me...gave me the ability to say, that my love died doing what he loved, followed the path wholeheartedly, and had no fear when passion was the guiding light.

He gave me the ability to see that I could do the same...find that passion, pursue it, change my own life and hopefully those around me, and, when the moment comes....one day....one decade...one hundred years from now...and fate meets me face to face....those who know me will be able to say the same, as I've been able to say for my husband.

All because I realized not where I got the heart from...but was reminded that I had it all along.

dream

Original date 25 April 2012

I took a nap today. I don't normally take one, but I was overwhelmed with the need for sleep. It was very strange.

Brian paid me a visit in my dream.  I dreamed he hadn't actually died. He'd had a near death experience and recovered. "Surprise! I didn't die!"

Where he'd been for the last 18 months never came up, nor did the fact that I'd missed the memo on his NOT dying. But there he was anyway, all logic suspended in dreamworld.

In life, Brian was the most practical, level-headed person I knew. He had strong feelings about tattoos. He just couldn't get his head around spending money to have a needle poked into one's skin repeatedly and then having to cover it with his uniform, or to get a decent job.

He was also practical when it came to his emotions. He just didn't spend a lot of energy talking about or analyzing life, dreams, hopes, feelings or emotions.

In my dream, however, Brian's NDE had changed him completely. He had several tattoos to reflect the ways his experience had altered him and was outwardly philosophical and emotional. He was transformed.

I was so happy to have him back, like he was a war hero, returned to me after fighting bravely. I kept reaching out to rub his back and I felt full to bursting with joy that he was here again. I had the urge to shout at everyone around us "SEE! He didn't die! He's here! He survived!"

They say in dreams, whatever you dream about represents YOU. If you dream of a house, the house is you. If you dream of someone rejecting you that person is YOU rejecting yourself, and so on.

So, it occurred to me that Brian may have represented me in this dream. I went through this life-changing experience, I survived and I am changed almost beyond recognition because of it.

So, while the dream was heartbreaking and made me ache for him, it also felt like a simple message about my own growth and emerging self-worth. And by emerging, I mean baby-sized, blinking in the bright light, scared and ready to bolt back into the womb, self-worth.

But it's there, and it has potential. I get down on myself sometimes for not knowing what my new life's plan is, exactly, and worry about providing for myself.

Then I think of what I've survived so far and how, against all odds, I've held my shit together through it all and I remember that I have that flame within me.

I can do what it takes to be happy and fulfilled. I deserve it and I can do that for myself. I have that strength.

thankful

Original date 25 April 2012

Thankfully, I've rediscovered my passion...call it therapy if you will...photography.

 

Just before he died, Brian made me promise to live. And when he died, he took with him my joy.

 

It took a while for me to return to it after he died, and when I did it was with photos that simply documented our lives.

 

But ever so slowly, my photos improved in both content and technique. I can now look back over the last year and see that my photographs are increasingly full of color and joy again...possibly more color and joy than I feel sometimes...but proof that for at least part of every day, I have sought beauty around me and captured it in an image.

 

...and I am thankful for that.

would Brian be happy?

Original date 3 April 2012

...to know that I'm  ready to be in a relationship with someone?  Would he be happy to know that  I might even love someone else?

A friend asked me how it's possible to reconcile the love of two men...one very much alive, the other...very much dead.

I told her that I'm not sure how it's possible, but it is.  And that's a fact.

I guess it's got to be the way a pregnant woman feels when expecting her second child.  You wonder how in the the world you are going to be able to love this next child as much as you love your first.  And you doubt that it's possible.  But then the moment that second child arrives  you wonder what in the world you were thinking?!  You hold that baby and forget any doubt that you ever had.  The second that child arrives your heart grows bigger.  Big enough to hold another person.

It's the same when you fall in love.At first, you can NOT imagine ever loving another person the way you loved your spouse.  You know that it's not possible to love another man...ever.  In fact, you find that thought appalling.  You still feel married.  There is no room in your heart for another love.  And there never will be.

But then one day, when you least expect it you meet someone. Someone who is special enough to catch your attention. And you feel a strange sensation in your heart. Like it beats a little faster.  Or skips one or two beats. You decide that you'd like to know more about this person.  And he feels the same way about you.

Then one day, one day that seems no different than any other day, you realize something. You realize that your heart has somehow grown a bit larger.  And you never saw it coming.

You didn't really feel it happening.You just wake up one day and know that something feels "different." Your heart now holds love for two people.  And it's nothing short of a miracle.  And 100% possible.

And I'm here to prove it. Brian is in my heart. Brian will always be in my heart.

Always.
Forever.

And yet my heart has grown larger. And now holds love for another man. A man who is different from Brian. A man who knows he's not in a competition with Brian. A man who is secure in the knowledge that I love Brian, will always love Brian...and now I love him.  I love him as much as I loved Brian.

And that is truly a miracle.

What would Brian think of this? What DOES Brian think of this?

I think he's thrilled.

I believe that he's as happy with this new love as I am. I know that in Brian's heart...after God...I was number one. Just as he was in mine.

He wanted me to be happy. He wanted me to feel loved. And secure. And special.

Just as I would want him to feel those things.

People who have not been widowed don't get it. Just one more thing they don't get. I'm glad that they don't. I hope they never need to.

But for me...I'm  learning things I never wanted to know. Like it's possible to love another person...and not feel guilty or disloyal to Brian. At least I hope I'm learning that.  Or will learn it. Because true love wants only the best for its love.

Always.

I know that Brian wanted nothing but the best for me. And he would love the man who loves me the way he did.

A man who puts me first. A man who loves me unconditionally.

Yes, there have been times when I've wondered if it's worth it to love another man and risk losing another
one. Is it worth giving my heart away again...perhaps to lose it all over again? There have been days when

I've thought, "No.  Don't love another man...you'll never survive that kind of loss again."

But I know that Brian would not want that for me. He wouldn't want me to guard my heart so tightly that I never feel love again. He wouldn't want me to be afraid to give my heart away...to feel too fragile to love and be loved.

And truthfully, I don't want that for me, either.

If I had my life and love to live all over again with Brian, knowing that I would lose him as tragically and as early as I did...I would still choose to love him all over again.

His love was worth the grief.

All love is worth the grief.

Being loved, feeling loved, giving love...is worth the risk.

Brian would think so. And I've learned to agree with him.

the day after

Original date 14 March 2012

I was thinking yesterday about the day after Brian died. Revisiting that day makes my skin crawl, literally.

Mentally I can now stand at a distance and watch myself try to outrun the pain; walk around in circles hoping that once another full revolution is complete I'd wake up from the nightmare; and stare at each of my friends and family in turn seeking something in their face that would show me how I was going to live the rest of my life without Brian.

There isn't enough mental distance available to protect my heart from the waves of pain that still radiate around that day.

September 30 I loved my life. October 7, 2010 I did not want to live the life that was traumatically dropped into my lap.

On some level I knew I would find a way to make it through the days ahead, but I was certain those days would be devoid of both happiness and joy.

And all I could do was put one foot in front of the other.

a difference

Original date 1 March 2012

In the midst of missing Brian, I miss me. Or rather…Pre-Widow Kimberly.

Sometimes I really miss her. I miss the person I was before an evil illness invaded my home and settled into my life; the most unwelcome of houseguests imaginable.

The person I was before that evil stole a husband away.

The person I was before darkness cloaked and enveloped me.

Pre-Widow Kimberly was a lot of fun…even occasionally frivolous.

She was fun and flirty and laughed easily. She ate pizza for breakfast and wondered what she was going to wear out on Friday night.

She trusted people implicitly, for no one had ever before given her any real reason not to (well, except for certain idiot ex-boyfriends…but that's another story).

Pre-Widow Kimberly had a lot more patience…with everything and everyone; with little annoyances and great big crises.

She wasn't afraid of life or love or much of anything. That Kimberly was pretty cool.

Then Post-Widow Kimberly showed up…and at first, I wasn't sure I liked her very much.

She wasn't a lot of fun to be around. The frivolity and the lightness had disappeared.

Laughter was rare.

It seemed like Post-Widow Kimberly complained a lot...about pretty much everything. She was an embittered person; stung by the abandonment and betrayal of many of those people she once trusted implicitly.

Post-Widow Kimberly didn't seem to have much patience anymore...for anything. A lengthy red signal light, a long line at the grocery checkout…it didn't take much to set her off on a profanity-filled rant.

And this Kimberly is always afraid.

Anxious.
Nervous.

Never one to worry needlessly, Post-Widow Kimberly seems to now worry constantly. About all things large and small.

What people say. What people think. Who will die next.

All in all…Post-Widow Kimberly seemed like one great big drag...on everything and everyone around her.

And then I took another good look at Post-Widow Kimberly. I looked past all the not-so-great stuff (which was and is all true) and started examining a few other things about Post-Widow Kimberly that are different from Pre-Widow Kimberly.

Post-Widow Kimberly nursed and "buried" a husband…and somehow managed to survive the emotional and financial devastation of it all.

This Kimberly is stronger than Pre-Widow Kimberly ever thought she could be. She offers a steely resolve that lets the world around her know that it might knock her down…but she will never stay down. She will never cut-and-run if and when the going gets tough.

Post-Widow Kimberly doesn't trust quite as easily or implicitly because she learned a life lesson but she still believes in the inherent good in people and as a result, now counts many new and wonderful friendships that will last a lifetime.

She learned to leave the bitterness behind because bitterness gnaws away at the soul and drains energy that is better spent elsewhere in positive and productive ways.

She embraced the fact that the reason she is so anxious and afraid of losing loved ones is because that is the cost of loving that passionately and deeply.

And she realized how lucky she is to have had that kind of love in her life.

Post-Widow Kimberly learned what is worth fighting over or about and when to simply step over "it" and walk away.

And life got a lot easier.

I realize that because I am a completely different person, some of that post-widow stuff isn't going to change.

My patience level is still pretty low. I'm still afraid every day of losing someone or something that I desperately love.

And a "negative" will always affect me more than it should regardless of from whom or from where that negative originates.

I suppose in some ways, I'll always miss Pre-Widow Kimberly; for I will never be that person ever again.

But all in all…Post-Widow Kimberly isn't so bad. In fact, she's kind of cool too.

describing grief

Original date 24 February 2012
The other day while talking to a very caring friend, I mumbled, “Oh, boy, I can feel it coming.” My friend responded, “What does it feel like?” I laughed out loud because of the inherent insanity of describing something that has been so ever-present in my life to someone who has been blissfully untouched by such pain.

Yet, my friend was insistent that I not dismiss her query and instead summon up an analogy to help her understand; to understand was to know me better.

But it’s hard to describe deep feelings, especially feelings that we have so little experience with, around, or in. “Pish, posh”, she said. “Of all the people I know, you are the best at describing your feelings. So get to it.”

I laughed.

And then here’s what I said.

Imagine waking up abruptly trapped inside a small, rubber balloon. The cold rubber is like water, touching every part of your body, suffocating you. As you push your arm out, the stretchy material wraps tightly around your arm and resists your every effort to move. Every ounce of energy you use to squirm and fight, the balloon absorbs. Like a black hole, it takes everything you can throw at it and still wraps tightly around your body, suffocating you. You can’t breathe.

Life, it seems, is over.

Eventually, you notice that the rubber seems to be giving slightly and it’s not quite as clingy as it once was. A barely perceptible space between the rubber and your mouth gives you just enough room to breathe. Inhale and the rubber pulls into your mouth. Exhale and the rubber protrudes out. Yet, somehow, you can breathe.

Then you notice that the rubber isn’t quite sticking to your body quite so tightly. It’s still in your face and stuck to almost every part of your body but it’s not so stubborn as it was; there are places where it’s not even touching your skin. The absence of rubber in those places feels weird. Confusingly, you kinda sorta miss the rubber rubbing against your skin.

Where it used to touch, now you just feel cold, like the feeling of a new short haircut or the feeling of a t-shirt the first day of spring.

Time goes on and eventually the rubber isn’t touching you anywhere despite being completely surrounded, like a bubble. If you lift your arm or tilt your head, skin meets rubber and now, instead of feeling cold, the rubber hurts. It’s so much better to stand very carefully, make no contact, and avoid the pain.

So you do. Until you can’t stand there, trapped, any longer. So you push. Pushing hurts. But you push and push hard. You reach out your hands and push the parts of the rubber bubble. As your hands hit rubber, the feeling is familiar: cold, doughy, absorbing. But you push and push hard.

Each push hurts; it’s been a long time since your body has moved this way. And it seems like each stretch of the bubble is tied to pain.

Slowly, the bubble expands.

After tremendous hard work, sweat and pain, the bubble is big enough for you to sit inside. So you sit. And you cry. You are tired and you hurt. Stretching the bubble hurts.

As more time passes you grow quite comfortable living inside the little bubble. It doesn’t hurt inside as long as you don’t touch and don’t stretch. You can stand and you can sit.

But eventually, you realize that you can’t live inside this bubble forever. And so, once again, despite the memory of the pain from last time, you push. And you push hard. And, like last time, it hurts. With every push, the bubble expands and each expansion is met with enormous pain.

And with each expansion, the world you know gets a little bit bigger. After a few big pushes, you can even take a few steps. With a few more pushes, you can walk around. Eventually, you have enough space inside your little bubble to live a simple little secluded life. The pushing, despite how much it hurts, is working. You are growing a new life. But you have felt the terror of being trapped, of life wasted, and life lost.

Living inside a bubble is not a life you are willing to live. So you continue to push, pain and all. Every push hurts and is followed by a period of rest.

But to not push is to not live.

And so the cycle continues.

It’s been nearly two years for me. I've pushed and I’ve sat. I’ve sat inside my bubble and cried. I’ve fought hard and now my bubble is big enough for me to live my life, have new experiences, meet new people and even have a relationship. It’s unusual now for me to hit the rubber walls. But I still hit them, even after nearly two years.

I’ll keep pushing. Life is too precious to be kept trapped behind any kind of barrier.

The pain of pushing is worth the reward. One day, maybe the bubble will break. More likely, I’ll just keep stretching that damn bubble until it’s so thin I can’t see it anymore and it’s so big I never run into it.

I won’t be free, but I’ll be pretty close.

judgements

Original date 21 January 2012

I can't believe she's staying in that apartment. Surely she'd be better to move to somewhere without all those memories.

I can't believe she won't write in that journal I gave her. I do write my thoughts down...but not to share in that journal).

Why isn't she dating? She's too choosy if you ask me. She should find someone new and get over it already.

Did she just say she'd put her name on a dating site? Goodness me! Brian's not even been dead for 2 years. You'd think she'd show some respect.

She is too boring. She needs to lighten up a little and go out and have some fun.
and my very favorite: Brian would have wanted her to...

I hate it when other people make judgements on my decisions when they don't understand the particular circumstances that lead me to those decisions.

Yet we all make them.....

That guy who cut you off in traffic? Well, he's an idiot who doesn't value his life.

That needy friend? Well, she doesn't have to deal with half of what I'm dealing with. Who is she to complain?

I've made them about other people and I'm not proud of that, but I usually try keep mine in my head and remember that it's not my place to judge someone else's life choices and decisions and point them out to everyone at every opportunity.

When a beautiful-but-troubled celebrity died this week, I was godsmacked at the judgements on her lifestyle that flowed quick and fast. Assumptions were made about her death when...as we well know...the coroner wouldn't have even had a chance to establish a cause of death at that time.

People forgot (or chose to ignore) that she was just a person underneath all the fame. A person subject to the same faults as the rest of us.

Nobody is perfect. Nobody. We are all fighting our own battles, doing the best we can on what we've got.

And I'm going to try and remember that the next time a judgement about someone else's life choices reaches my lips.

grief vs depression

Original date 16 February 2012

I have been involved in an argument on facebook about "grief" today (very mature, I know -there were some classic lines that I should keep for "shit-people-say-to-widows"). But it actually turned out to be a misunderstanding where the other person had confused grief with depression.

To me, grief is something that I live with everyday. It is simple: I miss Brian.I wish he was here. I feel sad about the loss of the life we should have had. It makes me feel fearful and anxious at times and at other times, it helps me to feel compassion and understanding.

Talking about it here (and on facebook and letting the demons out on my personal blog) has really helped me to learn to live with it. It lives with me, it bites sometimes, but it no longer controls me.

Depression is something very different. I have tasted it. I have spent evenings wallowing in it. I have tried constructing "exit plans" at two in the morning (which were destined to fail). I have contemplated drinking myself into oblivion on more than one occasion. I'm fairly sure most of us have felt depression's darkness at some point. But I recovered from it.

I know I wont ever "recover" from grief...and I don't really want to. Grief is as much a part of my life as joy is.

The darkness and the light sit side by side.

Dear Brian

Original date 5 February 2012

Dear Brian,

When I get to Heaven, will you marry me?

I’ll understand if you say no. I get that there are probably better options for you where you are, and with so many secrets of the universe to explore, I’m sure you don’t want to do them alone.  Can you wait for me?

For some couples, they leave their spouse in their old age and the wait time for their reunion is just a few years, if not months.  You left me at age 32.  I may be down here awhile.  Will I be a distant memory or will you be the first one to greet me when I get there?

Can you tell how much I still love you?   How much I miss you?

Can you see me struggle?  I think of you during my darkest hours.  I draw strength from how you dealt with your cancer, refusing to be the victim and living life until the end.  I use you for inspiration to continue with my life.

I am in the process of re-learning life.  Does it frustrate you to see how much I’ve figured out since you’ve been gone?  To see how better I am with my priorities; to see me understand how to appreciate life.  To treat people the way you were hoping to be treated.  You planted the seeds, but left before the flowers bloomed.  Does that make you mad, or are you proud to see your handy work of a different me?

Do you see me trying to live a life without you?  Trying to build something new for myself and take this pain and turn it into something positive?  Does that break your heart?  Or are you frustrated I’m not doing enough?  Are you sitting around a pool with all the other husbands and wives yelling down, “Come on guys, live a little!  Didn’t our deaths show you life is short?  Let’s pick up the pace! We’re bored watching all of the inactivity.  Not much gossip here in the land of eternal happiness, so give us something to talk about.”

Knowing what you now know in heaven, was I a good wife?

Does heaven allow you to look at all our old fights?  You know, the ones where we’re both arguing, “That’s not what I said!” “Yes, it was.” “No, it wasn’t.”  I’m guessing you can see now I was probably wrong on a lot of those.

I can be a better wife. I can sit down and talk, to support your dreams and goals.  If you wait for me, we can have a marriage that Mark Antony and Cleopatra would see and be jealous of.

So what do you say, Brian? When I get to heaven, let’s get married.  It will be fun.  We can both wear white - white never goes out of fashion in Heaven.  We can get married during a thunderstorm – the lightening will be our candles – and we’ll rearrange the clouds so our party won’t get wet.  I’ll let Chesty Puller be your your best man; Jane Austen, my maid of honor.  Martin Luther King can give the toast and Moses will lead us in prayer.

I’ll let you have The Beatles be the band, if you let George Washington sit at our table.

We’ll honeymoon in a private villa owned by Howard Hughes and then buy a house with a river running through the middle built by Frank Lloyd Wright, leading to a tennis court in the backyard.  We’ll hang out on our extended porch and watch unicorns drink from the river.

Brian, wait for me, and we can finish up that great marriage we were just starting to achieve before you left.

Love,

Kimberly

I am a cookie

Original date 2 February 2012

I am a widow. Yes, it's a huge part of who and what I am now. But it's not the first way I would choose to describe myself...anymore.

If each role we play in life is like an ingredient, like a batter of sorts, can't widowhood be the cream in the "Hazelnut Cream Cookie" rather than the first ingredient mentioned? I am afraid that having the widowhood portion of my dough become one of the unmentioned contributors (i.e. eggs or flour) would be doing a huge disservice to the memory of Brian, and I am still not at the point where I can erase "him" from my cookie title. But I am certainly ready to have my widowed status demoted to the second word identifying me as a cookie.

I don't want my title of "widow" to be my primary identity. I want to go back to being "Kimberly." I want to be described as "funny", "kind", even "bitchy" if necessary...I despise knowing that I have been described as "You know, the young widow."

Yes, I am a widow. But I am a sister, a daughter, an auntie, a friend, a neighbor...and so many other things too. Yet, the one thing many people remember is that my husband is dead.

As my heart heals bit by bit, I realize that not allowing my widowhood to be my most important identifying attribute is not dishonoring my late husband. In fact, learning to describe myself by using words that point out my unique qualities reminds me of all the reasons he fell in love with me in the first place. Without him by my side it is easy to forget that Brian thought I was beautiful, kind, and funny.

I am more than what has happened to me. I am all that Brian saw in me, and I can't be defined by just one word.

So for now I may be a Hazelnut Cream Cookie or a Oatmeal Toffee Crunch Cookie...just know that this cookie is made up of a variety of quality ingredients...not all of which you will find in my cookie title.

I don't remember

Original date 30 January 2012

I remember walking toward a window, although it was for no particular reason. I believe I was simply trying to get away from the horror of what I'd seen and felt, but I can't be sure anymore.

My love was dead, and I had just watched him die. Where I went didn't matter.

Nothing mattered at that moment but the crushing pain I felt in my chest. I remember I was hauled against someone's shoulder, unaware and without care as to who it was.

The pained emptiness grew to reach every part of my body. I became immersed in it, leaving behind time, motivation, anything that might have gotten me moving on any given day. I stayed that way, immobile, for a very long time...moving only when asked. I became a robot.

I remembered everything in that moment. Exactly how he looked, the wonderful way he smelled, how perfect it felt to hug him, how amazing it felt to hold his hand and be caressed, the way he loved me, and the way I could tell he did by the way he looked at me.

And now, finally trying to wake from the nightmare that has been my life, I don't remember anything. I don't remember the sound of his voice. I don't remember the feel of his skin. I don't remember the feel of his hand in mine. I don't remember the strength in his arms as he hugged me.  I don't remember how he looked at me.

I am not doing what he asked me to.  "Please remember me," he said.

I don't know if I "don't" remember...or if I "don't want to" remember.

pillars

Original date 24 January 2012

As a young woman entering into adulthood with lofty goals, sterling ideals, and great hope for the future I could have easily created a long list of my personal beliefs. This list would have included ideas about both the tangible and the intangible; broad concepts and specific ideals; God and mortal beings. There would probably even have been a mention of death and eternity…but only in the abstract because my beliefs about death were untested until October 6, 2010.

My husband’s untimely death turned my personal credo upside down. The day I lost my husband was the same day that theory became reality, and faith became more than just a concept to which I paid lip service.

Grief is the ultimate test of faith. Faith requires trust. Death robbed me of the sense of security on which trust is so often based, making the idea of trust incomprehensible. And the whole vicious circle renewed itself daily as I tried in vain to determine why I was living a sorrow filled nightmare. My inability to escape the reality of widowhood forced me to evaluate my idealistic beliefs and determine whether they could withstand the blinding glare of grief.

As the reality of my husband’s death set in, I began to imagine the following personal truths as tall pillars that I view through a cloud of dust and rubble created by a major earthquake. Though everything around these support beams has fallen, they miraculously remain. I rub my eyes to look again, because for any structure to survive an earth shattering experience of this magnitude seems impossible…and yet these columns stand tall amongst the debris of loss and grief.

I believe that God is not a being who resides in a structure, but a spirit who lives in the hearts, and hands, of loving people. I believe in everlasting love. I believe that the length of your life is not an indication of your impact on the world. I believe that time is indeed a gift. I believe that human beings have the power to heal each other. I believe that shared experience can bond individuals in a unique and life changing way. I believe that our lives are a tapestry and each experience, wonderful or terrible, adds richness to the final fabric. I believe that tomorrow is only a dream. I believe that life is too short to hold grudges. I believe that people are inherently good. I believe that the people who come into my life do so for a reason. I believe that kindness changes lives. I believe that this too shall pass. I believe that life is a gift, but like all gifts must be opened to be truly appreciated.

These are a few of the pillars that have survived my personal earthquake. I lean on them when I feel unable to stand. When grief occasionally stirs the dust of sorrow, I look for them to steady my course. My widowhood experience has taught me that when faith requires me to walk forward blindly, those pillars will guide the way.

home is where the heart is?

Original date 23 January 2012

To stay, to move, to rent, to buy, to just keep pushing the decision back another day...

Where we call home is an essential part of our lives. It is such a difficult decision to leave the place that has been such a wonderful home. This October will be two years without my husband. I can't tell you how many times my mind has been over the should I move, should I stay debate since the one year mark.

The unhappiness of who I'm living without will follow me. I have to think long and hard about why I want to move. Is it an attempt to escape the pain, which is fruitless? Is it an attempt to run from the memories...also pointless? I feel that unhappiness would follow me even if I did move. My unhappiness has nothing to do with where I live. It has everything to do with whom I am living without.

Unfortunately, I still get clammy-handed and heart-skippy when I think of living in a new place. That anxiety isn't relieved by this added resolve to move.

It's the first thing I think about when I wake up (often in the middle of the night) and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. It's never far from my mind throughout the activities of the day, either.

But just because I fear it doesn't mean I shouldn't do it.

It's hard. Physically and mentally hard. But there is so much good to counter that hard that I think I need to hang out awhile longer and see what happens next.

I sometimes wonder why I'm working so hard to continue to live here. Am I doing it because I am holding onto a life that no longer exists? Am I doing it because the thought of starting over is just too much? Or maybe, I am doing it because it still feels right. I feel like this is where I am supposed to be.

All I can say for sure at this point is that I need a change and I need to be near opportunities. AND I don't have dependents relying on me to be stable. I can experiment and see where life takes me without worrying about anyone's needs but my own.

in the present

Original date 21 January 2012

Brian loved Calvin and Hobbes.

A kid's pretend friend that he asked life's big and not-so-big questions to. A friend who always seemed to help guide him through his childhood.

Brian became that tiger to me when he died...he became the person I talked to for guidance...who I asked life's questions to. But the response I knew would never come from him...it would have to be felt and heard by me and me alone. But still, I asked. I screamed and cried for reasoning to this tragedy before me.

As time has passed though, I've noticed that fewer and fewer of those questions on life, do I want, or even need, an answer to. Just as a child grows up not needing a fictitious animal to guide their way.

In no way am I stating that I don't still lean on him in the toughest of moments, but I've realized that the moments where I have been the most incapacitated by grief, are when I have been thinking about nothing but the future, the world in front of me without him by my side.
2012 is carrying a new constant that I know would make him happy, and I know brings a smile to my face.

One I picked up along the way in 2011.

A constant that freed me from the constraints of life that my pain and loss had me chained down with...had imprisoned me with its uncertainty.

The constant of living now...and nothing more.

I know the future will be what I make of it, but my present...my present was awaiting me to embrace it...and for more than just a second...I have done so.

Lately, I have been excited to wake up. Only because I have a list of things I want to do...things in the day I have planned and am looking forward to doing. Small things, once in awhile big things.

At first I thought...have you forgotten already? Then I realized no, I am living. Living in the present.

I know Brian would have wanted that.

But the intense grief comes because it is the realization that it is just me now. I am on my own. Making my own decisions.

My comments are statements now are not questions...along the line of "I know you might be wondering what I am doing but I have a plan...I think."

Sometimes I imagine his comments back. But it's different now.

I am here.
Living.
I am so surprised and so grateful.

sucker punch

Original date 20 January 2012

If you're on Facebook, you've probably seen the postings about the birthday video for Rachel, a recent widow. 

 

I don't really know the details of her story, but from the video it seems her husband was fighting cancer and he made a video for her as a present for her birthday. The video is of him, holding poster boards of his words -not speaking, but showing video of their wedding, telling her how much he loves her, and their two small children are in the video too. It is absolutely precious. Of course (and I say that as a bitter widow of cancer) - of course he dies.

I saw the link to the video on FB, and it even had a great "grab some tissues" warning on it. Like an idiot, I watched. I sat alone on my bed and cried like a baby. It was just so damned beautiful, and so freaking sad. I felt her loss like my own, and for a few gut wrenching sobs I was transported back 2 years ago, hating cancer, mad at God and wondering why life is so painful and unfair. The instant gut reaction caught me off guard and the black thoughts weren't so easily dismissed.

Death sucks and it will always suck. Cancer sucks.

Rachel's video was beautiful and a horrible reminder of the victims of the disease and the senseless loss. It hit me hard and I'm still pissed.

RECNAC KCUF

happy?

Original date 19 January 2012


Occasionally, I am bouyed by a lightness and happiness that I can't explain. I worry at times that I have 'lost the plot' so to speak. That I'm a nut job about to slip over the edge. I mean, really, I've had a shit of a last year. I lost my husband/best friend,  and my sweet and wonderful grandfather. I am scraping to make ends meet. I am alone. But somedays, inexplicably, I am happy.

I feel traitorous saying that and even worry that some people will misinterpret these pockets of joy thinking that I don't miss Brian with every breath I take while wishing he were here to enjoy these upswings and bubbles of bliss.

In fact, I only think that it is because of the loss of Brian that I can feel this.

Before he died, I was bogged down with worry about vacuous and frivolous things. I could see how I had been wronged in every situation. I could find fault and anger everywhere. I am still 'blessed' with this ridiculous and terrible gift...but I am also learning to be able to turn it off. I am concentrating so hard on trying to see the positive, to feel joy, to search for the good in an effort to not drown in grief, that I am learning to shut out that sinister and nepharious self-destructive voice.

When that voice is silent, I feel joy. Pure, warm joy. I can feel sadness and pain alongside it, but I can still turn my face to the light and smile. This, the ability to force myself to stare through rose-colored glasses, has been the largest gift that Brian has given me...it is just such a shame that it has been in the loss of him that I have found this gift.

I wish we could have shared our life together with this realization in mind....and not just the cognitive recognition of this, but the actual realization that I have had since losing my love.

I am not a mind reader

Original date 19 January 2012

...and I don't really think I want to be one.

But it would certainly make some things easier...relationships, for instance.

I wouldn't have to guess what a certain word is supposed to mean... or a certain look...or the raise of an eyebrow...or silence.

I wouldn't have to wonder if all men like this, or hate that...or if all widows feel this, or cry over that. I wouldn't have to question someone's motive...or worry that something I said or did may have upset someone. Or was it something I didn't say? Or didn't do?

I don't think there's anyone into who's brain I want to delve that deeply, but it would be nice to know how grief feels to my mother-in-law versus my sister...or me.

I hate not knowing that. I hate not being able to really understand their grief and how it manifests itself. And I really hate not being able to take it from them.

I'd like to be able to instinctually know what my roommate needs me to say or do. I'd also like to be able to know what he doesn't need from me.

I also sometimes wish that other people had this ability in regards to me. I wish they understood that they can talk about Brian 24 hours a day and it won't make me sad.

I wish they understood that I want to be treated the way I was treated before he died. I am not "special." I am not going to fall apart over trivial things.

And after being widowed, most things are trivial. But I wish they also understood that grief is life long. It, like Brian, will always be a part of me. And that's not a bad thing. It's just the way it is.

So I'm not a mind reader. But then neither is anyone else. Which means we're all in this together.

Guessing.
Fumbling.
Wondering.

Sometimes getting things wrong. But sometimes getting them right, which feels all the more sweeter.

So forgive me for not being able to read your mind. But I'm awfully glad that you can't read mine, either.

Some thoughts are for keeping to one's self.

real or just remembering

Original date 12 January 2012

I was going through some of my things today looking for stationery and I found Brian's bible and inside was a list of menu items that our family ordered the last weekend that he was alive.  He wanted a tuna hoagie.
That makes me think of that bitter-sweet sensation.

The feeling where you could swear "they" are with you. That you can almost feel their breath on your neck or hear their familiar sounds in the dark. The feeling that they are thinking about you or have just whispered that they love you in your ear.

Is it real? Is Brian really non-physically "with" me? Can he see me? Is he expressing his love for me through some sort of cosmic vibrational love? Or is it just a chemical memory of a hormone cocktail that was once specific to our relationship? Merely a jolt of misfired oxytocin?

I want to believe it is his essence/spirit/soul slipping into the spot beside me and holding my hand or stroking my face with whatever energy would have once controlled his hands. I want to hope that he can feel and hear my thoughts. That he can know the loss that is still felt without his body next to mine.

But the pessimistic, rational scientist that lives within my brain scoffs. I begin to wonder if it is a similar phenomenon to deja-vu scientists claim that this occurrance is merely a misfiring of the brain's chemistry creating the illusion that you have already experienced this exact moment.

In my heart, though, I can feel him. And what I feel when I sense him near is not the residual effects of generic love. It is a feeling specific to him...and me.

Maybe I am crazy or naive. Maybe I am just allowing myself a fairytale to alleviate some of the feelings of loss and to provide hope that I will be with him again.

But I really do feel like he is with me.

Not all the time. But when I do, I sense him so breathtakingly close that I freeze and hope that this moment lasts just a little longer.

worth

Original date 7 January 2012

I know that 2013 and 2014 and 2015 will come. I don't know what each year will hold, or if I'll even be in them, but I do know that living is the only answer to each day that passes...each month...each year.

He was my reason for living, and through that reasoning, I have now found reason to live for myself.

He was always someone who I planned or would have died for, but when cards dealt something unexpectedly, I knew I had to live for him, and in doing so, I found not only a reason to live for myself, but for others.

I love that I have that knowledge...I love knowing what I am alive for...and what I know I would and will die for.

That knowledge, undoubtedly, will make 2012 and beyond a year and lifetime worth living.

That is what I say to people who ask how I carry on...I am living for both of us.

For my husband because his life was ended at 32 and for me...I hope to have a longer life.

I live because he wanted this for me. When it gets dark...that very dark place where leaving seems like a far better alternative than staying...I think of him and picture his struggle to do simple things...like walking, to take a few stairs, to read the paper.

I picture him telling me he was so sad to die because our life together was so good. I remember one day when he grasped my hand in his so tightly and said with such desperation, "Live! Please don't give up. Travel, be happy, learn new things. I will be waiting for you but don't hurry. Do everything we hoped to do together."

When I am tempted to just lay down and never get up, I remember that and I live for both of us.
My husband suffered trying to live for me, for us.

It hit me recently that he didn't suffer and go through all that he did on a daily basis for 2 years to have me fall apart, not function, not LIVE after he died.

In dying and in the process of it, he taught me how to LIVE. He showed me how precious life is, what a gift it is. I realize now that my life is to live for me and that everyday that I live fully I honor both him and myself.
I'm also a little leery, slightly frightened about another New Year, but I've found that living in the present day, not looking ahead too much, is more manageable and I become less fearful.

Let's face it, we've all been through the worst that can happen and with that often brings the attitude of always "waiting for the other shoe to drop."

By celebrating the small things, even celebrating the routine, ordinary days give me the courage to say, "yes, I CAN do this, I WILL do this for me."

silent screaming

Original date 6 January 2012

I wrote this a few months ago and haven't looked at it since then. I've noticed that the last few days I've been taking sleeping pills again so maybe re-reading this and getting it out of me will allow me to sleep again.

It started when the doctor told me it was over. I was sitting next to his bed when he died. It was loud. It was hysterical. It was guttural. It was primal.

It continued as I left him lying there. It went on for a long time before I wore myself out. It stopped long enough to listen to the preacher at his funeral and to listen to Taps and the Marines thanking me for his service.

It stopped long enough so I could figure out what to do next. To search everyone's faces to hear them say, "Oh, sorry, we made a mistake. He's not dead. He's at the hospital waiting for you."

I'm screaming in my head.  "HE'S DEAD. DEAD. DEAD."

It doesn't stop while I talk to other people. It doesn't stop when I drink water. It doesn't stop when I take a shower. It doesn't stop when I stare at the food people put in front of me that I'm forced to eat.

And it doesn't stop when I sleep.

It didn't stop for the first six months.

At first I was really ticked...

Original date 4 January 2012

...but now I'm feeling "normal" (I wanted to write that I was feeling "Pissed", but I didn't want to offend some of you by putting that in the title.  If it offends you in parenthesis...I apologize).
A few months after Brian died it became clear to me that I needed to see my doctor, and I needed to see her quickly........about starting antidepressants.
I had never been on them before in my life. I didn't know anything about them.
The one thing that I did know is that if I didn't see her soon, and get some help, I might not live another week.
And so I went.
And it became clear to her that I needed to be on them.
And so I started taking them.
And soon started feeling much more "balanced".
Not happy.  Still grieving.  But able to handle it.
That was almost a year  ago. These past two months I tried to wean off of them.
And did really well. For a while.
And then I did not.
I started sliding downhill around Thanksgiving. But I knew that holiday and all of December, were going to be difficult and so I dug in my heels and decided that I'd wait it out. Because surely I'd be much better after New Year's.
Fortunately, I have been able to recognize when I am about to jump off of a cliff. And then the meds came back out. I had been spiraling downwards, further and further, the entire month of December. I finally knew that I couldn't wait it out. And so I threw in the towel.
And not only was I incredibly depressed...I was hugely pissed.
I still am a little.
I'm pissed that, not only did I have to lose half of my heart when Brian died, but I had to physically and emotionally lose at least half of who I was. I'm pissed that not only did grief exist in my life, but it physically changed my body and the chemical makeup of my brain.
I think having a dead husband should be enough to suffer through...enough of a change to have to endure. But I guess my thinking isn't what always happens.
So now I am back on my meds and as of about one week ago, I'm feeling normal. Well, normal for me, that is.  One week ago today, was the first day that I didn't cry.  Not once, let alone most of the day. And I haven't cried since...not from that cold, enveloping blackness anyway. And I'm feeling happy again. And seeing things through much clearer lenses.
And I'm thankful.
Thankful that we have these kinds of medications available and thankful that I finally gave in and took them. And I'm thankful to feel happy again. And normal.
But I'm still angry.
Angry that I have to take them, and probably always will, when the "before Kimberly" never needed them. Ever.
And I'm angry that our society doesn't always recognize the chemical need that a brain has to stay balanced. But mostly?  Mostly I'm angry that most people don't realize that they need help...that their loved ones don't notice, or don't know what to do even if they notice until it's too late. It angers me that our society doesn't know as much about depression and how to recognize it, or what to do about it...other than ostracizing or criticizing or labeling.
And it angers me that some factions of our society claim that depression doesn't really exist, that there's no need for antidepressants, and that it's all a sham. It angers me when even my pastor says that depression is selfish and we need to stop thinking of ourselves and think of others...put others first.
That angers me a lot. This is not something I chose. I would not have chosen loss or grief or anger or pain or death. I cannot control the chemical composition of my brain.
And though I know that I'm going out on a limb here...it angers me that people who commit suicide are labeled as "incredibly selfish". Because I don't agree.  I know that most of them were just unable to live one more minute with the pain inside of them.  And most of them probably thought that their loved ones would be much better off if they didn't have to deal with someone who not only is in constant pain, who couldn't see an end to the pain and the "blackness", but who was also dragging everyone down with them.
We need to know more. Much more. And I hope that one day soon we will.
As for me, I'm a lot more happy than I am angry or sad now. I'm back to feeling more like me.  And this was the first time that I looked forward to New Year's in a long time.

emerging

Original date 2 January 2012

My latest realization about this process is that somehow I haven't emerged (yet) from this tragedy with a more negative outlook on life. If I had, I think it'd be pretty understandable. And to be honest, I'm not sure how positively I'd handle any additional tragedy in this stage of the process. But based on the progress I've made so far, I can clearly see that I actually have LESS negativity than I had before.

 

I truly don't know how this is possible. I also don't dare to think that this state of mind will always be. One thing I CAN count on is the roller coaster of emotions this process entails. I might be able to say that I have a positive outlook now, but a minute, day, week, month, or a year or more from now, I might be in a completely different state of mind. However, looking at the past 15 months, I can see how hope was there all along even when I didn't recognize it. It was hope that got me from one day to the next when I wasn't able to sleep, eat or think from the shock. It was hope that things wouldn't always feel as terrible as they did in the first few months that kept me afloat.

 

And now, it is hope that keeps me from packing it all in and giving up. I have stubborn hope that there's more out there for me. More love, more chances, more joy, more excitement.

 

There is another part of me that will probably always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. After experiencing what I did las October, I know even more than I did before how bad things can get. I remember a moment in the car on the way to the ER when I said out loud to myself "Lightning CAN'T strike you a THIRD time. The odds are in your favor". Whoo boy was I wrong on that one. So now, there is a tendency to think that the next tragedy is just out there, waiting for me. I'm sure that when (not if, WHEN) life begins to feel peaceful and joyous again, there will be a part of me wondering when the bad stuff will rear its head again.

 

But, somehow that pig-headed optimism that good is out there for me, has been, overall, winning the fight in my mind and heart. If it hadn't, I don't think I'd have come this far, gone cross country twice, made new friends, traveled, and who knows what else.

 

I could easily hunker down and isolate myself in my grief and opt out of life based on what it's dished up for me so far, but I haven't. I haven't settled for a restricted life based on fear and sadness.

 

This is not to say that decisions I've made or will make are not fear-based anymore, or that I won't do anything out of sheer sadness and grief. I know I will. I also am aware that I will look back on this time and realize that I wasn't fully emotionally stable yet and my mind wasn't yet fully functional.

 

But, upon reflection, I think I chose life much more often than not. I chose to live life as big as I could manage and plan to continue to do so, whenever I can.

 

Maybe this was partly due to my inherent will to keep going and kicking ass, but I'm convinced it had a lot to do with how my loved ones held me up when I couldn't hold myself up. Knowing they were there to catch me at every possible turn in this road kept me stronger than if I'd walked alone. There is no doubt in my mind that they were and are crucial to my survival.

 

However, at the end of the day, it's just me living for me now. The new me is emerging from the ashes. I keep getting little glimpses of perspective on how far I've come and how much farther I have to go. Even if I had spent the last 15 months hiding out in my house, it would be completely understandable. But I didn't. I didn't consider it an option. Some sort of blind and incredibly stubborn will to live kicked in and I chose life and all its inherent fears and beauty.

 

I am scared shitless, yes.

 

I'm also not done fighting. Not even close.

 

I will continue to emerge from this hell as a person who has not had her soul completely crushed. Bruised and battered, and continuously healing, but never crushed.

hopeful new year

Original date 1 January 2012

No more tears. It's New Year's Day.
Today, I celebrate what lies ahead of me. Today, I take notice of what prior new years brought my way. I know that today a friend is celebrating a wedding anniversary without her husband. I know that today another friend is remembering this as the day she met the husband who is also no longer beside her. Yet knowing each of these women, I'm sure that even if tears are falling, there are beautiful smiles on their faces.
Looking ahead to the new year is our way of projecting hope into our future. For those of us who are widowed, hope is not something we can always easily access.
Yet for me, at this point in my life, I do have hope, and more of it than expected. I know that after learning that my husband was terminally ill, I thought I lost hope. Yet, in the days that followed his emergency surgery, I found myself accessing hope that I couldn't recognize at first. It was that hope that spurred me on to seek out the right path for us as a couple, and it was that hope that allowed me to not get stuck so deep in my unexpected sorrow.
It was also that hope that provided me with two more loving years with the man I gave my heart to. After losing Brian, I felt that, once again, I had lost all ties to hope. I was not able to see beyond the pain and sorrow, even as the days and months went by. I began to question if my future carried any real meaning.
After surviving  the worst year on record, I decided to trust that hope was there, even if I didn't recognize it. I made a decision to set off in a new direction, and I trusted that there was something, not necessarily someone, out there for me.
Inside my head, I keep hearing Mick Jagger singing "YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT." For those of us who find ourselves seeking, this is a bit of an understatement.
My point is this: no, I don't believe I got what I wanted. I GOT MORE.
I got a lifetime of Brian's love.
It wasn't MY lifetime of love, but it was HIS.
I know that he never stopped loving me, nor I him. I know that loving him gave me so much hope in my future. I know that loving him taught me that sometimes hope takes a different turn. Before meeting Brian, I thought love had passed me by. I had somewhat lost hope. He renewed it.
In learning that I was soon to lose Brian, I thought I had lost hope. Once again, it was renewed.
In losing Brian, I was sure that I had lost hope. Yet, here I sit, being hopeful once again.
Let's all look forward to a hopeful year. Let's say our thanks for what we had, and let's be open to what the future holds.
Happy New Year.