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.