Validation in My Grief May 15, 2013

When I went to the library a few weeks ago, I found a book called Happily Even After: A Guide to Getting Through (and Beyond) the Grief of Widowhood by Carole Brody Fleet.  I thought I should read it, so I checked it out. 

I had no idea that I would enjoy it as much as I did and feel validated in my feelings the more I read. 

The first part that spoke to me talked about what defines a widow.  The book has a question and answer format.  A divorced person asked if she could technically refer to herself as a widow.  Here’s how the author responded:

“As are many of the answers surrounding this particular widowhood journey, yours too is a “yes and no” situation.  Technically speaking (and be aware that this is only technically speaking, since you were divorced from your husband, you are not “technically” widowed.  This pretty much pertains only to things like filling out forms at doctor’s offices where you would indicate your marital status as “divorced.”  However, as we all well know and as previously discussed, the heart is not governed by technicality or paperwork and it is perfectly normal for you to be experiencing the same kinds of emotions that a “technical” widow fees.  Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, i.e., “Well, you were divorced,” as though it were no big deal.”

I have had well-meaning (I hope) people in my life say that same thing when I have described feeling widowed or referred to myself as a widow.  I know it wasn’t said to be cruel.  Those other people just don’t know how offensive and unsupportive it is to hear.  (Yes, two significant others have said it.)  I may not have been married to my child’s father when he died, but ten years with him means I feel like a widow.   And it is a big deal. 

It’s been nearly 4 years since Ex’s death, and I’m still dealing with it, which brings me to my next favorite part of the book:

“Isn’t it so incredibly easy for other people to decide not only in what manner, but for how long, you should be grieving?  Well, guess what?  You are the boss here. This is your healing journey.  No one gets to decide for you when to grieve, how to grieve, and/or how long it “should” take to grieve.  And yes, people do say seemingly stupid and unbelievably insensitive things at the wrong time…

Out of all the friends and family who are telling you that you should be “over it” because it’s been “x” amount of time, i.e., whatever time parameters that they have designated appropriate for your grieving, how many of them are also widowed and have endured the suffering, the pain, and the loss in the same way that you have?  I’m going to take a wild guess and say none.

In fact, no one else is qualified to dictate to you when you should be “over it” and that includes other widows!  As we have already learned, people want you to be “over it” because (a) death in general is an uncomfortable subject and (b) it’s easier for them if you are “over it.”  They are uncomfortable with your grief.  It is very easy for everyone else to tell you that “Time is all it takes” when they’re not in your position.

It is true that time helps the pain take its proper place in your heart, but the experience doesn’t ever truly leave, and who wants it to?  There is a very special place in my heart that will always belong to my late husband.  It obviously doesn’t mean that I didn’t have the room, the desire, or the capacity to love another (because we all have that ability), but I don’t ever want to “get over” my late husband and the life that we shared together.  Instead, as you will learn shortly, you don’t get “over it,” you move forward from it.”

I have had people express to me that I should be over losing my ex-husband.  But I’m not.  And hearing people say that makes me want to roar in their face like a lion.  I’m not over it.  I’m moving forward from my grief and the experience of losing my ex-husband.  Thankfully, no one has told me they expected me to be “over it” in quite some time, a couple years.  Am I in a good place with it?  Yes and no.  I’m getting there in my own time. 

I think it would be easier if I didn’t have a child who still remembers and idolizes his and wishes for his daddy, but I don’t know.  I have only my experience.  I don’t know what it’s like for others who lose their spouses and don’t have children.  Maybe it’s just as hard but in different ways. 

The next part of the book spoke about dealing with anger.  It reads:

“Through your anger, and though it may at times be difficult, please always remember that your husband did not willingly “leave” you.”

Okay, I thought, but mine did.

The footnote reads:

“For those of you who are suicide survivors, please take note: I also fervently believe that your spouse did not “choose” to leave, although the death may have been by their own hand.  Generally speaking, a suicide victim sees no other way out of their own personal pain.  In other words, it’s not that they wanted to “leave,” rather, they felt that there was no way to stay.”

Oh.

What an insightful way to word it!  What a dark and murky place to be in your own head, though.  “No way to stay…”  I get it.  Okay.  He didn’t want to leave.  I’m feeling better already.

The next bit dealt with viewing crying as a setback in healing.  The author listed many occasions that she had celebrated with her daughter in the years since her husband died.  Then she writes:

“Guess what?  I’ve cried virtually every time because her daddy wasn’t here to see it.  But did I ever once feel as though I was having a “setback”?  Absolutely not.”

For me, it wasn’t so much the setback idea that rang through but the crying at things the author’s daddy missed.  I do that at big events, like the first day of school every year, and small events, like when Little Guy put away the rack of clean dishes in the kitchen the other week without me asking.  He’s just getting so big and Ex misses it all.  That’s hard for me.  It felt good to know that I’m not alone in that and that it isn’t weird to still feel that way.  I probably always will.

In my two relationships since Ex died, I have always had a fear of losing a significant other again.  I have called this fear irrational, but after reading this book, I think it has some logic.  Others have felt the same way and the author responded with these words:

“You are perfectly justified in your fear of losing love once again and the age at which you lost your love really doesn’t have anything to do with it.  You lost your husband and the life that the two of you built was ripped away from you.  Furthermore, we are all aware of the statistics that tell us that generally speaking, women outlive men.  The reality is that if you commit yourself again, you have to face the possibility that you could wind up a window once again, a scary prospect to be sure. 

While I certainly share that fear with you, at the same time, I could not see myself letting fear stand in the way of any happiness to which I  —and every single other woman out there —am absolutely entitled.  Should you choose it, that happiness also includes love and I don’t believe that fear deserves to be given the power over anyone’s destiny of happiness…

Don’t allow fears of a repeat of the widow experience paralyze you—that’s a surrender of power and fear shouldn’t be given that kind of power.  Above all, remember what I said earlier, being courageous doesn’t mean, “Don’t be afraid.”  The real definition of courage is being afraid and going forward anyway.”

Sometimes, I find this easier said than done, but it’s a good reality check. 

On giving up on dating, (which tempts me some days.  I won’t lie,) the author writes:

“Giving up means that you have resigned yourself to a life that you did not choose.  Giving up means that you are letting other people (losers) or circumstances beyond your control (death) decide your destiny, which is completely unacceptable.  Instead of giving up, get back up!  You did it after your lost your husband and you can do it again now. 

After reading this book and talking to few close friends, I know that I am entitled to an abundant life which includes companionship.  We are all entitled to that.  I deserve that, just like everyone else.  The man for me is out there and I, the woman for him, am here.  I’m still here living on this earth, and I’m going to make the life I want and am entitled to have.

I deserve it, and so do you!

Lie on the Floor May 13, 2013

Sometimes I want to lie on the floor

and do nothing,

think about nothing,

talk to no one,

hear only house noises

and nature noises

for an hour.

Today, I spent my lunch cleaning up dog vomit.  I’ll work late tomorrow to make up the time.  I met my beau after work for a soda, not a beer, since I’m not imbibing much lately.  I had anxiety on the way over, and without a glass of suds to attempt mask it when I got there, I had to deal with my anxiety all by my big girl self.  And I did.

I got home, and Little Guy had some major business to take care of in the bathroom.  I went upstairs when I heard he had finished and asked if he flushed.

He said, “Yes.”

I said, “I didn’t hear it.”

He said, “Well, it clogged.”

“These words would be nice: Mom, would you please unclog my toilet?” I said.  “Mom, would you please unclog my toilet?” Little Guy repeated quietly.

“Of course I will,” I said, “right after dinner.”

I hoped for one of those pipe miracles that happens sometimes where the pipe magically expands to allow an arm-sized turd through.  We had dinner, finished homework, and got ready for bed.  I opened the toilet and no miracle had happened.  Damn.

I plunged and plunged and plunged some more, but that water did not move.  I had to get the snake.  Yes, the snake, the lifesaver of all toilets that have endured heavy use of a light person.  I snaked and snaked and snaked until the snake did the trick and then, it was time for bed.  Sigh.

And that was when I plopped myself onto my son’s bed and told him,

“Sometimes I want to lie on the floor and do nothing for an hour.  That would make me happy.  I’m exhausted!”  A tear fell out of my eye, just fell right out of my eye.

“Mom, you can!” Little Guy said.  “Right after you read to me for 1000 minutes.”  We laughed.

“I can’t do that,” I said as another tear popped out of my eye.  I felt so tired I couldn’t read The Art of Doing Nothing by Veronique Vienne which I own but have never finished.  Really, I would curl up on the floor, if I had one more thing to do.  Hmm, sounds similar to lying on the floor doing nothing…

Little Guy insisted that I could lie down for a minute.  Huh?  I thought. No one ever tells me to do that, not even myself, unless it’s 3 or 4 in the morning and I can’t go on cleaning, organizing or reading parenting articles online.

“Yeah, I’ll read to you, Mom.  You can even sleep for a couple minutes if you want to,” Little Guy said.

“Okay,” I said, “but only for 7 minutes.”

I don’t know if him reading to me was a ploy to stay up past his bedtime or my sweet child taking care of his mama.  I know that enjoyed being read to and lying still for the duration of Goodnight Moon.  And I didn’t care that it meant he was up past his bedtime.

Little Guy finished the book and said, “Two minutes left.  I’ll get another book.”

“No.  Snuggles.  Two minutes,” I said.  “Turn off the light.”

“Okay!” he said.

He turned off his light and snuggled up to me while he hugged his stuffed animal to him.  We laid there in the dim light and silence.  He didn’t talk like he usually does.  He held very still and fell asleep within minutes.  Maybe that was the miracle I was waiting for, a boy who falls asleep in less than an hour.

I lied there a few more minutes and contemplated moving to the living room to lie on the floor and do nothing or turn on one of my favorite movies.  I have too much to do, I decided.  It would make me more anxious to do nothing.  If I felt more caught up with things that have to get done, like cleaning the cat box and printing out documents for an appointment on Saturday before I forget about either, I could let myself lie down.

For now, I hear the cat crap, the laundry, the printer, the carpet cleaner, the crap in the garage that needs to go in my car, my last load of clean clothes still hanging dry, the guest bathroom that needs cleaning, tonight’s dinner that needs to go in the fridge, and the other SWAD (Shit We All Do) calling my name.  In good time, I hope for the miracle of myself falling asleep in less than an hour.

I Tried Something New May 5, 2013

This ski season, I made a promise to my son.  I promised him that I would learn to ski.  Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. 

 

‘You’ve never skied?  And you’ve lived where you do for how long?’

 

It’s true.  To top it off, I grew up in an area surrounded by ski resorts and never learned to ski. 

 

‘What?  How is that possible?’ you ask.

 

Well, you see I didn’t grow up in a skiing family.  My dad avoided all things athletic.  And my mom, well, she’s athletic, but I remember the last time she went skiing.  I was three.  My mom left the house very early to ride the bus to the ski resort.  I asked my dad as many times as possible that day when Mommy would be home.  I don’t remember the answer.  I filled my day with waiting for my mom to come home.  I waited in the house, in my room, in the hallway. Wherever I was, I waited.  I would ask my dad seven times or so if he knew when my mom would come home, then I’d go back to my room.  He sat on the couch watching television all day.  I’m sure he fed me at some point, but I have forgotten that detail and filled my memory with the waiting.  It was one of the longest days of my life.

 

At last my mom came home.  I remember her carrying her skis up the stairs and putting them in the hall closet.  My life returned to a normal pace and I stopped wrinkling my forehead with worry.  My dad remained on the couch.  I’m sure I jumped all over my mom with excitement that she had come home from a day of skiing.  I’m sure my dad felt relief that my mom had come home and that I would therefore leave him the hell alone and not ask that one question anymore.  I would guess that my mom felt a longing for the couch or a chair or a something so she could rest while I expressed my delight at her return.

 

And that’s the first and last exposure to skiing that I had.

 

Then I grew up (partly), graduated from college and moved to Colorado as quickly as I could.  That was 13 years ago. 

 

Yeah.

 

About 10 years ago, I tried snowboarding.  I didn’t take a real lesson and the conditions were all wrong, except for the snow.  I didn’t enjoy it one bit, so I returned my snowboard to the rental shop at the end of the day and went back home or more likely work and didn’t revisit the subject until this past winter.

 

I made good on my promise to my son a few weeks ago that I would try skiing this year.  I did it the right way.  I rented gear and signed up for a lesson.  I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I ended up being the only person in the class.  Maybe it was supposed to be that way, but it got me hooked on skiing like a girl in the 1980s to her Jane Fonda workout tapes. 

 

I took to the sport well and can hardly wait to get out there again, so the lesson worked.  And I have another sport to do with my son.  So, next year when he asks me if he can ride the lift and show me a trick, instead of saying, “No, you need another adult to go with you,” I’ll be able to say, “Yeah, let’s go!”

Proud Single Mom

I have read a lot on single parenting lately on topics ranging from dating to admirable traits of single parents to benefits to children of single parenting.  It’s not an easy job.  For me, it’s wrapped up with a lot of emotions having gone from married and miserable to separated and divorced to widowed and sole caregiver of my child. 

 

I found blogs by Christine Coppa and Matt Logelin inspiring.  (Look them up.)  When I read their posts, I feel touched by their acceptance of single parenthood and dedication to their children.  When I look back at when I became a single parent, I don’t remember a lot of grace occurring, though I’m sure my friends and family would say otherwise.  I remember resentment, anger and relief toward my ex topped off with overwhelming wonder of how I would possibly handle it all: parenting my wonderful boy, supporting us, handling Ex’s post-mortem obligations, dating, and everything else that came up in life. 

 

Now I know that I just do it.  I can do it.  I’m not perfect by any means, but I’m learning and willing to change to become the best parent I can be.  The best person I can be.  The best employee I can be.  The best partner I can be. 

 

I might feel a longing on the playground to match the other moms, to have a wedding ring on my finger, a husband that I made a child with, the right car, house, etcetera, but you know what?  It doesn’t matter.   It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a ring and it doesn’t matter that they have no idea what it’s like to live in my shoes and it doesn’t matter if they look down on me or pity me for being a single parent.  It doesn’t matter that I don’t know what their lives are like.  I’d rather celebrate us all for being parents.

 

I’m proud!  I’m proud to be the mother of my child.  I’m proud to take care of us every day.  I feel lucky to have this gift of a child.  Okay, maybe not so much during a meltdown, but yes, even then in a way.  Having a child has made me so strong.  I have an insane amount of respect for people who choose to raise a child on their own.  I have sympathy for those who want a child and have roadblocks in their way.  And I feel like people who have chosen not to have children don’t understand those of us who have.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.  Like I tell my son, everyone is different.

 

I’m a proud single mama, imperfect, kind and loving.  It’s the way I am. 

Fantastic Fridays April 6, 2013

Fridays used to provide many frustrating moments as a parent. I would say from the start of school, a new school, this year through about February, I dreaded Fridays. Most people look forward to Fridays. They symbolize the end of the work week and the potential for rest, but I would wake up and think, ‘Oh dear stars, it’s Friday…again.’

The end of the work week also meant the end of the school week, and this would turn my child into a puddle of crying cooked noodles at the thought of getting any part of the normal morning routine accomplished. Just at the thought!

For six months, I got up early and got ready before I had to get Little Guy up. I had realistic expectations which included knowing that I would have to select an outfit for my child, help him get dressed, brush his teeth for him and damn near feed him breakfast. Fortunately, he insists on feeding himself.

Not too long ago, things changed. Fridays now seem like a normal day where Little Guy gets ready on his own. He doesn’t collapse to the floor when I ask for him to put his coat on and the little bugger even gets dressed on his own. He’s even made me breakfast a couple times and politely waited for me at the table until I sat down and had my napkin on my lap.

The last two Fridays have gotten even better. When I have come downstairs to make breakfast, Little Guy has put away the rack of clean dishes, among other things that contribute to the household, such as opening the blinds. I didn’t ask him to. He did it on his own. He thought it up on his own that he can do a few things around the house to help out. I used to beg for this. I used to cry for help, beyond exhaustion and feeling over-overwhelmed at taking care of our basic needs to keep the house going during the few hours I spent awake and at home.

Last Friday, I cried tears of joy with a bit of wistfulness. I felt wistful because my baby’s not my baby anymore. He’s getting so big so fast and that provides me joy. I feel joy that a little part of him understands that he is part of the household and that I appreciate his help and the ways he has found to go above and beyond my usual expectations. He does his own laundry and puts it away. He cleans his own bathroom with little assistance.

I rewarded him last week with a hug, many thanks, and fifty cents. He deserved it. In addition to putting away clean dishes, he had made his bed that day, too and gotten his bag ready for his planned evening activities. We didn’t fight. He didn’t cry. We smiled and left the house on time. Fantastic!

Drink March 28, 2013

The other night, Little Guy and I read about the human heart. He read out loud to me and I helped with the big words as long he took a stab at them. About 3 paragraphs in, he said, “What time is it?” I told him the time. Past drink time!

“Shoot,” he said. “I really need a drink.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

“What, Mama?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said and took a sip of my hot water.

The Hardest Thing March 27, 2013

This past weekend, Little Guy and I were having dinner when he asked me again why Ex and I split up.  I explained again that Ex and I had different approaches to life and couldn’t agree on how to continue it together.  I told Little Guy that I didn’t like the way Ex treated me and I didn’t think it was right.  I added that Ex probably felt the same way.

LIttle Guy told me it was hard for him to see us split.  I told him that I knew about that because I had been through my parent’s split when I was a child.  I said it didn’t mean that my parents didn’t love me any less and it didn’t mean that Ex and I didn’t love LIttle Guy to pieces because I do, and he did.  Little Guy said he knew that.

“Do you know what was harder than seeing you two split up, Mom?” LIttle Guy asked.

“What?” I asked with tear running down my face.

“Losing my dad was harder than seeing the two of you split up,” he told me.

He told me that he had read a story that he had written about his dad.  He remembers so much about that time in his life.  It’s not always accurate, but I’m told that’s okay.  I told Little Guy he could write as many stories about his dad as he wanted.

Little Guy said that he was lucky he still had me and that I was still alive.  I couldn’t agree more.  I told him I’m not going anywhere and felt guilty about promising something that I feel is out of my hands, though I’ll do everything in my power to stick around as long as possible.

“Life would be easier with your dad around,” I said.  Dammit, that’s more than true.  Yeah, we might be fighting still, but holy fudgsicles, life would be easier.  I can’t even dwell on it too long, or I’m going to get mad all over again. I know that separated life before Ex died didn’t last long, but I enjoyed the freedom I had when I had it.  I think that’s been the hardest to get used to, the lack of time to myself, yet it feels so natural to never have time to myself.  I guess that means I’ve adjusted well, accepted my reality of full-time parenting.  And some people choose this, and those people I admire!

In 2009, So many people told me that he would forget most of what happened, the split and his dad dying.  So far, he hasn’t, but it’s a big part of his life and little part of mine with a gigantic impact.  Maybe he hasn’t had time to forget, or maybe he has a wrench-like grasp on keeping his memories.  Maybe I am too eager to forget some things and less eager to remember the good stuff, when I should be eager to remember just the good stuff.  I know that I feel grateful for Little Guy’s articulation of how hard he took the loss of his dad.  It felt like a breakthrough to hear more than memories and more than an assumption of his feelings.  I think Little Guy and I are on to something.