Nighttime Reflections

     I previously blogged about how mornings were the most difficult, they still are.   The physical and emotional ache I feel when I awake each day to the realization that my life is different is a hard way to wake up.    In between, work keeps me occupied during the day and sometimes allows me to forget that things have changed.  But at the end of the day, climbing into bed is a consistent moment of sadness and loneliness.  

     We used always try to go to bed early so that we would have time to simply be together.   For almost a year we had a meditation that we would listen to together to help us relax.   In the past year we often spend time snuggled next to each other watching Tik Tik.   My favorites were a guy who would roll dice to decide what sandwich to eat (with some crazy options).  This was the inspiration for Chris's birthday month last August where I got a variety of traditional meats, cheeses and bread offerings and Chris would "random for sandwich" and then get to pick from a box of undetermined treats and sides.  Another guy who cooked recipes from old cookbooks that were always interesting.   But in general it was just a mindless way to unwind and forget about our worries.  In addition to watching Tik Tok, we would talk.  About everything.  I miss those moments, I miss talking to him.    

      After wrapping up our nightly rituals, we would each roll to the opposite side of the bed.   Except for nights when the steroids from chemo kept him up, he typically would fall asleep quickly.   Chemo is exhausting.    I however would usually toss and turn, trying to get my brain to shut off.   Caregiving and working full time leaves a lot of things to worry about.   On rare occasions when I could tell he couldn't sleep, I would reach over and put my hand on the middle of his back.   I could instantly feel him relax, and he would doze off very quickly.   It was so humbling to know the power that my touch had.   As well, though we liked to sleep with distance between each other to stay cool.   If I ever  awoke in the night, I would often find both of us reaching out with either a foot or holding hands just to be connected.   A sign that even on a subconscious level, we belonged together.  

     In October he spent a couple weeks in a rehab facility trying to gain the strength to walk before returning to the cancer center for more chemo.   The bed at the rehab hospital was big enough that one night after the nurse had left, I climbed in next to him and snuggled in his arms.   It was heaven.   When the nurse came back in and didn't chastise us but instead encouraged us, it became the highlight of the evening to put away my work laptop and just enjoy being together.   After he was released from the hospital at the end of October, we spent several weeks sleeping on the couch and recliner.   A familiar place for us as we've spent many nights there over the past five years.   He was released from the hospital barely able to walk.  Walking took so much energy and he often needed my help, or the help of our amazing nephew.   Getting in and out of bed just was not possible.   But he worked so hard and improved and in the few weeks that ended up being his last, we were both so elated when we were able to return to bed.   Neither one of us had had a decent night's sleep since August, it truly was a blessing.  

     Throughout our marriage, we tried, but also weren't the most consistent at praying.   However I have the most tender moments of this when we were dating.   We visited his parents in St. George and spent the night at their house.   Before going our separate ways for the evening, I remember sitting on their couch and saying our first prayer together.   It was so wonderful to hear his voice and his thoughts in such a personal way.   What a blessing it was that in in the final weeks, it's something we were able to do more regularly.   We were so grateful for what he had survived, but also very worried about the future.   He would always ask me if I wanted to, but hearing his voice was so comforting so I typically always requested that he pray.   I loved hearing his express his desires and worries.   You would think that they would be filled with pleas to have his burden's lifted.   But not so, even despite all that he had gone through and the pain he was in, he was always so concerned for me and how difficult things were for me.    He didn't remember much of what had happened in the hospital, just bits and pieces here and there.   When I filled him in on the details, he was so sensitive to know how difficult it had been for me.  He always said that things weren't fair for me and that I deserved better.  That is just the type of man he was... my tenderhearted sweetheart, always thinking of others, especially me.  

    Last week I found out that big changes were happening at work that were going to impact me.   Until it was official, my boss said I shouldn't talk to others about it.   My first thought was that the person I wanted to tell more than anything was gone.   I could talk to him all I wanted, but he wouldn't be able to talk back or tell anyone else.   He couldn't give me advice on how not to break into tears when I introduced myself to my new boss and met the head of the company for the first time.   Instead of thinking about what this would mean for me or what questions I had, instead in my brain all I had was static... or maybe fog, your choice of what to call it.   Just nothingness.   The day of my meeting came and went.   I'm very grateful that even though I broke down into tears within moments of our meeting starting, that they both were compassionate and understanding.  Something I desperately need lots of in my life.   I'm optimistic that this will be a good change for me.   

     So here I am at the end of another month without my sweetheart, in shock that tomorrow is a new month.   It feels like just the other day and yet so long ago that I walked away from the hospital.  I've  been blessed with several people who have reached out to me this week that helped me not feel so alone.    Very grateful for the people who reached out and helped me fill my Saturday with the companionship of family and friends.   Walking in the sunshine at the park as my sweet niece would reach her hand up to hold my hand was soothing to my heart.   My sister in law tearing up as she talked about how much she felt connected to a picture that my husband had taken helped me remember that he still has the ability to touch others.  Friends who I hadn't seen since December listening patiently; encouraging me and gently reminding me that I'm valued.      It's hard to feel broken, but I'm blessed with people who are patiently encouraging me along the way.   

The quotes in today's blog come from another amazing blog I've found.   
  Thank-you Catherine Tidd  I feel such a connection to people I've never met. 

Grief is Confusing

    Grief brings with a it a whole slew of difficult and confusing emotions.   Sadness, fear, loneliness, anxiety, irritation, guilt, emptiness, regret, empathy, love...

     From the moment I was given the devastating news, a feeling of profound numbness settled over me.   That numbness there to serve as a buffer for the pain.   To allow me to move forward and do difficult things.  To sit in a tiny quiet room and make difficult phone calls, to plan and survive a funeral, to return home, to go back work...    But slowly that numbness has slowly wore off.   Not all at once, but a little bit here and there.  Enough to allow pain to slowly return as I work through all of those complicated feelings.  But with so much to process the sometimes the numbness gently returns, to allow me to time to heal.   

      One day a month or so ago I remember distinctly feeling different.  I've been praying for peace and strength and to not feel so overwhelmed with life.   But prayers aren't answered in your timeline or in the way that you anticipate.  It took me a while to recognize the  feeling.   I felt... okay.    Not normal, not great, but OK.   A small step up from whatever I was.    It felt strange and unfamiliar, and that alone felt confusing.   But I also wasn't anticipating the feelings that would accompany it.   I felt like a traitor.    I know that Chris wouldn't feel that way and neither would a loving Heavenly Father or Savior, but that feeling was distinct.  As if moving on meant I loved him less somehow.     I've read similar feelings from other widows, so it's helpful to know I'm not alone.  We'll just add it to the pile of complicated feeling to process and overcome.  That feeling of "okay" only lasted a portion of a day, and the next day the feeling of being overwhelmed was back.   

     Is there some formula for when it's okay to feel normal again?   Perhaps one week for every month or year you were together?   A year total?   Two perhaps?   No of course not.  Healing takes time and is different for everyone.   It doesn't go off what you wish were so or others expect.    Well meaning people have asked "You are doing better, right?"  To which time frame are you referring to?   This very moment, an hour ago, yesterday?    Looking back on the week it was a week with lots of highs and lows.   On Tuesday I took a day off work because I simply... couldn't.   But overall the week was tolerable.   A journey with grief is pretty much the same as our journey together with cancer, a roller coaster filled with unexpected twists and turns.      Often when you least expect it.  That's what makes a good roller coaster at an amusement park, but definitely not a fun part of the roller coaster of life.   

  

       Now about a month later I think I've had several more days of "okayness".   I don't really know how to identify what has changed.   I still feel sad and cry when I think about him.   I miss him like crazy.   I long to talk to him and tell him everything.   I still don't know what the heck to do with my life. I still struggle to leave the house or have a desire to do things.   I went and picked up groceries this week and cried all the way home.   Talking with my aunt I still teared up while describing a happy memory.   I still struggle to push my brain through the brain fog each day at work.   However I can recognize that things are a bit lighter and not quite so exhausting.   I was optimistic that the warmer spring weather would help, but I don't think that's it.   I think time is just taking away the sting, a tiny bit here and there.   

     As well, sometimes it's just a feeling but sometimes it's a physical difference.   Years ago before we were moving across the state.  The pressure of trying to make things happen on a tight budget with a constantly changing timeline were stressing both of us out.  My boss was observant and sensitive enough to notice and when our plans fell through at the last minute and the pressure was even heavier, he offered to pay to rent a trailer to help us move our final belongings.   There was such an immediate relief of pressure, that we both noticed we felt like we could physically breath better.  A emotional weight had been lifted off our shoulders and it physically manifested itself.   One night before bed, I noticed a similar feeling of breathing easier.   I took in several deep breaths before climbing under the covers and trying to sleep for the night.   The next morning the heaviness was back.

   

     With a weird week behind me, and nervous about the week ahead I was anticipating today to be a typical recharging Sunday.   I've found that having predictability and structure is comforting to me and I've come up with things to fill my Sunday that make it more bearable.   But it was not to be, today I've been a teary mess.   I had to drag myself out of bed, I cried in the shower.   I physically feel exhausted and just so... broken.   Perhaps it's because I desperately wish I could talk to him and work through the worries that are on my mind.   Did I ever say that I'm not a fan of roller coasters?  But my sweet husband, he had some very difficult days and he pushed through them, and so must I.   Each day brings me one day closer to him and I'll do my best to survive.  I can't wait to talk to him again.

Connections

       Recently at church there was a lesson about improving relationships.   Part of the discussion focused on your relationships with your spouse, family, and friends but the discussion also included your relationship with the Savior.  They talked about the importance of trust and communication and how they need to go both ways.   At one point when talking about their relationship with Christ, someone talked about how much more challenging it is to form a relationship with someone who isn't physically there.   Someone you can't talk to and communicate with in the traditional sense.   While they were referring to the Savior, it hurt immensely to know that it also applied to my husband as well.   I miss him so much!   I yearn to talk to him, to feel his arms wrapped around me in love assuring me that things are going to be OK.   

     Even after 22 years of marriage, we could never run out of things to talk about.   In 2017 when a surgery for tracheal stenosis (narrowing of his airway) landed him in the ICU on a ventilator, his desire to communicate was immediate when the sedation was lightened.   He was great at writing one handed on a clipboard he couldn't see, even while  his hands were restrained (a safety protocol to prevent an intubated patient from trying to pull out the tube in their airway).   That was just the first of our ICU stays and ended with necessary placement of  a trach.   They told him it was likely he might never speak again.   It was a such a hard realization to know that I might never hear his voice again.    The silence in the car as we drove from the hospital was tough.   As well one day on my way home from work I called him to tell him about my day, as I often had in the past.   As soon as I dialed, I realized the error of my ways, and proceeded to fill the time telling him I loved him and that I knew he couldn't talk back but that I was on my way home.   But... he overcame.  It was difficult but he taught himself to talk with the trach.   His voice was barely a whisper at first, but it was such a huge blessing.   Slowly his voice got stronger, but we still often texted, because talking was exhausting.   About a year and a half later, the trach that we were told he would have for life, was miraculously and suddenly removed.  What a miracle!   

       As well, for us, COVID was a blessing.  My job changed to working from home and we were able talk frequently throughout the day.   The stark contrast from talking and being with him 24/7  to the nothing and silence of widowhood, is unbearable most days.    I like to think that he's watching over me and is near me every chance he gets, but I also think that he's busy in whatever they do all day in heaven.   This week I was finally able to meet with a therapist for the first time.   I was able to be with my husband for nearly every single one of his doctor's appointments, hospital admissions and chemotherapy sessions.   Even if I couldn't see or know if he was there, I hoped that the rules of heaven would allow him to attend this appointment with me.  I was nervous but hopeful.   After waiting so long I needed someone I could feel comfortable talking to.   Not even 30 seconds into the conversation I was in tears when she asked why we were meeting.   With tears running down my face I managed to get out "My husband died in December."   Such painful words to say.   She gently asked more questions and I shared with her the difficulties of my life.   I shared with her that I found writing to be helpful and how  my daily journal writing has turned into my communication with my sweetheart.   That night I told him all about the visit and how the therapist said "Oh, wow!" at least a dozen times as I told her all we've been through.   I told him how she was compassionate and understanding but surely was thinking "Holy crap, this girl has been through some seriously tough stuff."      The one sided conversation with him was better than nothing and hopefully the future therapy sessions with her will help.   She had ended the conversation by saying that not only was I dealing with the difficulty of grief, but of some difficult trauma as well.

    Among other things, sleeping has been a bit of a struggle these past months.   Even though I've been getting sleep I noticed the absence of dreams in my life.   Knowing they are an important sign of REM sleep, I've wished that they would return.  Hoping that I would be able to dream about my sweetheart, longing for any way to feel connected with him.   I guess I should have been more specific in my wishing.    

     I dreamed that we were on a vacation and had been shopping We were excited to find a small inexpensive item that he wanted to give to his nephews.   They showed up in the same place we were and had baskets full of items they were excited for (although luckily not the one we had picked out).   Seeing their excitement of the items they had just gotten I wanted to save it for special occasion.   He wanted to give it to them right away.  The dream ended with him mad at me and I awoke with an extra sense of unease and frustration.   We both had had weird dreams throughout our marriage, and even though it wasn't logical, there was always a desire to make it right.  Sometimes it was his dream and sometimes it was mine.     There wasn't always time in the morning before we headed off to work and it would often bother us all day.   We were eager to talk about it when we got home and somehow set things right.   Even though it was a dream and not an event that happened, we both had the same desire to talk it out.   Had anyone been home with me the day after that dream, they would have likely noticed that I was frustrated and irritable.   But I was alone, again.   I ached to talk to him, wrap my arms around him and tell him I was sorry.   The desire to fix something that wasn't really broken in the first place, made so complicated when there was no way to fix it. 

   So as I navigate the dark and quiet path, struggling to find my way I must also be learning and fine tuning a skill.  Feeling with my heart.   

    When talking with a friend about my desire to know how to feel connected to my sweetheart, he shared these sweet and tender words...

"The way [Chris] is here is through the connection he has with others here on earth.  He prompts me, and I believe it is when you are having a hard time and need that little extra acknowledgement that he is with you.  It can be felt through others directed at you. In those moments, listen to the still small voice.  Or the peace you feel when those reach out to you.  It is him."

    The thick the thick fog of grief makes so many things difficult, that it's no wonder why I struggle to feel connected.   He always fought so hard to be with me here on earth that I like to think that he is doing anything he can to show me his love from heaven.   This explanation that he would reach out to others who could reach out to me in a familiar, tangible way such as a text, e-mail, note or phone call made so much sense.   As well it's such a blessing to know that others are thinking of him or feeling connected to him, as I think of him constantly.       

     Over the past few months as I think of my sweetheart, I often think in my mind or even whisper "I miss you!"   But slowly I've realize that I need more.   

        We would tell each other numerous times throughout the day.  "I love you!'   So I began thinking or saying "I miss you!   I love you!"   

     However I realized that I need even more than those six words.   Death is not... and cannot be the end.   So now I in addition to "I miss you!   I love you!  I often think or whisper "I'll see you again!" or "Can't Wait to See You" or just "One day..."  A  way to acknowledge the loss and sadness, a reminder that love is eternal and a promise to think of the future.  Can you imagine the smile on both of our faces and the pure joy we will feel when that day comes?

 

He Wept

 

   I came across this quote recently and placed it in a place where I would see it often.   When Chris was diagnosed with myeloma I remember crying fairly frequently.   Not usually while at the hospital, but in the quiet moments of the car when I was alone driving to or from work, or also in the shower.   Partially I think the tears were from exhaustion, 2017 was a long, tough year.   But they also were for the realization that our lives were forever changed.   I wasn't intentionally hiding it from Chris, and can only imagine that he often cried frequently as well.   However in the years that followed, tears were much less common.  Even in what ended up being the last few months of his life I cried, but not as often as one might think.   However, that all changed the day he died.   Tears have been plentiful, frequent and often unexpected. Usually they are just simple tears, but often they are deeper than that and I've often found myself weeping or sobbing.    He hated to see me cry and would always be so quick to comfort me.   I'm sure when he looks down on me and see's me crying, its agonizing for him to not be able to be here to comfort me or wipe them away.   Perhaps sometimes he is able, and I just haven't been able to figure out how to sense that.   I know he wouldn't want me to be so sad, and frankly I don't want to be.   But his separation has left such a gaping hole in my life and heart.   It's painful, it hurts and I'm sad.   And it's OK.   

     The quote serves as a reminder that, crying is a big part of grieving.  A necessary part of healing.     Being separated from those you love is devastatingly painful and incredibly sad.  I don't think anyone can ever be ready.  When that separation comes earlier in your life than you could have ever imagined, in what should have been the prime days of your life, it's even more profound of a loss.   The years I must now spend without him stretch out ahead of me feel terrifying and lonely.   So it's very comforting to know that even the Savior who understands more than I can possibly comprehend, who knows the bigger plan, who has the ability raise the dead.   Even he wept.      

 

    So while I've shed countless tears nearly daily for the past four months, I've also been very grateful.   Grateful for the moments of peace, grateful for the sweet friends and family who reach out to me in my times of sadness.   Grateful that this is not the end.   

    

      While sometimes I struggle in my confidence and understanding of what comes next, I do believe that I will be reunited with my sweetheart again.   That we really were sealed together for eternity.   I do believe that he is free of pain.   I anxiously for the day when we will be reunited.   

     This year Easter is more profound than in years past.   The importance of a Savior who came to this world and suffered beyond anything we can comprehend  so that we can all experience a joy beyond measure is such a gift.  

    I was not there in the garden all those years ago.   I can't imagine the guilt the apostles likely felt when the learned of his suffering and knew that he had asked them to be with them.   I was not his mother standing at the foot of the cross watching him die.   But I can imagine their pain.   I believe that I was lovingly separated from my husband in his final moments and spared the agony of watching him die.  I did watch my sweet husband suffer greatly, for years.   The pain that my husband endured because of his love for me was immense, and truly humbling.   In those times I often would find comfort that even though I couldn't imagine what he was feeling, that there was one who could.  Now in the agony of our separation  I seek peace from one who understands.   

 

    

    

Firsts & Lasts

     One thing that I often hear from people is that the first year is hard because you have all of your "firsts".   The first holiday's and special days without them.   I was still very numb when I had my first Christmas and New Years, and frankly my first Valentines Day kicked my butt (substitute for a different word, my brain still does).   They are not wrong about the first's...they are tough but I think for some there's something tougher.   The anniversary's of the lasts.   You might think they are the same, but these are different.   The first's are occur on what were once happy days and possibly one day will be again.  Holidays and special occasions you celebrated in the previous years.    Lasts can occur on these days, but they can also be just random days.      

      I already know that is first birthday is also going be more difficult, not simply because it's the first birthday of his where we will be apart, but because of the memories of his last birthday.   It isn't a happy memory to celebrate as that's when things started to fall apart at astonishing speed.   Memories of him so weak that in the early hours of the morning that he fell out of bed.  After hours of us both trying to get him up we called in reinforcements and thus started the day with a friend and then EMT's trying to simply get him back up.   He spent the day in his recliner, had a visit with a niece and grand-nephew and tried to gain strength.     Only to have another traumatizing experience the next day when I had to call 911 for help in getting him up off the ground when he wasn't strong enough to get into the car.   Worried that he was going to break something as he was he crumpled to the ground in the garage.   He was transported by ambulance and then life flight arriving in the ICU to battle sepsis.   To say that was terrifying is an understatement!    The statistics for sepsis will keep you awake at night.   The survival rate in a healthy individual is terrifying, but in a cancer patient... But he miraculously and courageously fought and made it.  

   However three weeks later, our last anniversary similarly gives me great anxiety.   We were on the road to recovery from sepsis when he ended up back in the ICU.   Things were insanely complicated because his myeloma decided to become ragingly aggressive.  Kidney failure needing dialysis, and encephalopathy caused by liver failure.   It was yet another a miracle that I didn't lose him again then.  The day after our anniversary I made the decision with his doctor to add very aggressive chemo into the mix.  Those days were DARK and so hard.    But yet again, he fought and he fought hard.  What a blessing it was when the next day he opened his eyes and said "Hello". I quickly responded with three of our favorite words "I love you." He looked at me with that sparkle in his eye and lovingly questioned  "oh?" to which I replied "of course".  Tears slid down his cheeks and my heart melted into a puddle.   I'm so very grateful that we were blessed with more time together, grateful for the tender mercies that brought some light into that dark and difficult time.   But still incredibly sad that our time together on earth ended much before we were ready.   

      These "lasts" are just a few that I know are ahead.   They are now also entwined with the difficulty of first's without him.   Two days that for me were once wonderful days of celebration, but now are painful reminders of the difficult  journey.   I'm so very grateful for the 22 wonderful years we had, and for the knowledge in an eternal marriage and loving Heavenly Father and Savior.   Without that and them I know that I would be in a much darker place.   I do have hope, I anxiously await our reunion in heaven.  But this moving forward without him, with this gaping hole in my life and heart, it is hard.   

     Not just a once a year occurrence, but the day of the month on which he passed away is engrained in my mind, and likely will be for the foreseeable future.  I've seen others who have a countdown of the number of days since they lost their loved one.   I've specifically chosen not to do this.   Assigning a number to how many days I've been without him would only make things more difficult, but yet somehow it's impossible not to acknowledge the months.   It was a day in my life that changed everything.   The past three months have shown me that this is an anniversary that I need to be prepared for.   Yet here again, it's the beginning of a new month and the third is tomorrow.   At least this one didn't catch me by surprise like last month did, but I'm still not sure how to make them easier.   I've come across several ways of describing grief.   For example:   “Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, sometimes it is overwhelming.”   These first and lasts are days where the tide of grief is powerful, I would say that there are stronger than normal rip tides that threaten to suck you out to sea.   I'm not quite sure what would make these days less difficult.   But I'm sure I need to come up with something.   It's likely a day where I may need to call in reinforcements.   So I need to do my best to continue to foster relationships with friends and family.   So that they can be my lifeguards when the tide of grief comes rushing in.   

    I've come across several poems by Donna Ashworth, she's very talented and expresses herself so eloquently and concisely and often cause me to reflect.     She has several books, but her one on loss is simply beautiful.   This poem seems like instructions for how to survive those difficult days.   

     But for my widow fogged, exhausted brain I'm still at a loss and often all I get is static.   How do I love myself how Chris loved me?  

     Thinking about his love isn't hard, he always loved me... for me.   He not only accepted, but deeply loved me as I was and always told me how amazing he thought I was.   So tender, so concerned, so compassionate.   

     So love myself as he loved me seems to be accept and love myself as and where I am.  But how to love myself harder?   Not sure what that looks like.   And there's still the challenge of how to what to actually do...   

If you are interested in her books, click the image to find it on Amazon.