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.                      

 

The Thick, Heavy Fog

   In the Widowhood effect blog I shared recently the author said:  

"No one warned me about the cognitive impairment that comes with grief. Tears, heartache, depression – these are expected, but the sustained diminishment of my thinking skills astonishes me.... I find myself unable to access the most rudimentary information. I no longer instinctively know the year with certainty."

    This too is something I had not anticipated, and have struggled with.   From what I've been able to learn, it's a coping mechanism where the brain is trying to protect from further trauma and can last from months to even years.  While its great that my body is trying to protect me, it sure does make things difficult.   Considering the endless challenging emotions, situations and tasks to overcome, needing to complete them while in a "fog" makes them even more difficult.        

     

     I've really bombarded and expected a lot of my brain for the past ten years. Trying to understand all of the challenging medical terminology, working a full time job, keeping everything for a household running.   Heck just keeping track and making sure he didn't run out of a medication was a no small challenge.   I'm so very grateful for all it was able to do.   But I feel as if it reached it's limit and has gone on strike.   Returning to work a month after he passed was insanely hard and extremely overwhelming.   My brain was not ready.  It has now been about three months and slowly, little bit by little bit things have improved.   I often still struggle to get through the day and through the week, but I'm accomplishing things at work, often some very deep thinking problems.      

     

     However, trying to make sure to be mindful of me, I've recognized that I need to do my best to give my brain a break.    While I some evenings or weekends I've felt like I want to "do something", my brain usually protests and says not tonight.  It refuses to even think of what "doing something" could be and I've tried to recognize and respect that my brain has reached it's limit.   So usually after making something to eat, I find something to watch on TV.  Usually not paying much attention and being super annoyed by commercials.   Then I write in my journal, telling my sweetheart about my day.   Then off to bed, tossing and turning quite a bit before finally falling asleep.   

     I've doing better at surviving the week at work, only to get to the dreaded weekend.   With way too much time to fill.   I dread the weekends, and it bothers me immensely.  This is not normal, weekends  are awesome.    Ugg!  As well, the hobbies and past times I once enjoyed, such as video games were typically always shared with my sweetheart.   So while I have hope that one day they will be fun again, right now they are a painful reminder that he's not here.   

     In order to survive a life with cancer I had really stepped up my efforts to make Sunday truly a day of rest.   Most of the time this meant sleeping in and simply being with my sweetheart.   I avoided doing laundry or cleaning, and often would take a nap.   On rare occasions, I would enjoy one of my favorite pastimes reading a good book.    Now I have plenty of time to read, but lack the brain power or desire to do so.   The young widow in the blog described it well.                

     "I couldn't read novels for many months after Spencer died. My interest in the fantasies of someone else's imagination plummeted to nil. This, to me, indicated that I was truly broken. I felt some comfort when I read an interview with the poet Edward Hirsch. Hirsch, who lost his son in 2011 to a drug-related accident, said he couldn't read in the aftermath of his son's death. "To be left with myself and being unable to read meant I was unrecognizable to myself," he said."

     The way they both describe it... "I was truly broken" and "unrecognizable to myself" really resonates with me.  I've worked in a bookstore for more than half of my life and had a love of reading instilled in me as a young child.   It was a rare treasure to read a sweet romance and be reminded of my thoughtful husband and our amazing story.   I believe that one day my ability and love of reading will return, but for now the lack of brain power or desire to do something that I once treasured feels like yet another profound loss.   

     As I sit here and write this however, I'm struck with a profound sense of gratitude.   I may not have the brain power to read, but I at least have been blessed with the strength to write.   It seems counterintuitive and that writing would also take brain power that I don't have, but somehow it doesn't.  While some days I may lack the emotional fortitude to write, the days when I do I often feel better.    It's a great opportunity for me pause, reflect, acknowledge and express the changes that have happened and are happening.   Tears typically stream down my cheeks, but they at least feel productive instead of just sad.  I'm grateful that along the difficult journey of the past years that I've gained a different hobby without even planning on it.   I've been given the gift of writing to help me through my pain.

Grief is Illogical

 
    Before Chris passed away I did try to learn a little about what to expect for me.  Hoping so desperately that it was something still many years in the future.   However it was hard because often the stories shared by others were in the myeloma support groups.   Those who did share focused a lot of the right before and right after and then usually they either left the group or didn't post as much.   Now I've found myself in the same position, not wanting to burden people who already have so much on their plate, not sure what to share that would be helpful as each of our journey's is different.   For me it was the details of the final moments that were too much.   The act of dying with myeloma that I read (and I'm sure others cancers and other diseases) were often not pleasant and rather gruesome.  I'll spare you the details, they still haunt me.   

      I feel blessed as well as conflicted, that I wasn't there for his final moments.   I vividly recall looking him in the eyes shortly before they wheeled him away, reassuring him that things were going to be OK and that I loved him.   I'm fairly certain that I also reached up and kissed him on the cheek and held his hand as long as I could.   Trying to push back the worry in my mind about what would happen when he returned from being intubated.   We'd been there before five years before and it was tough.   The rest is a bit of a haze, and I've blocked out most of what they said happened in the short time we were apart to when he was gone.   Grateful that it was sudden and quick, and that he didn't suffer for a long time, yet wishing I could have been there to comfort him.   But yet not, being there with him in his final moments would have been even more traumatizing for me.   I much prefer the tender moment we shared.   

     A manila envelope from decedent affairs sits on my desk, filled with more details than I probably ever would want of his final moments.   His autopsy.   I don't know what to do with it.   I'm afraid to put it someplace "safe".  Much like chemo brain, widow brain is a struggle.   It can cause you to lose things, and I worry I won't remember where that safe place is.   Knowing what went wrong seemed more important to me in the hours after he died, but now I don't know that I ever want to read it.   Just thinking about what they had to do to get those answers breaks my heart.   Eventually my plan is to meet with his doctor one last time and ask him if there are details he thinks I should know, but visiting the hospital has just felt too much.   So for now it sits just out of my normal line of sight, but in an obvious place.    

     I remember however in those online support groups, stories from other caregivers and their journey with grief.   They would talk about how sometimes there were things that they just didn't want touched and left just as they were.  I remember for one it was a glass in the bathroom because it was the last thing they touched before they collapsed, another it was their mother's purse in the car, and yet another it was their slippers or dirty clothes.   Now here I am, finding that I have the very same illogical thoughts.  

      The towel he last used still hanging on the the hook of the shower, a reminder of the sheer and utter bliss of being strong enough to take a shower for the first time in months just a couple weeks after w e had finally returned home.   In a shower that was built so lovingly by his brother.   A shower that allowed him to feel safe despite his neuropathy pained feet, with rails to help give him strength and confidence when he was still so weak.   His lift recliner still sits in the same position that he left it in.   That chair was a gift from my late grandfather when my sweetheart was diagnosed with myeloma.   It was such a treasure to him and helped ease his burden.  It also was a helpful tool that helped him build up the strength to walk again.   Perhaps one day I'll curl up in a blanket with it one day, but it will always be a sacred place for me because it was such a special place for him.   

     But those to me are at least somewhat logical to me, and there are other many other less logical things.  When I saw this quote, I felt so connected this unknown person and their journey with grief.  My left toe nail has a small chipped piece remaining.  When I see it, I think of going with my aunts a couple weeks before his birthday to get them done.   It was a big deal and not something we decided to do lightly.   I also think of looking at my pretty pink toes while taking a shower at the hospital.  Then they were a reminder of an easier time and of family who loves me.   Now I look at that small chip and think of how much I've been through since.   All of the difficult days that I've somehow survived.   It's been over seven months since they were painted.   That little piece of nail polish is hanging on, and somehow so am I.   

         

  

      

Widowhood Effect

        Three months ago I joined an exclusive club. It's a club where you instantly feel a connection to the countless complete strangers who are also members.    Despite the exclusivity of the club, it's a club no one wants to be in.     You see it comes with a very costly membership fee.      The love of your life, your sweetheart, your spouse.  It's the widow's club, and even more exclusively, the young widow's club.  

      I found this article on another widow's Facebook page this week and have read through it a couple times.   It's from yet another fellow member of the club.  Her words are profound.   Her story heartbreaking.   I'll likely share more of them in future blogs because they really resonate with me.   I feel I share a connection with these people I've never met, because we know a similar pain.  My heart aches for them.   

The Widowhood Effect

     Here are a few quotes that have really stuck out to me.

"I think it's about withstanding a blow that fundamentally changes your architecture. Some days, you are wobbly; other days, less so."

"My brain has not yet caught up with the reality of my life."

"No one warned me about the cognitive impairment that comes with grief. Tears, heartache, depression – these are expected, but the sustained diminishment of my thinking skills astonishes me."

 "The stress of losing a spouse permeates every part of one's body, affecting each cell and manifesting tremendous physiological changes. "  

Time

     I'm so very grateful that I was so fortunate in life to be married to such an wonderful man.   As I've been reading through our journals , I realized that even before the really difficult health challenges came we faced lots of difficulties from outside forces.   These challenges and experiences refined us brought us closer and closer together.   So when cancer became a part of our life, neither one of us was strong enough to survive it alone but that the two of us together were able to.  I've thought over and over about how we truly were "one".   In trying to think about what that meant I came across this quote that defines it pretty well:

"Emotionally, spiritually, intellectually, financially, and in every other way, the couple is to become one. Even as one part of the body cares for the other body parts (the stomach digests food for the body, the brain directs the body for the good of the whole, the hands work for the sake of the body, etc.), so each partner in the marriage is to care for the other."

     I'm so grateful to be so blessed to have been so connected with someone so deeply.   But where does that leave me now.   When two become one... and one becomes an angel, the other becomes...    At this point I don't feel as if I could describe myself still as one, somedays I don't even think I could say a half.   Perhaps a quarter?  No wonder I now struggle to wake up and face the reality each day that he's gone.   Why basic things like eating, sleeping and working are a struggle.        It's so hard for life to be moving forward... without him.   

     I came across this quote that I really liked and felt it did a great job of explaining why time feels so strange.  The past three months, and even the years before that have been both fast and slow, long and short.  I read once that the concept of time is made up by man to make sense of the world around us.    I wonder what time feels like in heaven.        Many years ago on our first official date we stopped at a park.  He told me that one day he was going to marry me and I remember being stunned and to tell him to slow down.   He did and he was very patient.   At one point when I was considering it more, but not quite ready I remember saying "It is such a big decision, eternity is a LONG time."   I loved him, but it was such a big decision.   But luckily I came around and once we were married I quickly realized the error of my ways.   Even if we had been fortunate to live to old age, to be with him for just life on earth would not have been enough.

 

     I feel fortunate for my knowledge that we will be together again.  It is giving me strength to move forward.   My belief that he is here with me every chance he can get, gives me peace.  He fought so hard to stay with me in this life, that I'm certain he's fighting to be with me every chance he gets while in heaven.   I haven't yet figured out what that feels like, but perhaps one day I'll be more attune.  It's not a skill I needed before.  If I wanted to be with him, I simply had to move to the room where I knew he was.   For now sometimes that's simply means turning to where he normally would be, closing my eyes and whispering "I love you" or "I miss you".   So while I desperately wish that God's timing wasn't that I would be a widow at the age of 42, I'm grateful that it did mean that we were able to meet while I was young and we had 22 years of marriage.   It is my faith that gives me strength and peace, so I must trust in his timing.