Mid Life

     When I was younger I remembered when my parent's and other family members celebrated "Over the Hill" birthdays.   Like any child I thought they were "so old."   Being forty seemed an eternity away, but well... here I am, already a few years in.   People always joke about a mid life crisis as buying an expensive car or somehow trying to re-capture their youth.   But then there is the deeper psychological side of inner turmoil about your identity, life choices, and mortality.   Mortality.   That's a hard one.   I remember the year my Dad turned 40 was a tough year for him.   His dad died passed away early in that year, but he also had several friends or co-workers pass away throughout the year.  I was too young at the time to really understand the difficulty that all of that meant.   

      Talking about getting older with my friend when she visited for my birthday I shared with her a statistic I had come across.   The most miserable age: 47.2 years old.  She lightheartedly said that "Oh, you peaked early".  I remember thinking that I seriously hoped that this was my rock bottom as well as "oh goodie, here I am bringing down averages again."  

    Speaking of averages, here are a few more:

• The average age that a woman becomes a widow is 59.
• One-third of women become widows before they're 60, and half before they are 65.

    Dreading living a long time without my sweetheart I was curious how many years on average I might live.   It varies depending on where you live but here in the US it is: 

• Male: 73.5 years   
• Female: 79.3 years

     My sweetheart passed away at the age of 48, so his mid life was 24.   We met when he was 25, so I guess you could say that meeting me was his mid life event.   I don't think he would call a crisis, although falling in love with me and waiting for me to come around was likely a challenge.   He would say it was a blessing and the best thing to ever happen to him.   I'm so grateful that he was patient in waiting until I was ready.   

     For my 40th birthday, we were firmly entrenched in a battle with cancer and trying to navigate a pandemic.   I spent it sitting in our vehicle outside the infusion center, wishing desperately that I could be inside with him for chemo.   Memorable for sure, and something I would do again in a heartbeat, because it would mean that he was still alive.   Cancer was so difficult and exhausting, but navigating grief... without him... most days feel impossible.   

     Hanging just inside that infusion room was a code chart for emergencies in the hospital.   He would often joke that he was a code yellow which at our hospital was  "A Disaster".   I would always tell him it wasn't true.   But if you apply this quite from Tom Hanks he was right... losing him was more than a mid-life crisis, a mid life disaster seems more fitting.   I'm grateful haven't lost everything,  but I lost the person who mattered the most and that changed everything.   

     I'd much rather that my mid life crisis was a fancy car.   But not so.  Instead instead I got a pile full of complicated emotions, endless worries about the future and an enormous task of figuring out and defining who I am.   Oh goody!  Growing older is lame.

Baggage

     Many years ago we wanted a weekend getaway and stayed somewhere at a local hotel.   We happened to catch a TV show called Baggage which we talked about it on occasion ever since.  It was kind of a cross between Deal or No Deal and well, most dating games.   It was hosted by Jerry Springer and apparently ran for 3 seasons.   Three potential dates would arrive, each with three different suitcases.   Each round they would open one and inside reveal their "baggage".   Each round someone would be eliminated and then in the next round a larger bag would be opened showing even more shocking insights.   After the third round the potential dater selected the person they would want to go on a date with.   However before that would happen, they had to open a case of their own.   They then must decide if they want to go on a date together.   

     Here's a few of the things that were in people's bags... (the cleaner ones)

• I poisoned my boyfriend
• I eat whole sticks of butter
• I cry every day
• I've never been wrong
• I have 15 living cats and 30 dead ones in my home
• I steal flowers from gravesites
• I've been engaged 10 times
• I am a cult leader
• I have a fascination with roadkill
• I practice witchcraft

    The more I think about it, it's pretty much like dating as an middle age or older adult, just more up front and blunt about it.   Because by the time you've reached middle age, you very likely have developed some weird habits, stories or quirks.   Or in my case, been through some seriously difficult things and struggle just to make it through each day.   The phrase "I am Newly Widowed" carries with it a lot of other implied baggage, likely way to numerous to count and often really random.   Such as "I regularly ask people about their funeral plans" or "I cry whenever I get in my car" or "I struggle making simple decisions" or "I'm working on writing my own obituary" or "I hide special boxes of cereal in my closet" or "I don't like quiet" or ... well... too many to count.   

    Recently at work they have been doing some shuffling.   A LOT of shuffling.   In the past 3 years I've had about seven different managers.   Which has been challenging, especially with everything going on with my personal life.   Difficult to know who to ask what questions and just who is responsible for what.  However with the most recent change, I've been grateful to join a team of people who are working on the same things as me.  People who I am hoping to learn from as well as also helpfully share some of my knowledge.   Recently, my new boss set up a meeting to allow us to get to know each other.   We started the meeting by introducing ourselves.    I kept it to just my work experience and enjoyed getting to know each other a bit better.   Then near the end of the meeting one of my new co-workers asked "What do you do for fun?"   My brain inwardly cursed and then went blank, until I finally replied, struggling unsuccessfully not to cry...  "Well, I'm a fairly recent widow and honestly am trying to figure that out.   The things that I used to do for fun aren't fun anymore and I haven't figured out what is."   I'm sure that's not the answer she was expecting.   I tried to lighten the mood by saying I like to sleep, or try to sleep for fun as well, to which everyone agreed that they also liked to sleep.    It sure did end the meeting on a bit of a somber note, but at least it's out in the open and they can choose to talk about it or not.     

    So while it's not displayed in fancy cases like in the game show, I've thought a lot about my baggage.   I carry it around with me everywhere I go, and struggle with what to do with it.   But I've hired a professional "baggage handler" who is helping me unpack, evaluate and process my things.   Hopefully compressing them in the process.  It's not a simple process, but I'm working through it.   I don't know for how long one is considered a "new" widow.   It likely isn't a defined passage of time, but instead when you finally reach a better place mentally.   It will take time, but I'll get there.   

Sedatephobia

     All this week I've been struggling and debating.  I had been invited to spend time with family up at my Grandpa's cabin.   It's a beautiful place and I have many happy memories there, but like many other things that wouldn't normal be hard, it was hard to decide to go.   I knew it would be difficult to be away from the comfort and safety familiar of home; even though I would be around people who loved me.   I had worked myself up to deciding that I would be up to staying for one night.  So when the aunt who was going to be my ride said she was going for two nights, I almost chickened out.   But I put on "my big girl panties" and said I would go.   I knew that if after one I really wasn't up for it, I could plead with her to take me back home.  But luckily it wasn't needed.   I was able to spend two nights.   

     Not sure how I would fill the time, since I wouldn't have internet or TV, I packed a bag filled with "what-ifs".  What if I feel like working on a diamond painting, what if I feel like reading a book, what if I feel like... I tried to prepare as best I could.  I didn't end up needing them and instead helped with other projects and also was invited to come along for a evening of kayaking that ended at sunset. 

     My biggest struggle was not something new, but something I was aware of.   Many years ago I encouraged my sweet husband to take a trip to visit family.   It was the first time in over a decade of marriage that I had ever been home alone.  We had previously only spent a handful of evenings apart and all of them was when I had been away on quick business trips.   I quickly learned that I was not a fan of being home alone, and especially not a fan of silence.   While he was gone, I always had the TV or music of some kind on.  Neither one of us tolerated being apart and he convinced his friend to come home earlier than planned.   While I don't know if I'd go as far as to call it a phobia, the fear of silence is called "sedatephobia".   It's something that has been a extra challenging since he passed away.  Day and night, I try to have something playing to fill the silence.   At the cabin, there was occasional quiet, but there wasn't a lot of silence during the day.   However nights were more challenging.   I had tried to be prepared, and I had a few things that helped, but I think next time I would do or bring more to help me sleep.   

    But, end result... I did a thing that most would consider easy, but was hard for me.  I did find myself smiling and laughing on occasion, which is another random thing that shouldn't be hard, but is.  However, I'm tired and looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight.  

Not a Jedi?

   Whew... the past few weeks have been, well... lame.    I thought that if I could get through the 6 month mark that for a little while the waves of grief would be calmer.  But instead I feel like I suffered an emotional hangover and was taken out to sea to be tossed around a bit.   Losing any progress I may have made.   I've found myself incredibly grumpy over the stupidest things, especially emotional, and most days after finishing up work I question..."Is it too early to go to bed?"  Not that going to bed solves things.   Going to sleep and waking up are still some of the most difficult times of the day.  Those feelings of sadness, anxiety and nausea while familiar, are not comforting.   But finally this week somehow I've escaped the undertow and started the swim back to shore.  

    Meeting with my therapist this week was helpful, although when she said "You are still so early in grief" it was hard to hear and accompanied by a sinking feeling.   There is still so much to go.   :(   As a person who has always been a "solver" and strives to make things better, I asked for direction about what I should do.   I've often heard the term "grief work" and hoped she would have some profound advice.  She instead said there's not a list of tasks to complete, instead "grief takes time."   I guess I need to just keep hanging in there.   While just working and surviving each day might not sound much like a triumph, it is and I need to be patient with myself.    Reading quotes from Star Wars today has helped me feel connected to my sweetheart and if he were alive would for sure have lead to some fun and interesting conversations.  Oh how he loved so many things, especially Star Wars.   I think he would agree that with all of the difficulties we've overcome, that passing the test to be called a human and not a Jedi... that's not cool.   Being a Jedi with a light saber would be so much better.   

   

For a fun article about Grieving in the Star Wars Universe

So Tired

    This week I struggled to get through the week of work.   I arranged to take a day off in the middle of the week which was helpful.   However, I didn't sleep all well all week and I've been grumpy and tired.   The difficulty of awaking to a pounding heart and overwhelming loneliness, which had seemed to lessen for a time, decided to make a return appearance.   I felt like I was crawling across the finish line come Friday.   

     In what ended up being the last weeks of his life, there was this difficult balance between talking about what had happened during those two difficult months in the hospital and trying to move forward.   He remembered bits and pieces, and I remembered everything.   He had come so close to dying... twice, that I wanted to get a bit further back from that edge before talking about it more.    We did talk briefly about his desires for his funeral while in the rehab hospital, but tried to avoid the subject of just how close it had come.  Despite all that he had gone through, I remember him saying on multiple occasions how this wasn't fair for me and that I deserved better.   I disagreed each time with him and told him how much I loved him and would do anything for him.   He was the one who had been stuck in a bed for nearly two months with all sorts of tubes, if it wasn't fair for anyone, it clearly was not fair for him.   Yes, life was difficult and had been for nearly a decade, but it was possible because we were doing it together.   So very grateful that we were still together, but with a sinking feeling that that the Christmas season could be his last,  I wanted to make it as memorable as possible.   Little did I know that despite feeling like we were out of the woods for a short bit of time, he wouldn't even make it to Christmas.  It was memorable for sure, but not in a good way.    Life without him... now that isn't fair.   

      This weekend I had a good friend come visit.   I'm still in a survival mode of taking things day by day but  I told her my concerns about the coming months.   I've been through some difficult days, but I think the worst are still yet to come.   Because just like cancer, the difficult days are intertwined with what were once happy days.   His birthday now intertwined with memories of 911 calls, air ambulance rides and ICU.   Our anniversary now mixed with difficult conversations with Dr Sborov, impossible decisions and life saving chemo.   Not to mention Christmas.   It used to be our favorite time of year.   We loved it so much we would usually decorate on Halloween and leave up until Valentines.   It now looms in the distance like a freight train, threatening to run me over.   An entire season of difficult days.    Christmas on a Monday has been my favorite because it puts Christmas Eve on a Sunday and expands the holiday festivities into two days.   Wouldn't you know, this year Christmas is on a Monday.   Uggg.... We tried to think of what I could do or where I could go, but came up empty.   

      I'm normally am an optimist and a problem solver, but lately I find myself grumpy and irritable.   Stupid things bother me and then it bothers me that stupid things bother me.   I look at my life and myself and I don't recognize me.   

     I'm tired.  The numbness has worn off and without that buffer it's more painful and exhausting.   This quote I found is correct, grief is so long and complicated, and yet there is so much more to go.    

      I've always tried to end on a positive note in my blogs and I thought about just skipping this week.   But one day hopefully I'll look back and see how far I've come.    Maybe one day I'll have figured out how to rest my mind and let it heal.   But for this weekend it was a Saturday AND Sunday nap.   

     

     

      

Dew or Dew Not

    This week turned out to be tougher than I expected.   I thought if I survived the difficult weekend then I shouldn't have any super difficult days for a while.   I was wrong.   On Wednesday this week I woke up tearful for no reason and struggled unsuccessfully to hold it together.   I was grateful that I didn't have any work meetings to attend.   I did however have a session with my therapist.   We were going to get started with EMDR (a type of therapy to help heal from trauma and emotional distress), but instead just laid the groundwork so that we can get started next session.   Even without, I came out feeling completely exhausted.   Crying as I was trying to complete my work day, my sweet roommate could hear me and came in to check on me and give me a hug.   As well, two sweet friends reached out that day to check on me and were compassionate and understanding of my difficult day.   I'm grateful for their continued friendship.   Acknowledging that while they have sorrow when they think about him, it is in moments here and there, and that I face sorrow "every day and every moment."   I definitely missed my sweetheart this week, oh how I wish he were still here.   

    I did somehow survive the week.   I was completely worn out on Friday but somehow managed to have a somewhat productive Saturday.   But today I'm still tired and not really up for anything super reflective.   So instead I'm writing about about soda pop.  One of the things I did this weekend was to list the tall stash of Diet Dr Pepper that has been sitting in my garage since I stocked up on it just before he passed away.   It became his beverage of choice when all of the steroids and other meds caused issues with his blood sugar.   It was a way to help wash down all of those nasty tasting pills, of which there we many.   Someone picked up the soda and I spent time working in the yard.  When it started to rain I laid down in bed and listened to the storm, something we loved doing together whenever we could.   We always said that when it rained it was because he was being good.   As anyone living here will attest he's been being good a lot lately.   The day ended with a surprise visit from my parents and we were able to sit out in the backyard and enjoy the cool summer evening.   

      One thing I love about us as a couple is how we always loved to do and find things to make the other smile. One such way was that he loved soda.  When we were dating I asked him what his favorite soda was.   Then always made sure to pack Cherry Pepsi whenever we would go on a picnic.   For most of our early marriage he loved Mountain Dew.   So when they started introducing limited edition flavors (as early as 2001 with Code Red and then 2003 with Live Wire I believe) whenever ever I would shop at the store and see a new flavor I was always excited to get it for him.   However my plans were completely derailed in 2009 when he broke the news that he was giving it up.  Cold turkey.   He knew it wasn't good for his teeth.  I knew it was a difficult decision for him, so I supported him.   But I wasn't prepared for how difficult it would be for me.   Still to this day, even with him gone, I still see a new flavor and immediately think "Oooh!   I need to get that for... oh wait... never mind".   

    Later in our marriage I was able to find a unique soda which he loved.   It was a bit more expensive and harder to find so I always saved it for special occasions.   It was discontinued years ago and so the last four pack of cans that I found were something to be treasured.  I can't recall the event that we were celebrating or if it was just a day where he was feeling extra down or sick.   It actually could have been both as it was probably celebrating something with chemo and the ginger would have been calming to his stomach.  When I pulled out of the fridge an ice cold 1893 Ginger Cola and placed it before him, the look on his eyes and the smile on his face were of sheer joy.   He would often be frustrated at my desire to save things for special occasions, but being able to surprise him with a rare treat was something I loved to do to bring a smile to his face.   Goodness it was a tough balance, in hindsight I wish I could have spoiled him with every little thing his heart desired during those difficult days.   But I did the best I could.   The one remaining can was safely tucked away for another such day.   But I waited too long and the opportunity passed.   Now it sits on my desk as a reminder to try to find joy in simple things, but to not always be saving everything for a special occasion.   

     So while it may be something as simple as soda, it actually does mean something much more.  With each passing day, I'm afraid of forgetting the million little things about him and our life together.  Slowly little bit by little bit, my life is changing from one that we shared together, to one with me alone without him.   I'm grateful for the people who check in on me and are doing their best to help me fill the void, but dang the void he left behind is immense.  And no... that isn't a fat joke (inside joke for those who knew him).    He had a huge heart, full of love.   

    I guess if my brain still struggles to give up mountain dew, then I've got time to document my memories so that when they do start to slip away, I've got a place to go to refresh them.   

Amputated

      In both the widowhood blog by Catherine Tidd and a quote from C.S. Lewis I came across a very powerful metaphor that I've been pondering.

“The death of a beloved is an amputation.”

C.S. Lewis 

     While thankfully, we did not have to deal with amputation, all that we went through gave me empathy and understanding of the difficulty and pain that must entail.   The pain, the healing and the adjustment physically, mentally and emotionally that is required of both the patient (and their caregiver) must be described as immense and challenging.   A struggle that takes years to adjust to and not something that you can ever get over.   Prosthetics have come a long way, but they are require a lot of care and maintenance.   Simply put... a part of you is missing.  

     I found it very interesting that Catherine had it interwoven into her blog about loneliness.  I completely agree with her when she says  "I think that lonely is not a strong enough word."   Explaining that she can be in a room of people and still feel alone.   In the video from last week about emotional wellness he said.  "Loneliness won't just make you miserable, it will kill you."    Yet in grief, it's only one of the many things you feel.   

    I hear often from others of someone they knew who was a widow and how it took them a year to "feel normal" again.   But I've heard and read from numerous other widows that the second year is harder.   I can't help but wonder if it's because after a year many people feel you should have "moved on" and so the pain and loneliness are forced unground.   They've found the people in their life who they can turn to and but on a "normal" face for all the rest.   I already feel that pressure from well meaning people.  It's not helpful.   It does however make me even more grateful for the people in my life who lovingly inquire and patiently sit with me.  A recent article I read with advice for a young widow the first advice they gave was "Learn to love the loneliness."  Yikes!   I may learn to tolerate it, but loving it that's entirely different.   I think they may have chosen the wrong word.   Loneliness and solitude are two different things...

    Yesterday I survived a difficult milestone.   Six months since my sweetheart...  Six long, difficult, teary, lonely, sad and hard months.   When talking with my therapist earlier in the week I mentioned the anniversary.   She immediately said "Please tell me you won't be alone."   I had come up with some things that I thought could help me make it through the day.   Having someone to talk with and help distract me was something I considered but hadn't arranged.   I woke up that morning and my brain quickly started to think of the events of six months ago.   I was able to mentally push back and say to myself "Stop... that isn't helpful."   Luckily or perhaps providentially there was also a public television show by a man named Dr Daniel Amen on the TV.   A psychiatrist and brain disorder specialist who had some very interesting things to say.   I can't recall all that was said, but it was a good distraction.   He talked about how trauma and stress can physically change and age our brain.    Hmm... I wonder how old my brain would test?  

     Yesterday morning I was spent keeping myself busy with some of the distractions I had planned.   One of which included was pickup at Wal-Mart of some soil so that I could plant a rose bush in the near future.   It was the second time this week I had left the house.   The first time had been earlier in the week to pick up groceries.  During which I daringly had the radio on and the song "Spirit in the Sky" came on.   I was teleported back to the cemetery on that cold December day where this song had been played at my husbands request.  As well as the times that he had made the request when the song would come on the radio while we were driving.  Music can sometimes be a good distraction, but in many cases it's not.   Returning home, one of my sweet aunts reached out and offered to come spend the rest of the day with me.   While her visits with me often results in reflections about mortality and death, her companionship was a wonderful gift on a difficult day.   

    I learned last night that Ed Sheeran had a new album.   His song "Perfect" especially the lyrics "We are still kids, but we're so in love, fighting against all odds, I know we'll be alright this time"  I considered our song in our fight with cancer.   It was released in September of 2017, just as our lives changed forever.  I learned that his wife Cherry was diagnosed with cancer last year when she was 6 months pregnant and at the young age of 30.  He also lost his best friend and has struggled with the heaviness of life.   I couldn't yet convince myself to listen to the songs but was intrigued at what his lyrics might say.   These from a song called "Eyes Closed" 

No one is ever ready
And when it unfolds, you get in a hole, oh, how can it be this heavy?
Everything changes, nothing's the same, except the truth is now you're gone
And life just goes on

     As hard  as it is, life is going on.   But slowly I'm finding things that help easy the pain of the gaping hole in my life.   I desperately miss my other half.   He is my soul mate.   Life still feels impossibly difficult most days, but there have been days where the weight is lighter.   I can see small changes and recognizing that little bit by little bit I'm doing better.   

      I'm still terrified of the difficult anniversaries I have that will come in the next six months, but I've somehow survived the past six and so I'm sure I'll somehow survive the next six.    Our love sustained us both through so many difficulties, that I just need to figure out how to allow it to help me survive the future.