Terrible, Thanks for Asking

     Years ago when I was in high school I was having a particularly rough day, I was very worried about something that was well beyond my control.   Struggling through the day at school, just trying to make it.   Walking from one class to another, a classmate asked me a question he had asked me several times before.   "How are you?"  Amidst all my worries I thought for a moment and replied "Are you asking because you really want to know or are you just asking to be nice?"  He was taken aback and said "I guess I'm asking because I really want to know."   I told him about what was on my mind and he listened.   Our relationship changed that day, after that we were friends often chatting on the way to class.   

     I've thought a lot about that question a lot since then and my answer.   It's so easy to just say "Fine" and go about our day, but how often do we feel "fine".  So why do we lie about it?   I've found that when life gets tough, it's one of the most difficult questions to answer.  Not only because I have to do a quick assessment of if the person asking really wants to know, but then a moment of reflection to find an honest answer.   I'm very fortunate to have numerous people in my life that when they ask, I know they are asking because they want to know.   But the next part is tough, so tough.   It's tough to look inside and see what's there.   Am I tired, sad, lonely, discouraged, overwhelmed, afraid...?

     My friend who was here last week introduced me to one of her friends who lived nearby.   In just a brief introduction, that friend recommended a podcast/book by Nora McInerny.   Her key phrase is "Terrible, Thanks for Asking".   Nora had a miscarriage, lost her father and husband from a brain tumor all within a couple months.   Holy crap, that's a lot of heavy things all at once.   In addition to her book, and podcasts she also has founded a group called the Hot Young Widows Club.   When I looked her up, I had recognized her from one of her video's on YouTube.   She's honest but also has a great sense of humor.   Here's one of the videos I watched if you are interested.   

      

 

   In a world with a broken healthcare system, emotional health  is one area that is especially broken.   It's a subject not frequently talked about and often ignored.   Sadly, even at a top notch cancer hospital.   We were often referred to numerous other specialists and would occasionally interact with social workers, but we must have appeared "fine" enough that no one ever suggested that we both would benefit from finding someone to help cope with cancer and its trauma filled experiences .    I don't blame the hospital, or his amazing team.  I can't imagine the intense stress and emotional trauma that they themselves go through.   They likely don't have the support they need either.   It's just part of a much bigger, complicated problem.  One that is compounded by the fact that there is a stigma associated with mental health.   One of my aunts shared this video which I've watched a few times.  We are taught at a young age to take care ourselves physically, but not our mental health.   

     The loss of a spouse is considered the most stressful life event a person can experience.  On a scale of 1-100, it's a 100.   Yup, I agree.   It sucks!   After years of dedicating my life helping my sweetheart, that abruptly ended and my life shifted.   Much of my life is the same, I live in the same house, have the same friends, work at the same place.   But everything is different and it comes with a pile of emotions to sift through.   I'm the only one who can make it a priority to take care of me.  While I worry about how I'll survive in multiple ways, one obvious one I knew of immediately was emotionally.   I started looking at reviews and requesting to be added to waiting lists to get some professional help.   No surprise, it took months.   I've met with her a few times, each time we talk I've come away feeling a tiny bit better, although overwhelmed with things that I think I need to process in order to move forward.  Unfortunately she herself going through something and she's had to cancel half of my appointments last minute.  Ugg...I'm tired of life being tough...it's exhausting.   But each day I survive brings me one day closer to being reunited with the soulmate.   

 

    A sweet cousin of mine sent me a card and said that she also dreaded the question.  "How are you?"  When struggling with depression, she found it impossible to answer.   Her card instead said "How is your heart today?"   A question that seeks to find those feelings below the surface in a way that says "I'm asking because I want to know, because I care."   

    So how would  I answer that question today?   

    "My heart is sorrowful and lonely today."  

    What about you?   

A Time to Love

    Years ago when my husband was "only" battling a brain tumor, I had the great opportunity to have my best friend since fifth grade come visit.   We hadn't seen each other in years, and life had kept both of us pretty busy.   We were excited to be together, but I was a bit nervous about if things would be different.  We had both married and she had children, I had been spending the past few years navigating the health care system helping my husband and balancing a full time job.   We weren't the same people that we were in elementary school and I worried that we would have enough to talk about or enough interests still in common.   But those worries were unfounded and our week together was memorable and fun, just like the old days.   It was a great reprieve from the difficulties of life and something I looked back fondly on when things got worse... much worse.   

     Fast forward seven years.   It feels as if a lifetime has passed since then.   Cancer certainty has changed me and widowhood is kicking my butt.   I've been nervous and anxious about how to get through my birthday without my sweetheart.  Agonizing on what I could do and who I could reach out to help me through it.   So it was an answer to prayers when my sweet friend Leah asked if she could come visit for my birthday.   She tenderly asked in a way that I could easily tell her I wasn't up for it, but I quickly replied.   "That would  be amazing!"  On days when I would struggle with knowing what to do that evening or that weekend, I often thought ahead just a little bit further to an entire week where there would be someone with me to help me fill my time and my brain could have a much needed break from work.   I am so grateful to her sweet husband who also took time off work, and her boys who missed their mother while she was here.   It was a sacrifice for them I'm sure, but it was a huge blessing for me.   

     The week of her visit finally arrived this week.   Another friend helped me pick her up at the airport.   Her visit has been just what I needed.   She was completely accepting of me and my random questions and frequent tears.  Coming up with things that she thought I might do, but also understanding that I just preferred to stay in my pajamas and not leave the house.  Suggesting things to eat, but understanding when I offered her oatmeal.   We did adventure out into the world with some family to a beautiful place of peace.   I introduced her to cookie butter and she enjoyed baking treats to offer to guests that we thought might stop by on my birthday.   One night she even made pizza man.   (Not an attempt at a replacement for the husband I love and miss, but an Italian twist on a Japanese steamed bun).

    My birthday arrived and I still wasn't sure what I wanted to do.  She sat with me on the couch, talking about life (and death).   People sent cards, stopped by or messaged that they were thinking about me.  Each one often brought a smile.... and tears.  One side of my broken heart was filled with gratitude and love.   I have been so very blessed with such thoughtful people.    The other side of my heart however was like a bratty kid who didn't get what they wanted for Christmas and decided to throw a tantrum.   I miss my sweet husband everyday, but that loss feels more profound on holidays.   So unlike a typically birthday filled with balloons and cake my day was filled with smiles and laughter but also tears and sorrow.    We finished the evening by venturing out of the house yet again and spending the time hanging out with my brother and his sweet family.   Returning home she glanced over at the me on the couch to find tears streaming down my face yet again.   She didn't chastise me or make me feel guilty, she simply... loved...

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True friends aren't the ones who make your problems disappear. 
They are the ones who won't disappear when facing your problem.

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     I recently read a meme that explained that it is called the month of May because...

 it may snow

 it may rain

 it may be 70 degrees

or it may be 20 degree's

    Navigating grief is much the same.  While there may be seasons of healing, weeping,  laughing or mourning, often times these seasons all occur on the same day.  Sometimes the same hour and often share the same memories and moments.  It's difficult to know how to dress for the weather, just as it is tough to know how to "weather" the emotions.    

The Power of Touch

    When thinking of holiday's that without my sweetheart,  I didn't consider Mother's Day as one that might be difficult.   Yet as I sat on my couch today,  I looked up at just the right moment multiple times to see on the digital picture frame a photo that often comes to mind when I think of our first ICU stay.   It is a picture of him, holding his mother's hand.   The picture taken before his trach surgery, which occurred on Mother's Day 6 years ago, ironically also May the 14th.   I'm so grateful that I was able to capture such a tender moment.    Grateful also for the picture that I took later that afternoon where I was able to spend the afternoon holding his hand.   The feeling of hope in that moment was strong as a surgery which once terrified both of us brought freedom.  He was also given the gift of being able to breath, which is something that is so easily taken for granted.   

    While the the past six years have been filled with difficult memories, I strive to remember as well the blessings along the way.   Family, friends, nurses and doctors who were there for our journey.  Thank-you to everyone for being there at just the right moment with a hug, a text, a listening ear.   

      At one point when he was in the ICU, my mom was also able to come to the hospital.   I don't remember what was said, just the profound feeling of empathy.    She had suffered a stroke 6 years prior that changed her life forever.   Her time in the hospital and the years rebuilding her life have been difficult, she understands things that others might not.    

    Here I am now, 6 years later.   Also forever changed.   Wishing that I could be holding his hand, grateful for the many times when I could.  

     

No one ever told me...

     Earlier this week after a typical day at work, in the quiet of the evening I realized I felt... off.   That's not super uncommon, but this was different somehow.   It took a while for me to identify the feeling.  Fear.   Nothing happened to trigger it, it just was there.  I'm no stranger to fear, it's one of the items in the "welcome package" you get when your spouse is diagnosed with cancer.   I lived with the fear of losing him for 5 years.   A fear that was realized in December.  The fear of losing him was replaced with the fear of how am I going to survive without him, which has constantly been brewing beneath the surface ever since.    How am I going to take care of myself, what when something happens? A fear of  growing close to people to avoid future pain of loss.    As well as just a general fear of the future, it feels as if the world is crashing in.    I have consciously avoided watching the news as knowing what's going on out in the world just adds more worry.   But I do still catch snippets of the craziness out there and it's scary.   

      

    But just plain fear, for no reason, that was unexpected.   I recalled this quote that I've come across frequently from C.S. Lewis.   "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."  Not quite sure how what can help counter balance fear, I attempted to distract myself by learning more about his experience with grief.  He married an American writer named Joy Davidman in 1956; she died of cancer four years later at the age of 45. He died 3 years later.  I think I remember watching the movie about their love story, called Shadowlands, as a young teenager but don't remember much about it.   The quote is from a book called "A Grief Observed".  It was a journal that he wrote with no intention of publishing, but ended up publishing under the pseudonym N.W. Clerk.  It was his reflections on his experience of bereavement following the death of his wife.  I've heard that many have found it to be very helpful, in fact he himself received several gift copies.   Perhaps one day when my brain will cooperate I'll read it.   For now I've just read quotes from it and been impressed with his ability to articulate the difficult feelings and experiences of grief.   

     Wednesday marked five months, which for some reason feels profoundly more significant that four, and terrifyingly one month closer to six.  A half of an entire year without my sweetheart.     I somehow mustered through the day at work even though I felt nauseous, shaky and cried off and on throughout the day.   I was so grateful that I didn't have any meetings.   When I found out that my brother and sister-in-law had had a difficult morning with a phone call to 911 and a visit to the ER, my heart ached for both of them and the weight of mortality felt extraordinarily heavy.   I longed to put my arms around them and cry with them.  This human thing is hard.   

     The following two days were Star Wars holidays that my husband loved to celebrate.   Quite the trendsetter, he was celebrating them even before it was the cool thing to do.   I thought of years past when we would make a death star pizza or how excited we were to watch the Mandalorian.   But still couldn't bear the thought of watching anything Star Wars without him.  

     Friday evening was a day that didn't fit in with the rest of the week.   I finished work and spent the evening more productive than I have in a while.   I worked on cleaning off my desk which has slowly been filling up with things that I need to do, and scraps of paper with things I've written down of things so I don't forget.  I cleared up some of the small projects and finally deposited the social security death benefit check which has been sitting on my desk for several weeks.   For some reason the fact that it had come from Kansas City felt significant, but really didn't mean anything, and for whatever reason cashing it felt so final and a difficult step to do.  The death benefit which once upon a time was enough to cover a funeral has not been increased and wasn't even enough to cover the flowers for his casket.  Weird little details you never thought you would know.    This week I also battled  a much less exciting war... insurance wars.   Trying to get the ambulance company, rehab hospital and insurance to talk to each other and file whatever paperwork is necessary to hopefully resolve a bill was also something I also did this week.   Perhaps one day I will be able to succeed.   I also filled out the necessary box on a bright orange paper that came in the mail.   Letting them know that he was still dead and wouldn't be able to make it for his second jury summons this year.   Ugg...  paperwork... 

      I stayed up late on Friday watching TV hoping that going to bed late would increase my odds of being able to sleep in.   But it was not to be.  I woke up much early than normal and when I changed the station the coronation of King Charles was on live.  It brought back memories of Queen Elizabeth passing away earlier on our hospital stay and watching her funeral.   That was early  during our stay ad we wondered if we would still be in the hospital for her funeral.  No only were we still in the hospital, but that was the day we ended back in the ICU.   Finding out later that she also battled myeloma in her final months I can't help but the challenges she might have faced.   

         This week was tough, but I made it.  I was grateful for those who reached out and said they were thinking of me, and loved me.    Worn out and tired I was tempted to stayed tucked away in the safety and comfort of home.  But I instead I went out with my aunts for a drive and got some fresh air.   With time today to nap, reflect and recharge, I'm hoping that this week will be easier.    No difficult anniversaries or holiday's to survive, just the normal days that are exhausting in their own way.   

 

For an interesting read: C.S. Lewis On Grief

 

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?