Sunday, March 30, 2014

Venting my pain can be so satisfying

Venting is oh so satisfying. To get it out of my system and feel cleansed, refreshed ready to face the next challenge. I know who is reading my blog. I really do. It is those who love me. And those who need to read it. Those who connect with my pain and grief. Those who have or are experiencing the pain and grief.

A friend wrote to me in response, "You are creating a light for others who will follow in your steps. A light in their darkness as they stumble forward." Let us stumble forward together then.

Today I had lunch with my new widow friends. My GPS got me lost, and I was going to be late. I cried in frustration. I cried in sorrow. I drove and cried. And thought of just going home, but something keep me going. I knew I could arrive with a tear streaked face and would find loving embraces.

The conversation was about pain and grief. It was right out there in the open, right on the table. We talked about anniversaries coming up: of our spouse's death, of our birthdays, of their birthdays, of our wedding anniversaries. We said the numbers of months out loud. We spoke our husband's names as natural as can be.

And we struggled to think about what these dates were going to be like. And what we would do for them. Celebrate? Observe? Mourn? Alone? With friends and family?

We talked of holidays and the ache of getting through them without the one who has been by our side for so long. And we talked of traveling, alone. To places new and places familiar.

There was laughter and tears. Compassion and understanding. We were there for each other. Widows. And to think at one time I was so appalled to be called one.






Saturday, March 29, 2014

Life in a bubble with pain and grief

A rant. Blogging—who the hell am I writing to? Blogs are posted online and then what? You think your friends are reading them. As a way of keeping in touch with you and understanding what you are going through. But my friends are not reading my blog. I don't know who the hell is reading my blog.

I do know that I get these wonderful compassionate insightful comments from people I don't have a clue who they are. Just that something I wrote touched them to such an extent that they feel a need, a desire to reach out and touch me back. They get my pain. They connect with my pain. I guess that is the point. They are a gift to me from this blog.

But my friends? They don't want to think about the pain. So I walk around like I am in a bubble. In the bubble I have my pain and my grief. And I interact with regular people, normal people, people who have not lost a spouse, husband, wife. People who are not widows/widower. That's what normal people are. I say things, they say things back to me. There is an interaction—but the pain and grief inside the bubble is untouched.

These "others" I talk to—but they don't get it. They just see—I guess they just see what they want. Maybe the bubble is like a mirror. It reflects back what they want to see. They don't want to see inside. They don't want to see my pain. To them I am on a girls night out. They forget while they go home to their respective husbands, I go home to an empty house.

It is a really strange, bizarre, isolating existence. And if one more person tries to relate to me by saying they understand because their mother/father/sister/brother died, and then add their cat/dog/bird/gerbil died.....Hey, I'm an animal person and I keep hearing about dead pets. Does everyone get this? Do people say these insane things to other widows? It is mind blowing.

You think your friends are there, and they are not. They want to just keep moving forward. They don't want to hear that you are still grieving. They want to explain it away or they just don't want to go anywhere near the pain, the grief. And because I am still in pain and grieving, they don't keep in touch.

I have established what I call my Do Not Call List. This is for people who want to fix me. Or tell me I'm fine. Or have just the book that will cure me. Friends who don't want to take the time to listen to my pain at a particular month anniversary.  Friends who believe I should be over it by now. They are.

I now see there is a universal Do Not Call List. And I've been put on it by a lot of people who I thought were my friends. Maybe the grief is too terrifying. Or losing a spouse is too terrifying. Widowhood—you do not want to go there. They don't want to think about it. And if they relate to me too much and if they empathize with me too much it means they have to think about the unthinkable. Thinking about what if their husband/wife died.

So I am left here in my bubble. In my bubble I can appear "normal" to some people. Does this mean I put my old friends on my Do Not Call List? And just stay with my new widow friends?!?! It is a really bizarre consideration. I find that I can open my soul to people I've known for such a short time because we share the pain and grief. And I can't open my soul to people I've known for a long time because they don't want to share that pain and grief. I find I am now searching for connections and compassion and understanding, and that distraction is no longer enough.


Thursday, March 27, 2014

The reality of grief, and accepting the reality

Reality - I have been hitting it hard. And thinking about it in those terms - the reality of the situation.

Reality - I think that is part of the reason I have been able to incorporate some of Rob's things into MY life. It is not a matter of worrying what he would think. Or of having to worry that if I used something it better be perfect when I return it.

Reality - that I can't come home from the barn and tell him what wonderful things Cici and I did today.

Reality - no one to share at the level we always shared.

Reality - he is not here.

Reality - he is not coming back.

Reality - he is not here and won't be here again.

Reality - not ever.

Reality - sucks.

I am trying to keep moving. The temptation to crawl into bed and stay there is overwhelming. But fortunately I have Cici calling me. And admit that if I skip a day and do not go out to see her I pay a price. To myself. I have to get out. I have to keep moving. I have to keep living. Apparently.

So I'll tell you what I so yearn to tell Rob. I am playing with Cici at liberty and we are walking and trotting together. I am walking next to her, she doesn't have a halter or anything on and she just sticks with me. When I up my energy she trots with me. We are really connected this morning and I thought…hmm I wonder if I can get her to stay in sync with me and canter.And she does! First time I have tried this. And she is right with me. My heart is so open. I am a little girl playing horse. I am flying. My beautiful palomino mare is right with me. And when I come back down to earth I am crying. Sobbing.

California showed me I can be out there. But the rubber band stretched too far, and I am pulled back in the other direction—to grief. It is worse, okay different, than the roller coaster. Two sides of the same coin that somehow someway someday I will be able to integrate into one. But for now I swing between the two.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

I can find myself at times in the ocean of grief


"You are traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone!"

I am on a flight back home from California. Experiencing a bit of turbulence and the pilot has everyone, including the flight attendants strapping in. The head attendant announces that if anyone has a medical emergency to hit the call attendant light 4 or 5 times. What they won't answer the first 1 to 4 times?!?!? Perfect absurdity for me to start writing about my adventure.

Trip starts at 5:30am when my friends come to pick me up for drive to airport. Looking back I realize what an amazing piece of luck it is that I flew into San Francisco as opposed to Los Angeles. No memories with Robert of flying into SF. And throughout the trip I realized it was the little things that tipped the scale. Of course it’s the little things! It is always the little things. Duh!!!

I am on my own. I am doing this. I am flying all the way across the country by myself. I am staying with virtual friends again. I am leaving all that is familiar behind. Venturing into the unknown. I am willingly, knowingly, consciously stepping into another dimension. And I am fine. Now tell me how that is possible!?!?

When the plane lands in SF I receive a text message that my connecting flight is boarding in 8 minutes. I do an O.J. Simpson (remember the commercial?) out of the plane, over people and luggage in the aisle. I then board a shuttle bus to a totally different terminal. The shuttle bus takes me a scenic tour of the entire airport. I believe we lap the airport twice.

My heart is pounding. But it is a normal "am I going to make my plane?" kind of heart pounding. Not what has become the usual unexplained heart palpitations. Interesting to even be able to note the difference. And, of course, when I get to the gate, the plane has not even arrived. Delayed. My heart rate returns to normal. Huh? How is that possible?

I am whole. Complete. This adventure is mine. It is about me. I look around. I meet my virtual friends—who in a Twilight Zone instant—become physical flesh and blood friends. Clamber into their monster (hey I'm an Easterner) pickup for a 2-hour drive to their home in Paso Robles. Talk about stepping into the abyss, or maybe a new plateau.

Going to Polly and Jim's in Paso Robles is another blessing. No memories there. Only memories that are part of me. They are my friends. I have talked for hours on the phone with Polly. When I got to the Santa Barbara airport, they are the only people waiting. And as I am going down the escalator I yell "Polly" and she yells "Jamie". I know her voice. And it warms my soul.

We drive through country that is totally alien, new, different, unrecognizable to me. I have clearly spent way too much time in New England. Open land, hills, lots and lots of hills, rolling hills, big huge hills. There are views. Wide open sky. Roads. Hills. I look out the window, of the pickup, in wonder at the landscape. And realize once again I am whole. Complete. How is this possible?

I spend a magical week with Polly & Jim. Do have moments of grief. And lose it completely one night. But each time I return to….myself.

With Polly I meet a Z, a zebra. Scott, a real life cowboy (remember I am an tender foot) who raises and trains horses and bucking bulls! Wander through Paso Robles, eat at a wonderful local place, stop in at a Western Art Gallery, shop our way through the Boot Barn so I can find the perfect riding cowboy boots. Visit an amazing Dressage Equestrian Center. Go on the ultimate beach trail ride at Montana de Oro State Park in Osos.

On the trail ride, as the horses are climbing out of the eucalyptus forest and through the flanks of the hills, we get our first sight of the ocean and Morro Rock. I am overcome with memories and tears. Rob and I had been to Morro Rock, walked through the town. I cry on horseback overlooking the ocean. Why did it take his death to get me here?

The week is over and I travel down the coast to Santa Barbara. Staying now with Kathleen who was a classmate of Rob's. The memories of Rob are so much more present. And Kathleen lost her husband more than 2-1/2 years ago and reached out—widow to widow—to me when she heard he had died.

We sit on her balcony overlooking the ocean and talk and cry together. She suggests we drive into Santa Barbara and do a little shopping. What a delightful idea. But driving through the town overwhelms me with memories. I recognize street names, buildings, shops. Rob loved to walk here and we had wandered in and out of the shops together. I am crying again and Kathleen just turns the car around and drives us home.

I am learning that I can be whole. Can be me. But right now that means where the focus and emphasis is about me. Not about us. The "us" is in my heart, but no longer on this physical plain. Now I'm heading home with both relief and anxiety. So what else is new?