Wake me up when September ends

Sleep is harder and harder to come by in our house. Critter can't get to sleep. I can't stay asleep. Even our trusty old dog wanders the house at night, checking on each of us and whining.

September 25 looms large. I know I have put too much stock in the date, but that awareness doesn't stop me from counting down the days. The first year is the worst, you see, and I desperately want to be finished with the worst.

I have a few more things to take care of in the next 24 days. There's one old friend I haven't talked to and I'm not sure if she has heard about S through the grapevine. I fear running into her at Home Depot and telling her my story in the paint department. I have to call her. I have to better organize some boxes of memories for the girls and for myself. I'd like to learn to sleep in the middle of the bed. I always start out there, and I always find myself right along the edge again by the time I wake up.

Today I am grateful for my family of women - my mother, three sisters, aunt, sister-in-law, nieces, daughters and friends who have been absolutely everything I needed them to be. They have known exactly how to give me the right amount of help and the right amount of space. In a meditation that helped get me through the early stages of raw grief, I would picture myself and my daughters floating on our backs, hand in hand, seemingly weightless. But we weren't weightless at all, we were being held up by the outstretched arms of all of the amazing women in our lives. I cannot imagine greater strength.

Abundance

I have excellent health insurance that paid for today's mammogram on the equipment that S set up, with the tech who probably knew him, wearing the same dosimeter he wore, using the institutional soap of which he always smelled, in the hospital where he died. I am utterly exhausted. I have collapsed on a comfortable couch, under a soft blanket, in a safe home, near my healthy daughter. Today I am thankful for abundance.

Tea and sympathy

OK, it was coffee, but tea sounds so much nicer in the headline, no?

Yesterday I met two total strangers for breakfast. They had organized a gathering for young widows the week before, but I had to miss it because my sitter canceled (and truly, I didn't go out of my way to find a replacement because I was ambivalent about the whole idea). They kindly reached out after I was a no-show and asked me to meet them. I was nervous, people are so different. It could have been incredibly awkward.

It wasn't, not at all. Rarely have I fallen so quickly into sync with new people, immediately sharing things I haven't even told my best friends and family. Common experience is such a powerful bond. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I guess I still hold some stereotypes about widows. Fragile creatures they are, just waiting patiently to join their dearly departed husbands. But I saw so much of myself in these women. They were both widowed a bit ahead of me, so I listened with interest as they talked about moving forward with their kids, with living life on their own terms, even with finding new love. Their stories and feedback inspired me.

With exactly four weeks to go until the one-year anniversary of S's death, I am all about forgiveness and gratitude. I need to finish forgiving him for leaving us so that I can keep his memory alive for the girls without feeling conflicted about it. And I want to be sure to live in gratitude for all of the amazing people who have helped us through this year.

Today I am thankful for Fern and Gayle, who helped me make a month's worth of progress in one hour yesterday morning.

Too much hubris

A friend, also widowed, asked me what was coming up for us. I knew he was talking about difficult milestones, but it felt almost as if the question didn't apply to me. I talked about the anniversary of S's death next month, which will be quickly followed quickly by our wedding anniversary. No surprises here - I know the dates and I have full understanding of the passage of time. As long as things don't sneak up on me,  I can manage them. Right?

It hit me this morning. During this week last year, the week before school starts, we headed to the mountains for our last family vacation. We had the best time we'd had in months, and I was cautiously optimistic that we were through the worst of S's illness. Laughing with my family in a boat on the cool mountain lake, I had no idea that his final decline would begin on the way home from that trip. Then came the beginning of a new school year, then Pickle's birthday, then my birthday. Then the last tortured weeks, then his death, then the funeral, then our anniversary, then Critter's birthday.

Just a week ago, when asked what was coming up, I shrugged off the question. Now I see a rough road ahead for the next six weeks or so.  So it's back to basics for a while. I'll try to get plenty of sleep and exercise. I'll check in with my therapist and take a day or two off of work to just breathe. I'll spend time with the most special people, the few who don't need me to pretend everything is fine. I'll celebrate the girls' birthdays and surround them with the family and friends who love them most. Who knows? Maybe I'll even throw a birthday party for myself.

Date night

It's supposed to be Wordless Wednesday, but I slept for several consecutive hours last night (for the first time in a week) and awoke full of words. So consider this evidence that I'm evolving... I've always been such a blind rule follower.

All of my best reader-friends have been recommending the Steig Larsson books. I bought The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and started reading it three times, but just couldn't get into it. Then I watched the movie and was enthralled - it seems my attention span is better suited to film than literature these days. It was available on Netflix streaming, the current film venue of choice for my limited and largely solitary leisure life.

I used to love to go to movies by myself during my pre-family days in Washington, D.C. Since I moved to Tampa and married a man who loathed seeing movies in theaters, I gave that up. In retrospect, I realize that I could have continued going by myself, I just didn't. So when I saw that part two of the trilogy was playing at our local independent theater last week, it instantly became one of those things I had to do. I have had pretty good luck lately when that feeling envelops me, so I'm starting to trust the instinct.

I asked Pickle to babysit, something she hadn't done except when I was running a quick errand. She's almost 14 and I was only going to be a few miles away, so it was time to trust. I prepared dinner for the girls in advance. I made sure I had cash and figured out where to park. I totally felt like I was preparing for a date.

Does that sound crazy? Maybe it is, I have no way of knowing.

I do know that I felt good walking into the absolutely beautiful old theater - peaceful, powerful, independent. Happy. Completely myself.

There's lots of advice for married couples to have date nights, to reconnect with each other and without the children. The same advice should apply to sole parents. It is so easy to get lost, to become mired in getting through each day. To lose yourself in the grind of packing lunches, washing clothes, walking the dog, cleaning the bathrooms, driving the car. But I don't think it serves me or my girls well to be that person, the long-suffering widowed mom who is constantly overwhelmed and just gets through each day.

I had a great time on my first date. I think I'd like to see her again.

Wordless Wednesday

Halloween 2003, my favorite photo of all of us.

This just in: I have a mental disorder

There was a story on NPR this morning that caught my attention at about 5:45 a.m., no small feat. The American Psychiatric Association is proposing changes to diagnostic guidelines that would remove the "bereavement exclusion" from diagnoses of major depression.

The symptoms:

• Difficulty sleeping
• Crying over the memories of a loved one
• Loss of appetite
• Loss of energy
• Loss of concentration

Check, check, check, check and check. If these symptoms last more than two weeks... that's two weeks... the diagnosis is major depression, with a recommended treatment of therapy or medication.

Major depression? Me? It's just not true. But I lost my husband twice - first to mental illness, then to suicide - and that makes me sad. My daughters don't have a father, and that keeps me awake at night. I have an overwhelming amount responsibility, and that saps my energy.

Ten months in, I still have most of the symptoms (sadly, loss of appetite seems to be gone). It gets better as time marches on and even better when I'm disciplined about using the tools I've developed to help myself.

If I had resolved all of these symptoms in two weeks, then I think a diagnosis would be in order. As my wise friend Polly says, "Some things are supposed to suck."

Wordless Wednesday

Rainbow Springs State Park, Dunnellon, Florida

61 minutes well spent

I just watched Young Widow: Naked in the Memorial Playground, a documentary by Elizabeth Titus. I'll have more to say about it later, but wanted to quickly share this list from the film:


Top 10 things you don't say to a widow

1. He died for a reason
2. God never gives you more than you can bear
3. I've been through a divorce, so I know exactly how you feel
4. My dog died, so I know exactly how you feel
5. My 89 year old grandmother died, so I know exactly how you feel
6. At least you didn't have children
7. At least you had children
8. It was for the best
9. God wanted him more than you
10. Are you over it yet?

I have been on the receiving end of versions of #2, #4, #5, #8 and #10.

The elephant in the room

We have moved into a new neighborhood, the kids are getting involved in more activities and I’m taking small steps back into polite society. With this comes meeting new people.

At what point do I tell them? Being a single parent isn’t unusual, so I thought I could do without explanations at first. I really don’t want this to define us for the rest of our lives. But not telling our tale quickly becomes challenging. How is it that I’ve come to have stepdaughter, but no husband? Do I explain right away, or do I let the awkward moment form like a little raincloud as the person tries to sort out our complicated little family, then dissipate while I change the subject?



Sometimes I blurt it out, almost too casually, as an aside, leaving me feeling tactless and the other person searching for the right thing to say. It happened today at the Apple store as I was trying to sort out transferring content to Pickle’s new iPod. The nice genius and I couldn’t figure out why some songs wouldn’t transfer. 



“Were any of the songs downloaded using a different iTunes account?” he asked.

“Oh yeah!” I exclaimed, happy that a solution might be at hand. “Yes, probably my husband’s account. That makes sense.”

“All you’ll need to do is log into the account, and you’ll be able to transfer the songs.”

“Yeah, but he’s dead,” I said.



Then I saw the stricken look on the nice genius’ face, and I started stammering.

“I mean, um, he put the songs on the iPod and I’m not sure if I have his password but I probably do, it’s probably on that list of passwords I have at home and if it is, then I’ll transfer the songs, no problem. I know how to do that. Um, I can do that. Thanks for your help. Thanks so much. Bye.”



My wise friend Kristina advocates getting things out in the open right away to prevent them from becoming uncomfortable later in the relationship. This approach can be used for anything anything that might become an issue in the future, big or small. 



So, if Kristina and I were to meet today instead of 20 years ago, our conversation might go something like this.

“Hi, I’m Kristina,” she’d say. “I don’t like ham.”

“Hi, I’m Jennifer,” I’d reply. “I’m a suicide widow.”

14 things I do now that I didn't do before

1. pay the bills
2. lock the house at night
3. mow the lawn
4. grill food
5. buy plane tickets
6. rent movies
7. check the weather report
8. move furniture
9. buy batteries
10. change the air conditioning filters
11. set the clocks
12. take out the trash
13. troubleshoot wireless connectivity issues
14. kill bugs

Three tickets to paradise

Sometime in the last 10 months, I have developed an odd sense of entitlement. It's odd mostly because I have lived my entire life lacking a sense of entitlement, even to things to which I was clearly entitled.

Now, though, I feel strongly that the girls and I somehow deserve some peace. We have been through enough and now need to coast for a while, thank you very much.

As last week's Caribbean vacation approached, I put a lot of stock into the trip. I saw it as a turning point - a chance to breathe, to feel lighter, to move forward. I could feel the pink sand beneath my feet and the cool umbrella drink in my hand. I could see the girls frolicking nearby with new friends. I could feel our collective sense of relief.

The trip got off to a great start. We arrived at the resort with our friends and were welcomed by a large group of impossibly enthusiastic staff. Our room was awesome - not only did each of us have her own bed, but the girls actually had a separate bedroom. The pool sparkled and the sea beckoned.

The next day, Critter was sick to her stomach for a few hours. She recovered pretty quickly. The next day I was sick, and it knocked me out for two days (I will never again use the phrase projectile vomiting lightly). When I recovered, Critter got it again, worse the second time. Our physical woes were set against a backdrop of broken air conditioning and a malfunctioning toilet in the room, along with animated but empty promises that they would be fixed immediately. We visited the kind doctor in the resort infirmary, who filled us full of meds and advised us to only eat white rice, plain pasta, boiled potatoes and bananas for the rest of the week.

Pickle hit a low point when Critter started her second bout of illness. I broke down in tears after the fifth cheerful promise that the air conditioning would be fixed. We deserved to be having a perfect vacation, and damn it, this was not it.

Despite it all, though, we really did have a good time. We spent a lot of time together and with our friends. We made some wonderful new friends. We floated weightlessly in crystal clear water. Critter swung from a trapeze and Pickle drank her weight in smoothies.

I do believe we have become experts in making lemonade out of life's lemons. Next time, though, I will make my lemonade with bottled water.

Double nickels

Today is S's birthday. He was looking forward to this one in particular, because a couple of years ago he thought of a way to mess with people. The exchange would have gone something like this:

"Happy birthday," his victim would say. "How old are you?"

"Forty-four," S would reply. "Double nickels!"

Then he would walk away and leave them to figure it out.

I thought of that a dozen times today. It encapsulates how smart, funny and absolutely maddening he could be. I thought of how many times he told me he was looking forward to today, and wondered why all of the things he had to look forward to weren't enough for him to stay alive.

My jacked-up life

The kids mentioned that their tub felt wobbly. It’s a really cool claw foot tub, probably original from when the house was built in 1926. So I chose to believe that a little wobbling was part of its charm… until I was cleaning and noticed that three of the four claw feet were lying on the floor under the tub, no longer attached. That explained the wobbling in a way that suddenly didn’t seem charming at all.

I saw the slots on the tub that were meant to hold the tops of the feet. I needed to raise the tub enough to get the feet back into their slots. It seemed like a simple enough operation. And it would have been, for two people.

First I thought of calling someone to help. Then I quickly progressed to needing to do it by myself. I was buoyed by my success in filling the peppermill earlier that day, the peppermill that had been mocking me with its emptiness for months. All it took was a flathead screwdriver, a Phillips head screwdriver, a small funnel, a medium funnel, a spoon, flexible spatula and an escargot fork, and voila - fresh-ground pepper! So I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a cast-iron tub intimidate me.

I tried various ridiculous positions in an attempt to lift the tub with my feet while leaving my hands free to deal with the feet. Nothing worked. I swore and glared and banged my head, and none of that worked either.

I was just about to give up when I had an idea. I ran out to my trusty station wagon and a minute later I was jacking up the jacked-up tub. I easily replaced the errant feet, gently lowered the jack, then stood back and admired the work for a good long while.

There are things to be done around here, lots and lots of things. Most of them were not in my job description seven months ago, but they’re all mine now.

I’m done with leaving them undone so I can be angry with S for not being here to do them.

I feel the earth move under my feet

One day about six weeks ago, I woke up feeling totally like myself. It was so good, that old familiar feeling of knowing who I am. I thought I was through the worst of it, never mind the mountains of literature that told me grief comes in waves throughout the first year and beyond. I was somehow better than that, faster.

So this second wave of grief took me by surprise, an intense aftershock just when I began to trust the earth beneath my feet. I’m back to crying in my car and spending the workday choking back the tears that hover at the top of my throat. I’m back to lying awake for long stretches at night, then going through the day in a fog. I’m back to losing things and forgetting to pay bills.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about mourning dresses. For most of history, widows in many cultures wore them for a year or more. We have gotten away from the tradition in the last hundred years or so, and I’m coming to think that might not have been such great progress.

This isn’t to say that I’m wishing for a black wool dress and crepe veil, just some small outward sign to show the world how raw my heart is. To remind people that it has only been seven months, which sometimes feels like the blink of an eye. To ask for just a little more patience and kindness when people have already been impossibly patient and kind.

But today is Friday, casual Friday. So I’ll put on my jeans, go to work and hope for the best.

Never turn your back on the sea

S and I took Critter to the beach for the first time when she was about six months old. From my position on the beach chair holding a sleeping baby, I saw him diving into the water over and over. I thought he was looking for sand dollars. It went on for a really long time, calling my sand dollar theory into question. I motioned for him to come to us, and he motioned back to wait a minute, then kept diving. Finally, he came to the beach and told me he had lost his wedding band. He was so upset that he didn’t want to leave the beach that day. The ring had always been too big, and he was kicking himself for not having it sized. I told him it was just a thing, and we could get a new one.

A couple of weeks ago, I took care of my friends’ three kids while they took a fabulous trip to Seattle. Laboring under the delusion that I had superpowers, I decided to take all four children to the beach. When we had been there for a few hours and I was starting to feel like it was too hot and too sunny and everyone was too hungry, Critter came out of the surf sobbing.  She had lost her ring, the ring S gave her. I didn’t even dive down to look for it – she didn’t know where she was when it fell off, and I didn’t want to give her false hope. So we sat at the edge of the water and I held her while we both cried. I told her the story of S’s wedding band and how we were in the same spot when it was lost, so it was kind of nice to think that the two rings were together in the sea.  The other kids didn’t know what to do – one went away, the other hovered (the third is only two years old, so he continued to fill his bucket with water and dump it out over and over).

We packed up, rinsed off and headed for home. Critter perked up in the car. When she got into bed that evening, though, the tears came again. She was holding a charm that she said allowed her one wish. I asked what her wish would be and she said, “You think I’d want the ring back, but I don’t. I want Dad back.” 

And that is how my baby started grieving.

The Widows' Table

We were invited to party on New Year’s Day. I was really looking forward to it – new year, new people. It was at the home of some neighbors, a couple who grew up here and have a huge network of family and friends.

We arrived and I scanned the room for familiar faces. None of the other neighbors were there. My girls immediately disappeared with the other kids. I felt a wave of panic and wanted to flee. Instead, I helped myself to a glass of sangria and developed an intense interest in the college football game on TV. More and more people arrived – friends and family who have known each other their whole lives.

By my second glass of sangria, I concluded that the bartender had left the courage out of this batch. I wished it would be acceptable for me to pull out my phone and start texting my friends, like Pickle does when she’s uncomfortable. I will be more gracious the next time we’re going somewhere and she asks if there will be any kids her age.

I eventually found my niche with the old widow ladies. They all knew each other, but were warm and welcoming when I asked if I could join them for dinner. It was a port in a storm, but only this time. Next time I’ll be ready to be friendly, witty and engaging with kids my own age.

I’m not ready for a permanent place at the widows’ table just yet.