Advice for the newly Widowed

7/29/13

I got the word, it had happened.  Brian had died.  This hit me like a ton of bricks.  I hadn't seen much of Brian over the past few years, he lived in Big Bear and was busy with family and work. I barely knew his wife.  Still, the news hit me like it was my closest acquaintance, dearest friend, family.

Just two hours or so before, I was driving up the coast to Big Sur on the way to a 4 day camping trip with my daughter.  I started to get very emotional, tears were welling up and I couldn't figure out why.  I felt deep anguish and the source was not clear.  I tried to gut check to see if I was thinking about Ron or something to do with our life and love, and while I am always thinking about him, that wasn't it.  I tried to shake it so I could be happy, joyful for my daughter and our latest adventure.  It shouldn't have come as a shock to learn - but those tears were created after a great disturbance in the force - the moment Brian died.

Brian died from Melanoma after a 4 year battle.  Brian was my cousin.  He was only 44 years old and left behind a wife and two children ages 16 & 20

What was it about this death that shook me to the very inner core of my  being?  Probably that the death of my own husband was still so fresh, even though a year had passed.  I couldn't shake the resurgence of memories of Ron's last breath, his last heartbeat and the last time I felt his skin on mine.  I knew, another woman was going through the gut wrenching reality of losing her love, soul-mate and best friend.  I ached for her and her children.  Somehow, the Universe connected us with a very thin strand joining together two women dumped into our new realities.

I was desperate to talk to Aprille.  I wanted to tell her that she was going to make it, be ok and all that.  I wanted to assure her that while right now everything seemed like an ending and breathing had to be a conscious activity, ultimately she would survive this.  I wanted to stand before her and show her that it is possible to live after the death of her husband.  I could not reach out to her though, too much and too overwhelming. Plus, I was far from cell service and any contact.  I had to wait.

The day before the funeral, I sat down and wrote her a letter.  It was my way of providing guidance, support and love.  I told her a bit about my experience over the last year and some things that seemed to help me during those first few weeks after Ron's death.  I also told her some of the things I had learned in my last year's journey being a young widow.  I hope it helped and continues to help as she sorts through her life and works to create her new normal.

What did I tell her?

1.  Right now, today and until you are ready for more - you have two jobs.  1. Breathe in  2. Breathe out.  That's it. Nothing else matters.
2.  You do not HAVE to do anything in anyone's time frame other than your own.  You will know when it is time to take the next step.
3. FEEL.  Grief hurts.  Allow yourself to feel the pain of your terrible loss.  If you don't do it now, it will still be there later and just might be a little more painful.
4. People are clueless - they don't mean to be but few know the right words to say to someone who experienced a loss.  You will hear a lot of attempts to comfort you - don't expect any of it to give you peace or solace.  It's ok, let them comfort you anyway.  BE with people and allow their friendship and love to hold you up until you are strong enough to stand on your own.
5.  Right now, only three people count.  You, your son and your daughter.  That is your core and cornerstone.  Hold on tight to each other.  The rest of the world can wait.
6. Talk about Brian.  Tell stories, and yes, you will smile and laugh.  It's ok.  Laughter and smiles are you celebrating his LIFE.  You are not a bad person if you enjoy a moment.  He would love to see you smile - even if through tears.
7. Allow yourself to feel other emotions - anger, resentment, fear, anxiety.  They are all a part of the grief soup.
8. One day, when you are ready, take little steps forward.  Tackle small jobs first - baby steps, one moment, one day at a time.
9.  Hold on to the love.  Love will guide you, nurture you, support you and push you back to reality.  It is the intense love you had for each other that will help you live again, in your new normal.
10.  You will make it.  You will survive.  100% guaranteed.  You are a strong woman and you won't let Brian down.  You will survive and thrive.

So, if you have someone in your life who recently lost a partner, love, spouse please feel free to pass this on.  I hope it helps someone in their terrible time of grief, or helps someone support a person who is experiencing a loss.

I still have a lot of work to do in my own grief journey, but I have excellent tools and supportive guides to get me to the next steps.

The Terrible Twos

July 9, 2013

 


I am into the second year after losing my husband Ron to a sudden heart attack and the way I thought I would feel  - well, I just don't.  I am still constantly sad, I constantly miss him and always think about what he would say or do in any given situation.  I have not moved on - although I have taken steps to attempt that part of the process.  I am not healed - although I find some solace in less pain deep in my heart.  I am still grieving nonetheless.

The second year, some say, is supposed to be easier.  I have already been through all the "firsts" so the second year through should be easier - right?   I think in some ways the second year is worse.  I liken the experience to that of a new parent.  Strange to think of new life being so much like end of life, but in some ways it is similar.  When a baby is brought home from the hospital, it is new, strange, with many adaptations to the addition.  There are many long nights awake with much crying.  This crying is the newborn of course, but after loss, it is the grieving whose tears fill the night.  Those first long nights and days with a newborn are spent trying to figure out this new life and how it fits in to the old routine, and in grief it is spent trying to figure out how to live without the one you love so deeply and create a new routine without them.  Most of the first year with a newborn, parents are in a fog, dazed by lack of sleep, worry and confusion.  In grief, the shock creates an anesthetic effect that numbs you to all but the most vital. Life is a fog, almost unintelligible and processing is slow to any activities or just life in general.   As you approach the end of the first year with a baby, it is with wonder and amazement at how well you did, how you managed, excelled even as a new parent.  The one year also marks the crossing point to end the firsts.  All the first holidays, events, activities experienced with a new child in the home. The end of a year with a new baby is a time to celebrate and pat each other on the back at what pros you have become. In grief, the approach to the year marks a no turning back point.  The place where you can't say "it's the first without..."  It is not a time to look back with joy at all the changes and accomplishments, even though I know I have accomplished much as a newly single mother and woman, celebration is the last thing on the mind of the grieving.  For me, the year anniversary was a date I dreaded for weeks.  It meant I had to DO something different because I was different.  I wasn't counting my loss in weeks any longer - it was now months or years.  I've been a widow for a year.  It makes me shudder to say it out loud.

When a child approaches their second birthday, people stand back with knowing looks and a bit of reminiscent terror in their eyes "Terrible Twos" they whisper.  Oh, just you wait - those terrible twos are coming up!  In grief - I believe the second year deserves those hushed warnings as well.  The second year, you are without the comfort of anesthesia and shock, you must now wind your way through all the "seconds" without the protection of not feeling each bit of sadness, pain and anguish as you relive the death and all that follows.  The terrible twos of grief mean you feel EVERYTHING.

365 days.  525,600 minutes.  How do you measure a year in a life?  How do you measure it in death?  Each day means another 1,440 minutes go by.  Do you know how many heartbeats that is?  For Ron, it would have been 77,760 heartbeats.  I counted them often at night as I lay my head on his chest, listening for any changes or missed beats.  The sound of his heart beating beneath my ear was comforting and gave me hope that he was thriving.  I can remember the feeling of his warm, hairy chest and the strong arm that held me.  But the heartbeat was most comforting to hear and feel.

As I move into the second year without Ron, I will strive for health, happiness and to retain the memories of a man I loved deeply.  Terrible Twos - you can't take me down.  I am one tough chick and I do not fall easily!