Moving forward. How do you know if you're ready?

 Moving forward.  How do you know if you're ready?

After losing a spouse, the thought of life without them is overwhelming. The confidante who helped you navigate the unknown isn’t there. The one whose arms around you provided comfort, is gone. You’re faced with an all-encompassing grief. Logically you know that one day you’ll get to the ‘moving forward’ part of the process. But how do you know if you’ve finished mourning? How long does that take? How do you know if you’re ready? If only there was a litmus test.

One must go through the grief process, not around it. Experts say there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Although for every loss, we experience each stage, they present themselves differently, from intensity to length. For me, I had nine months to ‘prepare’ or maybe ‘brace’ myself before he died. We tried to savor the time we had left, to experience joy, laughter, and happiness. But no matter what we did, we could feel the dark cloud of impending doom form, a gloomy shadow following us, getting closer and closer, just waiting to consume him. All the color around us faded as life drained from his body. No length of time, nor amount of preparation could prepare me for that moment.

At the end of his Cancer journey, my journey of grief began. The intensity of the pain matched the intensity of our love. A deluge of emotions enveloped me like a whirlpool, pulling me into the dark, cold depths of pain. Waves of emotion appeared without notice. Some with a crash shaking my soul, my very foundation. Others are like a ripple, slowly enveloping my thoughts. My anchor was the man I mourned. I was adrift in a sea of heartache.

I needed to feel the pain, feel the reality, soak in it. The cries from my heavy, broken heart echoed in my hollow chest. Normality was the air I breathed without thought, was gone. Gasping, the waves of anguish overpowered me. Weak and breathless, I gulped for air, trying to fill my lungs to keep me afloat. I strived to keep an awareness that this grief is a place I must visit, tread its waters, but not drown in its cold, dark depths of despair. Salty tears blinded me, but I had to find my way to the shore, back to my life, my world. Arrhythmic waves continued. Some left me breathless and others carried me forward. The sharp edges of the pain started to wear down with each wave.

In time I found myself standing on that shore. As the tears dried, I could see nothing was the same. I could feel the void where he once was. Where he belonged. In his place was an empty, lifeless void and a deafening silence. Around me, life had continued without me, without Walter. My sea legs beneath me needed to adjust, to build stability as I fumbled through the stages of grief. Irrational, nonsensical thoughts rattled through my brain. From begging God to bring him back, wishing I could trade his life for mine, to feeling such anger and sorrow.

Gradually the intense heaviness of despair started to ease. Left exhausted, moments came where I had to pause, stop time, not think, not feel. Melancholy blanketed me from the outside world, so I could weave a cocoon around me. Inside was a sense of safety, where I could process my thoughts, learn to manage the emotions, and to accept what was is gone.

I feared time would fade the memories; wear away fine details; losing him, losing us to the sands of time. Each trip around the sun would take me further away from him. I worried that in creating new memories, I would forget cherished moments. I would replay the memories over and over, trying to ensure they were burnt in my mind for eternity.

I experienced a year of ‘firsts without Walter’; filled with tears, sadness, and memories. Then another year of occasions ‘without Walter’ came. But this time there were less tears, but the memories remained. I even felt present in the moment, enjoying the now. I came to realize that some memories invoke strong emotions and that is a testament to us. When one’s loved so completely, so deeply, it will leave an everlasting imprint. I started to believe that moving forward wasn’t erasing nor replacing; nor would I forget all those little things that made him Walter.

Ever so gradually, I began to emerge, tired of carrying the weight of emotion, wanting to feel alive, to embrace the world around me. Three years had passed since his death and I wanted to, I needed to move forward. To not be the ‘grieving widow’. To pack away the proverbial black mourning gown. A rather scary venture, as I wasn’t as strong as I once was, nor did I have any idea which direction to go. I was embarking on another journey which would be an intricate dance, with steps forward and back, some sideways, and some slides. And most definitely the odd trip or misstep.

Experts write about the stages of grief, what to watch for, how to prepare, how to respond. But there isn’t much written on how to rebuild a new life after the loss of a partner or how do they know they’ve finished grieving? What I little I could find was vague and rather dated, practically moth ridden. Information for the Leave-it-to Beaver households, for the stay-at-home wife. I didn’t need information on how to balance a cheque book, nor how to operate the lawn mower. What I needed was a guideline as to where I should be – logically and emotionally; where I could find some reassurance that I was not rushing nor lingering too long. I couldn’t find such a reference, so I had to navigate this blindly.

The world around me was familiar but felt different. Our bed, once our haven, felt so cold and empty. I’d strategically place his pillow where he lay, where I cuddled up to it, trying to mimic his presence. As time went on, I gradually adapted, and the need to fill the space waned. As I emerged from the depths of grief, our home, which felt so cold and empty, gradually started to warm, to feel more like home again. Something which I hadn’t thought possible. Little by little, I was adjusting to my life after loss.

I think I’ve worked through the grief in a healthy way. I used available resources, from reading to grief counselling. I worked through thoughts and emotions by talking and writing; and humbly accepted the love and support from my circle of family and friends. But moving forward, starting over, or whatever one chooses to call it, is challenging. Not only has the world I live in changed, but I'm not the person I was before him. Because of him, my experiences, my abilities, passions are so much more. I'm more grounded, softened; the capacity, desire to nurture, to savor, to love had expanded. Not only am I creating a wonderful and fulfilling life for myself but am also discovering who I am. There is now curiosity and a desire to be present, to experience, to explore.

Before Walter passed, he and I were fortunate to have time together to have many hard talks, from dealing with his estate, what were his final wishes, and even my life after him. Walter was a very humble, thoughtful, and selfless partner. He worried about our children and about me, stating how horrible he felt burdening us and causing us pain. Of course, we scolded him for thinking such things, but that’s the type of man he was. He told me how sorry he was for leaving and wanted me to be happy again, to love, to be loved and cared for. I responded to him no, I couldn’t fathom the thought, he was my love. He assured me that our love is eternal, and that in our next life, we’ll find each other again, but much sooner than in this life. But he told me I needed to carry on in this life, and to not be afraid to live, to love or to laugh.

As the months went by, then turning to years; without even realizing, I had started to live again. My calendar started to fill with activities again – evenings out with family and friends, exercise classes, even vacations. The dark cloud of sadness which hung over me had lifted, unveiling the colorful world around me, filled with happiness, humor, opportunity. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, I’ve stretched my wings and become acquainted with the person I’ve become. I feel strong, grounded. Even with the newness, my traits that Walter adored had surfaced again – my silliness, spontaneity, enthusiasm. I had done what I promised, I carried on with life, am happy, am living a fulfilling life.

I’ve become comfortable in the silence around me and quite enjoy my own company. I have many varied interests, so I keep myself entertained. Being alone hasn’t been much of an issue. As a naturally extroverted person, I do enjoy the company of others and am blessed with a circle of amazing people, family and friends. So, when I get bored with my own company, I just reach out and chat or go out with a friend.

For me, and I believe for many widows, after the acceptance stage of grief, one of the biggest challenges is the loneliness that exists, and the guilt attached to it. Now, there is a difference between loneliness and being alone. Being alone is being by oneself, without the presence of another. We all should be comfortable being alone, independent and enjoy our personal time. But loneliness is the yearning for interaction, intimacy, connection with another.

I honestly, in my heart of hearts, never thought I’d feel loneliness. As in the intimate, companionship type of loneliness. Prior to Walter, intimacy wasn’t something that I really missed, nor thought much of. Part of this would be because I was busy with life, working, raising two sons on my own, running them to and from activities and I had an active social life. The other part would be that I had never experienced a healthy relationship until Walter. From the moment I met him, it was he and I in our happy place, filled with passion, pure bliss. After he passed away, I thought that part of me had died too.

I couldn’t give an exact date on when it first crossed my mind, but I sure remember the guilt I felt when I first thought of how much I missed the warmth of another. I surprised myself that the thought wasn’t connected to Walter. For years, any thought of such things was of him. Then out of nowhere this abstract thought came out of nowhere. After much reflection, and understanding that was happening was normal, even putting caveats on these thoughts, my guilt eased a bit.

Dare I explain the first time I looked at someone and felt an attraction? It had been such a long time and was so unexpected, I was worse than a thirteen-year-old girl. Trust me when I say I was a mess, I really was. What a mixture of guilt, panic, and oh, such embarrassment. After some self-reflection, I assured myself that is normal, so if it happens again not to panic, it’s okay.

I’ve been honest with myself and can now admit without guilt or caveats that I miss cuddles, kisses, intimacy. I loved being in a relationship, waking up next to a partner. I can now say that should I ever be with another, it would not be disrespectful to Walter, nor minimize what he and I had. I’m not sure what my future holds but am receptive to whatever fate has in store. Maybe a companion, maybe not. Maybe a house full of cats, maybe not. What I do know for sure, is that whatever it is ahead, I’m ready.

Edit:

Thank you all for your kind words. For me, the importance of 'putting my thoughts out there' is to me a personal act of acknowledgement, a linear movement, forward, creating the footprint on my path with dimension. In the piece I wrote, it helped me process where I was at.

As a rather contemplative character, I needed to know have I truly finished grieving? Was I still 'in mourning'? How do I know if I've 'actually moved forward". It's not like flipping a page in a book and suddenly you're into the next chapter. I needed to define myself from 'Linda the widow' and what's highlighted from our love story is the end , to 'Linda" and the beauty of our love story is what is remembered.

I found my litmus test is when things only connected to Walter now were of me, without guilt. I believe I am no longer 'in mourning'. I will always have moments of sadness and longing for Walter, but I carry our love and a multitude of memories to make me smile. I am happy alone. Do I feel like I'm missing out on anything, like I need a partner? No. But I can admit there's moments it would be nice once in a while. Maybe one day, who knows. What I know is I have become Linda, someone who had a beautiful love story and smiles because she did.

I am still. Motionless.

 

I am still.  My eyes are closed.  I see nothing.   Motionless. I hear nothing but my heartbeat.  A rhythmic pulse, my beating heart, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake.  Attention is drawn to my breath.  Air filling my lungs, my chest expanding, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake.  I try to move ahead. But I cannot.

I am still. My eyes are opened.  I am standing. Motionless.  I see a path ahead.  Images ahead which I cannot recognize. A collection of color, of light, of dark. I feel a calling.  From the path itself or what’s down the path, I cannot tell which, but know I must go.  Forward, into the unknown.  I try to move ahead.  But I cannot.

I am still.  I raise my hands.  Palms faced forward.  Motionless.  I feel a barrier which I cannot see.  Like a glass wall. Clear yet solid. I feel the coldness of the barrier.  Like an ice wall. Frozen and numb. I try to move ahead.  But I cannot.

I am still.  My will is there. I lack momentum.  Motionless. I feel the space behind me. I dread adding more. Moving me away, from what I’ve known, what I lived.  A swarm of memories buzz behind me. Warm feelings embrace me, my heart aches, reminding me that I’ve lived, that I’ve loved.  I try to move ahead.  But I cannot.

I am still.  A happy life lays behind me. I fear its distance. Motionless.  I ache to be in its midst.   I don’t want it to fade.  Nor be forgotten, not honored, or erased. The love behind me had changed me.  It ignited a yearning, a desire for intimacy, for partnership, showed me what love is. I try to move ahead.  But I cannot.

I am still.  I sit in limbo.  I cannot move.  Motionless.  I cannot stay where I am.  I need to feel alive. To live with purpose.  I feel the coldness of the barrier. Like an ice wall. I want it gone.  I try to move ahead.  But I cannot.

I am still.  I feel loneliness.  I’m at a crossroads.  Motionless.  I am vulnerable and weak.  I wish to go back to him, to us.  It isn’t possible, as he is gone, and he rests in peace.  I know he’ll remain in my heart, and in my memories.  I must continue to live, to move forward, I’m still alive, I am awake.  I try to move ahead.  But I cannot.

I am still.  Processing my emotions.  I am building strength. Motionless. Until I can move forward. I will then welcome the unknown.  There will be room in my heart to live, to experience, to feel.  To embrace the vibrancy of life.  The past will not be unwritten, love will be remembered, memories will be sustained, experience will make me strong.  I will move ahead. I know I can.

I am still.  I will raise my hands. Palms faced forward.  Motionless. I will break the barrier which I cannot see.  Shatter like glass.  Clear yet broken.  I will feel the warmth from my surroundings.  Like a breath of fresh air.  I will move ahead.  I will succeed.

Petals of Emotion

 

Like a blooming Dahlia, opening wide to the sun.

Each petal opens, boasting its color, creating sheer beauty.

Warmth in my bosom grows, tightening my chest, shortening my breath.

Filling me with excitement, a burning passion, pure bliss.

Love.

Like a wilting sunflower, after darkness falls.

Weighted down by the center of its being, tearing its grounded roots, leaving a gaping hole.

A painful ache inside me grows, a hollow echo crying, vibrating throughout me.

Welling tears burn my eyes, a knot in my throat, pure despair.

Grief.

Like a wild rose emerging, finding the light after a forest fire.

Peaking through the ashes, looking up at the sun, vibrant color emerging from the dark.

Love and experience feed me, a new me emerges, pure intrigue.

Life. 

Sweet dreams are made of you...

 

Father time carries me further and further away

From the last moment I kissed your lips, said goodbye

We approach the second turn around the sun.

The void you’d left in my world remains

And life just continues to move on.

 

As I experience life without you.

New memories and moments are made.

Yet, at night, I close my eyes in sweet anticipation

For the past, an image, any image of you to surface

In my thoughts, in my mind’s eye, in my dreams.

 

Hoping for a moment

A still, a shape, an image.

Caught like a dragonfly in amber

or a faded black and white photograph.

To see your face, your eyes, your lips, that smile.

 

Hoping for a memory

playing like an old film.

Maybe not as clear as I’d like

but happy to relive a moment in my mind.

Captured, cherished deep inside my heart.

 

To touch your face, to kiss your lips

To hold you tight throughout the night.

To feel your warmth, your heartbeat under hand.

To look into your eyes and see them smile.

To hear you say I love you once more.

My dreams of you are the sweetest.

Nights I wish to last, to savor every moment.

But I must wake, leaving you there in my dreams.

I know that I need to live, to feel, to move forward.

And hope you visit my dreams again another day. 

October 2021

Waves of Grief of Love

 

Autumn

The leaves of summer turn crimson, ochre, brown.

Leaves softly flutter, dance

float gently to the ground. 

The morning air so crisp, brisk, cool.

Children ramble, meander

saunter blissfully toward school.

The reveries of summer gone, faded

lost.

Replaced with the veracities of school, work

preparation for the first frost. 

Harvest moon shining, vibrant

bright.

Days grow shorter, decrease

diminish into a cool dark night.

The icy north wind blows, blusters

calls.

Beckoning Winter's advent, appearance

arrival as the last golden leaf falls. 

Linda Brailean 2001

Merry Covid Christmas 2020

 

'Twas 11 days before Christmas,

When all through the town,

Sask Health tightened restrictions,

And made us all frown.

Covid spread across the province,

With Increased daily cases,

Cuz some don’t follow rules,

And refuse to cover faces.

Many family plans have to change,

Through the Holiday Season,

It may dampen our spirits,

but it’s for a good reason.

Though we may not be together,

with those we love dear,

it’s so we can stop Covid

and be together next year.

But still try if you can,

to feel the holiday mood.

Reach out by phone or video

to connect with your brood.

Christmas isn’t about food,

or gifts from a store,

As the Grinch would say

It’s a little bit more.

It’s about family and friends,

About gratitude and love,

For those all around us,

And of Heaven above.

Wishing a Merry Christmas,

To all of you from me,

and cheers to 2021

may it be Covid-free!

Twelve Months

 I flipped over another page of the calendar hanging on the wall. December.  Twelve months have passed.  A year of firsts-without you.  I felt your absence everywhere, every day.

 Beside our bed, your cell phone sits on your nightstand.  The water bottle I filled the last day you were home sits beside it, still filled with the water.  The only item I can hold in my hands knowing that your lips last touched its rim.  I can’t yet bring myself move those items. 

 My mind wanders back to memories of you.  I bring myself back to the now, but my emotions are strong; my heart aches to be back with you and relive every moment.  I fear my mind will one day fail me and those cherished memories may fade with time. 

 I think back to the last day you were home.  Since then our house grew cold, sad, empty.  The walls heavy with memories, but the rooms echo my sadness.  No longer filled with love and laughter.  What lingers is emptiness. 

 My mind strains to remember as much of those last days at home, as I possibly can.  I close my eyes and can almost feel your arms around me; the rise and fall of your chest; your heart beating.  We’d sway to a song only our hearts knew.  My fingers remember your touch, your fingers intertwined in mine.  Every kiss from you provoked the same reaction – delicious anticipation, pulse quickened, heart fluttered, I’d catch my breath. The fullness of your lips as they touched mine. The passion. The love. The connection. Bliss.  

 I think back to that last evening you were home.  You were so tired that day that we went to bed after supper, to our island, our own little world impenetrable from life’s pressures.  We cuddled until you fell asleep, on your back with your arm stretched, a position which you found some comfort.  As many nights before, I moved my pillow to the foot of the bed, curled up to your legs, rubbed your feet, then gradually fell asleep.  Some nights I still sleep that way.

 Only a couple of hours later, you woke me.  Visibly uncomfortable and exhausted, you admitted you didn’t feel well.  I knew the last few days had been difficult for you but had no idea how much.  When I suggested we head to the hospital, you agreed.  My heart sunk as this confirmed you were much worse than I thought, but I had to maintain my composure, be strong for you.  I helped you dress and collect your urine sample.  My mind then panicked - your liver and kidneys were not functioning.  The ride to the hospital was a blur, but we got there.  Within a few hours I could see your discomfort, frustration, confusion.  Cancer was ravaging your body and I was helpless.  I couldn’t save you.

 The doctors advised they could do no more.  You didn’t cry, nor ask ‘why me’.  Instead you worried about me and our children.  There were hard and heartfelt conversations; and a multitude of hugs, kisses and I love you’s.  As you requested, we kept music playing in the background and I was by your side.  Those nights I lay beside you in that hospital bed, I watched you sleep, I tried to memorize every inch of you, burn your image in my mind.  I felt like we were living in a dream.  This couldn’t be real. How could God allow someone so genuine, so good, to be taken like this?  The pain in my chest was unbearable – but nothing compared to yours.

 Gradually you started to wade in an out of consciousness and coherency, I stayed by your side, holding your hand, trying to keep you calm and relaxed as possible.  That’s all I could do.  I wished it was me, not you, going through this.  You rapidly lost weight as your belly distended, you skin started to yellow, and I couldn’t stop it. Although you wouldn’t communicate, you’d reach for me, not the nurse, knowing I was there for you to help.  Although you were slipping away, you would respond to my voice, you still kissed me.  You still held my hand. 

 As your breathing shallowed, we could see it was time for you to gain your wings.  You were so fragile, so cold, so not the man who walked into the hospital five days earlier.  I would say I love you and ask for kisses, and you puckered your lips and could kiss me.  Oh God, it broke my heart that you had to go.  It broke my heart that I couldn’t save you.  It broke my heart that your children, Jase, and my children were losing you forever.

 When the nursing staff said they would freshen you up, you could still hear me. I told you I was going down the hall for a minute.  I told you that I loved you and asked for kisses.  You puckered up and kissed me back.  I asked for more kisses and you obliged.  I said I would be right back.  When I walked out the door, I worried that you’d slip away while I was gone to the lounge.  I promised you I would be there with you to the end. But when I returned, I knew you were gone, even before I opened the door.  This horrible weight in my chest crushed me, crushed the air right out of my lungs.  I looked at you in that bed – almost unrecognizable to those who hadn't seen you in a while.  I know you chose to leave after I had stepped away for those few moments, trying to protect me from further pain.   I lay my head on your chest. It was cold, hard, hollow.  Lifeless.  I held you. I kissed you. I cried. A piece of me went with you that day, where it belongs.

 I haven’t been the same since that day.  I promised you I would be fine.  And one day I will be.  I I’ve experienced loss before.  But not like this.  Our lives, our being, so intertwined, symbiotic.  Since that day, I’ve felt incomplete, almost hollow.  Disconnected.  All colour faded when you took your last breath.  I live in a world of grey.  This is grief.  It comes in waves.  At first crashing hard at my foundation, leaving sharp painful edges that I couldn’t move without feeling pain.  As the weeks go by, the waves vary, some massive, others not as strong.  As the months go by, the waves continue, some strong, others are ripples, yet massive ones still strike at times.  The sharp edges are gradually weathering down, some painful, others sadness.  But I keep moving. 

 It’s been one trip around the sun without you by my side.  But I carry a piece of you with me, deep in my heart, forever cherished. That piece sustains me, and my memories comfort me.   As days pass, I become more accustomed to life as it is now.  It’s different.  I’m different.  I try to honour you by living a life which you’d be proud of me.  To remember the things you’ve taught me, the love you’ve showed me.  I am a better person because of you.  I thank you for choosing me to love, to trust, and to bear your soul.  My best friend. My lover.  My happiness.  You were, you are the love of my life. I miss you often.  And love you always.  Sending my love and kisses to Heaven.

 

December 5,2020

If I were a Colour, what would I be?

One of the chapters in The Artist’s Way is on recovering a sense of strength.  One of the tasks is to pick a colour and describe myself in first person. 

One of my most vivid childhood memories was getting school supplies – more specifically a brand-new box crayons for the upcoming year.  A bright, new, untouched, chisel-tipped rainbow hidden beneath the flap – to this day I can still remember the smell when opening the box.  To get a box of 64 colours with a built in sharpener was better than winning any lottery.  I would read the names with excitement, organizing them from the best colours to the worst, then  sort like with like.  I spent hours sorting, drawing and colouring.  So, with this week’s task of choosing a colour, I immediately thought of a colour, then hemmed and hawed like the 7 year old girl with the big box of crayons.  Atomic Tangerine, Hot Magenta, Ultra Red - so many choices – but returned to my first choice.

I am Black.  Black as the closet. Filled with secrets, fear and monsters.  The unknown hiding in among shadows. 

I am Black.  Black like a ‘go-to’ outfit when feeling insecure.  Basic.  Forgiving.  Dependable. Trying to conceal imperfections.

I am Black.  Black like onyx.  Strong. Sturdy.  Shiny and opaque.  Shielding any vulnerabilities from sight. 

I am Black.  Black as obsidian.  Protective.  Useful.  Aggressive. Powerful. Burgeoning from a churning, challenging past.

I am Black.  Black as ink.  Immeasurable.  Fluid.  Changing.  Determined yet undefined.  A future yet unwritten.

I am Black.  Black as night.  Memories, moments twinkle in the dark.  Waiting to greet the sun and welcome a tomorrow of opportunity.

Just one more time

Eight years wasn't long enough - eighty years wouldn't have been either

I wish I could relive every moment together. 
From the moment we first met to the last goodbye.
If only I could feel your arms around me.
Your body pressed up against mine.
To hear you whisper I love you in my ear.
Just one more time.

I wish I could run my fingers through your hair.

Trace your jawline, your moustache, or your dimple.

If only I could walk with you hand in hand.

with our fingers interlocked tightly.

To randomly dance to the beat of our hearts.

Just one more time.

I wish we could lay in bed and let the world disappear.

In each other’s arms, our bodies entwined.

If only we could return to our happy place.

Where we shared our hopes and dreams.

To feel your lips tenderly against mine.

Just one more time.

I know I could wish upon every star in the sky.

But we will never relive those moments we had.

I must settle with all the memories I keep.

So vivid and filled with such details.

Like a never-ending reel of film.

Until the end of time.

I Grieve

How are you doing?  A question asked by loving, caring people with a genuine concern for my well-being.  How do I answer?  I’m doing okay.  I have ups and downs but move forward day by day.  It’s the easiest response to give.  I do share a bit more with certain people who know how to read me, but it too is a watered version of my reality.  Honestly, I don’t want to burden them with my pain, nor have them worry about me.  There isn’t anything they could do to help me through this.  It is a journey which I must take alone.

I’ve decided to capture these thoughts, my pain, in words – an attempt to release some of weight of these emotions and allowing me to move forward.

How am I doing?  I just exist.  No desire.  No drive.  No dreams.  No direction.  Numb.

Each morning I dread waking to a new mediocre day, wishing to stay safe within my dreams.  Daily tasks are draining. The hours drag even though days go by so quickly.  Each day is repetitious, meaningless.  I don’t want to feel, think or speak.  I just want to withdraw, to hibernate.  This is not living.  What I experience now is colourless, empty, repetitive, meaningless.  This is grief.

It comes in waves – some just ripples, others so strong they practically take my breath away.  When a wave hits, I feel pain, despair, anguish, and a tightness grows in my chest, almost suffocating me.  Other times, it’s a memory which triggers a longing, a yearning for what was; or a moment where emotions like sadness, heartache, loneliness swirl deep inside me.  He was my anchor.  My anchor is gone.

I’ve experienced loss before – family members, friends, and my mother whom I loved so very much.  What I’ve found is that with each loss, we grieve differently.  With losing my love, my Walter, it’s all-encompassing – felt in every aspect of my life.  He was a part of me, and I a part of him.  In his arms was where I belonged.

Shock doesn’t even remotely describe what we felt when we found out Walter had terminal Cancer.  The months he had left went by so quickly.  I wanted to protect him, care for him, cherish him for as long as I could.  No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop the inevitable.  We watched our hopes and dreams fade away.  The life we planned – gone.  He was robbed of his passions, of his family, of his future. 

I dreaded seeing his long locks fall to the floor because of Chemotherapy.  I watched this big strong man weaken; and saw the sadness in his eyes when he’d come to me to open jars.  As the Cancer spread, he became frail. He couldn’t keep weight on, was so terribly cold; and needed help showering.  I saw how tired he was. I felt so helpless – I couldn’t fix this for him.  I saw his spirit begin to wither. I watched him slowly fade away.  All I could do is give him kisses, hold his hand and tell him how much I love him. When his heart stopped, mine shattered.  A piece of me went with him that day.

I strain to remember as many things about him - as many details that I can.  I want to burn those images in my mind, in my heart, forever.  There are times where I question what I should have done better to help him, to lessen any burdens, to ease his pain.  Other times moments just play in my mind over and over.  The person who would comfort and assure me everything will be okay is gone.  It was him.  He was my calm.

Everywhere I look, there are things which remind me of him.  I touch them, looking for echoes of his touch.  On his nightstand sits his phone and the water bottle I filled for him the last night he was home.  I can’t bring myself to remove it.  His lips once touched the bottle – it’s the closest thing I have to ever touching his lips again. 

Our bed feels so cold and empty.  We called it our island.  A retreat impenetrable from stresses or worries.  Where we would talk about our day and our dreams.  Where we could be vulnerable but know we were safe.  Where we lay in each other’s arms and would drift off to sleep.  Five months later and I still have difficulties getting comfortable and falling asleep.  I strain to remember how it felt to have him lie next to me.  To hear his breathing which would lull me to sleep.  

So often I close my eyes, trying to feel his arms around me, wanting to hear his voice.  At the kitchen sink, at doorway, in the hallway, where he would envelope me, kiss me, then we would sway together, dance to the beat of our hearts.  I miss holding his hand, random kisses, and all his cuddles.  He filled me with such tremendous love.  Now I feel hollow, empty, without him.

I find over the past five months, his loss has become more real, as the numbness begins to fade.  It’s still there, but a little bit less.  They say it all takes time.  I find that moving forward is a slow process – an intricate dance – not just two steps forward, one step back, repeat.  Emotions of heartache are still just under the skin, easily released; yet emotions of happiness; of normalcy are weak, not ready to move forward. 

Every step forward is bittersweet.  It’s a step toward healing, yet a step away from him.  I find it difficult to make plans, to dream – because he won’t be there by my side.  Every milestone has changed to a first year without; and brings a memory of last year with.  I enjoy a moment, an event, yet I feel his absence and that saddens me. 

I find that it gets easier to fake a smile, to act normally as if everything is okay; even on the days where I’m drowning.  At times I feel people forget how recent his loss was.  Or they forget the magnitude of the love, of the grief I experience.  Some may think that five months has been a while so I should be further along ‘the grief process’.  I’ve surprisingly heard there is some magic equation for grief – something like it should take x months after loss for x years together.  Trust me, there isn’t.  Time does not equate to intensity of emotion. And there aren’t step-by-step directions to go through the grief process. 

Externally, I appear a bit stronger each day.  Internally, I continue to live with waves and ripples of grief.  I know time will soften the intensity enough that those moments will be filled with sadness, not pain.  I’ll once again be able to feel, to laugh, to dream.  I’ll strive to live my life with vibrancy, with purpose.  As he took a piece of me, he gave me a piece of him which I’ll carry with me until we meet again.  It just takes time.

Crave Sleep

The silence is deafening. 

No life. No movement. 

Unsettling.

Hear myself breathe.  In. Out.

Rhythmic. 

Darkness throughout.

No light. Shadows dance.

Unsettling.

The clock's hands move. Tick. Tick. 

Rhythmic.

Too tired to move.

Too tired. Crave sleep.

Weary.

Heart beats loudly. Lub dub

Rhythmic.

Eyes slowly shut.

Thoughts drift. Dreams begin.
Weary.

Breaths much deeper. Slow. Soft.

Rhythmic.

Asleep.

To my 80 year old me

As I write this letter, I’m in a state of uncertainty.  I’m grieving the loss of my Walter and am just a shell right now.  Knowing that I need to move forward, but don’t yet have the energy or will to dream, feel and redefine who I am.  It will come in time.

I’m writing you this letter in hopes that my wisdom, experiences and regrets have shaped my future in a positive light.  I assure you I am trying to realize my capabilities and celebrate my successes so that the next thirty years are lived to their fullest – filled with confidence, happiness and stability.

There are a number of things I hope you’ve accomplished over the years.  I hope that you’ve remembered to see beauty around you, that you’ve celebrated and shared it – be it by word, pen or paint.  I hope that you’ve forgiven those who’ve held you back, caused you pain or sadness – most importantly yourself. I hope that you’ve learned to see yourself through the eyes of those who love you – and truly see your beauty and accept your imperfections, both which define you. 

When you look in the mirror, I hope you like the image looking back at you – that you accept her and love her.  That you love every wrinkle, every scar.  That you’re not so critical of the shape of your figure, of rolls, of excess weight or saggy breasts and you’re happy with your grandma’s arms.  I hope that you’ve embraced the woman you are wholly, completely, being thankful for that very vessel that carried you through eighty years of heartaches and happiness; childbirth and challenges; adventures and experiences. 

I hope that you’ve traveled, challenged yourself to try new things.  That you’ve kept healthy, mentally, spiritually and physically. I hope you’ve found drive and desire to be a force, to lead a fulfilling life.  I assure you that you deserve to enjoy every moment.  Always continue to be grateful, humble and happy.

Love your 50 year old you

Finding my creative self - The Artist's Way

One of my dearest friends introduced me to a course created by Julia Cameron called The Artist’s Way.  At first, I questioned if I should even consider participating as I would never consider myself an artist.  I do admit I’ve always loved to dream, to write, to create.  I wasn’t very confident and rather critical of my skills.  I thought maybe one day I’d be ambitious enough to hone these skills, maybe even be good at something.  Then life got in the way. 

When I thought of doing something ‘artsy-fartsy’, I often thought it’s an impractical use of my time.  I would then use that as a reward – if I just got this long list of chores done, then I could have fun being creative.  After trudging through, task after task, I was drained and lost any inspiration.  Fortunately, though, every so often I had opportunity to be a bit creative – help the kids with projects; invitations, theme parties; costumes; decorations; Christmas letters; crafts.  I felt refreshed, recharged, exhilarated.  Then life got in the way.

I decided that I really needed to read The Artist’s Way and join a group so I could find my creative self even though I’m not an artist.  I met an amazing facilitator, Renee, who is such an inspiration, and other uplifting ladies who were embarking on this journey.  And so, my journey of self-exploration and self-expression has begun.

I’ve realized that we forget that doing things we enjoy.  They shouldn’t always be a reward.  We must remember to make time to do things that nurture the soul.  To quote Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, “Success or failure, the truth of a life really has little to do with its quality.  The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight.  The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.”  How can one move forward without vision, without inspiration, without optimism?  To do this, we all need to find something which awakens us, refreshes us, recharges us. 

What is an artist?  An artist isn’t always a writer, painter, sculptor, musician, or an actor.  An artist isn’t good or bad, exceptional or awful.  I’m in the process of learning the definition.  And as I work through The Artist’s Way, I’ll truly understand what an artist is and find my creative self along the way.