Letting Go

My husband left this Earth in September 2012. I was immediately struck with guilt because I was not at home when it happened. I had gone to work as usual that morning with a kiss and hug. I remembering lingering just a few minutes longer, now I know why .The first night was filled with so many phone calls and cigarettes- although I had quit years before. I just had not really processed the fact that my love, my soulmate, my first, last and everything was no longer here. I sat in our living room all night long not fully understanding what had happened. This is how it began.

The days that followed were filled with more phone calls…. I just couldn’t keep telling the story over and over. My head was spinning. I was a mess.  My sisters, nieces and nephew flew in from N.Y. and thank goodness, they took over. The day before Pete’s funeral it hit me. I literally collapsed. I was dripping with raw, dirty, emotions that felt like an angry emotional rape. Anger, regret, desperation, pit of the stomach sorrow, fear, relief, I felt giddy…. not happy- almost “crazy” giddy, fear, despair and those tears did not stop. Was this somehow my fault? Did I love him enough? Did he know how much I loved him? Was he afraid? This one still plagues me. Did I do enough for him? Was I the woman he wanted me to be? I never should have argued with him!  I should have paid more attention. Why did I tell him I was tired? Can he see me? Does he know how much he is missed and loved?  I still carried similar questions following the passing of my parents and younger sister.

So many people offering love, support and “Dear Abby” advice.  Well intended and graciously received.  All the past experiences of how I was exposed to this process with the passing of Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and friends shot to shit because it is not a scripted event. This was just the tip of the iceberg. I felt like everyone was watching to see how I was reacting. Did I cry enough?  Was it ok to say he died? How am I going to pay the bills? Where did I put his will? How is his family going to react to his wishes? What can I expect at the funeral? How am I going to pay for the funeral?? I can’t go to that place again.

It’s amazing what the human brain does in times like this. I surrounded myself with family and friends for the first week. When everyone went home and it was quiet again, I found myself reassessing all the questions I had.  Then as the days turned into weeks and then months there were more thoughts and questions. It became such an emotional tug of war. I lost so, so much.  The depth of the level of loss took 2 years to comprehend. Not just the obvious… the person. I lost family. I suppose they have their reasons, but they no longer call or attempt any contact. I have done my part. I cannot force anyone to do anything. This is their choice. Friends who just can’t handle how long I am grieving.  There are so many things.

It has taken me 33 months to be able to understand …. I did everything I knew to do at the time. Could I have done more? Probably. Would I do things differently given the chance? I don’t know. I don’t believe that God only gives us what we can handle. I believe my God, gives me the strength to carry the load and the resolve to use my other gifts to figure out another way to carry the load or decide which things I don’t have to carry anymore. I also embraced my belief that forgiveness of self is the hardest. If I could forgive myself then that was all I needed.

I cannot carry the negative any more. I will not. I was a good wife, lover, caregiver…. I did the best I could. I cannot carry guilt anymore. I have nothing to feel guilty about. This will allow me to move through my journey. I will never stop missing my husband. I will love him forever. In order to continue my journey up Grief Mountain, I have to leave the baggage that keeps me stuck in this place. This is necessary for me.

 I am letting go. I will no longer question myself.

I am letting go. I will no longer blame myself.

 I am letting go. I will no longer play Devil’s Advocate to try to justify someone’s behavior.

 I am letting go. I cannot be responsible for someone’s emotions.

I am letting go. Every negative emotion.

I am letting go. I know I was everything I could be with what I knew at the time.

I am letting go. I do not have anything to prove.

I am letting go. I am no longer worried about how long or how I grieve. It is mine.

I am letting go. This is my journey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I DO still talk to my husband

 

A few weeks ago, I was speaking to a dear friend. She has been through her own losses and asked me how I was getting through my own grief journey. I told her about my good and bad days and the different coping tools I used for each. I started to tell her a story and said “I asked Pete”, she stopped me in mid-sentence.  She asked me if I still talked to Pete. I looked at her and told her of course I did, every day. She asked me if I thought that was healthy. At first I was offended when it occurred to me that maybe she didn’t understand. After all this was my journey, not hers.

I never really thought about it until now. I guess I “assumed” everyone talked to their loved ones who passed on. I spoke to him while he was on earth why would it be different now. I don’t expect a response. My faith taught me that he can hear me and he is watching over me every day. I admit that it would be incredible to hear his voice or to have something tangible happen, but that is not my reason for speaking to him. I speak to my Dad, Mom and Sister in Heaven too.  The last few months of Pete’s life on Earth, he was in and out of it. He would forget that people had visited. Talking to him became soothing to him, I could see it in his face.  He became less agitated. Sometimes I had to repeat myself 4 or 5 times. To me it didn’t matter. I was hell bent on keeping this connection for him. Yes, I do still talk to my husband.

When we first reconnected, our relationship was long distance NY-Florida. I traveled to Florida monthly to spend long weekends with him.  We spent many hours on the phone talking. I changed my cell phone plan. Talking was a big part of our reconnection.  Words were our emotional connection when we were 1500 miles apart. My husband was a paraplegic when we first got back together and as his disease progressed he became a quadriplegic. Conversations became difficult as he struggled to speak. We developed our own “sign” language. Again, talking was an important way for us to connect.  I would read to him and tell stories of my day at work or just even tell him things I was doing around the house. I dresses up in silly outfits and sang pretending to be Elton John. I read condensed stories from Reader’s Digest and his Facebook newsfeed. I read bible verses, short stories and even menus. Keeping the connection… the emotional connection.

In the days following his passing, I found myself calling out to him. I woke up calling his name. In the shower I caught myself asking if he was ok, like I did when he was still on earth. I clearly remember coming home expecting him to be there.  I have caught myself speaking out loud too many times to count.  I still sometimes wake from a dream calling his name. It is amazing to me how the connection is still there.  I have gone to sleep asking his advice,  dreamt of him and woke up feeling that all my questions were answered.

Yes, I do still talk to my husband and I will continue to do so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still my husband

It has been two and a half years since my husband was called home to Heaven. During this time, I have been asked many times, by many people if I have begun to move on or move forward with my life. It puzzles me as to what this really means.  The life I had was a WE that suddenly became an I. How does one begin to make that transition­…. HE IS STILL MY HUSBAND.

When someone passes away, it is the death of a person, not the relationship. Your parent does not cease to be your parent when they cross over. Your child will always be your child. A friend remains a friend. My husband is still just that….my husband. Move on­?

I have lost relationships with people I thought I could grieve with. Suddenly and with no reason. I do understand grief and grieving. You cannot do it alone. You cannot schedule it. Some days all I want to do is stay in bed with the letters, cards, receipts, stuffed animals… whatever and cry myself dry. I don’t for my own reasons. Some days my makeup is gone from my face before I get to work from a saline tear bath on the drive in. People who I considered friends have stopped answering the phone when I call. I understand their inability to be supportive, it is about them and not me. How can I not talk about him? He is still my husband.

I am no expert on this topic. Hell, I can only speak from where I have come from so far. Just my opinions really.  Things I have been learning. I am not trying to pass on any special grieving secrets, no magic potions, no short cuts.

I have learned that it is ok for me to keep talking about Pete. I should continue to honor his memory however I choose to. As long as it is healthy and productive FOR ME. I will surround myself with supportive people, environments and memories that will make me feel better. I was married to the person God chose for me, regardless of how long. He is still my Husband.

 

Tissue box

After the sudden passing of my youngest sister and then within months, my husband passed as well, I was carrying around tissue boxes everywhere I went. I began to measure my grief progress by how many boxes I had. The green boxes were for why me,  the blue boxes from my hysterical anger episodes, the pink boxes represented how many times I cried because I loved then both so much and happy memories. My purple boxes were for the times I cried because I felt sorry for myself.  Other colors and patterns were for the sudden outbursts, television commercials, "just checking on  you" phone calls, anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. I kept the empty boxes stacked in a corner in my bedroom. They reminded me of how much I had cried and in a way I was looking for the boxes to decrease which to me, would mean I was progressing in my grief journey.

A very good friend of mine lost her husband about a year after I lost mine. She told me that she gained some inspiration from my tissue boxes. She took her empty boxes and filled them with words written on scraps of paper. Feeling words. Every time she cried, she would write down the word associated with that emotional cleanse. She did this every day for a year. At the end of the year, she took all the words out and divided them. She was shocked to see how many words that represented anger there were. Dispair, Disgust, Frustated, Pissed off, and Really fucking pissed off were just a few of the words she had in that pile. It made sense to me, a "seasoned" widow. My first year was filled with day after day of "why me, why my family" and "what the hell did I do to deserve this??" I felt so guilty for being angry. My friend said that she was inspired by my story of what I was doing to move through the grieving process. I was flattered and still am humbled that my insane way of attempting to deal with my emotional rollercoaster of a life inspired ANYONE.

During the second year, my friend continues to use her tissue box. She tells me that she has already seen a difference in how many happy words she is adding to the box. Now she uses colored paper. She tells me that her pink paper- representing love and happy memories is getting low in the box while the blue (anger) and green (worry, wonder and what the hell am I gonna do now) piles get used, but not as much.

I shared this story with someone I trust very much and told her that maybe I would try writing the emotion I was feeling and the memory or event that caused it. After a year, I would take them out and examine them.

It has been 2 1/2 years since my husband was called home and almost 3 for my sister. I am very vested in making this journey  one that is not just healing, but a learning one as well.

All Fakakta

Fakakta. Great word. Yiddish for "messed up" as well as a few other choice words....

That's how I have been feeling. My husband left this earth almost 2 1/2 years ago. I start to feel a little less sadness and then BOOM it starts all over again. I am beginning to  understand that this is what grief is.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't go a day without crying for his loss. Some days it is unpredictable and others, all I have to do is think of him and then the waterfall starts. It's a good thing I drink so much water or I swear I would be dehydrated. It is exhausting and cathartic at the same time. How is that possible?

I am so happy that my husband is free of pain, suffering and is in a place where he is whole again and able to do all the things he wanted to do while on earth. Selfishly, I want him back with me. Yes, I saw his body slowly being taken over by the Multiple Sclerosis. Yes, I saw his body twist and shrink as his muscles shriveled up. When he was  unable to eat he got thinner and thinner. We had to be so careful not to break his bones when trying to move him or straighten him out when he would have muscle spasms. We would all wear a happy face so that he would not see how much it pained us to see him in this condition. All these things haunt me and I take a deep breath and know that his suffering is over now.

I felt guilty for wanting him to live. Even when he forgot names. A few times he looked at me like a deer in headlights. He really didn't know who I was. I would joke with him and say "you know who I am, it's me the love of  your life". He would tear up and shake his head no and then in a second, he remembered and whispered my name.... Steph. I would tell him "see you DO know  me!" Triumphant for him, and bittersweet for me. Many afternoons were spent crying on the way home from work. I felt sorry for myself. Then I felt guilty for feeling sorry for myself.

What a twisted way to live. This insanity went on for the first year following his passing. I had such conflicting, mixed emotions. I wanted to label each one, put it in a jar on a shelf and open it only when I wanted to. Well that bitch GRIEF would not let me do that. She grabs you by the throat and throws  you into a clusterfuck of emotions. And then just when you think you have it kind of under control, she spins it up again when there is a holiday, anniversary or really sad commercial on TV. I never knew when something--a smell, sound, song, the bark of the dog... whatever, would stir up the tornado of emotions.

I couldn't understand what was going on. I had my verbal one to one's with God. I  yelled and screamed at him. I even got angry at Pete. He just left me. No notice, no great parting words of wisdom. Nothing. Slowly, I started to understand. Everything I was feeling was ok. It was part of the plan. Part of the process. Part of the healing.

Fakakta. Yes, that is how it was and some days it still is. And that is ok.

1 more minute.....

I struggle with whether or not I was a good enough wife, friend, lover, companion or caregiver. I never asked my husband and he never made me feel like I wasn't. Since I was not  home with him when the Big Man upstairs came to bring him home to Heaven, I never got to say goodbye. This haunts me. I wonder if he was scared. Did he suffer? Did he know? What was the last thing he thought of? Did he smile when he saw God?

I have begged, pleaded, bargained and offered to be the best damn spokeswoman for Heaven, if I could have just one more minute. I know exactly what I would do with every nano second of that time. 60 seconds. Try looking in the bathroom mirror and talking for one minute straight. The average person only gets to 47 seconds before they run out of things to say. I dream about this minute. I imagine it. I know what I would do. I would make it the best 60 seconds of my life. 1...2...3...4...5...I just want to be able to look into my husband's eyes one more time.  I want to gaze into his soul. Those beautiful, puppy dog, chestnut brown eyes. The eyes that could melt a glacier, the eyes that captured my heart in 1980.

One more minute.6....7....8....9...10  I would stroke his face with the back of my hand like I did to calm him when he was in pain. One more minute to look at the handsome face of my first, last and everything11...12....13..... I would run my fingers through his hair. I would hug him harder than I ever had before, knowing this would be the last time. One more minute.    28....29........30.....We wouldn't even need to speak. To see him smile, watch him look at me. One more minute.

I would press my cheek to his, close my eyes and imagine us dancing. 31....32......33.......34

35...36...37.. The day he first said I Love You. 38....39....40.....I do and still do. 41....42....43....44....tears because a minute is almost up. 45....46....47.. he holds me close and  when our eyes meet again I see everything he is trying to tell me. Don't be sad, I will miss you more than  you can imagine. 48... 49.... 50... Oh, God, please stay!! Don't go Pete. . 51... 52....53....54....55... I see the pain in his eyes and whisper "I will be fine. I love you too much to ask  you to stay. Be with me every day and let me know you are there."


56...57...58...59... He would gently kiss me and hold me for the last time. His fingers trace my face as I close my eyes and silently beg for him to stay.  When I open my eyes he would disappear from my sight leaving the impression of ever after and forever love on my heart.

I find myself doing this all the time. I will take Pete's hairbrush and remember him using it and I can actually see him brushing his hair. I close my eyes and hold his favorite cup and imagine him drinking from it. I open his desk drawer and see everything exactly as he left it. I close my eyes and I can see  him going through it looking the drawer. I remember catching him "hiding" something in the drawer, learning a week later that it was the engagement ring he bought for me. Sometimes I will spray his cologne... Grey Flannel in the bathroom when I am drying my hair. It reminds me of the times he would get ready for our "date nights". My eyes well up because I miss him so much. Remembering is part of the grief process. At first the memories come in flooding, overwhelming tides of emotion. I felt like I was drowning and couldn't catch my breath. I tried to control my memories. Tried desperately to decide WHICH memory and WHEN to have it. I would be sitting at work and burning tears would just run down my cheeks. It didn't matter where I was, work, church, supermarket, driving... I could not control them.

I have only cleaned out 2 of his dresser drawers. I would run my fingers over his clothes, hug them tight to my chest and bury my face in the shirts desperate to smell his scent. I have taken a few of  his shirts and put them in ziplock bags hoping to preserve them forever.  I sat in his wheelchairs and remember how he hated to see me do that. He didn't want to imagine me in a wheelchair. Ironic, that now I am. I wonder what he is thinking about that now!  I hold the pen he used every day when he worked out of our home. As I run my fingers over the smooth edges I remember seeing him with that pen. As the quote says... looking for echos of your fingers.

My husband left this world 874 days ago. It is still unbelievable to me. I look back to those last few months of his life and see how sick he really was. God spared him so many times. It wasn't  his turn. I can see now, what I could not see then. 

I remember throwing Hospice out of our home one day because the Doctor suggested removing his feeding tube. Pete had so much  life in his face. He smiled, laughed and his face lit up when I came home from work. I clearly remember calling in  one day to work and sending the aide home. Pete could not speak but I saw that his face was curious. I told him that I wanted to spend the day with my husband like we used to. He squished up his face like he was trying to ask why? I told this man who I fell in love with over 20 years ago that he was as sexy as the first time i saw him in 1980. I pushed my bed as close to his hospital bed as I could. I crept up next to him and put my head on his chest. I pulled his arm around me and stroked his hair. I kissed him gently. When I opened my eyes I saw tears on his cheeks. Our eyes locked. I knew that this was one of our goodbyes. We both lay still. I clung to him, desperate for every second. I did my best to let him know how very much I loved this man. I KNEW he was dying but I would not accept it. My family and friends continued to ask how he was. My responses became "he slept all night" or " he smiled a lot, he is having a good day". I was clinging on to every little thing. It was almost like celebrating your babies first steps, crawling etc. There were some days when I was so thrilled because he was able to get a word out. I remember the last time he actually spoke my name. It was amazing. I came running from the kitchen when I heard it. He was sitting up in bed with the aide next to him. He was smiling ear to ear. It was such a small thing, but to  us it was huge.

Towards the end of his time on earth, he began to sleep more. I tried over and over to get him to stay up, look at photo albums, talk about memories or SKYPE with his family. He didn't have the strength. Every single day I made sure that he smiled. I dressed up like Elton John and sang to him. I made "prank" phone calls.. anything to get him to smile. Even if it was just for a minute.

The day Pete left was a normal day but I remember there was something calling to me. A reason I lingered. He was saying goodbye. He did not want me home. He knew I would not be able to take that. If I was supposed to be home i would have been. Pete's very last day on Earth was spent doing something for me. This was the kind of man he was. He knew that both my son and I would not be home until later. I truly believe that was his final act of love.

Just one more....

Becoming a widow at 47 was a turning point for me. Every single thing in my life changed. EVERYTHING. We was now Me. Us was I. My family of 3 was now a family of 2. My home seemed empty. Our bedroom once bustling like a small hospital was not eerily quiet. The spot where his hospital bed was is now empty. There was a huge stain on the carpet from the feeding tube. The Nurse never turned the machine off and it kept pumping out the formula all over the floor. She also never capped the catheter. All the supplies still on the shelf. The get well cards and posters still hanging up. His cologne still lingered in the air. I wanted to run after the funeral home vehicle and scream...

I found myself begging God, Allah, even Yoda to give me just one more minute with my husband. 60 seconds. Not much. I bargained. If I could just have that minute I would spread the word of goodness. Tithe. Volunteer more. Go to church every day. Whatever was needed, I would do it. I was so pissed that he was taken from me. Why?? What good will this do anyone? Yes, he suffered, but he seemed like he was ok. Stupid me. How dare I turn a blind eye on what my hubs was going through. It wasn't selfish, really. I just refused to see it because then I would have to believe that he was dying. I was not ready for that. No fricken way. Every emotion all jumbled together. It was horrible.

I had that minute planned out. Each night before going to sleep I pray. I have a "script" and then I add whatever else needs some extra help. I sort of expected that my minute would come in a dream. And I also knew that it probably would not be as I wanted it. I was open though. I never got to say goodbye to my husband the way I wanted to.

Four months almost to the day of his passing, I did have an amazing dream. I have to believe that it was a dream and didn't actually happen. I had my minute, not as I wanted it, but I have to believe it was as it needed to be. My husband's visit was not going to be on my terms. It provided me with such a great deal of comfort I still cry thinking about it. I can remember it vividly. I know that my husband is safe, whole and free of pain from that bitch Multiple Sclerosis. I also know that he did this for me because he saw how horribly sad I was.

I have come to realize that I will get what I need. It may not be what I pray for, what I wish for or what I want. It is not about that. It is, though, about being ok with my feelings. I have nothing, not an f'ing thing to feel guilty about. I was not supposed to be home when he passed. That wasn't the plan.

The anger is finally gone. It has been 2 years but it is gone. One victory for me on this journey.

The first few weeks after my husband was called home to Heaven were the hardest. My son had surgery the week after his death and they had a very hard time waking him up. I literally was a walking zombie.
Here I was a 47 year old widow. What the hell??? I was angry. Dammit I was pissed- at everyone and everything. Mostly at God. Yes, I yelled at the Big Man, called him names and even challenged him to give me ONE MORE FUCKING thing to deal with. Come on, I shouted- show me what  you are made of. Give me all that you got. It was during this time that I came to the realization that this was part of the process. I had stopped mourning and began to grieve.

I remember picking up my husbands' ashes at the Funeral Home. He had never been in my car because he couldn't transfer from the wheelchair and didn't want anyone to pick him up. We had a handicapped van that the wheelchair went right into if we needed to go somewhere. Here I was taking an urn in a bag of what was my husband. This was the first time I had ever dealt with  "remains" or "cremains" as they are called. I had to honor his wishes and have him cremated. It was surreal to me. I held it together until I got into the vehicle and then I lost it. I had my husband, in an urn, in a bag in the seat next to me. I said out loud A" Hey Pete, this is your first ride in my car." I began to laugh hysterically. I had to pull over in a parking lot. Here I am laughing like a maniac with tears just pouring out of my face. People drove past, some stopping to see what the heck this crazy lady was doing. I wanted everyone to know... I HAVE MY CREMATED HUSBAND IN THE SEAT OF MY CAR. It was nuts.

Somehow I got it together and made it home. My son carried the urn into the house and we put it in the "shrine". I have a beautiful hand made wooden cabinet that my husband had his Elvis Presley collection in. It has now become his place. Two years later, I still have not touched it. I just cannot bring myself to do that. I am learning that this is ok.

My story begins in 1980. I met and fell in love with a young man whom I would marry 25 years later. 
Pete and I had the type of love many people will never know. I truly believe every setp of our lives; both together and apart were planned. 
On September 25 2012, my world changed forever. My soulmate was called home to Heaven after a crippling battle with Multiple Sclerosis. Everything I knew in my life stopped existing. I went from we to me in a matter of one minute. I had no warning.
Death IS a part of life. We grow up experiencing backyard funerals, We equate these times with relatives we rarely see, cold cut platters, Entemanns cakes and lots of other goodies. We all have that Aunt or Uncle who volunteers to run to 7-11 for milk or soda and they take the kids with them.  Once there we took full advantage of the trip and got whatever we wanted. Tears, phone calls, hushed conversations and lots of head pats. That is what I remember. As I got older it was the same except I was included in those hushed conversations.

Now my husband is gone. I do not understand. I make the obligatory phone calls. Hug strangers and let them tell me what to do and how to feel. I sit on the couch tissues in my lap, pictures scattered around totally stunned. The phone ringing in the background. I let the machine pick it up just to hear Pete's voice. I thought of my Mom who was a widow for 5 years before she was called home to Heaven. I had just lost my sister suddenly 5 months earlier. Pete and I were married 7 1/2 years. 5 of them he required some level of care. His last year with us we had in home Hospice.

As teens, Pete and I had a pretty adult relationship. We were very serious and marriage had been discussed. The Big Man upstairs had other plans that needed to happen.  When Pete and I got back together it was meant to happen at that exact time. There were many times over the years apart that our paths crossed we learned. It was pretty amazing how many times we were at the same place at the same time. 

The next couple of days are still vivid. I try to find a sensible reason for reliving those days. Part of this process for me is to remember. I experienced such profound guilt. Did I do enough? Did I try every possible thing to make him comfortable? I had set up our bedroom like a mini Emergency Room. We had a feeding pump, oxygen, a 6 foot tall cabinet filled with lotions, bed sore supplies, antibiotic creams and sprays, syringes..you name it, we had it. I wanted my Husband to be in our home. We had full time care paid for through a state waiver program. We accidentially found out about that. I decorated our room with the cards from relatives and friends and pictures from my nieces and nephew. 
I dressed up like Elton John and sang to Pete. I would set up Skype with family and friends so he could stay in touch. With some help from his family we made sure he felt loved and valued. We never allowed his illness to define him. He left this Big Blue marble with a smile on his face.

Climbing Grief Mountain

I am not an expert on grief and loss. I have experienced death the same way millions of us have who live on this big blue marble. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. We are all different. All the books by "experts" can offer lots of friendly advice. Sometimes reading how others handle their own grief can be very helpful. This is my journey and I thank you for sharing it with me while I continue to climb Grief Mountain.

 Please share your own thoughts and comments.