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rain

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Everything posted by rain

  1. Dimcl, I am so very sorry for your loss! Your story and mine are very similar. My husband and I too were a May/December relationship, 22 years apart. People tend make assumptions about this sort of pairing, but those who knew us knew we were perfect for each other. I was 25 when I met him and he lied about his age, in the beginning. He lied to everyone about it, and everyone believed him because he was so young and vital and full of life; by the time he confessed, we were in love, engaged and there was no turning back. It was the first marriage for both of us, and we knew we were meant to be. I essentially grew up with this man, and was a better woman for it. We adored each other ~ friends often commented on how our relationship seemed special and humbly, we knew it was. By some vast good fortune, the gods had smiled and we had gotten lucky. We were, simply put, happy. My husband had a family history of longevity, and no real serious health problems that were unexpected in a man of his age. His father lived to be 95, his brother was 82, and we thought he'd live forever. We traveled, wined, dined and lived like there was no tomorrow. Until suddenly, there was. He died of a massive heart attack on a beautiful afternoon in August while out mowing the lawn. We were to be going out on our traditional Thursday night "date night" ~ how we loved those, even after 27 years! We called them "Hubby and Wifey Night". We were hopelessly corny like that. And didn't care. We enjoyed each others company, and the pleasures life has to offer. I want to be able to tell you it will get better, but I also want to stay real in here, and I don't know that. Other posters, with more experience, say it will. I haven't yet found it so. I can only say that it gets...different. The grief attacks that used to drop me to my knees at the sight/sound/smell of anything that triggered a specific memory have lessened in frequency, replaced by an overwhelming sorrow and longing that I wear like a burka ~ heavy, confining, omnipresent, enabling me to move and function, but without joy, freedom or hope. So I must leave it to others to offer uplifting messages and words of encouragement. Tonight I am in despair, and have none. Just know you are not alone. We all fall apart. My wish for you is that you will find comfort in what you find here. There are generous people who are willing to help. Peace to you (( ))
  2. Thank you for that,Carol Ann. The poem speaks volumes for many beside myself, I am sure. Your fridge magnet is indeed wise.
  3. I've come to find my (quite possibly excessive ) graveside visits very comforting, but the first few times brought fresh waves of grief as I realized, yet again, that he was really and truly gone from me. His family is buried there as well, and it's a lovely, serene place, only 10 minutes from my home. I'm there 2 or 3 times a week to meditate and tend the flowers. I see many of the same people there too, day after day. Gazing across the expanse of green lawns I wonder who they mourn, why they come ~ if, like me, they find some solace away from the house, away from the paperwork and endless chores. Ironically, away from daily grief and responsibility. The first time may be difficult ~ it is, in it's own way, a fresh shock ~ and cemeteries are not comfortable for everyone. Many people prefer to remember their loved ones without such visits ~ I know my husband certainly never cared for them. But they can also soothe, and I hope in time, however often you choose to go, you will find peace. Especially tomorrow, you will be in my thoughts. Be gentle with yourself. (( ))
  4. Someone very wise once said, Embrace the questions. Beware the answers. Thank you both for being so understanding. (( )) It's been a simply awful day. It's nice being able to vent just a little. Your taking the time to share is much appreciated.
  5. I always loved that descriptive phrase from Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, that the man was possessed of a “heightened sensitivity to the promises of life”. It struck my 16 year-old mind as poetically descriptive, moonstruck even; words that hinted of innocence and wisdom, hope and pragmatism intertwined. I find myself now at the opposite end of Fitzgerald’s pier, burdened by a heightened awareness of the certainty of loss and the literature of death. Everything I read of bereavement I respond to resoundingly, emotionally. Like that 16 year old girl, I believe that these are the first and best words ever written, and that they were written especially for me. Today, in the review section of the Times I read the words that have been banging around my head for months. Three months. Three months, six days and counting, I guess. Describing a character in his novel “The Finkler Question,” author Howard Jacobson writes of the widower Julian Libor: “But Libor — dapper, intellectual and artistic — is losing his energy for argument, fading away after the death of his wife. By all accounts, the relationship was ideal, and he’s heartbroken. ‘How do you go on living knowing that you will never again — not ever, ever, ever — see the person you have loved?” Julian wonders. “How do you survive a single hour, a single minute, a single second of that knowledge?‘” That, for me, is the definitive question; how do you go on with the loss of half your being, knowing it is gone forever? My husband and I both believed that life is fragile and death is final. We cherished the time we had together, mindful of its transience, and we never let a day go by without letting the other know how much they were loved. Now, like Libor's, my heart is broken. So the query remains. How does one survive with the knowledge that one's heart is no longer in this world? How does one live a day, an hour, a minute? I'm not sure I can. Or want to. In search of an answer, I just fade away.
  6. "Losing my husband was my biggest fear. Now that that fear has been realized my new biggest fear is losing my memories of him. I don't ever want them to fade because it's really all I have left of him. I sometimes pass his picture and wonder out loud - how can you possibly be gone??" Funny, I walk by and ask his pictures the same thing, using exactly those words. "How can you possibly be gone?" It seems so inconceivable, even now, after 3 months. I too fear losing my memories of him ~ I adore, I need his pictures around me, but they are, after all, one-dimensional. I fear losing the feel, the smell, the touch of him. The warmth of his body as well as his smile. The way his eyes twinkled when he was gently teasing, the way he cocked his head & cupped his chin when he was deep in thought... But maybe I am just yearning for the reality of him, the physical presence of a man who is gone forever. Foolish woman. Anyway, in my reading here, I think it very interesting that so many who grieve use precisely the same words and images to convey their sense of loss and confusion. It is what makes the site at once comforting and melancholy. As Korina said, it's nice to know we're not alone.
  7. "I started crying in the car realizing I was alone....lots of family and friends but my husband was not coming home. I was alone!" I like that phrase that Vicki O used; this loneliness is indeed 'shattering at times.' That strikes me as very descriptive and apt. The shock of it hits suddenly again and with great force, and we disintegrate. We are fortunate to have friends and family. And yet... We have lost that piece of ourselves that kept us warmly tethered to the world. That is, in my new experience, the definition of loneliness. In that sense, we have everything, and nothing. Peace to you, and us all. (( ))
  8. Karebare, I am so very sorry for your loss! I lost my husband, also unexpectedly, 11 weeks ago today. My guess is that you are still in shock after only 5 days ~ I was for several weeks ~ although you probably don't even realize it right now. I know I didn't. But second-guessing, disbelief and guilt are a huge part of the burden we bear, and we all experience it. Even as I write this, I still can't believe my husband is gone. Just know that you are not alone. One thing is certain; so many decisions must be made so quickly for the final arrangements that you'll have little time to think things through as completely and rationally as you'd like. My advice is to go with your instincts in how best to honor him: what would he have wanted, what did he believe; what did he like and, last but not least, what will bring you the most comfort? This is about your life together, as well as his as an individual. Pick songs, pick flowers, poems and venues that will bring you some measure of peace. Assemble friends and family who will help you to celebrate his life, and even make you smile as they recount familiar and unfamiliar stories to share. I dearly hope you have someone close to help you with all this. Your loved ones are invaluable and eager to help. Use them. You need them more now than ever before. Your daughter is so young, and too young to understand the practical meaning of death. She has found her daddy in the star, and that is her level of understanding for now. I think it's perfectly normal. Be good to yourself in these coming days. Accept the love that surrounds you. Peace to you, Karebare
  9. Thank you, LD, for all your kind words. I'm sorry for all our losses, and hope that we may yet find some peace. (( ))
  10. I'm in the same age range as both of you, and feel very much the same way. I was fortunate enough to spend over half of my life with the love of my life, and there does not seem much of a point in carrying on this lonely charade without him. I have no need or desire to find another partner ~ my husband set the bar too high to be followed ~ and try to find pleasure and comfort in the company of friends and in the maintenance of the home we both loved. In truth, it all seems so pointless. Food has no flavor and the mornings hold no hope, and yet I am baffled by talk of moving on when I'm not sure that I even want to. 'Move on' to what, exactly? I suspect I would rather live in sorrow than a hollow facsimile of a contented life. I would answer your question, Melina, regarding why the tidal waves hit when they do, or where to find the strength to go on, if only I knew. If you are being punished, then we all are. You must go on for the sake of your children, who need you. Speaking only for myself, I go on because there are still practical matters that must be settled and demand my presence. Beyond that, I make no plans or promises. But too, maybe we find the strength to go on because the strength not to is even more unattainable. I'm sorry ~ it seems I can out-depress anyone. It is simply how I feel. I hope not to bring anyone further down, but only to express empathy with you both. (( ))
  11. Thank you for sharing this. It has the ring of truth and sorrow, as well as that of wishful thinking. I know I wish I could find that place where we share time together, where time stands still. Reality bites.
  12. I keep saying the same thing over and over and over again. We had plans, we had dreams, we had time. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I pass by his pictures on the wall and find myself stopping, looking into his twinkling eyes imploring, "Where are you? Where are you, my love? I need you here with me. You're supposed to be with me..." I hear you. I need him back in my life. I can't have him, but I need him. All I know how to do is cry. I wish I had something more helpful. All I can say is that I understand. (( ))
  13. Please don't apologize for being a downer. We are grieving; it is what it is and I, for one, often grow weary of forced chirpiness and mandated positivity. I lost my adored husband of 27 years ten weeks ago, and I too question the necessity and validity of a life without him. in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on ~ Samuel Beckett We probably will go on, and there will be moments of laughter, light, song and life. But never again will we experience the depth of joy and love that once was ours. Perhaps if we try not to look too far to the future, and live in this moment, as sorrowful as it may be. Know that you are loved by your family and needed by your friends, and your presence still has meaning. It is altered, but exists. I suppose too that we put forth the effort for those smaller pleasures the world still offers: the song of a bird, a starry night; the smell of the ocean, or dinner with friends... small things and bittersweet without our loved ones, but pleasures nonetheless. I accept them as they come, and they keep me going for now. It is up to each of us to determine what we must move forward toward, and whether or not, in the end, it is enough.
  14. I'm so sorry, Melina. We both lost part of ourselves that day. I weep with you. Peace to us all.
  15. Hi, Melina. Forgive me if I babble here as well. I'm new at this, but you could be writing for me. I lost my husband on August 5th to a sudden, massive heart attack. I still can't believe he's gone. He was a dear and wonderful man. We were together for 27 years; over half my life. We had no children. We simply lived for, and adored, one another. Now life has no meaning without him to share it, and every morning that I awaken and think, "this is to be my life now," brings only desolation and tears. It all seems so pointless. So joyless. I mean only to say that I know what you're going through, and wish you well. Happily, the family you created together lives on, and you have your 4 sons to support and be supported by in return. There will be joy in the comfort you give to each other in the difficult days to come. Peace to you.
  16. Oh my, that made me cry. And I hadn't thought, but it is so lovely and so true; what we think of as saying our farewell is never truly what we mean to say. I was with my mother when she died and I never once said goodbye, only 'thank you' and 'I love you.' Over and over and over again. And I would have wanted, had I known what was to happen, to be with my husband when his heart attack occurred; if I could not save him, then certainly not to say goodbye, but to hold him and kiss and say 'Thank you my darling, I'm here, I'm with you. Be at peace. Know I love you!" It's what I yearn for now, besides his presence, to have had that precious moment to have eased his passing. If only wishing could make it so. But we did try to 'live our lives so that our last words were 'I love you'. I must try to remember that. Thank you for a sharing something so thoughtful, and beautiful.
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