mbbh

In case you didn't know, I am a very tenacious person. I am persistent (sometimes to a fault) and I have even been called "stubborn." (I know, hard to to believe, right?) One thing John use to say to me when we had a disagreement (okay, an argument), was, "I don't know why I am even saying anything to you. What's the point? You're going to do it anyway." It was usually at that point in our disagreement that we would both stop, laugh, and roll our eyes at each other. He knew about my persistence. At times during this journey, I have felt anything but tenacious, but then I remember, "You're going to do it anyway," which if I take a different twist on it, it loosely translates into, "The feelings are going to come. You're going to get through it anyway." The difference now is I don't laugh when I say that to myself and I don't roll my eyes about it. I have learned a few things over the past 9 months about a topic I didn't sign up to learn about: Grief of losing one's spouse. I know this experience is limited and I am still early in this new life, so I do not pretend to know more than anyone else about this course. I realize I am in the infancy stage of this life of grief, but bear with me. As much as I would give anything and do anything to have John here, well and whole, my new reality doesn't afford me that opportunity. This is so for all of us here. One thing I have come to realize is that living into and with grief is never easy, no matter the loss. Everyone's journey is different. For me, I find that finding time for stillness and allowing the grief to come as it makes itself known lowers the episodes of overwhelming pain that take over. Allowing myself to soak in important feelings, allowing them to seep into, from and through my spirit, somehow makes a difference. It doesn't eliminate the pain of grief, but instead of taking a sprint and a diving straight into the pool of hopelessness and despair, stepping into the shallow end and slowly wading into the waters doesn't leave me drowning or banging my head on the bottom of the pool. I still take a dive in sometimes because it is as if I am being shoved off of a high dive, but when I am able to slow down, it helps me. Don't get me wrong. Some days are absolutely heart-wrenching. When a tsunami of emotions hits out of the blue, I feel fortunate just to hold on tight and eventually tread the waters of loss. Big storms hit hard and one is not always able to prepare and even when one does prepare, the unpredictability of the storm rocks our world. But the good news is this: Waters recede and the gift of resting in the warmth of the sun is revealed. It comes again, but each storm packs a lighter punch, in general, and we tap into resilience in order to survive. Grieving any loss is hard work, but it is truly a gift from a Power higher than ourselves that people find new purpose, new meaning, and new ways of being. I didn't ask for this new life and God knows, I wish it weren't so, but it is so... and while I have no idea what good will come from my experiences, I rest in the assurance that it will, indeed, come. Through struggle and pain, a person can emerge with life anew. I don't know the who, what, when, why nor how that will emerge in my life. I don't think it is necessary for me to know today or even tomorrow or the next day. I just hold tight to the threads of hope and faith that this pain will not always be this intense and that eventually, those threads will be woven into a rope of strength and resilience and maybe even a strand of stubbornness. May it be so. Peace, Mary Beth

Butch, That is so much heavy loss. Blessings and peace to your grieving heaet. MB

It has been my experience that things come in clumps. When I was in my late 20s, both of my grandmothers and another relative died within 3 months of each other. Clumps. My mom passed away 4 years ago just after being diagnosed with leukemia. A year and a day later, my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma. Clumps. My most recent clump began last September when my husband John was diagnosed with an SMA aneurysm which ultimately took his life. He beat cancer and died of something else. Damn. Just. Damn. Yesterday, John's sweet 93-year-old mother died. She had dementia and her quality of life was poor. It still hurts. Clumps. I believe it cuts deeper because he has not been here through the roughest part of her illness and because he loved her so very much, as do I. I have taken on some of the caregiving to his parents, assisting his sister and brother who live in other states. They visit frequently. They have had around the clock care for about 9 months in their home but as a family, I still travel the hour it takes to get there and go over weekly. I love them and am glad to do it, but I feel like I haven't had time to rest since John died exactly 9 months ago today. Clump-John's death, mother-in-law's death, and anniversary. I don't know. Maybe I overthink it. All I know is her death, as merciful as it feels, hurts. It has already intensified my grief. I feel like by losing the woman who birthed and raised him, it is like losing another part of John. This loss on top of loss simply must slow down. I feel like I am drowning here and long to come up for air. I need time and I yearn for my husband. I am grateful to Ms Lillian for giving me John. I am grateful that their spirits have reunited in a different way. The image I have is of a melding of spirit and love between a mother and son. She called him her "sweet baby boy." I hold hope that there is a life after death and that Ms Lillian has her sweet baby boy back. Much Love to All! Mary Beth

I am at a loss for words Tom. So very sorry...

Gwen, I am holding you in my spirit. The "compliment s" people give us DO hurt and sometimes I am unable and unwilling to be gracious. I have even been known to just stare off into space as a response to avoid saying things I really do not want to say... Or perhaps I do want to say them, but I avoid conflict or hurting someone's feelings at all costs. I have rolled my eyes to myself so many times the past almost 9 months. I don't know what the answer is. People just do not understand. They try, but they can't.... Much Love to you. Mary Beth

Tom, I am glad you are going to explain to her how this feels. It does feel like others minimize our pain, even when it may not be their intention. I believe it is their attempts to "make us feel better" OR to make themselves feel better about complimenting us. It does hurt that others simply do not understand, yet, if they did, they would have had to go through losing a partner and I would not wish this pain on anyone. Even though I have had people who have lost their spouse or significant other say similar things to me, I wonder if it is some self-protective attempt to "make everything okay," when no one can do that. My intention in writing about strength was to say that strength has many looks, "many faces." All of these faces, especially the ones that do not feel nor look strong, are strong. Living in our vulnerability, wading through our pain, surviving although we believe we are dying, feeling like we are failing (there's no such thing in grief), and moving or not moving - all of these things are a part of strengths that people do not always recognize as such. Much Peace to You...

Kayc, Agreed. That is why I have to constantly redefine strong for me. It may simply being open to being totally defeated. Today was one of those days where I only found strength in remembering that I didn't feel strong and that that in and of itself is to be honored.

I have a friend who tells me, "Be strong. Know we are with you." He is a good friend, but he hasn't lost the love of his life. Being strong, for me, has many faces. When John first died, I went into autopilot. I had to clear out our hotel room, find a funeral home for cremation services, book flights to get on a plane home for the following day- the day before Thanksgiving of all days. I had to tell everyone thank you and goodbye - so very many new "family away from family" who had held us up for that month in Houston. (We - the ICU family members and doctors and nurses and therapists and, and , and- we all held each other up for that hellacious month.) I had to call his family, my family, our church family. I had to talk to Social Workers, a chaplain. Our 19-year-old son was with me. We both went into "let's just get this done mode." We were in the face of "autopilot strong." When we got on the plane the next morning, the "I don't want to leave without him syndrome" struck. This way of being strong, the "persevere no matter what" attitude kicked in. We got on the plane anyway. In the coming days of shock and denial, the face of numbing strength reared her head. Shock is a gift. Going numb is a gift. Denial is a gift and they are strengths when one is under incredibly traumatic strain. At his funeral, I thought I would die. I allowed myself the privilege of numbing out again just so I could make it through. At the visitation afterwards, when several sets of our friends embraced me, embraced "us," (because they loved John deeply too) the strength of tender tears found their way to my heart. I would break down, then get into the role of hostess again, just to break down again. Yes- I used the word "hostess" because that is what it felt like. People making their way to me, past the refreshments, sharing a hug and a greeting and then moving on. 2 days after John's service, I thought I was ready to return to work. Yeah.. I know... The face of strong-willed, stubborn strength. A week later, enter self-care strength. I told them I needed a leave of absence and I take a few weeks off even though I had been away in Houston for a month prior seeking medical care from a world renowned surgeon to help John. Since returning to work 7 months ago, I lean into the many faces of strength. Some days, autopilot is what I need. Some days it is stubbornness and a strong will. Other days I feel those gentle tears well up and I know the strength found in breaking down is valuable. Even 8 1/2 months later, I still go into denial and find strength in numbness. Then, the face of perseverance steps in. I never know what is around the corner of grief. Yes, my friend tells me lovingly to, "Be strong and know that we are with you." It is his way of expressing care. I believe, however, that being strong means so many different things. In our most vulnerable states, we are strong, simply because we allow ourselves to breathe and lean fully into pain. For the only way through it.... Is through it. In shock, denial, with tears and stubbornness, the only way through it... Is through it. Much Love to All! Mary Beth

Mike's Girl For me, keeping afloat has many different meanings. Simply breathing has come to be an acceptable way to be right now. It has to be. It was been 9 months for me and I have come to learn that it is okay to have low spirits. How could we not? The truth is we are where we are. The challenge is learning that it is okay to not be okay, okay to hurt. I hold hope that things change over time and that the reality of this life will not always sting so bad. May it be so for all of us here. Peace to you. Mary Beth

So sorry about your accident. You are in my thoughts as you deal with insurance and all the grief this brings up.

Thank you Joyce. I hope we can all find some peace.

Thanks Tom. Maybe the sand was a sweet gift she left you without knowing it as a reminder of her love? Being sort of ok is a gift in and of itself. I just never knew how hard it would be without John. God, I miss him.

Thank you Gwenivere. It is from my heart, which feels extra broken today. Peace to you.

When I lost him, a part of me died. Just. Died. Since the second the last breath left his lungs, the ability to breathe deeply is absent in mine. Since I felt his last heart beat, mine has raced with panic at times and then slowed to a snail's paced thump with silent tears. Since he told me he loved me one last time, my love for him has grown beyond measure except he isn't here for me to express it and it mean something. Since he died, I feel like I am losing my mind. Since he died, sometimes I don't want to be here anymore. Sometimes I feel like this grief will consume me. Sometimes it does. Since he died, memories take over. Memories of things that were and memories of dreams that will never be. Since he died, I am confused and cold. Since he died, Our bed is cold. Our home is deafening silent. When he died, the "we" that we were became "me." I hurt. I long for his whisper in my ear. I ache for his touch. Since he died, I miss him so very much. Since he died, life has turned upside down and there is no way to turn it right side up. When he died, parts of me died too.

I wonder if there is a Hospice agency in RI where you will be. It may be good to see someone a few times while you are home. No "fix" for this, but talking helps me. In NC where I live, Hospice counseling is free. May be different in other areas. I don't know. My hope for you is that you will be able to figure out a way to surround yourself with supportive people when you need to and to step back when you need to. I am sorry you have had the circumstances to join this club of wounded survivors, but glad you found us.

So glad you are going to be with family. Where you live, do you have access to grief counseling? I hope so. It has been very beneficial for me. Losing my John has devastated me. He was the love of my life and it sounds like you lost that twice. This group has helped me hold on when I was slipping away. Lean and breathe and borrow comfort from us and others. ?

I am sad for and with you as you grieve the loss of your boyfriend and the loss of your husband. I am so very sorry. Breathe and lean, every hour of every day. Love to you.

By posting this I am not suggesting that anyone pray. We all have our own belief systems and sometimes stumble on something that helps. I am merely expressing my experiences with prayer as I journey through grief.

When I wrote this piece, I was trying to make sense out of running across a medical report from 2005, 11 years prior to John's death. I found it last weekend. It eluded to there being something wrong with his SMA. 11. Years. Later... with little warning and a diagnosis just two months prior. He died... I am struggling to let go of anger with the medical professionals who brushed off a potential indicator of a problem then. I am angry with myself for not catching it and asking questions. I am even angry with John. Why didn't we follow up? I likely will not ever know why. Letting go for me doesn't have to do with letting go of my love for John. Letting go has to do with figuring out how to forgive the medical professionals who missed it, forgiving myself for not being on top of it and forgiving John for not demanding follow up. It isn't rational and that is okay. Relinquishing control of what we, in actuality, have no control of, can be an eye opening step in this perpetual healing. We do not have control over the fact that our loves are no longer with us. We do not have control over what we are left here with, such as emptiness and despair among others. What we do have control over is choice. We can choose to ride out a wave as it crashes into us. It doesn't take the sting away, but having been on the brink of ending my emotional prison in less than healthy ways, I can say that survival through excruciating pain is possible. Pain is not the end. It just can't be. Hope has to win. It just has to. I don't mean to sound like one of "those people" who believes that attitude solves it all because it doesn't. Pain is pain, but eventually relief must come if we are to live. Just some thoughts from a rambling person who wants so desperately to hold on while letting go.

Tom is so right. Individualized journey. We are all where we are...

Cookie, it has been almost 8 months for me... lost John a month after he underwent surgery for an aneurysm. Married almost as long as you at 23 1/2 years. I am so very sorry you lost your husband. I think our senses are heightened as a result of grief. That's why it is such a gift to be able to numb out at times. The fact that everything you hear, touch and see takes you to your knees is familiar. The first few months after John died, I was mostly numb, with the occasional emotional outburst of falling apart. I agree, it is worse now. I am told by others that that is typical, but who knows? I don't think there is a "norm" when it comes to all of this. Grief is so individualized. I am glad you found this group, though, as I am as well. Journeying along side of you, Mary Beth

Writing is such a release for me. Thank you for your kind words. Tom, I don't know if letting go is possible. I think if it is, it has to come in one small, tiny molecule at a time, at least for me. I will never let go of the love I have for my John. I don't want to. What I want to work towards letting go of is the hurt and anger. Easier said than done. Mary Beth

Letting Go… Freeing up space in my soul for life, Releasing the hurt in my heart. Not a one time event, but a repetitive act of deliverance from the sharp pain that turns to dull ache and returns to a piercing sting again. Liberation of the agony of holding on to anger. Letting Go… Letting Go… Facing discomfort when the very thought of doing so brings about tightness in my chest. Working the soreness out of my spirit, Sitting in anguish only long enough to process the heartache that invades my entire body. Unshackling the restraints that hold my mind hostage as one thought leads to another, and another, and another. Letting Go… Letting Go… Breaking free from the chains that bind me to exasperating anger. Disentangling my core being with sheer will and resilience. Surrendering a part of myself in order to retain and restore the rest. Relinquishing control and allowing myself to just be. Letting Go…

Vicky, I am so sorry for your loss. The newness and shock of our life circumstances definitely effect us all differently. It is your grief experience and it is impossible to predict when the waves and floods come.... At least that is my experience. I am 7 1/2 months out since losing my husband. Some days it is awful and some days are better than others. Know this grief community understands much of what you are going through. I am not saying that anyone can fully understand because every grief experience is unique. The new reality takes time to soak in. Let it come when and how it comes. Lean into it and breathe. Much love. MB

It has been 7 months for me. I feel stuck some days, but I have to believe that by soaking in and thru the grief cannot be held to some long or short time frame. The pain is still so very sharp most days. I have looked for that finish line even though i know it isn't there. I think it is a necessary hope people have because we are a society of task-oriented, win the race mentality. I am learning to just lean in and to stop trying to finish a race that doesn't end. I believe there will be rest stops on the way, but the journey is just that- a journey.