KathyG

Findings I’m so glad you found me It was fate, had to be We grew up 30 miles apart but didn’t find Romance till you moved 3,000 miles away. You found a battered, belittled shell I found a love to salve my shattered soul, A friend I could tell secrets to Who made me laugh and rediscover joy. For awhile, the woman found Fell lost again when she lost you. But now I know you still belong to me You find so many proofs to show me. You help me find lost things (Including strengths I never knew I had). You help me find the words To reassure and relieve others’ pain. You send your signs of life and love Hide them in plain sight for me to find. You find helpers for my trouble times, You seize me back from the edge. You guide my clumsy hands You still whisper your love And as I find myself again, I find Your ways, the ones I loved, becoming mine. And what I’ve found of you, within my heart Can never be forgotten, lost or changed.

Lots of insomniacs here at this site; I didn't know sleeplessness was such a common symptom of grief. I never had much trouble sleeping before, except for a few times I was riled up about something at work. Now I often wake up multiple times a night and sometimes can't fall back asleep for hours. (At least, I'm getting caught up on my reading.) One night last week I felt exhausted but couldn't close my eyes once - I stayed up and watched DVDs until dawn. I have had to learn to sleep in a new position, because I used to lie on my side facing Bill. Now I can't stand to look over at that empty space. I filled it with throw pillows just so that there's something there. If I drink herbal tea with valerian shortly before I go to bed, it does help me fall asleep. I wonder if I'm turning into my mother, because for years she'd get up at night and roam around the house. Some of that was sleepwalking, though. True story: one night, she woke up hungry and went to the kitchen for a sandwich. I was up late studying for a test, so I thought I'd grab a snack too. There was Mom, standing by the sink trying to bite through a dishcloth stuffed between two pieces of bread! I woke her and showed her what she'd been trying to eat. "Oh," she said. "I thought that was tough lunch meat!"

It's too bad that "My Heart Will Go On" became such a cliche after the movie "Titanic" came out, because the song's lyrics have extra meaning when you're mourning for your soul mate. Here are the lyrics: try to read them as a poem instead of thinking about Celine Dion singing them, and you'll see what a good fit this song is for us. Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you, That is how I know you go on Far across the distance And spaces between us You have come to show you go on Near, far, wherever you are I believe that the heart does go on Once more you open the door And you're here in my heart And my heart will go on and on Love can touch us one time And last for a lifetime And never let go till we're gone Love was when I loved you One true time I hold to In my life we'll always go on Near, far, wherever you are I believe that the heart does go on Once more you open the door And you're here in my heart And my heart will go on and on You're here, there's nothing I fear, And I know that my heart will go on We'll stay forever this way You are safe in my heart And my heart will go on and on

Deb, I think it will get easier in time. But I've read or heard from many sources that the period from six to nine months after a death is one of the hardest to get through because that's when you really begin to feel the magnitude of the loss's impact on you and your life. I'm at nine months and you're at seven - so I guess if we can get through these weeks, the road will become a little less rocky afterwards. Still, we have to expect that we'll encounter more setbacks in the future too. It's frustrating when you want to dream about someone who's gone and the dreams don't materialize. You can't force these dreams to come, but they do seem to happen more often at times when you're in need.

Although I suppose I should have expected it to happen sometime, this morning I'm deeply hurt and feeling betrayed because my husband's family has decided to exclude me from their lives. When I last called them in July to touch base and find out how everyone was doing, it seemed like they couldn't end the conversation fast enough. That by itself hurt a little, so I didn't call again because I didn't want to be rejected. They have never called me since. When Bill was alive, we visited them fairly often and they always included us in every holiday celebration. I kept hoping for an invitation for Labor Day, but none ever came. I've already had friends and even some of my own family drop out of my life since I became a widow. But I really didn't expect it to happen with Bill's family. They were always there for me the first few months after he died, but suddenly they broke off contact. I have no idea why. Up until now, we always got along well, they know I loved Bill with all my heart and soul, and when he died, they told me they loved me for being so good to him and taking care of him even through all the health problems he had. So where did things go wrong between us? By now, I should have learned the lesson that a bereaved person should expect to be shunned. But I just don't know how to accept or forgive it. I'll move on, but not without regret and bitterness toward the shunners. Right now, I feel like Bill's family is dead to me. If Bill could know, or does know, about this he'd be so upset. Last night, I dreamed Bill was with me. He was crying, and he said to me in a loud voice (so loud I woke up), "Kathy! Kathy! I love you."

Mary Linda, You did the right thing in visiting Paul, whether he appreciated it or not. As difficult as it must have been for you, it shows your compassion and strength of character. I'll add Paul to my prayers.

Cheryl, I'm so sorry about your loss and the pain it's causing you. Don't worry about your computer skills, though - you're doing fine, and no one here expects anyone else to be a computer whiz. The important thing is, you found this place and here you can feel supported and safe. I know you feel overwhelmed now, and you say you wonder how you can go forward. Believe it or not, you will; the key to survival is to deal with things one at a time, one hour at a time, or one day at a time, whatever you feel most comfortable handling. My husband died of a heart attack last November. These past nine months have been the roughest of my life, but I've found so much comfort here. One of the best things about this site is that you can come here any time of the day or night, whenever you feel worst or most in need of someone to share your feelings with. You'll need that kind of support more on some days than others in the weeks and months ahead. Good luck and God bless you. Kathy

"The World Unseen" is an awesome song that's on Rosanne Cash's "Black Cadillac" CD. But the CD also includes another song that's equally moving, called "I Was Watching You" (full lyrics below). The part of the song I love most is the chorus: "Long before life there is love" and "Long after life there is love." I WAS WATCHING YOU Headlights on a Texas Road And Hank Williams on the radio Church wedding, they spent all they had Now the deal is done to become Mom and Dad And I was watching you from above 'Cause long before life there was love See those little girls dressed like china dolls All for one then one by one they fall High on a hill where the world passes by You never came back but I know you tried 'Cause I was watching you from above When it all falls apart there is love All those years to prove how much I cared I didn't know it but you were always there Until September when you slipped away In the middle of my life on the longest day Now I hear you say I'll be watching you from above 'Cause long after life there is love Baby, I'll be watching you from above Long after life there is love

John, what a wonderful poem! I feel honored to have been the inspiration for it. You're absolutely right; we cry less for our partners than for ourselves, because death has stolen so much of the additional years of love, joy and companionship we thought we would have with them. The future experiences we wanted so much to share can now never be - and even if we're beginning to rebuild new futures for our solitary lives, that doesn't diminish the anguish we feel from having the old future plans ripped away. I've always asked myself why I cry so much when I have so many happy memories of Bill to cherish. Now I know why I'm so sad - it's because all my interaction with him from on can only be in memories or in those precious moments when I feel his spirit close to me. We experience so much of other people through their voices, their touch, their physical presence, and it's tough to bear when we no longer have these things in our relationship with our partners.

Mike, I'm happy you had a dream visit from Janet! These kinds of visits mean so much because they leave you buoyed, comforted, and reassured that your loved ones are now happy, healthy, and freed from any pain or disease they suffered on earth. And - the dreams are a kind of reminder that Janet lives on, if not in her physical body. It's great that you were able to hear her voice. Sometimes when I dream of Bill, he doesn't speak but I have heard his voice at other times.

Bill has helped me find things before, but my late father still comes through when I call on him for help with mechanical or carpentry-related stuff. For example, I was trying to assemble a computer desk and even though I was following the instructions exactly, the pieces would not fit together the way they were supposed to. I said out loud, "Dad, I have a mess here. I really need you to help me fix it." Suddenly, I felt calmer. I picked up my tools again and this time, had no problem assembling the desk. The same kind of thing has happened when I was trying to assemble a porch swing, fix my front door, etc. All I have to do is ask, and out of nowhere comes the skill I need.

This happened yesterday: My car has an alarm system that controls the door locks and prevents anyone from starting the car while the system is active. Well, I accidentally knocked my keychain (with a remote control fob for the alarm system) off the counter into the sink. Though I fished the keys out in less than a second, it was too late: the water shorted out the remote. I found that I could still get into my car via the key - but had no way to start the car. The alarm system is supposed to have a bypass switch, but for some reason it doesn't. I called the AAA, but all they offered to do was tow my car to a garage or the dealership where I bought the car. I called the dealer's service department, but they told me they don't install that type of alarm system on their cars anymore so all they could do was disable the system (and, of course, sell me a new one). I looked on the web to see if I could buy a replacement remote, but the earliest I could get it was three days later. The dealer had given me a backup remote when I bought the car, but I had given it to my husband long ago and didn't know where it was, if he had lost it or if it still worked. In going through Bill's things, I hadn't found the backup remote. So at this point, it looked like my only options were to order a new remote control and wait three days for it (and pray that it would work) or spend a few hundred dollars to have the alarm system removed and a new one installed. I was upset enough to be physically sick, head throbbing, heart pounding. I wondered if I should start tearing the house apart to find out if the remote still existed. And then I felt myself being compelled to dig out a black handbag I hadn't carried in a couple of years. I knew I have given Bill the backup remote, so I didn't see any point in checking the bag. But I did it anyway. As soon as I picked up the bag, I felt a big bulge in one side. There, stuffed into a hole between the leather and lining was the backup remote. I ran outside, clicked the Alarm Off button, turned the key - and my car started right up. There's a row of cape honeysuckle bushes beside my driveway. I looked over at it and there hovering among the flowers was one lone bumblebee, the first I had seen in months. My pet name for Bill was "Bee." I sat in the car crying, partly out of relief, but mostly because I knew my Bill still watches out for me. I'm positive he directed me toward the black bag.

Here's a possible answer to the "why?" question. There's a theory that says we stay in this world only for as long as it takes for us to complete the earthly mission God has given us - not a minute more or less. The theory says that no matter what age we are when we complete our mission (2, 22, or 92), that's when we die. I don't know how valid this theory is. But it helps to ease the pain of losing someone to know that our loved one's life purpose was fulfilled, even though we feel they departed too soon. The theory also has helped me deal with that unanswerable question, "Why is he gone and I'm still here? Why couldn't we have gone together?" It suggests that God still has things for me to accomplish before my time comes - all I have to do is figure out or wait to be shown what He wants me to do.

PattyAnn, Though many of us here have situations like yours and similar feelings, no one else, family or not, can feel the pain Walter's loss has caused you. All I can do is tell you I'm so sorry, I understand, I'm here for you and I pray you'll find some peace and comfort from God today. ((((((( ))))))) Kathy

You might think this post belongs in the pet loss discussion, but I posted here because it has more to do with the aftermath of losing my husband. I love dogs, and since my husband died, only my beautiful little lhasapoo daughter saves me from living alone. I couldn't survive without her. I know how many dogs in shelters need homes, and a one great no-kill shelter near me may have to shut down for lack of funds. So I've been thinking a lot about adopting a second dog. But I don't know if it's a good time to bring a new pet into my life. I still hurt so much from losing Bill that the thought of opening up my heart again, even to a dog, is scary. And I've been many dogs' human companion, so I know what to expect: bringing a new one home would probably mean some bad behavior, an "accident" or two, maybe some chewing and (I hope not) fighting. If these were normal times, no problem. But with the limited control of emotions I have now, I worry that both the dog and I might be too stressed. I'm tempted to wait awhile longer before looking for a dog, but so many need help now - the right pet for me might be out there right now, but might not be around if I wait till I feel more settled. It's hard to know what to do.

Mary Linda, I'm glad you liked my poem but sorry it made you sad. Just like your Tom always told you "We'll make it," when things got tough for my Bill and me he'd say "We can do this. I'll always be with you and help you." The last two years before he died, we had many rough moments to get through - a cancer scare, dementia, months in the hospital, the loss of my mother and our two dogs. Through all that, he never stopped smiling. I believe love continues after death and have faith that our husbands still care about what happens to us, and God and they will point us in the right directions. There is something else in store for us. We'll find it. And we aren't searching alone or in vain, I'm sure of it.

It's raining and I was sitting here with my memories of Bill, listening to the Beatles on my iPod. And suddenly I felt I had to write this poem (Thanks to John Paul, George and Ringo for the inspiration): With You/Without You Since you’ve gone I understand What McCartney meant When he wrote yesterday. I am not half (not nearly) what I used to be Shadows darken around me You left so suddenly. Before now I forgot how hard Sadness hits and hurts, claws and tears Till the tears won’t stop. Can’t sleep, can’t think Now there’s only me My new reality. I know all things must pass away I must beware the darkness Suffering is not what I’m here for Or so they say. But did they ever feel the starkness The hopelessness that smothers me Grieving in the dead of night? (In the day I feel like the living dead.) Remember two of us laughing, driving, striving? You were my good day sunshine You were always there with your gentle smile No one could ever give more joy We needed only love. Our dream is over. It’s over, and now I have to carry on Cherishing what we had before, Making my memories of you last longer Than the winding cold road That lies ahead to the end of my days. But I will not be alone, won’t seek to hide Your giving spirit taught better than that. I don’t know where I want to go But at least, I’m moving on And maybe, deep in my dreams sometime You’ll show me who I now need to be.

I don't think there's a woman alive who hasn't found herself at some point crying, "OMG, I look/sound/am acting just like my mother!" Kind of a shock when that happens. But seriously, I have heard of or witnessed people taking on characteristics of a departed friend or family member, usually shortly after their death or sometime around an anniversary or birthday. It's fairly common, I think.

My husband died at home in our bed - the first time (the medics got his heart beating again but he didn't survive longer than a few days). The first things I did after the initial shock were redecorate the bedroom and buy brand new bedding. Those things helped, but I still sometimes need to take other measures to fall sleep or stay asleep. For example, I try to go to bed physically tired, but if I can't fall asleep, I read. If reading doesn't make me sleepy, I have a cup of herb tea with valerian and that usually works. I've tried sleeping on what was my husband's side of the bed, but I just can't get comfortable there even with the new mattress. So my dog sleeps in that spot now.

Jan said: Not only do we not call these people because they don't check in with us; sometimes when we DO get up the courage to ask for help, they don't want to give it. When my husband died, many people told me that any time I needed to talk, needed something done around the house or wanted to get out for awhile, I should call. But when I DID call some of them, they told me they were too busy, already had other plans, were late for a dinner party, etc. All kinds of excuses. I understood that they have their own lives and didn't expect them to drop everything when I called. But I try to be as independent as I can, and I wouldn't have called in the first place if I didn't really need their help. I hoped that if they were busy when I called, they would maybe suggest a different day or time when they'd be available. (That's what I would do if I were them.) But they didn't offer any alternatives - and they sounded relieved that their other obligations got them off the hook from their promises to help. So I concluded that their offers were just empty words. I won't call on any of those people again. And sadly, now I feel I can't trust anyone who says "call me anytime," except for a couple of friends who have never let me down.

It's coming up on 9 months since Bill died and this thread has come up exactly when I need it most. I was coming along pretty well, going back and forth between bad days and good ones but definitely showing signs of recovery. And then in the past week or so, I've slipped way down again. I'm in so much pain; right now things ARE worse for me. My counselor suggested that I may have reached the point where the protective numbness has faded and I'm starting to realize and feel just how deeply losing Bill has affected all areas of my life, even small things. I think she's right. But I'm also tired of struggling for 9 months with no break from it. When my sister's doctor changed her medications, almost immediately all her bipolar behaviors that were worrying our family went back into remission. I'm happy for her. But how I wish someone had a similar miracle cure for me, that would let me be free of this crushing sadness for just a little while. Yeah, I know - the only way is to suffer through it. At least I know better than to try to put a time limit on my grieving. And I don't get upset anymore when someone expresses concern or surprise that I still feel so much pain, because I know they can't understand me because they've never experienced similar loss. It means so much to me that all of you hear DO understand and offer your support when I feel like it's all too much.

Janikolleen, Welcome to the forum. I'm so sorry for the losses of your sister and husband and for everything else you've been through over the past few years. With all that going on, and the fact that you devoted yourself to your sister's care for months before she died, it's no wonder you feel drained and exhausted. The feelings you describe sound so familiar. Within the space of two years, my mother and my dog died, I lost a good job, my husband developed early-onset dementia that grew gradually worse, and then he died. That last year, I was trying to work full time, take care of my husband and find a way to pay the bills because with him disabled, our income was cut almost in half. Like you, I grew depressed, packed on the pounds, and let the house go. It looked so bad I was embarrassed to let anyone in. But at the time, I was so stressed that I didn't have the enegry to do anything about it -- and I didn't care. I also wondered if something was wrong with me. Since then, I've learned that when people suffer multiple traumas or losses at the same time or one right after another, their abilities to cope and to bounce back can wear down until nothing's left. Basically, there's no gas left in the tank. Don't think your lack of energy and enthusiasm means something's wrong with you -- you're probably so worn down by past events that you're running on empty. And because you feel like you can't get up and go again, your self-esteem has probably suffered too. I can't tell you exactly how to rebuild your life; I still have a long way to go to rebuild my own. But I can offer a few tips: 1. Be good to and patient with yourself. Accept that right now, you're not at full strength and until you are, you'll do only as much as you feel capable of doing. Give yourself plenty of leeway, breaks, and permission to backslide now and then. 2. Pick small tasks and do them one at a time. For example, maybe one day catch up on your laundry and the next day, get rid of the trash. You might even want to make up a list of these little "to-do's" and cross off each task as you complete it. As the list of completed tasks gets longer, you'll start feeling a sense of accomplishment and your self-esteem returning. And eventually, you may feel confident enough to begin tackling the bigger things you'd like to get done. 3. Pamper yourself a little. Sure, the refrigerator may need a good cleaning. But if today, treating yourself to a movie or getting your hair cut and styled would help you feel better, do either of those things instead. The refrigerator will still be there when you feel more up to cleaning it. 3. Focus on rebuilding yourself and your self-esteem before you turn to rebuilding your life. Take care of yourself first, and you'll be better able to think about what comes next.

What bothers me most about that article is the author's assumption that continuing grief is abnormal regardless of the griever's life circumstances. As we know, what's "normal" for anyone differs from one person to the next. It depends on not just how attached you were to the person who lost, but on what else was happening in your life when or immediately before he or she died. More than a few of us have been struggling with other challenges as we journey through grief (such as a child or sister in trouble). And some of us are also reeling from a chain of disasters -- job losses or illness or the sequential deaths of multiple people important to us -- of which the loss of our spouses is only the latest link. Any one of these developments could sink us, but when we're being battered by several at the same time, it's ridiculous for those who don't know us and what we've been facing to think that each time we're knocked down, we can just pop back up again like inflatable punching bags. Few if any of us have lives that aren't complicated by things other than our grief. But there's no question that it takes more effort and persistence (and more grief) to recover when a new crisis hits while you're still down.

More lives would be saved if everyone could be and was willing to be an organ donor. But sometimes, those who want to, can't. Although I wanted to donate Bill's organs before he was removed from life support, the doctors wouldn't accept them because Bill had had prostate cancer - even though he died from a heart attack, not his cancer which had been cured. A doctor told me that no matter how slight the risk, they don't want to transplant organs that may (not were, but MAY) have been exposed to cancer. I asked the doctor if I can be an organ donor although I'm diabetic. He said it's possible - they can transplant any organs the diabetes has not damaged.

Allalone, I'm sorry if you construed Leeann's and my posts on this subject as saying that dealing with grief immediately when it strikes is the only way to go forward. It's simply the approach that has worked best for us, not a commandment that everyone else should follow. I believe firmly that every grieving person needs to discover and practice the coping techniques they're most comfortable with. At least in my case, taking grief as it comes doesn't mean that every time I'm feeling emotionally raw, no matter where I am, I just let loose--and to hell with the consequences. There certainly are times and places when intense emotional displays aren't appropriate (such as at work) and when we're in those situations, we need to hold back and keep the grieving inside until we can express it more privately. However, I try to avoid suppressing the grief for very long. Even during the work day, if things get really bad, I find an empty conference room, break area, or even a stairwell where I can let go for a few minutes. After I've vented, I make a quick trip to the restroom to re-compose myself, and then go back to work as though the crying spell never happened. My eyes may still be a little red when I return to my desk, but no one can tell why - for all my co-workers know, I might be having an allergy attack. And really, the reason for the redness is none of their business. Some people are stronger and more resilient than others, and I feel deeply for those who are so fragile that each grief-producing event breaks them down. When I see someone who's like that struggling, I offer them help but am not offended if they don't want it.