When Grief Smacks You in the Face

The funny thing about grief is the way it sneaks up on you. You think that you're starting to manage it, that your emotions are on an even keel, that you're prepared for the difficult moments, but then some unexpected tiny detail smacks you in the face, and POW! The grief is back in full force. 

It might be a whiff of his sweaty shirt that didn't make it into the laundry yet. 

It might be drinking his favorite cocktail and suddenly being transported back to the taste of gin on his lips when he kissed you.

It might be finding a forgotten wedding photo. 

It might be going to a restaurant you haven't been to in a while and the waitress asks about him. 

It be getting a haircut at a salon instead of at Supercuts and remembering how excited he was when you finally treated yourself a little. 

It might be driving your kids to Scout camp by yourself instead of with him. 

It might be scanning your texts to find some important bit of information and instead finding a flirty text exchange with him.

It might be your car needing an oil change and realizing you have to do it yourself this time.  

It might be putting on a dress that he bought for you. 

It might be putting on a dress and realizing that he always zipped it up for you because you can't reach the last bit by yourself. 

It might be struggling to open a jar and not being able to knock in his office door and say, "Oh, strong husband, I need you..."

It might be seeing an ad for a singing group you both love playing at a nearby venue and realizing that it wouldn't be fun to go to without him. 

It might be rolling over in bed and realizing the other side is empty. 

It might be cooking to the music of Michael Buble and not having a dance partner and a sous chef. 

It might be getting your own coffee in the morning instead of having him bring it to you in bed. 

It might be coming across a silly meme and starting to forward it to him before you remember. 

It might be having to make a decision and wanting to run it by someone but no-one is there. 

It might be watching the final episode of a show you were binge-watching together. 

It might be seeing your children be mature and brave and kind and wise and wonderful and wanting to share that parental pride. 

It might be mastering a skill you never thought you would and thinking how proud (but not surprised) he would be. 

It might be any one of a thousand things that you'd done as a team for the past couple of decades and now you're doing it alone. 

It might be nothing at all, except that suddenly you are struck by the deepest pain and sense of loss that you can possibly imagine, and you don't know how you can possibly go on, and yet you do, because you have to. Because your children need you. Because he would want you to. Because quitting is not an option. 

Emotions are complicated. They change constantly, they grow and shrink and rise and fall. There is love, there is guilt, there is pain, there is anger, there is hope, there is emptiness. They are all there all at once, and they are painful and overwhelming and deep and comforting and agonizing. They are cathartic and they are cleansing and they are hurtful and they are powerful. And they are confusing. 

I keep thinking of a scene from the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, an episode called "The Body." When Buffy's mom dies unexpectedly (from natural causes, a rarity on the show), each character deals with it differently. But one of the characters, a former immortal demon who has become human, gives a heart-wrenching speech as she struggles to understand the concept of death. 

Here is some of what she says: "I don't understand how this all happens, how we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's - there's just a body. And I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead any more. It's stupid....And no one will explain to me why." 

And that's the really painful part: not knowing why. Why did God choose to end his life now? Why do cruel, hateful people live long lives but the life of someone wonderful and generous and kind and loving and giving, someone who makes the world a better place just by being in it, is cut short? I don't understand. No one will explain to me why. 

The only way I can cope by relying on my faith. I am comforted by Isaiah 57:1-2, which says (emphasis mine), "The righteous man perishes, and no one lays it to heart; devout men are taken away, while no one understands. For the righteous man is taken away from calamity; he enters into peace; they rest in their beds who walk in their uprightness." 

No one understands death. But we have to accept it, because it is part of life. Every life. This is not the first death I've had to deal with, and it will likely not be the last. But it is the hardest. And the most incomprehensible. And the path of grief I travel will be the most tangled, the most laden with unexpected blows and emotional regressions and dead ends and u-turns and detours. And grief will continue to smack me in the face. But I will go on. Because I don't need to understand, I simply need to trust. 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6)

When "We" Becomes "Me"

Lately I find myself constantly having to correct myself. "He is" becomes "he was," "he does" becomes "he did," "he always" becomes "he used to," "our" becomes "my," "party of four" becomes "party of three." I start to set the table with four place settings and I have to take one away. I get out four dinner rolls and I have to put one back. I start to check the box for "married" and have to erase it and check the box for "widowed," or worse, "single." "We" has become "me."

I'm not ready to be a "me" again. I liked being a "we." I liked the shared enjoyment and responsibilities of "our" house, "our" pool, "our" cars, "our" travel plans, "our" social events. I liked being a parent to "our" kids, not just "my" kids. I liked being part of a team when making decisions, of having a built-in sanity check, an automatic second opinion. I need a yang to my yin. 

The thing is, my husband and I were very complementary in a lot of ways. He was friendly and outgoing, sometimes to the point of being overbearing, and I am shy and introverted, sometimes to the point of being reclusive. He pushed me into the world of people, and I reined him in when he got pushy. I built up funds by scrimping and saving what little I made; he built them up by spending a lot but earning more. Between the two of us, we struck a healthier financial balance than either one of us did alone. He tended to act without thinking things through, and I leaned toward overthinking everything. The pair of us planning together led to wiser decisions than working individually. "We" had more spontaneity than "me" but more thoughtfulness than "he." I learned to manage technology (somewhat) because of him. He learned to appreciate wildlife (somewhat) because of me. He barked at the kids when they needed it and I hugged them when they needed it. When I barked it was serious and when he hugged it was special. We balanced each other out.  

But now I've lost that balance. No wonder I feel like I'm careening through life without much control right now. I don't have that stabilizing influence. Like a boat without a keel, there's nothing to keep me upright when the wind blows or the waves strike. 

The good thing is that I know I've absorbed so much of his influence over the years that in some ways he's still beside me. "What would he do?" is a question I can sometimes answer, although it's a lot harder to follow through on without him here. It's not automatic or instinctual, like it was with him, but it's there. And thinking about it helps to keep him with me. My "me" has taken on some of our "we." 

I can't do it alone. But I'm never really alone, because he will always be in my heart. So maybe my part of "us" can do it, even when "I" can't. Because "we" has become a part of "me." Like it says in the song "For Good" from Wicked:

So much of me is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart.

His handprint will always be there. 

I Have Confidence

You've all seen the film version of The Sound of Music, right? Well, if you've also seen the stage version, you'll know there are some significant differences between the two. Among those differences are songs that were cut or added. Two of the songs that were cut for the film, "How Can Love Survive?" and "There's No Way to Stop It" were sung by Max and Elsa. Although these cuts lose some of the character development for both characters, with an original run time of three hours, the film was simply too long to include everything in the original score. A song that was cut but replaced with another was "An Ordinary Couple," sung by Maria and Captain von Trapp in the stage show, which looks forward to their life together, which was replaced with "Something Good," also sung by Maria and the Captain, but which looks back on what in their lives led them to this point. A subtle switch, but one which works well. But the added song which makes the most difference, in my humble opinion, is "I Have Confidence," sung by Maria as she leaves the abbey and heads for the von Trapp house. 

One of the reasons that the song works so well in the film, in a way it could never have done on stage, is its wonderful visual and lyrical parallels between the changing scenery and Maria's changing attitude. As she travels from the abbey to the city to the von Trapp mansion, Maria's physical and emotional bearing changes. When she leaves her beloved abbey, she is unsure of herself, even frightened, with slumped shoulders and slow steps. As she nears the less familiar city, she talks herself into having courage, her hesitant steps becoming faster and surer, her chin held higher. As she approaches the never-before-seen, imposing von Trapp mansion, she pauses to steel herself, uttering in a small voice the simple prayer, "Oh, help," in front of the gates before squaring her shoulders and pushing open the heavy gate to the unfamiliar and intimidating surroundings, her internal resolve eminently clear.  She is obviously choosing to have confidence. [Fun fact: In one take, Andrews stumbled as she marched toward the mansion, and the director found it charmingly Maria-like and opted to use that take in the film.]

Confidence is something that some people have naturally. I am not one of those people. I would argue that one of my greatest character failings is a complete lack of confidence in myself. I don't know why this is; I was raised in a healthy family that praised my accomplishments and encouraged me when I struggled. I did well in school and achieved a reasonable measure of success in most things I tried. And yet, I always had a feeling that it wasn't good enough. Lack of confidence is a large part of my social anxiety: I don't have confidence that I'll know the answers, that I'll read the social cues, that I'll do or say or wear the right thing. 

But as a now-single parent, I have no choice but to have confidence. Fortunately, confidence is not only  naturally-occurring, it can be chosen. In the same way that Maria talked herself into having confidence, I can do the same. 

When you think about it, Maria was suddenly thrown into a situation that she was in no way qualified to manage. She had never been a governess; she had no formal training in teaching or child psychology; having grown up in an abbey, she had no idea how to behave in a wealthy, upper class household. Of course she felt overwhelmed and out of her league. She had no reason to have confidence. But she chose to. Look at the lyrics:

What will this day be like? I wonder. What will my future be? I wonder.

It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free!

My heart should be wildly rejoicing. Oh, what's the matter with me?

"What's the matter with me?" is a question I ask myself on a regular basis. "I should be able to do this. What's the matter with me?" "Normal adults are not bothered by that. What's the matter with me?" "This shouldn't be so hard. What's the matter with me?" I get you, Maria. I totally get you. 

I've always longed for adventure, to do the things I've never dared.

Now here I'm facing adventure. Then why am I so scared?

A captain with seven children. What's so fearsome about that?

Girl, I only have two and I'm terrified. 

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries. If I don't, I just know I'll turn back!

Turning back isn't a choice I have. There is no "back." I have to find a way to stop these doubts and worries, because I can't turn back. I HAVE to choose confidence, because it's the only option. 

I must dream of the things I am seeking. I am seeking the courage I lack.

The courage to serve them with reliance, face my mistakes without defiance,

Show them I'm worthy, and while I show them I'll show me!

That's really what it comes down to: I rarely need to prove myself to other people, I mainly need to prove myself to myself. I need to show ME. 

So let them bring on all their problems. I'll do better than my best.

I have confidence they'll put me to the test!

But I'll make them see I have confidence in me.

Somehow I will impress them. I will be firm, but kind.

And all those children - heaven bless them -

They will look up to me and mind me!

I don't know about doing better than my best - I don't actually have access to "my best" at this point in time - but I'll do the best I can. I'm fortunate that my children do seem to look up to me and mind me (for the most part, anyway). 

With each step I am more certain everything will turn out fine.

I have confidence the world can all be mine!

They'll have to agree I have confidence in me.

I keep talking about "eating the elephant" and "taking baby steps." Everything I do accomplish gives me an added confidence that I can do this, I can manage our lives, I can keep going. And I can show my children that they can do the same. I can be an example of choosing confidence. 

I have confidence in sunshine. I have confidence in rain,

I have confidence that spring will come again!

Besides, which you see I have confidence in me!

I look to my many widowed friends and acquaintances to give me confidence that spring will come again. Now is my winter, when all looks bleak and cold, when it feels like the sun will never return, the birds will never sing again, the flowers will never peek their green shoots up through the ground. And yet, I know that spring is coming. It may be long months away, there may be storms between now and then, I may find myself digging out from under a proverbial snowbank now and then, but spring WILL come. 

Strength doesn't lie in numbers, strength doesn't lie in wealth.

Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers.

When you wake up, wake up! It's healthy!

I'm not so much with the peaceful slumbers these days, but I can certainly take the advice "When you wake up, wake up!" I can choose to get out of bed in the morning, even when I'd rather stay huddled under the blankets and ignore the world around me. I can get up and do something, even if it's scary, even if it's small, even if it's only one of the seemingly hundreds of things that needs doing. It's the healthy thing to do. And it builds confidence.  

All I trust I leave my heart to, all I trust becomes my own!

I have confidence in confidence alone.

Besides, which you see I have confidence in me!

Maria doesn't state it here, but the phrase "All I trust I leave my heart to," coming from a devout young woman who grew up in a nunnery and plans to become a nun, has a lot of implications that I can identify with. As a Christian, "all I trust" is God Himself. Psalm 56:3 says, "When I am afraid, I will trust in You." That is how I can choose to have confidence. I don't have to have "confidence in me," I can have confidence in Christ in me. Psalm 71:5 says, "For you have been my hope, Sovereign Lord, my confidence since my youth." 2 Corinthians 3:4-5 says, "Such confidence we have through Christ before God. Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God." Phew, not only do I not have to come up with confidence in myself, I don't even have to be the source of my own competence. Which is good, because I've been feeling very incompetent lately. Instead, I will choose to trust in the Lord. Proverbs 3:5-6 says, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."

I can use some straightening of the tangled paths I see ahead of me. So I choose to trust, and I choose to have confidence. 

"I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me." - Philippians 4:13

Even have confidence in myself. 

Milestones, Yardstones, Millimeterstones

There are some milestones of grief and widowhood that I'm sure I will reach eventually. The first day I get through without crying, without thinking of Herb, without discovering something around the house I don't know how to manage. The settlement of his estate. Completing a tax return. Selling the car. Getting a job. Teaching my son to drive. 

But every one of these is still weeks, months, or even years away. So I need to set my sights on something closer, something smaller, something I can achieve in the nearer future. Let's call it a "yardstone". Mastering the pool is an example of what I would consider a yardstone. Buying a lawn mower and figuring out how to use it was a yardstone. Looking ahead, I would say that upcoming yardstones might be taking his name off our bank accounts, applying for COBRA coverage. taking down the lights along the eaves, transferring our mortgage, getting all the utilities in my name. A little more doable, but still somewhat significant. Which means also a little intimidating.

Right now, what is making me feel like I'm making progress is more like "millimeterstones." Cooking a meal from scratch. Getting through church needing only one Kleenex instead of 5 or 6. Cleaning the bathrooms. Going to the grocery store. Some days, just getting out of bed or taking a shower or throwing in a load of laundry is an accomplishment worthy of being called a millimeterstone. 

One of the most unexpected struggles of grief is simply exhaustion, both physical and emotional. My mind is constantly racing, running a daily mental marathon. That's exhausting. My body is constantly physically tense. That's exhausting. Making all the needed phone calls sends a rush of adrenaline to my anxious heart. That's exhausting. I struggle to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. That's exhausting. I'm constantly trying to keep a list of short- and long-term tasks and prioritize them appropriately. That's exhausting. I'm concerned about my kids and making sure they're okay and getting all the support they need. That's exhausting. I'm trying to manage the day-to-day schedule of three people and making sure they get to wherever they need to be at the appropriate time. That's exhausting. When I look at my to-do list, it seems to be endless. That's exhausting. 

The best solution for that exhaustion is looking for a way to feel like I am making progress, however slowly. And right now, I'm measuring that progress in millimeterstones. At some point, I'll move up to yardstones, probably scattered in among the millimeterstones. At some even further point, I'll start to hit an occasional milestone or two. But that's all quite some time away. So for now, I'll be satisfied with hitting a single millimeter stone a day. Maybe two or even three on a good day. 

Eventually those little millimeters will add up to a yard. And the yard will add up to a mile. And the miles will add up to relief, and wholeness, and peace. But until then, I'll keep working to achieve those millimeterstones.

Like posting a blog entry. 

*Millimeterstone Achieved*

Don't Make Me Say It

One of the worst parts of losing a spouse is having to say the words, over and over, "He died." Or at least, "He passed," or "He's gone," or whatever euphemism you choose. But you have to say it. Out loud. A lot. 

The first, and worst, is when you first find out yourself. You have to make calls to let everyone else know. In my case, his daughter, his sister, my sister, his best friend, my pastor, my cousin, a couple of close friends. Maybe it's helpful to have to say it out loud, to let it become real in your mind. But it's like being caught in a nightmare, an echo chamber of your own voice repeating the nightmare. 

And then, when you start the work of untangling his affairs, you have to say it over and over again, but this time to strangers who may or may not be sympathetic: his employer, the kids' schools, the life insurance company, the car insurance company, the DMV, the bank, your financial planner, the credit card companies, social security, the electric company, the propane company, the irrigation company, the housecleaners, the landscaper, the pool company, the plumber, the electrician, an attorney, his doctor, your doctor, the kids' doctors... It feels endless. 

But worse than that, it feels real. It feels final. It feels. 

If feels like a dagger, not just in your heart, but in your soul. 

It is, for the time being, the definition of who you are. Most phone calls or conversations with strangers begin by identifying yourself: Hi, it's me. Hi, I'm your customer. Hi, this is MyName. But now, your whole identify is wrapped up in your loss: Hi, I've lost a spouse. Hi, I'm a widow. Hi, my husband is gone. Hi, I'm calling because the person I loved more than life itself isn't here any more. Is it any wonder that I dread making phone calls, or that most of my phone calls begin with me in tears and choked up? 

On several occasions of late, I've felt the need to reassure friends that I truly don't cry all the time. But I do often cry when I'm talking to people, because I do have to say the words. It's like I can push the pain to the side for a little while, I can compartmentalize the grief while I'm managing some task, but when I have to put it into words, all the pain and grief come bubbling back to the surface. 

So if you see me and I'm not up for talking, please understand that sometimes talking is hard. Sometimes it's too much. Because even when I don't have to say the words, they're always there as subtext. I say, "I'm doing okay," but I mean, "I'm doing okay even though my husband is dead." I say, "I need to close this account," but I mean, "I have to deal with this alone now because I'm a widow." I say, "I could use some help with this," but I mean, "My husband isn't here to do this any more." I say, "I need to update this information," but I mean, "The person you have on file is gone, and he's not coming back." 

Please don't make me say it. 

Finding the Islands

The days and weeks (and, let's face it, the months and probably the years) following the loss of a spouse are like being caught in a storm at sea: everything is swirling around you, and you're caught in an eddy that keeps pulling you in opposite directions while somehow keeping you from making any progress. It's overwhelming, it's terrifying, and it's exhausting. The only way to survive is to find a moment to rest, to catch your breath, to look around you and make a plan. And the only way to do that is to find an island, something solid to grab onto for a moment to steady yourself. 

Different people find different islands. One of my islands is writing out my thoughts and feelings, putting them down in black and white so I can understand them - and more importantly, manage them. For other people, therapy might serve a similar purpose. Identifying your feelings can be an island. 

Another island for me is quiet. I am often doing work with my hands that doesn't take much conscious thought (cleaning, sewing, cooking), so I usually have music or a podcast or an audiobook or a TV show running in the background. Between that and having two teenagers around the house for the summer, chatting with friends, bickering with each other, or talking back to video games, silence is a rarity in my house. But the hour or two when I'm awake but before the kids get up, the world is quiet except for the birds chirping and the occasional barking of a dog, crowing of a rooster, or rumble of a passing truck. It becomes an island of peace before I am swept back into the maelstrom of life. 

One of my less healthy islands is comfort food. A butter pecan iced coffee from Dunk's, a piece of buttered toast, a cookie, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, ice cream with hot fudge sauce, a good cup of coffee, a favorite cocktail. As Ina Garten says, "You can be miserable before you eat a cookie and you can be miserable after you eat a cookie, but you can't be miserable while you're eating a cookie." This is true of a lot of foods. Immersing yourself in the very physical act of eating something enjoyable brings a very physical pleasure that overrides any emotional pain you are experiencing, if only for a few moments. That's an island. 

Hugging my kids, or a friend, is an island. 

Snuggling one of my cats is an island. 

Prayer is an island. 

Watching the birds and wildlife in my back yard is an island. 

Pulling weeds in my garden is an island. 

Listening to Chopin is an island. 

Baking a loaf of bread is an island, even though I couldn't bring myself to take off my wedding rings as I usually do when I knead dough. That loaf might have had a little added salt, but even as I cried I was on an island. 

Sometimes the island is the sense of relief I get after I do a task I'm dreading or fearing, like when I got a lesson on pool maintenance that turned out to be less intimidating and complicated than I had feared. 

Happy memories are an island. Looking through photographs and videos, reading reminiscences sent by friends, smells and sights and sounds that remind me of the past have become an island. 

Some islands you just stumble on unexpectedly, like a person on the other end of the phone who gives you compassion and grace when you were expecting hassles and red tape. 

Tears can be an island. I spend a lot of time trying to pull myself together so I can make a phone call, be with my kids, run an errand, deal with daily life. But I need to cry, so I find time to do it. For some reason, the car has become my "crying zone." When I am alone in the car, I let the tears pour down my face. I'm not crying over a specific issue or situation or thought, it's just a release of the built-up tension and anxiety and fear of the unknown. The relief I experience from letting myself go is very much an island.

Another way of looking at it is that anything that brings a moment of joy, however small, is an island. I recently saw this poster on Facebook, and I find it to be completely true: Micro joys are how we survive macro grief. 

There is no joy great enough to counteract the load of grief on my heart right now. But the small joys help to chip away at it, to give me a moment, if not exactly of forgetting, of balancing the grief. When I feel like I'm teetering on the precipice of falling back into the storm, every tiny moment of joy tugs me back from the brink. I'm still on the edge, my footing is still not secure, but at least I'm not falling. At least I can catch my breath before fighting the next fight. 

I just need to keep finding the islands. 

It is the Worst of Clubs, It is the Best of Clubs

Shortly after Herb passed away, an acquaintance who had been widowed a number of years earlier gave me a hug and told me, "It's the shittiest club ever, but we're here for each other." That was my welcome to the (not-so-wonderful) world of widowhood. 

I'm not big on joining groups of strangers, especially at the most emotionally vulnerable period of my life, so I don't think I'll be signing up for "Parents Without Partners" or a grief support group or a formal widows' organization, but being a part of this quiet network has been reassuring. There are a number of women in my life that I knew had been widowed, but I have since been approached by a number of others that I had no idea had been through what I'm going through. Even without being ready yet to talk about it extensively, it is reassuring just seeing other women who have been through this ordeal and come out on the other side, if not exactly unscathed or unscarred, at least surviving and even thriving. 

It give me hope.

It gives me resources.

It gives me solidarity. 

It gives me a lifeline. 

As incredible as the support has been from family and friends, there's something special about support from someone who's been where you are, someone who gets it. No one goes through exactly the same grief journey, but there are commonalities that go beyond words. A hug from someone who can sympathize is wonderful, but a hug from someone who can empathize goes beyond words, beyond silence. It says, "Courage, sister." It says, "I have been where you are." It says, "I'm okay and you will be, too." It says, "I'll be here when you're ready." It says, "It's okay that you don't know what you need." It says, "It's okay to be not okay." It says, "You are not alone."

It is the shittiest club ever, but it is a sisterhood. 

Courage, sister. 

Technology is a Curse - But Also a Gift

My husband was always at the cutting edge of every kind of technology, so it is no surprise that we have a "Smart" house, one that is filled with all kinds of devices that do things for us. We have an Alexa in nearly every room that can tell us the time and date, set timers and alarms and reminders, look up trivia, give us a weather report, order items on line, compile grocery lists, play music, find recipes, and on and on. I can control the family room television with my voice. I can control many of the lights with my voice, not just on and off but dimmers and colors. Our pool has an "Intellicenter" control system which is supposed to make managing the pool chemistry simpler (spoiler alert: it does not). Our garage doors close automatically at 9pm if we accidentally leave them open. Our outside motion sensors send an alert to our phones if they go off in the middle of the night in case there's an intruder (spoiler alert: it's not; it's either a spider or a raccoon). Our thermostats are programmable. We have phone apps that can control the pool slide, the furnace, the Roomba vacuum, the garage lights, the outdoor lights, the irrigation system, our finances, our lives. 

He loved it. 

I do not. Because I don't get it. I never had to get it. I was happy to let him play with all his devices and controls. But now it's driving me crazy because I have no choice but to figure it all out. I have to access his online banking to make sure the bills are paid. I have to figure out the thermostats so we don't either swelter to death or pay a fortune in unneeded air conditioning. I have to master the pool controls so the pool stays safe. I have to figure out his Alexa programming so the alarm in my bedroom doesn't continue to go off (loudly) at 6:30 every morning. I have to figure out what bills are paid automatically and which ones I need to manage manually. I'd love to figure out how he made the outside speaker connect to the Alexa to play music by the pool. I'd love to know how to override the irrigation "skip because rain is predicted" when those thunderstorms pass us by yet again. It's like everything I need to do around the house involves mastering yet another piece of technology. 

It makes me want to curse technology. 

But then I think back to when my dad died, and my mom didn't change the outgoing message on their answering machine (remember those?) because that was the only record she had of Dad's voice. They didn't have any home movies where she could hear or watch him as she remembered him. Their photos were in scrapbooks or boxes - or, in many cases, in the carousel of a dusty slide projector - that she would have to dig out if she wanted to see his picture. 

I, on the other hand, am surrounded by many reminders of him. I can hear his voice in the beautiful tribute video posted by our friends at Reagle. I can pull up literally thousands of photos and videos of our many travel adventures in mere seconds in my Google photo albums, on Facebook, on my phone, and yes, on our Alexa devices. I don't have to just remember the time he taught Ryan how to saber champagne, I have a video of it. I don't have to just picture our honeymoon adventures in my mind's eye, I have an online album of photos. I don't have to just tell my kids how much their dad adored them, I have piles of visual evidence at my fingertips. 

And even beyond photos and videos, I can go into his email and search by keyword for information on bills, home maintenance resources, insurance, people I need to connect with. I might be able to complete some paperwork online that I would otherwise have to take care of in person at a remote office. I was able to look up a lot of the details that I'll need in the coming weeks to deal with his estate, details I would have a hard time finding in physical files and records. 

So as much as technology is complicating my life right now, it is also bringing me solace. And the complications will ease up at some point, but the solace will go on. For me, for my children, for our family, and for all those for whom Herb's memory brings a smile. Technology may bring me to tears, but I will be smiling through those tears. And at some point, the tears will fade, but the smile will always remain. 

Mine, and his. 

What I Mean When I Say, "I'm OK"

A question I get asked a lot these days is, "How are you doing?" It's a hard question to answer. And the answer changes not only day to day, but minute to minute. My usual answer is something like, "We're hanging in there," or "We're getting through." But more often than not, I'll just say, "I'm OK."

"I'm OK" can mean a lot of different things. It nearly always means, "I got out of bed this morning, I've showered and brushed my teeth within the last 36 hours or so, I've eaten something vaguely nutritious in the past 12 hours, everyone in the house has at least some clean clothes, I've been making an effort to get some sleep, the bathrooms are reasonably clean, I've paid all the bills that need to be paid, and the kids have been fed." But in addition to that, it can mean a lot of other things. 

It might mean that I saw two different people carrying bouquets of flowers in the parking lot of the grocery store and I realized that I will never again get flowers from my husband so I sat in the car and cried for 10 minutes, but then I pulled myself together and drove home to my kids. 

It might mean that I made a phone call I'd been dreading and I didn't have the right information so now I have to call back and I might need to go throw up before I do it, but I'll do it. 

It might mean that I just realized I'd gone 12 hours without crying and I was so proud of myself that I cried. Damn it. 

It might mean that I sucked it up and asked a friend for help even though I thought I should be able to do it myself. 

It might mean that I feel like I'm a hot mess but my kids seem to be doing okay and that makes me okay, too. 

It might mean that I won a small victory today, like mowing the lawn or backing the car into the garage or googling a home repair video or figuring out how to turn on the pool slide. 

It might mean that I had a hard day and put off doing the five important things I was supposed to do but the world did not come to an end. 

It might mean that a friend called or sent a note just when I needed it. 

It might mean that I didn't want to go to the grocery store, but I did anyway. 

It might mean that I didn't want to go to grocery store, so I didn't. And no one has starved yet. 

It might mean that I woke up this morning and thought, "I can't do this." And then I cried for a while. And then I got up, and I did it. 

It might mean that I'm feeling totally overwhelmed but I'm still putting one foot in front of the other, which is its own victory. 

It might mean that I'm totally not okay right now, but I have faith that I'll be okay at some point. 

It might mean that I'm totally not okay right now, but I'm not ready to admit it or ask for help, but I'm glad to know that you're there when I am ready. 

It always means, "I don't need an intervention right now, but thanks for checking."

Especially that last part. 

I'm OK. Thanks for checking. 

Losing Your Other Half: The Practical Problems

Imagine that you are interviewing for a job for which there are two open positions. They offer the two jobs to you and another person, but instead of giving you each your own job and your own job description, they leave it up to the two of you to divvy up the responsibilities of both jobs however you like. So you go through everything that needs to be done, each of you choosing tasks that you have experience and expertise in, each task going to the stronger candidate for that particular aspect of the job. They, an extrovert, take the cold calling and the door knocking runs, which make your introvert heart quake with dread. You take on answering complaint letters, using your natural peacemaking bent and tactful way with words that works better than their natural brusqueness and practicality. They're a tech whiz, so they rewrite the code for the company intranet, while your Luddite but artistic self designs the new company logo and branded clothing line. You're both organized, so they take on setting up an inventory system and you work on updating the customer database. And so on. 

And it all works out great, until suddenly they get an offer they can't refuse for a permanent position in darkest Peru, with no access to the outside world, effective immediately, and you are left to fill both positions with minimal documentation or records. Not only are you suddenly in charge of twice the work, but the second half of your workload involves tasks that you a) aren't good at, b) don't have the technical background for, c) haven't done in years, d) have no records, documentation, or starting point for, and/or e) aren't even aware of. 

That's what the practical aspect of losing a spouse is like. 

When my dad passed away at the age of 64, my mom was suddenly on her own for the first time in her life. She had lived in her parents' house until she went to college, lived in a dormitory for four years, then came back home for a few months before getting married. Her dad managed all the practical aspects of her life before she got married, and my dad managed all of them afterwards. Suddenly she had to figure out how to pay bills, do routine home maintenance and repair, figure out her taxes, get the car inspected, mow the lawn, turn on the furnace. God bless my dad, who, as soon as he was diagnosed with cancer, wrote up a "home maintenance" notebook for her, including information like where the water and gas emergency shutoffs were; who to call for plumbing or electrical work; where the key to the safe deposit box was and what was in it; account numbers for the bank, credit union, phone, utilities; and on and on.

Dad and Mom had a few months of notice that Mom would soon be alone. 

I did not. 

We had planned ahead in some ways: Our finances were carefully and deliberately set up as "his, hers, and ours" so neither one of us would be completely cut off from accessible cash if the worst happened. We each had life insurance policies in place. We each kept a physical file of important documents, like marriage and birth certificates, passports, tax records, diplomas, pay stubs. But in other ways, we were not prepared: We had begun but never finished drawing up our wills. Although we each knew some of the other's passwords, we didn't have access to a complete list, including our phones and PCs. I had never learned how to manage the pool or who to call about the irrigation system or having the driveway plowed. I don't know where the water cutoff valve is or how to turn off the radiant floors during the off-season. He wasn't looped in on a bunch of information on the kids' activities, like signups for track and band and drama and church youth events and the bus app and school lunch accounts. We didn't need all that information, because we each did our parts and it was always a team effort.

Until it wasn't.

And I was left trying to figure everything out. Twice the workload, minimal documentation. But really, more than twice the workload, because my half is smooth sailing, I know what I'm doing, everything I need is accessible; and his half is unfamiliar, difficult, I'm in over my head, I don't even know what I'm looking for. And on top of that, the person I always knew I could go to for advice, support, cheerleading, and reassurance isn't there. 

No wonder I'm overwhelmed.   

The first week after he died was a blur where it was all I could do to make sure my children and I were fed, bathed, and got some sleep, and even that was more done by family and friends than me. After I got through the funeral, the next weeks were a desperate race to access his computer and phone so I could keep paying the bills. I was terrified of missing a mortgage payment, bouncing a check, overdrawing an account. What expenses could we do without for now, and how could I cancel them? Even figuring out what services I could manage myself (house cleaning, yes; lawn mowing and pool service, maybe; snowplowing and trash removal, absolutely not) was sometimes too much for my still-foggy brain. 

I cannot even count the number of people who have offered to help, and I have accepted when I could, but I still don't even know everything I need help with, and there are a lot of things that only I can do. Someone else can probably help me compile a list of everyone I need to notify of his death once I finally get the official paperwork, but only I can go to the bank, the Social Security Office, the Registry of Motor Vehicles, the life insurance company. 

And let's be honest: There are some things that I'm embarrassed to ask. Shouldn't a competent adult know how to reset a modem, backwash a pool filter, use the thermostat in their own house? Maybe, maybe not. And in my head, I know that my friends would not think less of me for not knowing, and many of them would be more than glad to show me what I don't know. But it isn't easy to ask. And I'm stubborn, and socially awkward, which makes it even more difficult. I feel like doing all these tasks myself will prove to my children - and myself - that I can be both Mom and Dad. That I can fill the hole that he left behind. 

But I never can. And I never should. My husband was a remarkable person, and to think that I can become him as well as myself is arrogant and frankly, insulting to his memory. The best thing I can do is to be myself, doing the best I can, setting an example for my children of how to deal with adversity with humility and grace. Some of that includes admitting that my best is sometimes not enough. Some of that includes calling on others to fill in the gaps and the parts of their dad that I am not, and cannot be. That is not an easy thing. But it is a necessary thing. 

Life without him will never be the same. But with help, it can be enough. 

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
- Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

 Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice.
- Proverbs 27:9

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.
- Galatians 6:2

Human Again, Bloomin' Again

My life with Herb was always filled with Broadway references. If he drove me crazy, I'd quote, "You could die from such a man!" from Fiddler on the Roof. The first nice day in spring always made him sing, "Someone oughta open up a window," from 1776. And any time one of us did some hard work or got sweaty or dirty for whatever reason, the ensuing shower would be followed by a chorus of "Human again, I feel human again," from Beauty and the Beast. 

After a month of walking around in a kind of daze, I am finally having moments of feeling "human again." I feel like I am slowly regaining control of my life, or at least of tiny bits and pieces of it. One day, one small moment. A few days later, a few small moments. 

This morning as I was watching my birdfeeders and drinking a cup of coffee, I noticed my Rose of Sharon bush. (There's a connection here, I promise.) When we moved into the house, this bush was a gorgeous but somewhat overgrown accent next to the swimming pool. When we had to demolish and rebuild the pool, we had it dug up, wrapped the root ball in burlap, tucked it into the woods in the back yard, and hoped for the best. When the pool was finally finished, after nearly a year of not being in the ground, we replanted it and again, hoped for the best. Somewhat surprisingly, it recovered its greenery very quickly, but that first year we only got a single bloom, and quite late in the season. We had our landscapers prune it back and again hoped for the best. The next season it also bloomed quite late, but there were a few more blossoms. I got rid of some more dead wood and trimmed it back just a bit more, and this year it seemed to be following the same pattern of very late blooming and only a blossom or two. In fact, a month ago, when Herb passed away, there was not a single blossom or even bud to be seen. 

But just last week, I noticed that one huge blossom had appeared. And a few days ago I saw one or two more starting to open. Now, as of this morning, there are at least a dozen vivid pink blooms tucked among the lush green foliage. 

I feel like this is a parallel to where I am right now. It's only been in the past few days that I'm starting to see peeks of hope, a few "blossoms" of joy that my heart can accept. I can see a few more on the horizon, not quite here yet, but ready to open up soon. Maybe not in a week, maybe not in a month, maybe not in six months, maybe not even in a year. But after a few seasons, I'll bloom again. It's been a rough season, but my roots are deep. And I am being carefully tended. 

 I will bloom again. 

Grief: The Antithesis of the Scar

Shortly after my husband and I were married, one of his uncles passed away. I forget who said it, but at the funeral service, someone made a comment along the lines of, "Losing someone creates a hole in your heart, but over time that hole is filled with wonderful memories, until finally there is no hole. But there will always be a scar." 

Scars, to me, are signs of past pain, injury, or damage. They show that healing has happened, but they are a reminder of the hurt that created them. In a way, scars are the endpoint of both pain and healing: This is as good as it gets, as close to being returned to normal as is going to happen. Grief, on the other hand, is a sign of past love, of having loved and having been loved. It is the absence of joy, so there can be no grief without the joy that comes before it. The same way that healing leads to a scar, love and joy sometimes lead to grief. A scar shows healing that looks to the pain of the past; grief shows healing that looks to the joy of the past. But grief is not an endpoint, like a scar is. Grief is an ongoing process that leads away from the pain, and back to joy. A scar is always there as a reminder of the past, but there will come a point when the grief is gone but the joy remains. The focus is on the future, not the past.  

Right now, looking to the future is full of grief, full of loss, full of profound sadness. And yet, I have hope that every day brings me closer to a future that is full of the joy and thankfulness of having been so well-loved, and loving so well. 

Psalm 30 reminds me: "O Lord my God, I cried to you for help and you have healed me...Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning. "

Tonight, I am weeping. But morning is coming, and with it, joy. And morning always comes. 

100 Things That Make It Better

100 things that ease the pain and make life a little more bearable, no matter what the issue is. Some of these are within your control; some of them are just happy happenstance. But in either case, if you look for them, you'll find them. You just have to remember to look. 

1. Freshly baked cookies

2. A hug from a friend

3. Listening to your favorite song

4. Communing with nature

5. Baby snuggles

6. A bubble bath

7. A phone call with a friend

8. Clean sheets

9. Going for a walk

10. A glass of good wine

11. Someone washing your hair

12. Sitting by a campfire

13. Petting a cat

14. Blowing bubbles (soap or gum)

15. A bowl of ice cream, preferably with hot fudge

16. Comfortable jeans

17. Binge-watching a classic TV show

18. Finishing the NY Times Crossword without cheating

19. A good cup of coffee

20. A fluffernutter

21. Hitting all the green lights

22. Sand between your toes

23. A good hair day

24. Finding a pretty rock

25. Thunderstorms

26. The smell after it rains (it's called "petrichor")

27. The smell in your kitchen when you make Italian food

28. A cozy blanket

29. A friendly smile from a stranger

30. A scented candle

31. Watching a classic movie

32. Organizing the junk drawer

33. Watching the sun rise

34. Losing yourself in a book

35. Chocolate

36. Breakfast at a diner

37. Going to the beach

38. Light filtered through the trees

39. Naps

40. Stargazing

41. Cooking for those you love

42. Planning a vacation

43. Hitting the snooze button

44. Walking barefoot in the grass

45. Finding a 4-leaf clover

46. Sun sparkling on the water

47. A good, satisfying sneeze

48. When your team wins

49. Seeing a rainbow

50. The way your teeth feel after a dental cleaning

51. Spending the whole day in your pajamas

52. A long, hot shower

53. Finding a good parking space

54. When your eyeliner goes on perfectly symmetrically

55. Getting a really good haircut

56. Finding money in your pocket

57. Great shoes

58. Fireworks

59. Cinnamon toast

60. Dancing with someone

61. Going on a Ferris wheel

62. Popping bubble wrap

63. The smell of roses

64. Dinner by candlelight

65. A warm towel fresh from the dryer

66. An owl hooting in the middle of the night

67. Driving with the windows down

68. A child reaching for your hand

69. Finishing your to-do list

70. Looking through an old photo album

71. Freshly baked bread

72. Dinner with friends

73. A good stretch

74. A really good night's sleep

75. Fireflies

76. Making someone laugh

77. Running through a sprinkler

78. A DIY home repair that comes out the way it's supposed to

79. An unexpected sale on something you were going to buy anyway

80. Running into an old friend

81. Floating in a pool

82. Eating something you grew in your own garden

83. Wildflowers

84. A waterfall

85. Outdoor summer band concerts

86. Seeing birds feeding their babies

87. A perfectly clear blue sky

88. Finding something you thought was lost for good

89. Birthday parties (not necessarily your own)

90. Warm socks

91. Wearing your favorite perfume

92. Painting your toenails

93. Finding a pretty feather

94. Homemade soup

95. A foggy morning

96. Watching the ocean

97. Figuring out whodunnit

98. Making something beautiful

99. Getting your hands dirty

100. Comforting someone else


Make them happen, let them happen, look for them. They're there. And when you see them, share them with others. They might need to see them, too.