"I'm Still Here"

It's been six months. Six months ago today I got that awful call. My husband was not coming home again. I was suddenly an unemployed widow with two teenage children. I didn't know how I'd manage. I slept-walked through the days, weeks, and months, somehow doing what was necessary to survive. Paying bills, completing paperwork, doing laundry and dishes and cooking, driving kids here and there. With the help of friends and family, we survived. 

In some ways, I'm amazed at how far I've come, and in others I feel like I haven't even gotten started. But I'm still here. 

I'm reminded of the wonderfully moving song "I'm Still Here" from Stephen Sondheim's Follies, sung by the character Carlotta, a retired showgirl originally played by Carol Burnett, who often sings the song as part of her cabaret act and in concert versions of the show. The song tells of the ups and downs of her life, and the fact that she survived, no matter what. The story is heartbreaking, yet triumphant. The lyrics really resonate with me:

Good times and bum times, I've seen ’em all and, my dear
I'm still here
Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer
But I'm here
I’ve stuffed the dailies in my shoes,
Strummed ukuleles, sung the blues,
Seen all my dreams disappear
But I'm here

I've slept in shanties, guest of the W.P.A.
But I'm here
Danced in my scanties - Three bucks a night was the pay
But I'm herе
I've stood on bread lines with thе best
Watched while the headlines did the rest
In the depression was I depressed? Nowhere near.
I met a big financier
And I'm here

I've been through Gandhi, Windsor and Wally’s affair
And I’m here
Amos 'n’ Andy, mahjongg and platinum hair
And I'm here
I got through Abie's Irish Rose,
Five Dionne babies, Major Bowes.
Had heebie-jeebies for Beebe's bathysphere
I’ve lived through Brenda Frazier
And I'm here

I've gotten through Herbert and J. Edgar Hoover
Gee, that was fun and a half
When you've been through Herbert and J. Edgar Hoover
Anything else is a laugh

I've been through Reno, I've been through Beverly Hills
And I'm here
Reefers and vino, rest cures, religion and pills
And I'm here
Been called a pinko Commie tool
Got through it stinko by my pool
I should have gone to an acting school, that seems clear
Still, someone said, "She's sincere"
So I'm here

Black sable one day, next day it goes into hock
But I'm here.
Top billing Monday, Tuesday you're touring in stock,
But I'm here.
First you're another sloe-eyed vamp,
Then someone's mother, then you're camp.
Then you career from career to career.
I'm almost through my memoirs.
And I'm here.

I've gotten through "Hey, lady, aren't you whoozis? 
Wow! What a looker you were."
Or, better yet, "Sorry, I thought you were whoozis.
Whatever happened to her?"

Good times and bum times, I've seen 'em all and, my dear,
I'm still here.
Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer,
But I'm here.
I've run the gamut, A to Z.
Three cheers and dammit, c'est la vie.
I got through all of last year
And I'm here.

Lord knows, at least I was there,
And I'm here!
Look who's here!
I'm still here!

The last six months have been more bum times than good times, but I got through half of last year, and I'm here. 

I'm still here. 

The Hardest Day

It wasn't the day I got the call that he was gone. 

It wasn't the day I saw his body. 

It wasn't the day of his funeral. 

It wasn't the day I picked up his ashes. 

It was my birthday. 

You see, as horrible as the first few days were, it wasn't real yet. It hadn't sunk in. The shock blurred the edges so the pain was dulled with confusion and a haze of unreality. The pain was diffused and unfocused. But now, it's slightly less horrible, but it's so very much more real. The pain is crisp and clear. It's sharp as a razor. Sharp as shards of shattered glass.

My family did their best to make my birthday as normal as possible. My sister and brother-in-law had us over last weekend for dinner and cake and presents. My daughter brought me coffee in bed. My son wished me happy birthday. My aunt and uncle called and sang to me. A few friends sent gifts. I got calls and texts and Facebook messages and emails from literally hundreds of friends and family. 

But it wasn't the same. There was no bouquet of roses, no homemade gourmet dinner with appetizers and wine and candlelight. There was no date night at the Melting Pot. There was no dressing up to the nines and taking selfies. There were no birthday kisses. 

It hit home, and it hit home HARD. I cried all day. Well, I cried all day until my kids came home from school. Then I pulled it together and put on a brave face for them. But when they left the room, I cried some more. When I drove my son to his trombone lesson, I cried silently in the darkness of the car all the way there. And I kept crying in the parking lot, wiping my face before he got back in the car. When I went to bed, I cried myself to sleep. 

It was the end of so many traditions of love and family and feeling special and being cherished. It was the closing of a chapter of my life that was so incredibly special, so incredibly wonderful, so incredibly a part of who I have become, that it felt like losing my entire identity, my entire purpose. 

But I can make it a beginning, as well. One chapter has ended, but there are other chapters waiting to be written. There are new traditions of love to begin. There are children on the cusp of adulthood to be loved and guided and celebrated and launched into lives of their own. There are opportunities to grow in new ways. There are other relationships to be developed, and cherished, and relied on. I still have an identity and a purpose, they're just different than they were. And that's hard to accept. I'm not good at change. I never have been. 

But change is inevitable, even when it's hard. Even when you have to be dragged, kicking and screaming and sobbing, into a new chapter, that new chapter will come. I don't have to like it, but I have to accept it, because I can't control it. 

What I can control, however, is how I deal with it. So I will choose to deal with it with grace, with courage, and with faith. I will choose to set an example for my children of how to deal with adversity. I will choose to make the best of what life has dealt me. I will choose to write this new chapter with my head held high and my eyes on the future and my heart open to a new way of life. I will choose to go on. 

But first, I think I'll have another good cry. 

Then I'll be ready to take on whatever the future holds. 

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future."

- Jeremiah 29:11

Words and Music

Ever since I was a little girl, two of my great pleasures in life have been reading and music. Even as an adult, I always have a few books on my Kindle or by my bedside that I read a few chapters from daily, and there is always music on in my house and in my car, and I'm frequently singing along with it. 

Over the past few months, grief had stolen both of those pleasures. I couldn't focus my mind long enough to follow the plot of a book, so although I occasionally picked up something to read, I put it down in frustration after a few minutes. And music in any form was so deeply associated with my husband that I could hardly bear to listen to it, and I couldn't sing a note without tears running down my face. Church was especially difficult, as the lyrics of the hymns were so deeply meaningful to me, and often spoke of pain and joy, one of which felt so close and one so incredibly distant. It made his loss even harder to bear, not having those lifelong comforts. 

But I have finally reached a point where I am beginning to be able to enjoy both books and music again. I began by reading a short chapter while I waited to pick up my son after his trombone lesson, or my daughter after her play rehearsal. Or I would put some music on while I was in the shower, so I could hear it, but distantly, or I would play some generic background music when guests came over. And as time has gone on, I've progressed to once again reading several chapters before bed - and, let's be honest, when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep - and turning on some music while I'm making dinner. I can even make it through the hymns at church without crying (most of the time).

One of the hardest parts of losing a spouse is that you lose the most crucial part of the system that supported and comforted you in difficult times. When I lost my mom, my husband was by my side to help me through it. When my brother-in-law died, I was by my husband's side to help him through it. But who do you turn to when the love of your life, your best friend, your confidante, your cheerleader, the one you always turned to, is the one you've lost? And when the things you used to do for comfort no longer comfort you, where do you turn?   

I am grateful for my faith in God, because there were times when I couldn't face even family and dear friends, and all I had to turn to was my faith. Psalm 34:18 says, "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," and I felt how true that was. Perhaps God chose to strip away all the human and earthly comforts I was used to in order to get me to focus on the only support I truly need, God Himself. And He has carried me through this darkest time of my life. 

I guess I must have shown that I do trust Him, and now I'm ready to embrace other comforts, and other pleasures. Like words, and music. I'm glad they're back. 

 

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. 

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. 

Looking at Beautiful Things

Words are frequently my solace. I'm good with words. I can control them. I can rely on them. I can express myself with them. 

Usually.

Right now, even the beauty of words is failing me. But the beauty of the world around me is not. So if anyone out there is struggling through some dark time of life, I hope these beautiful images help to remind you that darkness does not go on forever, but the beauty of the world around us endures. 

"Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning." - Psalm 30:5

Morning is coming. 

Morning IS coming.