I had a friend tell me my blog confused him a bit, so to clarify... the biological dads who walk away I am referring to in my "resentment rant" are also known as "deadbeat dads." I know several men that I think highly of who, while not married to their childrens' mothers, still do their best to be excellent dads. Them I don't resent.
It's these men who father children and then cease participating in their childrens' lives and fail to contribute financially that make me sick. If I ran into one on "One of Those Nights" (see earlier blog) I'd most likely break my pool cue over his head, and beat him unconscious.
Better Wayne?
(Smoothing shirt, climbing down off soapbox)
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
It's a Longer Process than I Thought
I guess I keep putting off writing because I feel guilty about writing about widowhood... is that all there is to me? Is that going to be my identity from now on? "Hi, I'm Kelly and I'm a widow who can't stop talking about it."
Part of me says, "Kelly, you've got to let go of this "widow" title, it's been over a year. You need to write fun whimsical things that people will want to read."
Part of me says, "Kelly, this IS who you are. You know it still colors everything that you do and think. You're being less than honest if you try to pretend you don't think about and miss Deat every single day."
I know my mindset is better. I've discovered some things I missed in being part of a two-parent household. My new favorite time of the day during the school year is the 15 minutes it takes to drive P.D. to "big school" after dropping B.B. off. That's when she really talks about what happens at school and we really talk and bond with one another. I didn't realize how much I missed when Deat was the one who did the bedtime stories with B.B.. I've learned to set aside time for "special stuff" like going to a museum or even simply to the pool... things I would have left to Deat.
I actually enjoy tackling some of the new challenges of caring for myself, my girls, our household, "on my own." I know I will have to get some kind of job soon, but I'm trying to use this time to take care of issues I've been meaning to "get around to" for years: making a REAL budget, sewing grass seed on that bald spot in the yard, hiring someone to waterproof the basement, putting in deadbolts, getting the back door fixed; and I relish the sense of accomplishment from each one.
I wonder, "Have I grieved? Am I past the pain?" I feel so much better than I did a year ago, so maybe I have.
But what if I missed a step? What if I missed some really important element to the process and it's going to take me hurtling back to that horrible dark place where all I can do is wish for the life we had planned?"
Then I think, "It's somewhere in between." Past the worst of it but still with work to do, things to work through yet. I still struggle with resentments in this new life, one being that a year later, it still feels new. I resent:
At least I've got material!
Part of me says, "Kelly, you've got to let go of this "widow" title, it's been over a year. You need to write fun whimsical things that people will want to read."
Part of me says, "Kelly, this IS who you are. You know it still colors everything that you do and think. You're being less than honest if you try to pretend you don't think about and miss Deat every single day."
I know my mindset is better. I've discovered some things I missed in being part of a two-parent household. My new favorite time of the day during the school year is the 15 minutes it takes to drive P.D. to "big school" after dropping B.B. off. That's when she really talks about what happens at school and we really talk and bond with one another. I didn't realize how much I missed when Deat was the one who did the bedtime stories with B.B.. I've learned to set aside time for "special stuff" like going to a museum or even simply to the pool... things I would have left to Deat.
I actually enjoy tackling some of the new challenges of caring for myself, my girls, our household, "on my own." I know I will have to get some kind of job soon, but I'm trying to use this time to take care of issues I've been meaning to "get around to" for years: making a REAL budget, sewing grass seed on that bald spot in the yard, hiring someone to waterproof the basement, putting in deadbolts, getting the back door fixed; and I relish the sense of accomplishment from each one.
I wonder, "Have I grieved? Am I past the pain?" I feel so much better than I did a year ago, so maybe I have.
But what if I missed a step? What if I missed some really important element to the process and it's going to take me hurtling back to that horrible dark place where all I can do is wish for the life we had planned?"
Then I think, "It's somewhere in between." Past the worst of it but still with work to do, things to work through yet. I still struggle with resentments in this new life, one being that a year later, it still feels new. I resent:
- That so many biological fathers walk away from their kids, while my girls had a Daddy who wanted to be with them and didn't get a choice.
- The title "single mom". I'm sure it's part of the reason I cling to the title "widow". This nagging voice in me wants to make it clear that I didn't CHOOSE to be a single mom, I didn't walk away, drive him away, nor did I let him leave. I fought my damnedest to keep him with us.
- That doctors are not infallible and I really resent the diagnosis "Lupus". I have since decided that "Lupus" actually means "we really don't know what is wrong and we have no clue what to do but we'll give it a name and so we can pretend we know what's going on."
- That I find myself missing male companionship but dreading the whole process of changing that. I did my time on the dating scene when I was younger. Now I'm older, ill-equipped for dating and terrified of some of the possible ramifications to not only my well-being but also to my girls'.
At least I've got material!
Friday, June 5, 2009
First Night Here
Okay, so I wrote this really nice intro to myself and copied all my old blogs over here.
I read back through them and I sound like a liar... but then grief is a long process. It's work, a job I didn't want to begin with.
However, in reading back I felt a bit uplifted. You can't read it in them (or maybe you can) but a great deal of progress has been made. I read them and remember my mindset at the time, and I know I've come a long way.
I have a few "rough" posts: they dwell on widowhood and the changes it brought quite a bit; that's where I've been... but many/most of them still have a positive ring to them (kinda like the previous paragraph). Well, okay, in part, it's because it's how I WANT other to view me, as upbeat.
Then again, the negativity in my posts often strikes me (and another blogger friend) as more powerful. As a writer-friend of mine and I discussed today, I think that comes from the times when the muse really punched me and made me "throw up on paper"... the times when the need to write is so strong that I'm compelled to my keyboard and typing on hyper-drive - afraid if I don't "get it out" right then and there I'll explode.
So, I suppose it's okay if the blog truly goes up and down. I truly do, too.
I read back through them and I sound like a liar... but then grief is a long process. It's work, a job I didn't want to begin with.
However, in reading back I felt a bit uplifted. You can't read it in them (or maybe you can) but a great deal of progress has been made. I read them and remember my mindset at the time, and I know I've come a long way.
I have a few "rough" posts: they dwell on widowhood and the changes it brought quite a bit; that's where I've been... but many/most of them still have a positive ring to them (kinda like the previous paragraph). Well, okay, in part, it's because it's how I WANT other to view me, as upbeat.
Then again, the negativity in my posts often strikes me (and another blogger friend) as more powerful. As a writer-friend of mine and I discussed today, I think that comes from the times when the muse really punched me and made me "throw up on paper"... the times when the need to write is so strong that I'm compelled to my keyboard and typing on hyper-drive - afraid if I don't "get it out" right then and there I'll explode.
So, I suppose it's okay if the blog truly goes up and down. I truly do, too.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
May 14, 2009 - Deciphering
Why do I try so hard to decipher the happenings around me? I study the flow of life like a scientist, watching the ups and downs as though I could find some way to measure it, create a scale for predictability. I search for clues, "If I just had the right variables in my database..."
I watch my subconscious maneuver and collect, convinced that if I catch all the signs, I can prevent ever feeling blindsided... or ever feeling hurt again. If I just keep a handle on all the information, I can be as kind and giving and trusting as is my nature without ever regretting. I go back and look... I go over and over the things that led up to each wound "Man, I won't do THAT again!"
But then, seemingly from nowhere, another blow gets landed... ever the more painful because I was convinced my logic was sound. A+B is SUPPOSED to equal C, right? If I worked for what I wanted... in my homelife, in my career, in my relationships, I'm supposed to HAVE what I sought, right?
This morning, B.B. (now 3) wanted ice cream for breakfast, and was very upset when Momma made her throw the ice cream sandwich she stole from the freezer away. She became even more upset when, after she fished it out of the trash, Momma grabbed it and flushed it down the commode. She cried and wailed "I want ice cream! I want it Momma! I want...." (Sound familiar?).
"B.B., you can't have it, you're not going to have it, its time to think about something else"
Then later, "Momma, I don't WANT to go to little school! I don't want to! I don't!"
"B.B., you have to, it's going to happen, so we might as well talk about something else."
I was reflecting on B.B. and my struggles after I dropped her off this morning... her turmoil-filled morning. I smiled remembering her happy grin as I left. "Bye Mommy! See you later!"
Um, Gee, Kel, maybe YOU should practice what you preach.
I watch my subconscious maneuver and collect, convinced that if I catch all the signs, I can prevent ever feeling blindsided... or ever feeling hurt again. If I just keep a handle on all the information, I can be as kind and giving and trusting as is my nature without ever regretting. I go back and look... I go over and over the things that led up to each wound "Man, I won't do THAT again!"
But then, seemingly from nowhere, another blow gets landed... ever the more painful because I was convinced my logic was sound. A+B is SUPPOSED to equal C, right? If I worked for what I wanted... in my homelife, in my career, in my relationships, I'm supposed to HAVE what I sought, right?
This morning, B.B. (now 3) wanted ice cream for breakfast, and was very upset when Momma made her throw the ice cream sandwich she stole from the freezer away. She became even more upset when, after she fished it out of the trash, Momma grabbed it and flushed it down the commode. She cried and wailed "I want ice cream! I want it Momma! I want...." (Sound familiar?).
"B.B., you can't have it, you're not going to have it, its time to think about something else"
Then later, "Momma, I don't WANT to go to little school! I don't want to! I don't!"
"B.B., you have to, it's going to happen, so we might as well talk about something else."
I was reflecting on B.B. and my struggles after I dropped her off this morning... her turmoil-filled morning. I smiled remembering her happy grin as I left. "Bye Mommy! See you later!"
Um, Gee, Kel, maybe YOU should practice what you preach.
May 1, 2009 One of THOSE Nights
Most of the time, I do a pretty darn good job of my "brave" face. Sometimes I even have so many good days in a row, I think I've accepted this life... that I'm "fine"...
Then comes one of THOSE nights. Deat's absence feels like a hole cut out of me... a hole that can never, ever be filled. I can try all the tricks I've learned in the last year to focus on the positive, but none of them work on one of THOSE nights. I can wish and wish and wish... but I'm not going to wake up, this is it, this is real.
I know, I know, tomorrow I'll be better... I'll get stronger everyday.... blah blah blah. I don't WANT that. I want my life back. I want to go home, back to before the dialysis and the meetings with the nephrologist, the rhumetologist, the cardiologist and the half-dozen other "ologists" who fed me full of bullshit and still didn't save him. Good God I have a notebook where I wrote down nearly every word they told us... for all the good it did. I have a database of 18 medications, but keeping track of them didn't help either.
Maybe it's so hard to figure out who I am without him because I DON'T WANT to be whoever she is. I never have. I still don't. I just want to go home... Deat and I used to say "Home is where ever YOU are." Instead I come back to this house where we were SUPPOSED to be raising the girls TOGETHER... and I've searched it over and over... some of his things are still here, but he isn't.
Yes, tomorrow I will feel better. Tomorrow I'll be able to rattle off every good thing in the world about my life and how blessed I am. But cut me some slack tonight. It's one of THOSE nights.
Then comes one of THOSE nights. Deat's absence feels like a hole cut out of me... a hole that can never, ever be filled. I can try all the tricks I've learned in the last year to focus on the positive, but none of them work on one of THOSE nights. I can wish and wish and wish... but I'm not going to wake up, this is it, this is real.
I know, I know, tomorrow I'll be better... I'll get stronger everyday.... blah blah blah. I don't WANT that. I want my life back. I want to go home, back to before the dialysis and the meetings with the nephrologist, the rhumetologist, the cardiologist and the half-dozen other "ologists" who fed me full of bullshit and still didn't save him. Good God I have a notebook where I wrote down nearly every word they told us... for all the good it did. I have a database of 18 medications, but keeping track of them didn't help either.
Maybe it's so hard to figure out who I am without him because I DON'T WANT to be whoever she is. I never have. I still don't. I just want to go home... Deat and I used to say "Home is where ever YOU are." Instead I come back to this house where we were SUPPOSED to be raising the girls TOGETHER... and I've searched it over and over... some of his things are still here, but he isn't.
Yes, tomorrow I will feel better. Tomorrow I'll be able to rattle off every good thing in the world about my life and how blessed I am. But cut me some slack tonight. It's one of THOSE nights.
Old - November 9, 2008 - Stress reliever
Other things I learned last weekend:
1. I LOVE my Beretta, but this could get expensive.
2. Stance is easy... just like shooting pool but standing upright.
3. I am accurate as heck aiming for the X. actually more accurate in rapid fire than going slow. (FIFTEEN, count 'em, inside the main 2 rings, and NONE outside the 9)
4. I do well on the the left or right 7, so-so on the gut 7.
5. With the other guy's 9mm (don't remember the brand) or when I try the neck 7 shot... ehhh, not so much.
6. Never ever wear a v-neck sweater to the range, even if it's a fairly modest one. A hot shell landing in your bra will break you of that right quick!!!!!
Old - November 9, 2008 - One Letter and a Bear
It's amazing how God can take a little kindness shown here and there, and create such an amazing ripple effect. Strangers become friends over the course of online conversations, and suddenly a simple act balloons into an awesome aid to a totally unrelated situation.
I'm no stranger to online friendships... Several of my friendships here in L-town began online at a local online forum. The group at the forum walked with me the whole way through Deat's illness. Cathryn, Tina (Filly) and I met on our forum, and have become great friends in real life... Cat helped me get my current job, her husband Billy is the one who let the girls explore the helicopter. Filly and her family have been a blessing to the girls and me over and over and over again.
I've mentioned my soldier (online therapist) friend CT before. He's currently serving in Iraq. We talk (type) often, so several of my friends and my girls have "met" him in our online chats.
In October, P.D. came home telling me how her class at school was gathering things to send in care-packages for the soldiers in Iraq, and wanted to know if CT would get any of the stuff they sent. I told her I doubted it, so she said she wanted to send one just for him.
When I talked to CT I told him about it and asked him what kind of things to tell P.D. that he'd like. (I also e-mailed a friend of his from home for ideas in the process, and made a new friend there!) He told me I didn't need to do that for him but I answered it wasn't FOR him, it was to encourage P.D. for wanting to do something nice, if he wanted to pay me back he could write her a nice letter.
CT jumped on that idea and went a bit further. He told me he got P.D. a bear all dressed in camouflage, and even had "rank" sewn onto the bear's hat so it could be a Sergeant just like him... He took pictures of himself with the bear so P.D. would have something to take to show the kids at school, but waited to send them so the present would be a surprise.
CT and P.D.'s Soldier
"Mean Mugging" the New Recruit
Look what I got!
Love at first sight...
I'm no stranger to online friendships... Several of my friendships here in L-town began online at a local online forum. The group at the forum walked with me the whole way through Deat's illness. Cathryn, Tina (Filly) and I met on our forum, and have become great friends in real life... Cat helped me get my current job, her husband Billy is the one who let the girls explore the helicopter. Filly and her family have been a blessing to the girls and me over and over and over again.
I've mentioned my soldier (online therapist) friend CT before. He's currently serving in Iraq. We talk (type) often, so several of my friends and my girls have "met" him in our online chats.
In October, P.D. came home telling me how her class at school was gathering things to send in care-packages for the soldiers in Iraq, and wanted to know if CT would get any of the stuff they sent. I told her I doubted it, so she said she wanted to send one just for him.
When I talked to CT I told him about it and asked him what kind of things to tell P.D. that he'd like. (I also e-mailed a friend of his from home for ideas in the process, and made a new friend there!) He told me I didn't need to do that for him but I answered it wasn't FOR him, it was to encourage P.D. for wanting to do something nice, if he wanted to pay me back he could write her a nice letter.
CT jumped on that idea and went a bit further. He told me he got P.D. a bear all dressed in camouflage, and even had "rank" sewn onto the bear's hat so it could be a Sergeant just like him... He took pictures of himself with the bear so P.D. would have something to take to show the kids at school, but waited to send them so the present would be a surprise.
CT and P.D.'s Soldier
"Mean Mugging" the New Recruit
These acts in themselves are very nice... but nothing really amazing: a sweet kid deciding to do something nice for a soldier, the soldier deciding to do something nice for the kid. The bear arrived Thursday. CT was even thoughtful enough to include a great hand-written letter. He described his camp, his living quarters, the move his unit was making to be closer to Baghdad. He even described Baghdad and how it was was like our Washington D.C. I know CT had taking the letter to school in mind when he wrote it, but I'm sure he never imagined how it would grow to be something so much more.
P.D.'s been having a hard time at school, and had come to dread going. She loves learning, but little children HATE to be seen as "different." P.D. has always been very sensitive child. Any attention relating to losing her Daddy hurts to a degree, not only in her sorrow, but also the pain of feeling that she doesn't "fit in" anymore. When Deat died, her whole first-grade class made condolence cards for her... very sweet but it "set her apart" from the other kids. She had even said over the summer, "I hope nobody in 2nd grade finds out that I don't have a Dad."
So, P.D. has had to try to cope with having attention showed to her for the most painful event in her life, some good, helpful attention, like the kindness shown in the cards, some downright horrible. Little kids are curious, they ask questions, or they shy away... both of which has been hurtful to P.D..
Even worse, P.D. came home right before fall break telling me that a girl MADE FUN of her because she didn't have a dad. (Does the idea of hearing my baby tell that story and how it felt even need a description? I called the principal... it has been addressed.) Even with the things a Momma can do to try to make it better, it only goes so far. On Wednesday she was again, telling me how much she didn't want to go to school. On Thursday, "Sergeant Dominic" arrived in the mail.
P.D.'s been having a hard time at school, and had come to dread going. She loves learning, but little children HATE to be seen as "different." P.D. has always been very sensitive child. Any attention relating to losing her Daddy hurts to a degree, not only in her sorrow, but also the pain of feeling that she doesn't "fit in" anymore. When Deat died, her whole first-grade class made condolence cards for her... very sweet but it "set her apart" from the other kids. She had even said over the summer, "I hope nobody in 2nd grade finds out that I don't have a Dad."
So, P.D. has had to try to cope with having attention showed to her for the most painful event in her life, some good, helpful attention, like the kindness shown in the cards, some downright horrible. Little kids are curious, they ask questions, or they shy away... both of which has been hurtful to P.D..
Even worse, P.D. came home right before fall break telling me that a girl MADE FUN of her because she didn't have a dad. (Does the idea of hearing my baby tell that story and how it felt even need a description? I called the principal... it has been addressed.) Even with the things a Momma can do to try to make it better, it only goes so far. On Wednesday she was again, telling me how much she didn't want to go to school. On Thursday, "Sergeant Dominic" arrived in the mail.
Look what I got!
Love at first sight...
Friday afternoon was a completely different story. P.D. got in the car as happy as could be and chattering away about all what a great day she had. She said that her teacher loved the letter and read it to the class and wants his address to have all the kids write letters back to him (CT doesn't read this blog... don't tell him about that Steff!) She talked about how all the kids wanted to hold "Sergeant Dominic" how one boy told her if he had a bear like that he'd sleep with it every night... she went on and on.
She had the best day she's had at school since her Daddy died, a day that gave her a joy that as much as I wished and worried, I couldn't have imagined or orchestrated for her. She got all the positive attention I really believed she's needed to start looking forward to school again... all because a little girl wanted to do something nice for a soldier, all because a soldier wanted to be kind in return... all because of one letter and a bear.
She had the best day she's had at school since her Daddy died, a day that gave her a joy that as much as I wished and worried, I couldn't have imagined or orchestrated for her. She got all the positive attention I really believed she's needed to start looking forward to school again... all because a little girl wanted to do something nice for a soldier, all because a soldier wanted to be kind in return... all because of one letter and a bear.
Old - November 3, 2008 - I Said Goodbye (from SotB) Part 2
It was a beautiful day Saturday. The sun was shining and warm. Deat's grave is on top of the hill, shaded by some huge trees. I remember thinking he had a very nice view... "Um Kel, he's not here...."
I called someone, honestly don't remember who, before I got out of the car. Probably my mother. The footstone really is perfect, just as I had imagined when I laid it out. I was glad that I was able to make it as I wanted it.
I went over and sat down beside his footstone and started writing my letter... tears rolling, and I just let the letter go where it may. I caught him up on recent happenings in my life, in my struggles, but as I kept writing, I realized I was telling him goodbye... and I realized it was for the final time. I was telling him I couldn't take my cues from him as I had for the past ten years, that line of thinking was for our life together, but now death had parted us and I had to make new choices based on who's left.... me.
I went over and sat down beside his footstone and started writing my letter... tears rolling, and I just let the letter go where it may. I caught him up on recent happenings in my life, in my struggles, but as I kept writing, I realized I was telling him goodbye... and I realized it was for the final time. I was telling him I couldn't take my cues from him as I had for the past ten years, that line of thinking was for our life together, but now death had parted us and I had to make new choices based on who's left.... me.
And I left there feeling better and more ready to face the world than I have since he died. From there I went to the shooting range, by myself, and I felt good about it. It was just the right thing to do.
From there, I went back to my sister's house, visited a bit, then took the girls to Mom & Dad's, and sat and wrote what I got from my day. Some of this may sound harsh, but it's true. I wrote:
1. Today I said goodbye
2. Today, it's over.
3. He's not coming back, no more waiting, no more wishing.
4. And since he's not coming back, what was "ours" or even "his" is now mine.
my gun
my car
my house
my family
my life
5. I don't need approval from anyone. I don't need decisions by committee. I don't need confirmation that I'm right. I'll make mistakes, I'll live with them.
6. If I want it, I am the only one to do something about it. No one is waiting to come riding in on a white horse to do all the things he used to do, or the things we planned for him to do.
7. I did all I know to do, my obligation is over. The only obligation I have to Jerry D isn't really an obligation to him... it's to myself and my girls. To make sure they grow up to be honest, caring people with integrity about them, and to ensure that they have access to anything they want to know about their Daddy.
8. I am who I am. I am not who I am by association. My name is not "Jerry D's Wife" or even "Jerry D's Widow." I am just Kelly, and I'm a pretty good person all by myself. I don't need those old names to identify me to others or to prove that I am somebody worth knowing.
Going forward... I have goals to set. I'll be working on proving to myself that I really can do all the things we used to do as a team... and I refuse to be a victim any longer. To me, that means I will not be "letting life happen" to me anymore. It's time to step up and start "happening to life."
6. If I want it, I am the only one to do something about it. No one is waiting to come riding in on a white horse to do all the things he used to do, or the things we planned for him to do.
7. I did all I know to do, my obligation is over. The only obligation I have to Jerry D isn't really an obligation to him... it's to myself and my girls. To make sure they grow up to be honest, caring people with integrity about them, and to ensure that they have access to anything they want to know about their Daddy.
8. I am who I am. I am not who I am by association. My name is not "Jerry D's Wife" or even "Jerry D's Widow." I am just Kelly, and I'm a pretty good person all by myself. I don't need those old names to identify me to others or to prove that I am somebody worth knowing.
Going forward... I have goals to set. I'll be working on proving to myself that I really can do all the things we used to do as a team... and I refuse to be a victim any longer. To me, that means I will not be "letting life happen" to me anymore. It's time to step up and start "happening to life."
My life, in MY world, for MY family.
Old - November 3, 2008 - Stressing on the Buildup Part 1
Last Friday, on the 24th, when I called my Mom she mentioned that they finally had Deat's stones up at the cemetery. (For those of you who didn't know, Deat is buried in P-town). The first set that came in had a stain on one of the stones and Mr. Bledsoe sent them back... so I've been waiting for this news since before Memorial Day.
I had plans with Tina and Cathryn for my birthday for the next day, (25th), so I called my in-laws and told them the news and made plans to meet them in P-town on Sunday the 26th, though I really wanted my first trip to see them to be alone.
What I didn't expect was for this news to hit me like a ton of bricks at 100 mph. I was up half the night that night in tears... luckily, CT, my soldier friend, (my instant messenger therapist, ha ha) showed up at about 1am... he's had to "listen" (read) about these things quite a bit. I can type away and he has no idea I'm in tears if I don't tell him... yet somehow he either (a.) says the exact right thing or (b.) aggravates me so much I end up laughing before I log off anyway. Usually, it's both.
I talked to Mom again that Saturday and she said (and she was right) that making the trip to P-town and back in one day with the girls would be too hard, so I made plans to go this weekend, which gave me a whole week to stress and dread some more....
I told Fill on Friday that I went back and read through my blogs and realized that nearly all of them are about death, dying, grief... and it bothers me a bit but it's just where I've been, can't change that. Besides, if anyone reading this HASN'T had a major loss, maybe this will help one of you when you do. Grief is crazy, and irrational... maybe someone reading this, in the midst of their own grief will think, "Wait, I'm not going crazy, this is normal, I remember when Kelly said... "
So anyway, I've spent a great deal of time analyzing my own behavior, and I've learned a lot... but I don't think I ever made as much progress in this whole grief process as I did in an hour at Deat's grave. So much so... I'm giving that one it's own blog.
So, Saturday:
Got up, took a shower, fixed my hair, put on make-up... for those of you who know me well, this is not my Saturday routine. I almost never bother with make-up on Saturday unless we're having a cookout, sometimes not even then. I carefully picked out my favorite blue sweater, the one I knew he liked on me. I was running all around the house looking for a certain pair of jeans... even though every other pair I owned were clean and hanging up.
I stopped myself, "Why are these jeans so important?" hmmm. Because I've lost weight since Deat died, and I wanted the pair that really showed it off... "Um, Kel, he's not there..." As I've said before, grief is crazy. No matter how logical and rational a person you believe you are, the denial, the bargaining stages will creep in and out.
I always get anxious when the girls and I go out of town, I'm always afraid I'll forget the one thing I need when I'm packing. Filly and fam came over, and she stayed right with me, clucking like a Mama Hen the whole time I packed and basically kept me sane. My plan was to take the girls to my sister's house, go to the cemetery alone, then take the Beretta to the shooting range to get rid of how frustrated I figured I'd be after going to the cemetery. We finally got on the road at about 11:00, to my sisters' by 1:30, and I was back out to the cemetery by about 2.
I have a journal that I wrote a letter to Deat in every night for the first 2-3 months after he died. I decided to take it and my favorite pen with me.
to be continued.....
I had plans with Tina and Cathryn for my birthday for the next day, (25th), so I called my in-laws and told them the news and made plans to meet them in P-town on Sunday the 26th, though I really wanted my first trip to see them to be alone.
What I didn't expect was for this news to hit me like a ton of bricks at 100 mph. I was up half the night that night in tears... luckily, CT, my soldier friend, (my instant messenger therapist, ha ha) showed up at about 1am... he's had to "listen" (read) about these things quite a bit. I can type away and he has no idea I'm in tears if I don't tell him... yet somehow he either (a.) says the exact right thing or (b.) aggravates me so much I end up laughing before I log off anyway. Usually, it's both.
I talked to Mom again that Saturday and she said (and she was right) that making the trip to P-town and back in one day with the girls would be too hard, so I made plans to go this weekend, which gave me a whole week to stress and dread some more....
I told Fill on Friday that I went back and read through my blogs and realized that nearly all of them are about death, dying, grief... and it bothers me a bit but it's just where I've been, can't change that. Besides, if anyone reading this HASN'T had a major loss, maybe this will help one of you when you do. Grief is crazy, and irrational... maybe someone reading this, in the midst of their own grief will think, "Wait, I'm not going crazy, this is normal, I remember when Kelly said... "
So anyway, I've spent a great deal of time analyzing my own behavior, and I've learned a lot... but I don't think I ever made as much progress in this whole grief process as I did in an hour at Deat's grave. So much so... I'm giving that one it's own blog.
So, Saturday:
Got up, took a shower, fixed my hair, put on make-up... for those of you who know me well, this is not my Saturday routine. I almost never bother with make-up on Saturday unless we're having a cookout, sometimes not even then. I carefully picked out my favorite blue sweater, the one I knew he liked on me. I was running all around the house looking for a certain pair of jeans... even though every other pair I owned were clean and hanging up.
I stopped myself, "Why are these jeans so important?" hmmm. Because I've lost weight since Deat died, and I wanted the pair that really showed it off... "Um, Kel, he's not there..." As I've said before, grief is crazy. No matter how logical and rational a person you believe you are, the denial, the bargaining stages will creep in and out.
I always get anxious when the girls and I go out of town, I'm always afraid I'll forget the one thing I need when I'm packing. Filly and fam came over, and she stayed right with me, clucking like a Mama Hen the whole time I packed and basically kept me sane. My plan was to take the girls to my sister's house, go to the cemetery alone, then take the Beretta to the shooting range to get rid of how frustrated I figured I'd be after going to the cemetery. We finally got on the road at about 11:00, to my sisters' by 1:30, and I was back out to the cemetery by about 2.
I have a journal that I wrote a letter to Deat in every night for the first 2-3 months after he died. I decided to take it and my favorite pen with me.
to be continued.....
Old - October 8, 2008 - Answers
I've been playing over on Facebook, and I get innundated with some interesting and strange "Quiz" application invites: What 80's Movie Defines You? (Say Anything, a movie I've never seen) Find Out What Movie Star You Were in a Past Life (Marilyn Monroe, puh-leeze) What Kind of Tattoo Should You Get? (A nude angel with small wings and big boobs... SHUT UP Kevin!)
I was pondering why these little quizzes are so popular, why I even bothered. I suppose it's because we all want ANSWERS: in part, because want something outside ourselves to help define us, in part, to ease our minds about issues we don't understand completely. With all the changes of the past year, finding my new "place" in life, finding answers, has been a huge theme of mine.
Recently, our priest was called to move to another parish. Father Charles grew up in an evangelical household, and came to Catholicism and eventually priesthood, as an adult. Mass with Fr. Charles was never dull. Although Deat wasn't Catholic, during one of Fr. Charles' visits to him in the hospital, he made a point to tell Fr. Charles, "You are my pastor." Fr. Charles was so moved by this statement he repeated it several times in the days following Deat's death, including during the funeral where he presided.
The first Sunday after the funeral, I felt very alone as the girls and I took our place in our usual pew near the front. Involuntary tears slid down my cheeks as I listened to the Psalm of the week, the 23rd.. I looked up at Fr. Charles, and noticed him looking at me and tearing up himself: my pastor, my friend. He stopped, right in the middle of the service, and asked all the ladies in attendance to come sit with me and show their support. It was a beautiful moment, and one I needed. His last several masses with us were bittersweet: full of appreciation for knowing him, but sadness at a new, fresh loss in a year that at times, seems to have been defined by loss.
I tried to greet Father Pat, our new "pastor", with an open mind. I was pleased at his first sermon to discover that, although while he wasn't as dynamic as Fr. Charles, he could deliver an interesting sermon. He seemed like a very kind, sincere and genuine man.
Fr. Pat's second sermon, however, threw me for a huge loop. He said he had not faced major tragedy in his life, such as the loss of a close loved-one. He said he doesn't believe that God "makes" these losses happen, but that God is always there to hold us close while we endure them.
WHAT?! Everything I've held dear in my faith the past seven months was suddenly wrong? His words seemed to fly in the face of the scripture I've clung to since Deat first became ill, Romans 8:28, " And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
To me, this verse means that God's hand is on EVERYTHING that happens, and everything is according to His plan. Yes, my personal loss was huge to me, but my God is omniscient and omnipotent...I've been comforted knowing that God's hand was on this event: believing that Deat's life and death served multiple purposes His plan: a plan much larger and greater than my own. I've been able to accept life without Deat in part by believing that ultimately the purposes this loss served in God's plan were, and are, more important than whatever pain it brought to me.
Suddenly this new priest, a man I've been taught that I'm supposed to trust to help me grow in my relationship with God, is saying, "No, God didn't MAKE this happen, He just watched while it did?"
In my mind, the God Fr. Pat referred to was some mamby-pamby being who didn't direct our lives, He just "let" things happen to us, He just tried to comfort us after they did. If God did not purposefully end my husband's life, then am I to now believe He didn't STOP his death, even though He could have? If Fr. Pat's assertions were right, WHY OH WHY did my husband have to die? Why did my precious babies have to lose a father who loved them more than breathing? The mere idea that this interpretation could be true cut me a thousand ways.
I tried to approach Father Pat after mass to understand his reasoning, but in the conversation I couldn't stop tearing up and shaking, I'm sure my reaction suprised and bewildered him, and I wasn't able to focus on his replies at all. I missed church the following two Sundays: angry at the implications of his sermon, angry that he wasn't Father Charles, angry that I was being expected to cope with yet ANOTHER loss.
After some thought I decided, as Fr. Pat had mentioned, he had never endured major loss, so of couse he wouldn't know. I returned to church this past Sunday, and tried to put my feelings about the previous sermon behind me. This week's sermon didn't cause any damage. Besides, I love the praise and worship of mass, I love the other members of my church family. Someday I may try again to discuss the contents of that sermon with Father Pat, and who knows? I may grow to love him, too. I may even call him my pastor.
Going forward, I've decided that Father Pat has every bit as much right to be fallable as those stupid quizzes. Putting my faith in how other humans see me, my life, my God, is silly. Listening and talking with others may help me sort out my feelings on an issue, but I can find many of the answers in prayer, in my Bible, and in myself. Who says we're supposed to get all these answers we seek in this life anyway? I'll look for answers from the sources I'm sure I can depend on...
And I don't think I'll be getting that angel tattoo any time soon.
I was pondering why these little quizzes are so popular, why I even bothered. I suppose it's because we all want ANSWERS: in part, because want something outside ourselves to help define us, in part, to ease our minds about issues we don't understand completely. With all the changes of the past year, finding my new "place" in life, finding answers, has been a huge theme of mine.
Recently, our priest was called to move to another parish. Father Charles grew up in an evangelical household, and came to Catholicism and eventually priesthood, as an adult. Mass with Fr. Charles was never dull. Although Deat wasn't Catholic, during one of Fr. Charles' visits to him in the hospital, he made a point to tell Fr. Charles, "You are my pastor." Fr. Charles was so moved by this statement he repeated it several times in the days following Deat's death, including during the funeral where he presided.
The first Sunday after the funeral, I felt very alone as the girls and I took our place in our usual pew near the front. Involuntary tears slid down my cheeks as I listened to the Psalm of the week, the 23rd.. I looked up at Fr. Charles, and noticed him looking at me and tearing up himself: my pastor, my friend. He stopped, right in the middle of the service, and asked all the ladies in attendance to come sit with me and show their support. It was a beautiful moment, and one I needed. His last several masses with us were bittersweet: full of appreciation for knowing him, but sadness at a new, fresh loss in a year that at times, seems to have been defined by loss.
I tried to greet Father Pat, our new "pastor", with an open mind. I was pleased at his first sermon to discover that, although while he wasn't as dynamic as Fr. Charles, he could deliver an interesting sermon. He seemed like a very kind, sincere and genuine man.
Fr. Pat's second sermon, however, threw me for a huge loop. He said he had not faced major tragedy in his life, such as the loss of a close loved-one. He said he doesn't believe that God "makes" these losses happen, but that God is always there to hold us close while we endure them.
WHAT?! Everything I've held dear in my faith the past seven months was suddenly wrong? His words seemed to fly in the face of the scripture I've clung to since Deat first became ill, Romans 8:28, " And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
To me, this verse means that God's hand is on EVERYTHING that happens, and everything is according to His plan. Yes, my personal loss was huge to me, but my God is omniscient and omnipotent...I've been comforted knowing that God's hand was on this event: believing that Deat's life and death served multiple purposes His plan: a plan much larger and greater than my own. I've been able to accept life without Deat in part by believing that ultimately the purposes this loss served in God's plan were, and are, more important than whatever pain it brought to me.
Suddenly this new priest, a man I've been taught that I'm supposed to trust to help me grow in my relationship with God, is saying, "No, God didn't MAKE this happen, He just watched while it did?"
In my mind, the God Fr. Pat referred to was some mamby-pamby being who didn't direct our lives, He just "let" things happen to us, He just tried to comfort us after they did. If God did not purposefully end my husband's life, then am I to now believe He didn't STOP his death, even though He could have? If Fr. Pat's assertions were right, WHY OH WHY did my husband have to die? Why did my precious babies have to lose a father who loved them more than breathing? The mere idea that this interpretation could be true cut me a thousand ways.
I tried to approach Father Pat after mass to understand his reasoning, but in the conversation I couldn't stop tearing up and shaking, I'm sure my reaction suprised and bewildered him, and I wasn't able to focus on his replies at all. I missed church the following two Sundays: angry at the implications of his sermon, angry that he wasn't Father Charles, angry that I was being expected to cope with yet ANOTHER loss.
After some thought I decided, as Fr. Pat had mentioned, he had never endured major loss, so of couse he wouldn't know. I returned to church this past Sunday, and tried to put my feelings about the previous sermon behind me. This week's sermon didn't cause any damage. Besides, I love the praise and worship of mass, I love the other members of my church family. Someday I may try again to discuss the contents of that sermon with Father Pat, and who knows? I may grow to love him, too. I may even call him my pastor.
Going forward, I've decided that Father Pat has every bit as much right to be fallable as those stupid quizzes. Putting my faith in how other humans see me, my life, my God, is silly. Listening and talking with others may help me sort out my feelings on an issue, but I can find many of the answers in prayer, in my Bible, and in myself. Who says we're supposed to get all these answers we seek in this life anyway? I'll look for answers from the sources I'm sure I can depend on...
And I don't think I'll be getting that angel tattoo any time soon.
Old - October 3, 2008 - Sam and Amy
Sam and I met when I was in high-school, when I was selling ads for my high school newspaper. He owned a cabinet store, and every year he'd put an ad in. I'd leave his office thinking "Well, he's a nice old guy."
We met again in my early 20's, he in his mid-40's. I spent a year out of college, most of it working in Daddy's office and on several occasions stopped by his office for some reason or another. I thought he was an amusing old goat. Sometimes I'd just go in if I was walking by. "Hi, Mr. H!"
He'd reply, "What's up, Baby", much the way an uncle would his favorite niece.
After I graduated, I took a job at a newspaper in a nearby town, and Sam's office was one of my regular stops. I'd come bopping in, ready rescue Sam from all his advertising woes. Sam would listen to my pitch with a bemused smile, and I think he bought one ad a month out of pity. Conversations soon turned beyond advertising, and week after week we debated all aspects of our worlds: parents, children, dating, life, death.
Sam had been widowed for some time, and we often swapped stories about who we were dating... I chastised him often for being a lousy old dog, he'd give me this "are you an idiot" look and grumble when I'd tell him about the stupid things my latest love-interest did. Of course, at the ripe old age of 24, I knew all there was to know. However, as often as not, something he said would have me thinking hard about things long after I left. I later took a job right across the street, and spent many a lunch hour at the cabinet store. We developed a fondness for one another... and a friendship that I suppose defies most social norms.
I eventually took a job in Lexington, got married, and didn't get to see or talk to Sam so much... but I stopped by when I could. One day, out of the blue, he called me up, "Kelly, I'm getting married!"
"WHAT? WHEN? To WHOM?"
"Next weekend. Oh, you'll like her Kelly, she's a really nice little Catholic girl. You may know her, I think she's about 2 or 3 years older than you."
"I didn't even know you were serious about anyone! How long have you been dating?"
"Two months."
I smacked my forehead and settled in to hear all about Amy, the sweetest woman that I HAD to meet. She had been widowed for just over a year, and a friend had introduced them. He went on and on about her mannerisms, her gentle and kind way, her devotion to God and to the church, and how they had discussed the pain and the different aspects of what it was like to lose a spouse. They understood one another.
I met her briefly on a couple occasions, and thought she was everything Sam said she was... too good to be true and as he would freely admit, too good for Sam, but she was just crazy about him. I remember that it crossed my mind then, "Oh, this poor woman, Sam's so much older, she'll have to go through that pain again.."
Fast forward a few years, Deat and I moved to L-town. I called or stopped by here and there, checking in. Sam took a job as a traveling sales rep for a cabinet wholesaler, and Sam's son, Bo, took over the cabinet supply. About twice a year I'd call the store to chat with Bo (bless his heart, Sam completely made over) and see how Sam and Amy were doing. They had built a house and moved to Cynthiana, with Bo building one close by.
On one of these calls, Bo informed me that Sam had cancer and had been undergoing treatment. (I still remember sitting in the parking lot where I pulled over, tears running down my face as I listened.) "Kelly, here's his home number, you need to call him, he's really down. Try to cheer him up a little." Amy clucked a bit over his condition, and was glad to put him on the phone. He sounded tired and frustrated, but managed to chuckle a little anyway. I made a point to check in with Bo more often.
Several months later, in July, was when Deat first became ill. Not long after Deat and I both went back to work in September, I called Sam to check in... he had been declared cancer-free! We laughed and talked about the struggles of illness, and the recent triumphs in both our stories. Sam could not say enough about Amy and her tireless devotion throughout his ordeal.
January came, Deat developed the infection and his condition worsened. Never wanting to sound negative, I didn't really reach out to anyone with my fears... Deat and I discussed them in a hypothetical way, but talking about them to anyone else would make them too real. In February, Deat's body had had enough, and he died.
About a week after the funeral, knowing no one would think to tell him, I called Sam's cell. He was leaving Louisville driving back home when I told him what happened. We talked for 2 hours (his whole drive home), me catching him up on the specifics, Sam sharing protective advice and counsel that can only come from one who has been through it. Near the end of our conversation, he told me, "Baby, I could barely see to get out of Louisville," admitting to his tears of concern.
He e-mailed me next day, checking in, and told me to call the next chance I got, Amy wanted to hear how I was doing straight from the horse's mouth. A couple days later I called, and it was Amy and my turn to be on the phone for hours. We talked about the unfairness of losing a spouse, and I believe it's the only time I ever heard a trace of anger in her voice. We made plans for the girls and I to come visit on my next trip back home, I think in part as an escape for the girls and me, but as much to reassure Sam and Amy that both that the girls and I would be okay.
On the Thursday before we planned to visit, Sam called and said we'd have to make it another time. He said Amy had been sick and become jaundiced, so they were afraid she'd contracted hepatitis somewhere and he that he and Amy didn't want the girls to be exposed to it. When I called the following Tuesday to check how her doctor visit went, it was my turn to lose my ability to see through the tears: pancreatic cancer. He vowed that they were going to fight it, though I could hear in his voice that he knew the finality of the diagnosis. He said to give them another week, but to come visit anyway... that seeing the girls would be good for Amy, and he wanted it to be before she started chemotherapy.
We had a good visit. Amy was obviously weakened, and as was Amy's way, she was more worried about Sam than herself. She bragged on his attempts at housecleaning, and shared what their treatment plans were. When we were alone, she spoke words of hope, but I knew, even though he was out of earshot, they were more for Sam's benefit than her own. Her voice resounded her calm acceptance of whatever her future held, sure it was God's plan.
We spoke a few more times after that visit, but I, like so many during Deat's illness, never knew whether to call and check in, or to use fear of interrupting their hectic schedules as an excuse to let me hide from it.
Nine AM this morning in my inbox: sent at 8:30, from Sam's e-mail, subject line, Amy. I had tears in my eyes before I opened it. The note, simply that she passed away yesterday morning... no more explanation needed, he knew, I'd know. I left a message on his voice mail, and waited.
He called a couple hours later. We talked of her last days, and of Deat's; of the arrangements he chose, versus the ones I did. We shared a joke we'd made some time ago about God and our confusion in all this. At this moment, these are mixed tears I shed: some for Sam, some for me.
Good bye, sweet Amy, goodbye. I'm so happy you're free of the hurt. Thank you so much for all the love you showed my dear friend. He'll be fine, he's a tough old bird, I'll check on him as I can. Tell my husband I love him... Until we're all together again.
We met again in my early 20's, he in his mid-40's. I spent a year out of college, most of it working in Daddy's office and on several occasions stopped by his office for some reason or another. I thought he was an amusing old goat. Sometimes I'd just go in if I was walking by. "Hi, Mr. H!"
He'd reply, "What's up, Baby", much the way an uncle would his favorite niece.
After I graduated, I took a job at a newspaper in a nearby town, and Sam's office was one of my regular stops. I'd come bopping in, ready rescue Sam from all his advertising woes. Sam would listen to my pitch with a bemused smile, and I think he bought one ad a month out of pity. Conversations soon turned beyond advertising, and week after week we debated all aspects of our worlds: parents, children, dating, life, death.
Sam had been widowed for some time, and we often swapped stories about who we were dating... I chastised him often for being a lousy old dog, he'd give me this "are you an idiot" look and grumble when I'd tell him about the stupid things my latest love-interest did. Of course, at the ripe old age of 24, I knew all there was to know. However, as often as not, something he said would have me thinking hard about things long after I left. I later took a job right across the street, and spent many a lunch hour at the cabinet store. We developed a fondness for one another... and a friendship that I suppose defies most social norms.
I eventually took a job in Lexington, got married, and didn't get to see or talk to Sam so much... but I stopped by when I could. One day, out of the blue, he called me up, "Kelly, I'm getting married!"
"WHAT? WHEN? To WHOM?"
"Next weekend. Oh, you'll like her Kelly, she's a really nice little Catholic girl. You may know her, I think she's about 2 or 3 years older than you."
"I didn't even know you were serious about anyone! How long have you been dating?"
"Two months."
I smacked my forehead and settled in to hear all about Amy, the sweetest woman that I HAD to meet. She had been widowed for just over a year, and a friend had introduced them. He went on and on about her mannerisms, her gentle and kind way, her devotion to God and to the church, and how they had discussed the pain and the different aspects of what it was like to lose a spouse. They understood one another.
I met her briefly on a couple occasions, and thought she was everything Sam said she was... too good to be true and as he would freely admit, too good for Sam, but she was just crazy about him. I remember that it crossed my mind then, "Oh, this poor woman, Sam's so much older, she'll have to go through that pain again.."
Fast forward a few years, Deat and I moved to L-town. I called or stopped by here and there, checking in. Sam took a job as a traveling sales rep for a cabinet wholesaler, and Sam's son, Bo, took over the cabinet supply. About twice a year I'd call the store to chat with Bo (bless his heart, Sam completely made over) and see how Sam and Amy were doing. They had built a house and moved to Cynthiana, with Bo building one close by.
On one of these calls, Bo informed me that Sam had cancer and had been undergoing treatment. (I still remember sitting in the parking lot where I pulled over, tears running down my face as I listened.) "Kelly, here's his home number, you need to call him, he's really down. Try to cheer him up a little." Amy clucked a bit over his condition, and was glad to put him on the phone. He sounded tired and frustrated, but managed to chuckle a little anyway. I made a point to check in with Bo more often.
Several months later, in July, was when Deat first became ill. Not long after Deat and I both went back to work in September, I called Sam to check in... he had been declared cancer-free! We laughed and talked about the struggles of illness, and the recent triumphs in both our stories. Sam could not say enough about Amy and her tireless devotion throughout his ordeal.
January came, Deat developed the infection and his condition worsened. Never wanting to sound negative, I didn't really reach out to anyone with my fears... Deat and I discussed them in a hypothetical way, but talking about them to anyone else would make them too real. In February, Deat's body had had enough, and he died.
About a week after the funeral, knowing no one would think to tell him, I called Sam's cell. He was leaving Louisville driving back home when I told him what happened. We talked for 2 hours (his whole drive home), me catching him up on the specifics, Sam sharing protective advice and counsel that can only come from one who has been through it. Near the end of our conversation, he told me, "Baby, I could barely see to get out of Louisville," admitting to his tears of concern.
He e-mailed me next day, checking in, and told me to call the next chance I got, Amy wanted to hear how I was doing straight from the horse's mouth. A couple days later I called, and it was Amy and my turn to be on the phone for hours. We talked about the unfairness of losing a spouse, and I believe it's the only time I ever heard a trace of anger in her voice. We made plans for the girls and I to come visit on my next trip back home, I think in part as an escape for the girls and me, but as much to reassure Sam and Amy that both that the girls and I would be okay.
On the Thursday before we planned to visit, Sam called and said we'd have to make it another time. He said Amy had been sick and become jaundiced, so they were afraid she'd contracted hepatitis somewhere and he that he and Amy didn't want the girls to be exposed to it. When I called the following Tuesday to check how her doctor visit went, it was my turn to lose my ability to see through the tears: pancreatic cancer. He vowed that they were going to fight it, though I could hear in his voice that he knew the finality of the diagnosis. He said to give them another week, but to come visit anyway... that seeing the girls would be good for Amy, and he wanted it to be before she started chemotherapy.
We had a good visit. Amy was obviously weakened, and as was Amy's way, she was more worried about Sam than herself. She bragged on his attempts at housecleaning, and shared what their treatment plans were. When we were alone, she spoke words of hope, but I knew, even though he was out of earshot, they were more for Sam's benefit than her own. Her voice resounded her calm acceptance of whatever her future held, sure it was God's plan.
We spoke a few more times after that visit, but I, like so many during Deat's illness, never knew whether to call and check in, or to use fear of interrupting their hectic schedules as an excuse to let me hide from it.
Nine AM this morning in my inbox: sent at 8:30, from Sam's e-mail, subject line, Amy. I had tears in my eyes before I opened it. The note, simply that she passed away yesterday morning... no more explanation needed, he knew, I'd know. I left a message on his voice mail, and waited.
He called a couple hours later. We talked of her last days, and of Deat's; of the arrangements he chose, versus the ones I did. We shared a joke we'd made some time ago about God and our confusion in all this. At this moment, these are mixed tears I shed: some for Sam, some for me.
Good bye, sweet Amy, goodbye. I'm so happy you're free of the hurt. Thank you so much for all the love you showed my dear friend. He'll be fine, he's a tough old bird, I'll check on him as I can. Tell my husband I love him... Until we're all together again.
Old - August 29, 2008 - Messages I Needed, Part 2
We're still sitting in the floor, some of the crowd has broken up, and the police officer is smiling at B.B., calming her down, stroking her hand and telling her she HAS to stay with Mommy from now on, okay?
B.B., is looking up at me, having seen my tears and saying "Are you okay, Mommy? You okay?" in her little drawl.
I remembered a conversation Deat and I had about this particular officer. I looked at her and told her, "My husband spoke well of you."
She replied, "I thought a lot of him, we all did at the department... I'm so sorry, it was such a horrible thing..." I had to smile at her, she had big, kind eyes and such genuine fondness for my husband's memory and concern for the girls and me. We got up and walked together, and fell into a conversation I've had many times since his death:
"I didn't even know he was sick."
"Nobody did. He didn't want anyone to know."
"How are you getting along..."
"We're okay, the community has been so supportive..."
Then she said, "You must be a really strong person."
To which I gave my standard reply, "No, I'm not strong, God is strong, I just hand it up."
She grinned and said, "THAT makes sense. My partner and I talked about it several times right after he died. We'd see you coming into the school and you'd smile and wave at us and we'd say 'HOW does she do it? How does she do it with all she's going through and still manage to give us a smile?"
I laughed, and told her, "See, you guys didn't know it, but YOU lifted ME up! I could be having the worst morning, then you two would wave and smile at me and it always made ME feel better!" I then told her more about the ways God had taken such good care of us during Deat's illness and since his death.
She said, "Ya know, some people claim to have the light in their lives, say they do, but you, your light SHINES."
I felt my eyes tearing up again. I thanked her and told her, "you have no idea what a gift you just gave me, saying that." It was a gift for a couple reasons: when Deat first passed, I couldn't help but think how I would want him to be proud of the way I conducted myself in the midst of my grief, and I had also so hoped that God would use me, that in the midst of what others saw as such a tragedy, that something I said or did would show God's glory and infinite protection.
We walked around the store together for a while, talking about the Lord and she told me all about her police-partner, how they had become best friends since working together, and how she felt God had blessed them with each other. I finally learned her name.
Thank you Officer Frances, God used you to bless me today.
Old - August 29, 2008- Messages I needed Part 1
Today I got some lessons I needed:
We had to stop by Wal-Mart today, and shortly after arriving B.B. decided she didn't want to ride in the cart so I let her out to walk, telling her, "Okay, but you have to keep up with Sissy and me."
P.D. and I finished in the aisle we were in, and started toward the other end when I noticed B.B. was poking along back where we began. P.D. and I called out "Bye, B.B." and walked a few more steps. (which always prompts B.B. to squawk and start running to catch up.)
I turned back around to see that B.B. has moved further out of our aisle, and is now looking at us from the clothing section. We waved and called again, "Bye, B.B.", turned and took a few more steps. When I turned back again, I couldn't see her. I marched back the direction we had come, frustrated. "Why is she so difficult?" But when I got to the end of the aisle, B.B. was nowhere to be seen.
I turned to my left and started looking down the aisles, still frustrated: no B.B.. I turned back and ran the other direction, calling her name: no B.B.. I started into the clothing section: still no B.B.. I called to the first associate I saw, "Please, have you seen a little girl about this high wearing an orange shirt?" I hear my voice rising... The associate begins searching and recruiting other associates to look...
Then it hits: abject terror.
This is really big place and I can't find my baby.
I run through the clothes, P.D. on my heels... "B.B., oh please B.B., answer Mommy!" A minute more and I hear it over the loudspeaker: "Code Adam, A two year-old girl wearing an orange shirt." My mind is racing "what if someone grabbed her? Oh dear God WHERE IS MY BABY!!!" By this time a dozen people have joined in the search.
I ran over to the grocery section, practically screaming her name. I met one the of police officers who direct traffic outside P.D.'s school each morning. (B.B. and I love to wave at them) She grabs me, realizing it's my baby and tells me she's already searched the bathrooms and we WILL find her. The intercom is in full force now, reapeating the description, ringing in my ears...."Code Adam... Code ADAM... CODE ADAM!"
Together, we ran back to the last place I saw her, tears welling up in my eyes, strangers yelling to us..."What color is her hair? Where did you see her last?" and joining the search...I am trying to be brave, trying to keep a clear head, but I can feel my knees weakening... tears running down my cheeks and I can barely yell her name.
Finally, I hear it: the unmistakable B.B.-the-Rebel Yell, coming from way over beyond the dressing rooms, and moving closer. A lady I never met is running toward me, clutching my screaming, writhing two-year old. "NO! YET ME GO! I YANT MOMMY!"
I grabbed her and finally let my knees give way. I was sitting on the floor, crying harder now from relief. I hear myself say over and over "Oh thank you, thank you God, oh my precious baby", holding B.B. close to me, kissing her and stroking her hair. P.D. brushes away her own tears and sits beside us, hugging us both.
A small crowd has gathered, smiling down at us, all relieved that the lost child is now found.
It was the longest 15-20 minutes of my life
Continued...
Old- August 12, 2008 - Could Somebody Please Tell Me...
How did my brain get hardwired so that if it crosses my mind it pops out my mouth?
Old - July 30, 2008 Here I Go Again
Nothing is easy anymore...
No one waiting for me to come in the door... No lanky figure passing the front window... loping up the walk, signaling that our little family is complete again.
Home doesn't mean what it once did... the old definition means I can never go home again.
So, I made a new definition, and I'm making a new life
Though the boring old one, in hindsight, now seems grand.
But this one will be, too. You'll see, you'll be proud of me.
Nothing is easy anymore, but then again, maybe it never really was...
I just felt braver then, but I'll be brave again. You'll see, you'll be proud of me
Editor's note: 07/18/09
I just went back to my old blog and found some older posts I forgot to include. I decided to add them on here, at the bottom of this one so they stay "in order"
The Gift - July 27, 2008
Discovering and rediscovering God's grace is so hard to describe: comfort when circumstances say there should BE no comfort; contentment when everything around you is turmoil.
It's surrendering to find freedom... "Here, Lord, I've got this problem, but You're bigger than me, and I trust YOU. Here, let me know when I need to pick it up again."
And He always comes through, He always reveals His glory. He never let me down, even when the event I feared most really came to pass. He shows me that He never left me; He won't make me, or any of us, walk alone, it's only up to us to keep seeking Him.
Oh, if only I could GIVE this gift to people I love, hand it to each of them on silver platters and say "See, I TOLD you it's incredible!" If only I could write or say SOMETHING that could convey even 1/1000th of the magnitude of what He's done for me in the past year alone.
I didn't DESERVE it, none of us do. Jesus died because we don't deserve it. Deserving it is beside the point... I can't/didn't earn it, and I suppose that could be why I can't give it away: His glory, not mine.
It's not my gift to give...
How do ya do this? - July 15,2008
How do you start over? How do you manage a life that you didn't plan to have without your partner, your best friend?
Everything is so different. The responsibilities look like mountains. Two little people count on YOU. Not the two of you, YOU. The price for mistakes is so much higher now... every decision you make COUNTS so much more.
You get so fearful of making a mistake... so afraid you'll put the wrong priority first in your list of "to do's"... you're terrified to even pick which one needs to be done first! Left, Right? Yes, No? And the person whose opinion mattered most isn't here to weigh in on them. Couldn't he just come home for an hour or two and TELL ME WHAT TO DO?
Well, I'll tell you how you do it... you just do it. You just do it because you HAVE TO. Because two little girls need Mama to seem like she knows what she's doing, even if she doesn't. You just do it because it has to be done, and if you choose the wrong thing, then God will see you through the mistakes, as He always has and He always will.
Lord, I'm scared. I'm scared but I've been scared before... and I do trust YOU. Just gotta look to You more, huh?
No Place Like Home (The Old and the New) - July 09, 2008
I posted pictures... but I'm sure they still don't capture the way my heart swells when I look out over the yard and the farm. I feel sheltered there... nothing can touch me or hurt me.
But, eventually, "safe havens" start to feel like cages... I'm always glad to get there, but glad again to go HOME, the home, the life I have with my own little family.
And then, there's today - June 24, 2008
Sometimes you look forward, sometimes you look back. It's all normal, it's not a failure... just take the time, and BREATHE.
No one waiting for me to come in the door... No lanky figure passing the front window... loping up the walk, signaling that our little family is complete again.
Home doesn't mean what it once did... the old definition means I can never go home again.
So, I made a new definition, and I'm making a new life
Though the boring old one, in hindsight, now seems grand.
But this one will be, too. You'll see, you'll be proud of me.
Nothing is easy anymore, but then again, maybe it never really was...
I just felt braver then, but I'll be brave again. You'll see, you'll be proud of me
Editor's note: 07/18/09
I just went back to my old blog and found some older posts I forgot to include. I decided to add them on here, at the bottom of this one so they stay "in order"
The Gift - July 27, 2008
Discovering and rediscovering God's grace is so hard to describe: comfort when circumstances say there should BE no comfort; contentment when everything around you is turmoil.
It's surrendering to find freedom... "Here, Lord, I've got this problem, but You're bigger than me, and I trust YOU. Here, let me know when I need to pick it up again."
And He always comes through, He always reveals His glory. He never let me down, even when the event I feared most really came to pass. He shows me that He never left me; He won't make me, or any of us, walk alone, it's only up to us to keep seeking Him.
Oh, if only I could GIVE this gift to people I love, hand it to each of them on silver platters and say "See, I TOLD you it's incredible!" If only I could write or say SOMETHING that could convey even 1/1000th of the magnitude of what He's done for me in the past year alone.
I didn't DESERVE it, none of us do. Jesus died because we don't deserve it. Deserving it is beside the point... I can't/didn't earn it, and I suppose that could be why I can't give it away: His glory, not mine.
It's not my gift to give...
How do ya do this? - July 15,2008
How do you start over? How do you manage a life that you didn't plan to have without your partner, your best friend?
Everything is so different. The responsibilities look like mountains. Two little people count on YOU. Not the two of you, YOU. The price for mistakes is so much higher now... every decision you make COUNTS so much more.
You get so fearful of making a mistake... so afraid you'll put the wrong priority first in your list of "to do's"... you're terrified to even pick which one needs to be done first! Left, Right? Yes, No? And the person whose opinion mattered most isn't here to weigh in on them. Couldn't he just come home for an hour or two and TELL ME WHAT TO DO?
Well, I'll tell you how you do it... you just do it. You just do it because you HAVE TO. Because two little girls need Mama to seem like she knows what she's doing, even if she doesn't. You just do it because it has to be done, and if you choose the wrong thing, then God will see you through the mistakes, as He always has and He always will.
Lord, I'm scared. I'm scared but I've been scared before... and I do trust YOU. Just gotta look to You more, huh?
No Place Like Home (The Old and the New) - July 09, 2008
I posted pictures... but I'm sure they still don't capture the way my heart swells when I look out over the yard and the farm. I feel sheltered there... nothing can touch me or hurt me.
But, eventually, "safe havens" start to feel like cages... I'm always glad to get there, but glad again to go HOME, the home, the life I have with my own little family.
And then, there's today - June 24, 2008
Sometimes you look forward, sometimes you look back. It's all normal, it's not a failure... just take the time, and BREATHE.
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