9/11, birthday, grief, widow
Today, September 11th, is my birthday. As a member of the widowed community I now have met and come to know the real life stories of women who lost their person on 9/11/2001. Knowing that others are mournful on a day that I would otherwise be celebrating does put a damper on the day. How could it not? Celebrating love that lives on with Tanya at Camp Widow West. Her fiance, Sergio Villanueva, was a responding NYC firefighter on September 11, 2001. On my 2001 birthday I opened cards that arrived in the mail, glanced at them and tossed them straight in the trash. I can’t tell you exactly why. Grief alters our usual behavior in unexpected ways. We stayed quietly at home. We did not sing the birthday song. I can’t remember if there was a cake. My birthday remains a paradox: this day is not about me but this day is about me. Over the course of the last decade plus I have created a few ways to take care of myself and handle the contradictory feelings of the day. I stay away from media, enjoy a nice dinner that I don’t have to cook and each year I ask myself what feels right as a way to honor the totality of the day. Imagine opening your mailbox and finding more than one hundred birthday greetings. That’s what social media, in particular Facebook, can be like on a birthday. It’s pretty awesome. Now imagine following the mail carrier as she makes her rounds and seeing that on that same day in all the other mailboxes she...
clown, depression, grief, suffering, suicide, teacher, why, widow
On our first real date in 1989 my late husband and I saw Dead Poets Society. It was a great date-night movie, inspirational with poignant reminders to explore, stay curious and that we are all creative beings. We were in our early twenties just venturing out in our own lives and trying to figure out how to make them extraordinary. The film was poetry brought to life through script, cinematography and cast. As I recall this was my first experience of Robin Williams in a serious role moving him far beyond the simple but fun silliness of Mork from Ork. He was superb in the lead role; a vast talent not just mere funny man. I was uplifted by the experience of watching him and became a fan for life. He glows before us on the silver screen standing on top of a desk. “We must constantly look at things in a different way. The world looks very different from up here,” he tells the students, encouraging them to climb up too and look around with a new perspective. “…just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in another way, even though it may seem silly or wrong. You must try.” We think we know death and the reasons for it. Robin Williams took his own life and speculation abounds as to why: addiction, depression, maybe even bi-polar proposed one armchair psychiatrist in the media. He, like so many others who have died by suicide, is called selfish for his actions. But let’s take a new perspective. Let’s climb up on that desk and...
children, grief, letting go, memories, parenting, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
When my kids were small I would easily purge toys and ephemera from their rooms with some regularity. A few items that they couldn’t quite release yet would be put in boxes that I would store for them to go through later. Later never really came though and now that they are all grown up they don’t have an interest in those boxes at all. “Give it all away,” my daughter said casually. She didn’t feel the need to look. Now that they are on the other side of childhood it’s harder for me to just load up the boxes for donation. So I’ve been going through them and, even though very few objects are making the cut, it has been an emotionally challenging job. But there was a bright spot that lifted my spirits when I got to the bottom of the most recent box and found this little sweetheart of a snow globe. I can’t recall all of the details around it and my co-rememberer (yes, I made that up), her father, is not here for me to ask. I seem to remember this snow globe was in my daughter’s Easter basket one year. The date on the bottom, 1998, probably means it was her last Easter basket as an only child. Her nickname at the time was “little duck.” When her brother began to talk he gave her a new nickname and there was no going back. Immediately, I knew where this snow globe would live next. A friend’s daughter has Asperger’s Syndrome. Birthdays are hard for her. While she would like to have a...
grief, hope, just be, memories, moving forward, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, poetry
Today marks year four since my husband died. In this moment, I am OK. For me the day of the milestone is rarely as hard as the time leading up to it. The anticipation gets me. So on a cold gray day in early December I could feel myself going under. I recognized the swell of grief as it came toward me and just let it be. When I surfaced I wrote this poem in just a few minutes. Rather than editing it to death in pursuit of something worth ‘publishing’ I’m simply going to put it out for you to see. It reflects the conflict of wanting the life I had back and at the same time holding dear the life I have now. Grief and joy together. There are times… There are times When I still sink my head into my hands Not wanting to believe he is gone. No, not denial just longing. Longing for a different truth An alternate universe Where his kids have both parents And normal is ordinary. Where I can love in the moment Without remembering what is gone…gone. Where there are no tears Following these familiar trails down my face. He’s off wandering…flying. I’m left behind; We are left behind. I try to follow but my feet hold fast To the ground Remaining. I yearn for a time where weather is just weather Not a trigger for emotions that I will not welcome. Memory becomes ache, Ache becomes anguish Deepening into rolling grief. For some I shift to pariah. Not all love is unconditional. Others fall away But those who...
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