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...
grief, Holiday, moving forward, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Thanksgiving
Our lives are altered now, we know that. We feel it every day. We feel it more acutely at the holidays. Traditions that we had become accustomed to are different even when we follow the same routine. But sometimes following those same traditions to the letter is not what we want anymore, or family dynamics get in the way. The first Thanksgiving after my husband died my daughter and I could not bear our annual tradition of Thanksgiving at the beach. A lump has to be cleared from my throat every time I think of that last chilly walk on the beach that turned out to be the last walk on the beach we would ever take together. The following year we did manage to go back there. It was not as hard as I anticipated but Ken’s gaping absence from the gathering was palpable. Rather than having dinner at the house we went to a restaurant. It was a good way for all of us to alter the tradition without throwing it out entirely. It was hard but it was good. Since then we have had to evolve again and, for the first time last year, I made Thanksgiving dinner myself. I’ll do it again this year. Ken was always the cook in our family so I’m still learning to time it right but it was edible. And this year I might even attempt his family’s apple pie with crust made from scratch for the first time. My son remembers it and has put in the request so I’ll give it a shot. As for the gratitude portion...
accepting new love, grief, Kairos, Motivational poster, moving forward, openness, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
I flipped through a magazine while my son sat in the barber’s chair getting a back-to-school trim. A photo of a woman standing on top of a mountain peak, arms outstretched, with her body backlit by the sun caught my eye. She was clearly experiencing a moment of kairos time. The first line told me this was also a story of loss. The subject of the article, Jen Lacey, had made the difficult decision to have her leg amputated after it failed to heal properly from an accident. Coming to the end of the piece I realized that, substituting a few words, I could have written the same. “It’s hard to be a [widow]; I won’t sugarcoat it. But every day, I get more used to my [new life], and sometimes I even forget it’s there. You might think I’d dread having strangers ask questions, but I don’t mind—some of them are in a situation like I was, [pre-widowhood], and I can offer advice. Lately I’ve been mentoring new [widows] and hosting [widow] support groups, and it’s allowed me to help people, which is what I’ve always loved to do… The best part: I wake up every day with hope…” I’m not saying I understand what it’s like to be an amputee – clearly I don’t – but this is the closest analogy I can think of to explain what life feels like as a widow. A part of me was severed when Ken died. We spent our young adult lives in each other’s orbit and grew into maturity together. We became parents and experienced all of those firsts...
children, grief, memories, moving forward, Photograph by Ken Gehle
I have a Sunfish sailboat in my basement. I have no clue how to sail it and the trailer for it is long gone anyway having rusted through behind the garage. It seems a shame for it to just sit but it’s the one belonging of my late husband’s that my kids are adamant that we must not shed. I can picture him leaving the shore time after time while the kids, too little to go with him, and I waited on the shore for his return. They have that same picture in their heads I imagine. He always came back before. This grief is a bit like pushing that sailboat into the ocean from the shore. At first the breakers pound you relentlessly and you fear they are going to push you to the bottom. Then after a while you get beyond them. There are still swells and the occasional breaker but you’re sailing now. You feel the adrenaline rush of your leave-taking begin to subside. There is calm in the sailing, even peace, though the need to change direction offers new challenges. Obstacles crop up that need to be circumnavigated. You maneuver. You jibe. You avoid the shifting boom in the wind. Peace returns but let’s be real, it’s not as secure as standing back on the shore. You find that you are steady in the wind again when – wham! – a rogue wave swamps the boat. It’s frightening. You fear you may not live through it. Soon you realize that you are not going to sink but you wonder if you really know what you’re...
accepting new love, grief, hope, letting go, moving forward, widow
When I started this blog I wrote about the pluff mud of grief. In it, I outlined how I thought my life would go…my Plan A. By now you know that Plan A went awry in a few ways not the least of which was the death of my beloved husband. So what do we do when Plan A is not an option anymore? Move on to Plan B, right? Should we take second best? Not even close. Michele Neff-Hernandez, founder of Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, was living her Plan A in 2005. She had a husband, three kids and a career as a personal trainer. Life in her Plan A was good, challenging, and stressful at times but all the same, amazing. Her widow journey began after she kissed her husband goodbye one afternoon. Phil left for his bike ride as was his routine but would not return, his young life cut short by an SUV. Breath by breath, step by step, Michele began to learn what it was like to live in profound grief and to move in a world that no longer had Phil in it. Plan A was wiped away. Jump forward to today and you will find Michele standing in front of a room full of widows and widowers delivering a keynote address at Camp Widow in Myrtle Beach, SC. Our Plan A is gone too. Gently she reminds us that we don’t have to settle for Plan B. We can create for ourselves a new Plan A…an amazing one. Yes, it’s hard but equally, yes, it is possible. She urges us to take the...
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