Sometimes you just want to rush through the grief process. There’s confusion, pain, fear and a pulling inside, wanting to hide. Just take it slow and let life unfold gently, doing the best you can without making yourself do anything new until you’re ready.
A thought. Have you ever considered grief good in any way, shape or form? For three and a half years you’re locked in combat with yourself, and the world around you as it changes. In time all things adapt, and somehow we open our eyes and learn something different, that you are indeed changed by your grief experience and you are therefore, different; newer, stronger, wiser and hopefully more loving and compassionate. Should we thank grief for allowing us to experience all that is different in our world? Have we in the grief process evolved into who we were meant to be? We got a push or a shove on this journey…has it turned out in any way more than you could ever have envisioned for yourself?
One of my decisions to take life by the horns and not sit still involves dance lessons I’ve been taking since January. Swing dance, jitterbug. I’ve always envied people who could dance and look good out on the dance floor, and since taking lessons myself, I’ve developed more confidence in myself as a dancing partner. I love to dance, and this past Saturday I attended a vintage dress swing dance party. I was one of the first to arrive and there ended up being about seventy people, men and women, in attendance. I had a great time and danced so much I developed a blister on my one heel. So, next step is to buy the proper swing dance shoes so this doesn’t happen again. I wore a beautiful dress that looked the vintage part, it was a deep midnight blue, overlaid with black lace, cap sleeves, handkerchief hem dress I bought to wear for New Year’s Eve, but I never went out for New Years, so I got to wear it for the first time on Saturday.
I received lots of compliments on it and while dressy, it fit well in with the dance theme. I danced with many of the guys I’ve been taking dance lessons with, but also with other men who were more advanced dancers, and it was great fun. I learned some new moves which was the best part, and found out I could cut a pretty good swathe on the dance floor. I had made up my mind before I went that I was going to have a good time, and that is exactly what happened.
copyright 2008
My husband was ill ten months with cancer when I had the dream. I had been taking care of his needs for almost eleven months, and even though some days there seemed to be progress, in hindsight I see it was really a steady progression on a downhill curve.
One night I had a dream I was upstairs in our two story house and looked out my youngest son’s window, which faces a large back field. I could see a large machine coming inexorably closer and closer toward the house. It made a terrible racket, almost like a threshing sound. With fear, I knew that it was going to come into the house through the back, into the kitchen and to the corner of the living room where my husband sat. I tried to call out and warn everyone, but I couldn’t speak. I ran downstairs, hearing it get closer and closer.
When I got down to the living room, my husband’s chair, where he always sat in the corner, was totally gone. The machine had come through the back of the house as I’d feared and swept him and his chair away. It continued around the front of the house and across the side yard.
I heard my youngest son talking out side to a friend of my husband’s, and the talk was normal, as if nothing had occurred. I wanted to cry out, but it was no use. When I awoke, I knew with certainty my husband was going to die.
I never told him about that dream. I couldn’t talk to him about it. I was afraid to acknowledge what I knew it meant. I was doing the best I could to keep my husband alive, but in my dreaming state, I knew he was going to die.
That day was the first time I acknowledged the truth of his impending death. That afternoon our regular hospice nurse arrived, and my husband asked her quietly, without fanfare, how much time she thought he had. I just stared at him, not saying a word. She said based on her experience, probably two or three weeks. I went into a numb state. I was not expecting him to confront his own death and mortality in this manner. And yet, it was only natural he would know the end was near. I had been denying it to myself.
When the nurse left, I walked outside with her. I told her of the dream I’d had. She put her arms around me in my distress. I faced the truth that he was going to die.
That week, my husband refused to let me put any of the protein rich formula I had been preparing for him, into the enteral pump, his only source of nutrition. I tried to argue with him, but he was quietly adamant. I still see the expression on his face. He simply said, “No more.” That was it. That was his way of telling me this is the end. Two weeks later he died. It wasn’t discussed, we didn’t’ tell the kids he no longer wished to receive the little sustenance his stomach could take. It was just done. Should we have discussed it with the kids? I don’t know. We talked with them about everything else. Most importantly, their father continually told him how much he loved them.
The last week is a mixed collection of jumbled memory. My husband didn’t sleep well, since he dozed on and off all day. He developed a bed sore that we were trying to cope with, but had to be incredibly sore. His focused turned inward. There was little verbal communication, and I stayed by his side most of the time. At night, he would be awake at two or three in the morning, and he’d drink cups of water at a time. It was amazing, considering he hadn’t been able to drink or eat in three months or more. He became incredibly weak, and I could no longer lift him to help him onto the commode, even as light as he had become. My heart cried inside, but there was nothing I could do, except love the man I had married twenty years before. I was exhausted, and knew I couldn’t take anymore. I wished for him to go to sleep and asked God to take him. His passing was relatively peaceful, but I always wondered if it would have been easier if we had talked more about him dying.
When you’re in the midst of grief, some days something as simple as the words of a song can touch you very deeply and bring the tears of memory to your eyes.
I am posting the latest book reviews for “A Journey Well Taken: Life After Loss.” Some of them were received via email. At this point I have about 22 positive reviews on the book, which will be available June 2008.
“I enjoyed your book! It’s obvious that you’re a good writer and it’s a heart-felt story.”
Diane Brandon
Integrative Intuitive Counselor & Intuition Teacher, Speaker
Author of “Invisible Blueprints: Intuitive Insights for Fulfillment in Life”
www.dianebrandon.com
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“The book is good and I am sure that it will be quite helpful to early/young widows.
It is also a quick read - which is also a good thing as something complex was certainly beyond me during those early years and I know this is the case for many women. As well, you do catch some of the nuances of widowhood - nuances which can only be brought to light by one who has been there. Best of luck with it.”
Mie Elmhirst PCC, MBA, Widow’s Life Coach
www.widowsbreathe.com
“I related to so many things you shared in your book. I’m encouraged by how you have uncovered your own inner strength through your journey. I hope and continue to pray that God will reveal his purpose for your life as well as my own. I’ve been drifting since my husband’s death in 2004.
After, 28 years of marriage with my junior high school sweetheart I have felt totally alone and lost even with two grown children and three wonderful granddaughters. One of which was born following my husband’s death in 2005 and now carries his name forward. It’s just not the same. It was very helpful to know you have walked through the challenges and you are moving forward by taking new steps every day. Blessings to you and thank you for sharing with me. So, many will be blessed and encouraged by reading your book.”
Karen White
Widowed 2004
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“We have some things in common when it comes to the subject of grief and it feels as though I know you after reading ‘A Journey Well Taken: Life After Loss’. I admire your willingness to be open and vulnerable — I’ve seen pain and loneliness in there too, and you talk about that openly.”
Fred Frank, Owner Comfort Music and
www.growingthroughgrief.com
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Testimonials Received via email
“I just want to say that I read your excerpts of your story and I found it so touching and inspirational. I found it by accident, as if I was led to it. I lost my husband suddenly and have experienced all that you mention as far as grieving. Just recently my mother was diagnosed with esophagus cancer, and has elected to try radiation. She is a two-time survivor of cancer. So what I’ve read so far, in your excerpt from your book, is very informative, and so touching. Thank you for sharing it.”
Steppingstone
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“Thank you so much. . . it helps somehow to know what you’re feeling is normal and that you’re not alone with those feelings. The more stories I read the more I realize
I’m not going crazy, but that I’m grieving. You have taken so many words right out of my own mouth. Any help on healing is a welcome in my life.”
Bonnie S. widow of 3 years
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“I really enjoyed reading your book. I just wanted you to know I feel some of your pain. Thanks again for writing your book and may God bless you.”
Polly R.
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“Thank you for sharing your story with us. You are very strong and give me courage.”
Nicole
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“I was looking on the web for information to help my mom who was just widowed a month ago. I ran across your story. As I began to read it I got goose bumps. I knew your husband had esophageal cancer as soon as I read about his burping. My dad just lost his battle with that horrid disease. We also tried many alternatives because he also felt he wouldn’t survive the traditional approach.
My heart goes out to you. Your husband was way too young to be stricken down by this disease. Your children should have been able to have their dad much longer. He sounded like a good man. I am sorry that you weren’t able to grow old together, as I am sure you planned. My dad was 76, full of life, a great husband, father, and grandfather and interested in everything. Even though we know he lived a full life we thought he was too young, but we are all grateful for having had him that long. . . my mom misses him like crazy. Thanks for sharing your story.”
Cathy B.
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“I am a 47 year old woman and just lost my husband 30 days ago today suddenly from cardiac arrest. Finding and reading your excerpt tonight is truly a blessing and has brought me comfort in knowing that I’m not alone. What you’ve put into words describes so much of what I’m feeling inside. I will look forward to reading more of your journey that is only beginning for me.”
Patti W., widowed 1 month
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“I was very moved by your story. Like you, I also lost my husband suddenly to cancer and believe that although we move on and stay strong for our children, our hearts never really heal. I read the first part of your book to my best friend last night who stood with me and went with me to chemo with my husband. The tears rolled down our faces as we shared in your grief.”
Miriam B.
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“I’ve just finished reading your story. My Dad, my Mom’s partner for 38 years, died. . . the past 2 months have been, as you can imagine, very, very difficult. I was looking online about what a person goes through when they lose their life partner. I want to understand what my Mom is going through that she may not be able to express. I also wanted to find something that would maybe encourage her, and give her hope.
Your story touched me so deeply… It brought me to tears. (I had to close my door and just take the time I needed to read your story in its entirety.) Thank you for taking the time to write your story… Please know you’ve touched a life today.”
Jeanette P.”I just want to say that I read your excerpts of your story and I found it so touching and inspirational. I found it by accident, as if I was led to it. I lost my husband suddenly and have experienced all that you mention as far as grieving. Just recently my mother was diagnosed with esophagus cancer, and has elected to try radiation. She is a two-time survivor of cancer. So what I’ve read so far, in your excerpt from your book, is very informative, and so touching. Thank you for sharing it.”
Anon
By Elaine Williams ©2008
Recently I was asked to describe the best years of my life. Being a widow of 4 years and mother, there are many different times I considered to be the best years of my life. When I was younger, I remember summers going on seemingly forever. What wonderful times, playing tag or touch football until dark with the neighborhood kids, staying out until you had to come inside to take a bath and jump into bed. Then another warm, balmy day to play—endless, wonderfully carefree summer days.
The next wonderful part was my marriage and subsequent birth of my three boys. Each moment of their births, respectively, is etched indelibly upon my memory. My oldest arrived two weeks early. A friend of my husband’s said, “Oh, you’ll go another week.” I was determined it wouldn’t be so, since I had labor pains all day. He arrived that night, 37 minutes after entering the hospital. He came out quiet, face blue, because the cord was wrapped twice around his neck. My husband, who was in the delivery room with each of our boys, didn’t let out that bit of information until many years later. My oldest was dark haired and perfect, a little miniature human being. Always active and a handful, but a wonderful, compassionate person who turned 23 this year.
My middle son arrived screaming, as if he could hardly wait to enter the world. He arrived right on time, barely waiting for the doctor to get changed into scrubs before he made his quick appearance. He was the head banger. If he fell, he always managed to hit his head. Since his speedy arrival, he’s been laid back ever since and has a wonderful, dry sense of humor. That was a memorable 21 years ago.
My youngest son was a real surprise when I discovered myself pregnant at 35. I knew one fall day that our family was not yet complete until he arrived. With his labor I had mild back pain, so off we drove to the hospital. Within ten minutes of the hospital I asked my husband for his watch. The erratic labor pain had suddenly gone to every two minutes. We were whisked into the delivery room with only twenty minutes to spare. He arrived screaming his lungs out, eager to see what was going on. I’ll never forget the moment my husband looked at me and said, “You make beautiful babies.” That beautiful baby is now 15.
The best years and memories are scattered so delightfully throughout my life, but they all involve my family. At times the images arrive in vivid, fresh detail, as if I’m looking at a photo album.
When my husband became ill and died, there was a long time I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say “the best years of my life” again. My life went on hold and I felt stuck, emotions running from lonely and confused to isolated. I tried to understand my life circumstances, but many days I felt as if I was drifting around like a tumbleweed. I seemed to lose all purpose and passion in my life.
In a gradual process, the darkness lifted away. It wasn’t always a straightforward thing, and some days I fell back to the old hurt, other days there was no noticeable movement, but at times the smallest step forward felt better than none at all.
Now, four years later, I realize there are many days yet that I will be able to look back and say, “These are some of the best years of my life.” I have become so much more empowered from the experiences I have been given. This may seem a strange way to look upon life’s stresses, but I’ve learned to take away something good out of each “sad” experience.
I now find it exciting, knowing there is so much before me, and many of the best years of my life are yet to come.
http://www.ajourneywelltaken.com
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