Somatic Identification, Part 2

What is somatic identification? For me, in widowhood, it describes situations when I’ve seen my body imitate his, even though he is no longer here. It’s a little like sympathetic pain. Since he's no longer in this world, maybe it's more like a phantom limb: I want to keep caring for him even though he doesn't need it?

Usually it feels more like my own reluctance to move forward -- my desire to stay back in the world of the ill, to understand where how he felt when he knew he was leaving.

First I had the typical grief symptoms that manifest in the body: fatigue and depression and needing more extra sleep, combined with insomnia. I’m going to guess that these don’t really count as a sympathetic response, even though they mirror what his body went through to some extent, because grief is, itself, very physical. It isn’t well understood, but it is typical.

The somatic identification that affects me has happened late in my grief: as most other factors in my life are fairly resolved, no longer raw, and stable, I am a peculiar hypochrondriac. This area of my body’s response to loss is part of my own complicated grief – and I am pretty sure that in order to progress I have to get past it.

Here’s the form it’s taken in my life as a widow. First, of course our life with cancer (and with several issues before that) was what I called “highly medicalized.” So after he died I avoided doctors. All appointments were made late, many were broken and rescheduled multiple times. (I was much better but not perfect with my daughter’s health.)

Second, Gavin had a heart problem when we met, lived through open heart surgery early in our relationship, and had an arrhythmia and pacemaker for the last 12 years of his life.

When I finally got to the doctor for a physical she saw an inverted “T” in my echocardiogram… an odd pattern that could indicate a heart defect or heart disease. In the overall picture of my health, and given the odds, it was unlikely to be something serious. It scared me, but not enough to do anything.

When she wrote the referral, I saw that it was to the practice that Gavin went to for his defibrillator checkups. They always liked him so much and told me so. The technician came to hospice to turn off the device on Gavin’s last day and stopped on the way in (or out?) to tell me how sorry he was and what a lovely man Gavin was.

My poor primary care doctor had to write that referral three times in three years before I actually went.

It wasn’t easy to go to the appointments there, but I had to go over and over because insurance kept not authorizing one of the tests. I suppose repetition and negative focus on Blue Cross helped the visits get easier, and I did bond with a lovely nurse who asked me, “you wrote that you’ve had exceptional stress in the past few years….?” I spilled and she revealed that she’d been widowed ten years prior with two young kids.

I suppose I turned it around by making this new connection (and I’m fixing her up with my friend’s brother, too). All the tests came out fine: no problemo.

Third, I got weird visual disturbances. The first one, I thought was just because I hated my job and it went away after 20 minutes. The second one might have been PMS. My eye doctor looked at me worried and said, you better ask your primary care about that.

The doctor hesitated, saying it was likely migraine “auras,” but those were unlikely to come on for the first time at my age. Her pen hovered over the referral as she considered the many unnecessary MRIs performed each year and how my insurance might treat it.

I told her I’d err on the side of caution because of my husband’s cancer. I might be hypervigilant but I couldn’t put aside the thought: BRAIN TUMOR. BRAIN TUMOR. Gavin had two tiny brain tumors discovered during his last week. Although they were asymptomatic, they were one of the few things that actually spoke to me of death: I had just heard of a paper showing that most patients with brain mets survive 30 days or less. It was a number to fixate on. Sometimes I wonder whether I should have told him the result of that scan that last week.

We turned down that treatment – whole brain radiation, even without knowing how late it really was. It’s famous for awful side effects and as it turned out, he was gone 4 days after they would have been able to “squeeze him in.”

With these traumas on hand you might think my vigilance would have been productive, that I would have had an impulse to preserve myself, but no. While I could ask the doctor for the referral and promise to take care of it, I couldn’t actually call or show up for at least two years (two referrals or three?).

The test, which was held at the imaging center where Gavin used to go for his scans, including the disastrous ones, and the ones that were misread, and the one where he threw up, went fine.

(I celebrated not having a brain tumor with my first-ever two-day migraine.)

Fourth was one -- thankfully -- panic attack. Gavin was plagued by dozens per day during the period of his worst/best therapy, the one which stole his breath and marked the worst paradoxes of our time in treatment.

Will my body become unstuck when I have the last tests and find out I really AM going to live?

Or is this my body's way of teaching me to have more empathy, more compassion? A way of putting myself in the way so I can be sure to forgive and heal myself? Our bodies know, in grief, and in this way, I finally hear that my body has been holding something back.

On the Floor

I never thought I had PTSD from my loss because Gavin died so slowly. You know how they say, “at least you had a chance to say goodbye.” And now that I’ve met women who saw their husbands killed in car accidents, or had to order the ventilators turned off, or woke up to find a heart attack in progress, I don’t feel I have much to compare.

He dissolved before my eyes, but it was so gradual, it was easy to think I wasn’t paying attention.

But every time there’s a pencil on the steps, or a piece of paper on the carpet, I get a tinge. I pick them up compulsively, or bark at my child. We can’t have things on the floor, I go straight back to protection mode. Protecting my husband, now gone four years, from a fall that would break his spine.

Without telling the whole gory story – because there’s a lot of detail, and it is truly the tale of the end – I’ll tell you that Gavin spent his last year in some fear of falling and damaging his spine, which despite advanced medical care and a hugely traumatic surgery, was in danger of collapse for nine months, mostly spent at home with a toddler underfoot.

Underfoot is the trick. If you’ve had a toddler, you know how it’s a constant game of blocks and balls, and every piece of junk mail that becomes an object of fascination. There was always something on the rug, on the hardwood, on the busted up kitchen vinyl that we so wished to fix. Always something to pay attention to, a falling hazard, a risque de tomber.

And this, it turns out, is PTSD. Still alert, still snappy about anything on the stairs, even in our new house. Always looking down. This is PTSD, an everyday thing. Not as hard to get as you might think.


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The Epiphany

Last night right after we’d eaten, our Russian orthodox neighbor stopped by to spontaneously invite us to a feast dinner. At the bus stop just now I asked her husband, Peter, which feast were they celebrating?

“Epiphany,” he said.

“Oh, I thought it was a week after ours? Except that we don’t celebrate the Epiphany anyway,” I looked up, trying to calculate. Everything I know about the Orthodox religion I learned from David Sedaris. His mother always complained that her in-laws’ faith celebrated late just so they could buy Easter candy for half-price. But a blogging friend, Alicia, is enthusiastic about the religion, so I’m curious to know more. Any religion that much into gold leaf has virtues greater than half-price Russell Stovers.

“No, it’s the same date, but Julian calendar is 13 days later.”

Multicultural me said, as we walked back towards our split-levels, “Maybe not later, just different.” I’m not sure he noticed.

A flock of robins was peeping wildly outside my house. What the hell do they know? Can spring really be on its way?

What would I give for midwinter depression to roll into some sort of epiphany, an exalted realization of the oneness of everything? A flash of understanding, deep in my soul, of what’s wrong with me?

I’ve had enough of them, lucky me, to know what it’s like to have the bleak grey cloud fall away. It’s not divine, it’s got to be neurological, and I’m sure I always suffer in all the Freudian ways before I get there. But dammit, I want someone to hand me the frickin’ key.

I should be bright, but I'm dull.

Tell me why I’m always behind. Tell me why I frustrate those I love. Why I pick fights and miss deadlines. Why I don’t take care of myself. What did they do to crush me? How I adjusted and survived, why I’m afraid to thrive. These situations I’ve worked out from hardened muscles over the years. But why am I still falling for it? "Tell me?" Do I really want to know?

A few days ago I read Jen Lemen’s Mondo Beyondo ‘zine to my daughter. The new agey language didn’t faze her a bit (Jen, you’re brilliant, it’s just an old thing of mine. Resistance.). Shortie’s wide eyes made my voice earnest. I followed Jen’s process a bit, thinking, maybe this year will be all about forgiveness. Maybe that’s the one thing I’m ready for, that I need, that I can actually pull off.

It’s a big idea. Maybe today it’s manifest in my urgent desire for oranges. "Late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair," it ain't. I’d rather be back in bed right now.

It’s never easy, but it never gets done any other way than One. Step. At a time.

One goddamn step at a time.


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National Day of Listening

This may not work.

But I am going to try to talk to my damn mother for the Story Corps project, the National Day of Listening, on Friday. Maybe you can do it, too. It's a great legacy to leave, to include in the history of our real country, and a fantastic opportunity to connect with a loved one in a different way. The website offers tips as well as starting questions for your "interview."

There are a million ways and reasons I love what storytelling has become: a significant method that we use to frame our lives and our history. I never thought I'd see the day that ordinary people were recognized for their experiences and perspectives. I always thought that was the job of the Great American Novel, not reality TV, not computer networks, but things have changed. Thank God.

I love that I spent an hour on Monday selling a corporate client on how we'd help put faces to their "story," which they already value as a central part of their brand. I love that I have a chance to sell without lying, and use my skills to accomplish something rewarding while getting paid.

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The day after Thanksgiving, if I follow through on my National Day of Listening pledge, I'm supposed to listen to my mother for a full hour. We have a difficult relationship, but she is here for the holiday anyway.

Why don't I turn away when opportunity knocks like this? Maybe I'm strong enough to plunge right in to a challenging learning experience, perhaps flowers will pour from her mouth in a surprise fit of something-or-other. Could be that this process is just part of some rebellion I'm having against being healed, maybe this is my way to insist on banging my head against a familiar wall one more time.

I know part of my mother's annoying behavior is caused by illness, but after 43 years I still have trouble being around it and making room for my real live self.

Around her I feel like the child I was, the one who was constantly asked to be different; at other times I'm in the shoes of her parent, whose job it was to take care. The one who failed so miserably. If I saw my mother as a child who needed only love and empathy, I'd probably accept her and feel more sad than angry.

The sadness is like a well. I don't want to shine a light down there.

But an hour? With my ears? I'll try. Wish me luck.

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Anything My Little Heart Desires

As an investor, I’ve always seen value in contrarian strategies. The evening after Lehman fell, Mr. Fresh (then, Marshall) and I went out to buy a diamond. We were nearly the only shoppers in the mall and we’d had this conversation:

Mr. Fresh (PhD in economics): Now, about a ring. Do you want a diamond? You know the scarcity is strictly….
Me: Yeah, I wrote a 15 page paper on DeBeers in b-school. I know it’s all bullshit.
Mr. Fresh: Okay, so…
Me: Uh huh, I want a diamond.

Gavin and I had artsy, wonderful rings that alluded to his artwork, made by a friend, no stones. I was a breadwinner the first time. While Gavin’s job was to understand the newspaper, his naivete and poor math skills left me, delighted, holding the business pages.

Now Mr. Fresh and I are having money issues. The checking account is declining, his new job demands longer hours plus a ridiculous commute, and I’m not planning to go back to work anytime soon. And he’s stressed about applying for a mortgage in this environment despite our strengths.

It’s hard to give up my financial independence. This late in feminism, it’s hard to remember that my attitudes were formed in an era when it was surprising, some would overstate it as “revolutionary,” for a woman to pay her own expenses.

During Gavin’s illness I grew accustomed to taking my only breaks at Target, spending always $46.34. What a luxury to know you could afford anything in the entire store. In a way, this was what I’d always dreamed of: being able to ignore the price tag. Gavin would say “you’re spending money like there’s no tomorrow.” I knew we were spinning toward bigger disasters than money. I didn’t reply.

As an overwhelmed widowed single Mom heading toward bankruptcy, but sitting on a cool half-mil of home equity, I kept up those habits. What was another $50 when I was spending down savings to buy groceries anyway? The savings accounts I’d built up during my years studying the market, pre-kid, dwindled. And I woke up in the solution every morning anyway. It wasn’t ideal but I’m pragmatic.

But I also became careless about paying bills on time, something I’ve been fastidious about since my mid-20s.

I’m at the point in my new life when “I watched my husband die” is a pretty weak excuse. Even with my contempt for a million things, I respect the world’s numbers and values to know that at some point, the shit has to hit the fan.

We were told we had nearly perfect credit when Gavin was dying. I hated this contrast. I wonder if I’ve spent the last five years ruining my credit out of contempt.

I’m thinking a lot about my spending as a way of bleeding out the grief.
I’m realizing how much I used spending to shed responsibility.
It makes a terrific, inevitable story climax when a rich man finds money can’t prevent or cure a disease.
Someone loses their home and says, “At least I’ve got my health.”
Widows feel incredible guilt living off life insurance benefits (I was “lucky,” haha, he had just the barest bit,)
Bloggers can’t really feel too happy about getting loads of traffic after they lose a child or are hauled off to the nuthouse.
Neither prosperity nor health have any moral sense.

I suppose worst case is that the bank will ask us to reapply for the loan with just Mr. Fresh’s name on it. I imagine I might be embarrassed, and he might be disappointed. Not the end of the world.

But I’m not feeling happy about the uncertainty, and it’s ruining my post-feminist enjoyment that someone is buying me lots of “free” time. I mean, yeah, I’m a housewife and mother, and we’re moving, but I have the luxury of figuring out what’s next in a fairly relaxed way. It matters to me that for the first time, someone, other than Oprah, wishes I'll create my best self.

Cross your fingers.

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Behaver Rules [sic] (Found Art)

An artist friend found this “readymade” in an old school notebook from around 1956, and gave this to me as a housewarming gift. It’s been posted in my work area ever since as inspiration. Or something… perhaps to remind me to be grateful I’m not the fidgety bright child of the 50s, and no longer this kid at any time (though workplaces seem to bring this out in me still).

Gavin grew up in an era when the teacher read Scripture in class, an average somewhat-challenged pupil unlike me, and he didn’t find this a bit funny. Maybe he knew a kid like me back then and hated her.*

Still, #4? #9? Poor kid.

Behaver Rules
1. Listening to stories inc.
2. Be good in school.
3. Raise your hand.
4. DON’T moan.
5. DON’T talk out.
6. Sit up straight.
7. Follow drirections.
8. DON’T talk to your self.
9. DON’T laugh when the teacher is reading the bible.
10. DON’T bring toys to school.
11. In your free time walk around the room quiltely and read quitely.


* It certainly bugged him that I point out any spelling error that crosses my path, even in something a child was forced to write as punishment 35 years ago. 


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Young Widow Support Groups, 3: Finding Peers

[Start at Part 1 and read an important notice]

I hope I've convinced you to reach out and find some peers. It can be a major pain in the ass to find a support group, because we're so rare, and as I said in part 1 of this series, just any old group may not be a good fit for you.

I'll go through the steps I've used in finding groups for folks outside my area. Then, I'll talk about some alternatives if you can't find an organized support group that meets your needs.

Another important note: Joining any new group is stressful, and things can get pretty intense among grieving people. I was advised to attend group for 2 or even 3 sessions even if I didn't like my initial visit. I'm not saying that every group is perfect for every person, only that it might be better if you don't decide based on only one impression. (Particularly if different people show up each week, as they did in my group).

(1) Work your Google, baby. I’ve had luck with “Young widows groups,” “bereavement groups,” “grief support,” plus city name, state name, region name (like, “Central PA” or “MD Panhandle”) or zipcode [or "near" zipcode].

Look at, or better, call the social workers at hospice organizations or the chaplains at hospitals. Even if they don't offer what you're looking for, they may know what similar organizations are doing. Very important: most hospice organizations offer excellent grief support groups. In most cases, you do NOT need to have used that organization (or hospice at all) to receive this support, and it's usually free. Don't be afraid of the word Hospice. These organizations have been helping people like you for years, and before the Internet, and they can be pretty terrific.

We are a small and dispersed population and appropriate services are hard to find. You may have to travel. It may be worth it.

(2) Don’t sweat the details. From what I’ve seen and heard, age and parenting status seem to be the main indicator of how well a group will connect. (In my experience, widows and widowers as old as 55 may share many of the above factors with “young widows and widowers,” but may face resistance joining a younger group.) While every grief, every situation, every widow and widower is unique, the following differences did NOT seem to affect how well my group jelled:
-- Whether the death was "anticipated," sudden, or slow
-- Formality of relationship: married, engaged, otherwise securely partnered
-- Sex. Yes, men experience grief differently, but the widowers in my group seemed to get a lot out of it. (They’ll always be outnumbered: in a small population, there’s still just 1 young widower for every 7 young widows).
-- Amount of time lapsed since loss
-- Religious, ethnic, or cultural background (unless the group leadership shows a preference)
-- Personality type: if there’s a mixture of types, there’s more room for you.

(3) Religion can be a double-edged sword. On the one hand, pastoral counseling and church communities are the backbone of support for people and families in crisis, if they were members of those communities before their loss. I found my interfaith community an endless source of hugs, appropriate sharing, ideas, and activities as well as support for my needs as a parent. And I made new friends, as well as easy paths to help others in need (which was really, really helpful in my “recovery”).

If you don’t belong to a religious tradition (or don’t like the one you’ve been with) you might try visiting a Unitarian Universalist or Quaker meeting to find if this “time aside,” contemplation, or community are restorative. These faith traditions generally welcome folks with any "creed" (set of beliefs) or none (atheists, humanists, agnostics).

But I’ve also heard of diverse Christian church support groups that simply offer Jesus as the solution to all grief needs. And for many of us -- even those who have always considered themselves faithful -- that just doesn’t work during a crisis like the loss of a spouse. Religious leaders may not have training in complicated grief, and you may feel judged by the community (even if it’s just your own baggage). Church friends -- even familiar faces -- don’t always create the most accepting environment for talking about the complex and often ugly feelings brought up in grief.

I know a lot of people who said they felt “let down” by God after loss. Platitudes about heaven or God's purpose rank high on every list I've ever seen of "annoying things people say after a death." Many widows and widowers are willing to look pretty much anywhere else for kinship.

(4) Don’t expect the group to be your only lifeline. If you need therapy or individual grief counseling, and if you can get it, DO.

(5) If you can’t find a formal support group, you may be able to find a meetup, Tweetup, or get together of some other kind. In my area, there is a county group that gets together once a month for dinner at a restaurant, and a regional group that meets “somewhere fun” every few months. To find them, I had to go to group to meet other people.


All right, Supa, I looked. There’s zero, zip, zilch, nada for me. I’m alone.

Don’t start eating worms just yet.

(1) Rustle the bushes just a bit and see if you can find a few special people near you. Ask around. Read the obituaries and write letters to people whose stories you identify with. (Yes, I have done this on Facebook. It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. They’re looking, too).

(2) You may be able to organize a peer group in your area. I can guarantee you that folks with complicated grief will come out of the woodwork if you stomp your feet a bit.

(3) “Widow Match,” offered by the folks at Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, sets you up with a peer for e-mail or phone communications. If you don't find the relationship (which is voluntary and unmediated) satisfying, you can apply for a second match. Again, sometimes it takes a while to get comfortable.

(4) Go online. In person support is awesome but the fact is, many people just never make it to an appropriate group. You should still find some peers to connect and share with! I created Widowed Village as an outgrowth of a community that grew up around me on Facebook a few years ago. We've grown to more than 2,000 people (as of August 2012).

Widowed Village welcomes men and women of all ages, of all faiths and traditions, gay and straight, those who were married and those who weren't, any amount of time after your loss, and with any parenting status. We have MANY people in their first few weeks and months. The site is public; check it out and see if it sounds like a good place for you. We are the only online community for widowed people that checks that applicants are actually widowed, so please allow us a little time to process your membership. Widowed Village is run by Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation (SSLF), a non profit organization, and it is always free. We are also the only organization with both online and in-person programs. Read more at CampWidow.org and SSLF.org.
  
(5) Consider contacting a grief counselor. I’m “online friends” with several very knowledgeable grief counselors who were widowed themselves, and some offer very useful resources on their blogs and websites. Many work with people over the phone, sometimes in groups, or on specific topics like beginning to date again. I don't have experience working with any of them, but they are everywhere, so try it out if it calls to you!

I hope this is helpful. Please let me know what you think, or send questions in a comment or DM.

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Young Widow Support Groups, 2: My Top 10 List

[Read Part 1, and an important notice, here]

Why was my real-life support group so vital to my healing? Why do I push everyone toward finding one (they're not so easy to find, see Part 3). There were 10 ways my participation in group helped me cope with grief, energized me for dealing with my real life, and helped me forge a path ahead:

1. Time. Even if I spent just that one hour each week at group, I knew that I was working on “me.” It was almost the only time to refresh and talk with adults (other than about work). I got practice using babysitters (as did my child and the sitters), which came in really handy later when I was ready to date.

2. Validation. I can’t describe how powerful it is to find a whole group of strangers who share at least one thing with you, who say they feel your pain and mean it, and who really “get it.” Because my group included folks from 2 months to 4 years after loss, it provided me with hope: someday I’d feel better, or at least different. And when new people joined, I could see in vivid color how far I’d already come.

3. Information. Grieving’s complicated, and you probably don’t know much about it yet. In group, you may have a facilitator or peers who help you see that there is a process to grief or just to own the complicated set of feelings that surround us; who support you in finding out more; who suggest resources or even give you homework (I have never heard of homework, actually, but I did read a heck of a lot). And this information can set you free: did you know it’s pretty normal to feel horny when you’re grieving? What a relief to know you’re not crazy (see “2.”)

4. A safe, non-judgmental place. So, on the horniness. Are you going to talk to your married girlfriends about that (or will they start hiding their husbands)? (It’s happened to more than one person I know.) How about your minister? You’re among friends and you’d be surprised how many of you are sick of being the responsible one. Or who have great stories about their in-laws.

5. Surprises. I’ve only recently gotten over the shock of the first session when our facilitator told us:

• a. Most of his friends now are widowed.
• b. Many of them lead completely different lives than they did before, including changing careers.
• c. Most of them are happy.
• d. Many of them are in new relationships, some of them are blending new families.
• e. Many of them say they are doing better than they ever were when their spouse was alive.
• f. Some of them even say they wouldn’t want their dead spouse to come back. I couldn’t even imagine. I was sure he was crazy, months later after some of the gals and I became friends I remember saying, “No way, not me.” (Who would ever tell you this kind of thing? How would you verify it?) 

And now I’m “one of those people” he described. There were countless more surprises in our shared, extreme situation as a group.

6. The soap opera factor. An easy one. Wait till the guy joins whose entire life revolved around his wife, she died in a car accident, he’s facing foreclosure, he’s about to lose his job, his son (who he’s never really gotten along with, and who has a parole hearing tomorrow) has disappeared, leaving his Xbox behind. I remember thinking, I have a kid in diapers, a senile mother in law, a useless family, a crappy job, and I have to sell my house to survive, and I’ve still got it better than this guy. (I smiled supportively at him.)

7. Bonuses. Not only will people in your group give you credit for making it out of bed that morning (as they try really hard not to look at your hair) but you can also share the smugness that comes with distance from the real world: you can now call yourself wise. Oh, those poor people out there who don’t know how close death is. We know, sweetie. Not like those people who think they have problems because they gained 10 lbs. We’re like you. It’s small revenge for being avoided by people you thought were your friends, being a wet blanket at play dates, and facing gritted teeth at holiday parties. But it’s kinda fun.

8. Laughter. We laughed like madmen and -women. There’s nothing like grief for letting go of your sense of what’s appropriate. And some of that crap, in the right safe environment, can crack you the hell up. (Some of this humor can’t be shared with your normal friends. They’ll just look at you like you’re crazy too).

9. Diversity among difficulty. Because young widows and widowers are so rare, you may find the people in your group more diverse than the folks you hang out with in the outside world. I met people with all different religious and cultural backgrounds, with whom, nonetheless, I shared an important connection. And from them, I learned some lessons and examples of great coping I wouldn’t have heard otherwise.

10. Friendship. Whether your support group remains a pleasant group of acquaintances with whom you can share, or whether you become close friends for that hour, group alleviates loneliness and isolation which are so common with young people who lose a partner. As you transition out of group and into your next incarnation, you may find some of these friends are now among your inner circle. I’m still friends with -- and inspired by -- several folks from my group and because my loss has so changed me, I try to keep in touch with many of them.

Yes, Every crisis ends. I bet I often sound like my life is so easy now, but it really isn’t. I have lots of challenges, and none of them are in the “gee, I gained weight” category (although that is true, I hardly count it as an issue. You know, [putting on wisdom hat] not after “what I’ve been through.”) Things are changing constantly, I learn something every day, I feel stuck in glue at least once a week, and I benefit from my regular therapy.

But the time I spent in group -- and several of the friends, and the energy, humor, and perspective they still share with me -- will always be in my heart, part of what formed me, just like the husband whose loss helped me find them. I’m thankful to the group and individuals who made it all work. And I want you to have the same (or better).

So promise me you’ll think about it. Please? At least, if we can find something near you (in part 3)?

Young Widow Support Groups, 1: Basics

[Important notice: I'm not a professional. I have ZERO background in social work, psychotherapy, or sociology. My widow wisdom was earned "on the street," not from books. I've been there, I came out the other side, but my friendship and words can't substitute for formal counseling. Many young widows and widowers suffer from depression in addition to grief, and some of us "self-medicate" with substances. If this is you, no amount of comradeship is going to get you out of the hole unless you receive support on these (medical!) issues too. I give what I can because this shit is hard and we all need as much help as we can get. Got? Good.]

The number one factor in my healing from the loss of my husband was my weekly attendance at a free, peer-run, open-format support group specifically for people around my age who had lost a spouse. So I tell everyone to do it. My group saved my sanity, my life, and my child’s life.

But I know people who “don’t do” groups. I hear so much resistance - and I’ve heard stories about bad experiences.

The bad stories I’ve heard about groups have been, almost without exception, the result of bad fit: people going to a group with people they simply couldn't relate to. They come to me saying: “There was an 80-year-old woman grieving the loss of her cat.” “I felt like I was being rushed, one week for each stage of grief!” “None of them were working or raising kids. They were all retired.” It helps a lot if you and the people in your group are at a similar stage in life... it's not necessary, and you shouldn't expect them all to be people you love instantly or even similar to your other friends. But having shared priorities, spending your time in similar ways, helps you feel among your peers.

It shouldn't matter, experts will tell you. There is a truism that "all grief is the same." In a way, this is true. But it doesn't matter: grief is also not the only thing in your life and not the only thing you will talk about. I would not have been able to stand my group if it had been all grief education, all sharing of tears, all Kleenex-all-the-time.  No one wants to attend a pity party and fewer really wish to host one.

A good group, though, is not strictly a "grief group." You talk about your lives, your feelings (which are contradictory and rich in grief, as they are at many other times in life), your memories, and your dreams of the future. You talk about your communities and your faith and all the changes in you and around you. It's not simple. It's not boring. It's who you are. 

Don't let anyone cut your group down to a place where the “five stages of grief” is the only acceptable topic. That can be helpful, but you will still be a widow when you are at work, watching a movie, and when you start to consider what happens next in your life. Grief isn't simple, and neither is your life.

And finding a group of diverse people who "get" at least a little bit of your experience and your feelings is a good start to getting a grip on what you'd like to do next. Seeing them in person -- being in a room together -- is an immensely powerful force and one that Facebook cannot provide. There are ways -- I'm sure you can imagine! -- that connecting with two or three people can be much more meaningful than connecting with hundreds. You need rich data. You need real life. You need some people near you to hand you the Kleenex.

And once in a while, it's awesome to get out of the house.


In Part 2, I’ll share with you the “top 10 ways my young widows support group helped me.”
In Part 3, I’ll help you find a young widows support group – or another way to reach peers in grief.

It's NOT going to be okay.

[Embroidery and photo by Sew-Charmed]

I remember one turning point in a single phrase uttered by a trusted friend. One statement that made a difference and cut through the fog of the period between when I realized my husband was dying and the time, after he died, when I really understood he wasn't coming back. It was not a comfort. (Warning: this is not advice. Do NOT try this at home.) She said:

Wait a minute. It's NOT going to be "okay." You won't come out of this experience just fine, and neither will your little girl. This will have a huge effect on your lives. It will change you both and you will never be entirely "better."

Hearing this, from someone who knows me well and who I trust as an authority, hurt my ears. How dare she tell me that the platitudes I'd been spouting a moment before, the hard work I was doing to keep myself afloat, was not valid? We won't be okay?

But she'd been there. I sat there, eyes smarting, shocked silent.

Yup, a smack in the face sure makes you listen.

What I mean is, this is a major loss. It's not simple and it's never going to go away. But you can affect how you'll come out of the experience. You can develop the tools to survive and even flourish, you're already far along in creating and using them. And at this point, you have to do it for yourself and for your child. But it's not going to happen on its own.

You'll have to do it, and from now on, you'll have to do it on your own.

But I'm sure we'll be okay, I mean... surely we'll heal...? Things have to get better.

They will get better. Your life will go on, and you will probably be happy again. You might even be stronger and better off. But nothing will be the same. An event like this will leave scars. It's been hurting you for years. You can't just undo it all. Don't you have some scars now -- don't you have a big one on your arm?

Yes.

Can you remember how you got that one?

Yes.

Does it still hurt? Does it hold you back now?

(I laugh). No.

This momentary exchange was a fulcrum, one of several tiny thought shifts that changed everything. My friend's first words shattered all my comforting rationalizations, forcing me to see that our future would be shaped by my choices and my actions. I became conscious, for the first time, that I deeply believed someone would stride up one morning (but after coffee) on a great white horse and save us.

I hear this from my bereaved and lost sisters and brothers all the time, too. I think it is connected to a great deal of the pain and helplessness we feel in the depths of our loss.

I really wanted everything to be easy, but I couldn't remember anyone ever saying recovery would come on its own. Didn't someone promise me a rose garden, sometime long ago? Perhaps I told myself as a child, when, like my own child, I had no other tools but hope. The idea took root. And it probably held me well for a long time.

Remembering what a scar means and how it lasts -- hearing that there was no way out without injury -- helped me drop my blind faith in the hero on the white horse. I started to imagine what I could do if I stopped waiting.

Sometimes, you do need to rest in order to heal. But that time was over for me. I could feel myself starting to climb the hill, neglected calf muscles again pumping good blood to my heart. I didn't know where I was going, but it hurt so much that I knew I was moving up.

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First Day of Kindergarten, So Help Me God

Have you ever seen anyone shinier and happier than my little girl on her first day of kindergarten? Me neither.

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This morning we arrived a speck late and I heard them start the pledge of allegiance. Staff and students took it so seriously: stopped, even in the hallways, faced the nearest flag, hand on heart, recited the hallowed words.

In high school as I was healing from early childhood I adored William Safire’s essay on mondegreens:
I led the pigeons to the flag
Of the United States of America
And to the republic, for Richard Stans,
One naked individual,
With liver tea and justice for all. Amen.

I have not been civic as a widow. The world outside was “one more damn thing.” I cancelled the paper before the memorial service; Gavin was the one who understood Bosnia. (I have a weakness when it comes to understanding “sides,” political or in dramatic movies. And I was the household’s economics department.) I pared down. I pretended I couldn’t care. To this day I barely follow health care reform, though I know it’s vital and even have a strong sense of mission about it.

But let’s be honest, I’m not an ironic teen any more; I feel the oath in my bones. I’m the kind of person who cries when singing the national anthem, even at a baseball game.

And here we are with a black President.

I’ve had such a hard time figuring out how to talk about the dread I’ve felt as my daughter approached her first red brick schoolhouse. Elementary school was almost hell for me and my sister; we were in a white minority, our parents too blinded to the virtues of the civil rights movement to apprehend anything. We learned of the holy saints Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Jackie Robinson, and trilled like good Castillians over “rrrRoberto Clemente.” We grew gnarled inside, wishing for black-is-beautiful cornrows.

Outside this home, every person had their own ideas and motivations. In second grade, a little boy showed his penis under the table and told me he’d kill me if I didn’t meet him in the playground after school. I believed him. It was a crowded classroom after a teacher’s strike. My parents wouldn’t hear, couldn’t have helped, given their own serious limitations. I fabricated a conflict with the teacher in our overcrowded classroom and managed to just barely escape. I receded into a cocoon of depression because those above didn’t think I was worth protecting. This event shaped the damages in my life. I’m still working, still hurting, still showing open wounds as I plead for help from above.

It’s not right to talk about it when I'm protecting my own precious jewel of a child, in her perfect pink raincoat.

But it was real, and it was then, and I’m not a child. I’m a mother. I can own my pain and accept it’s only my job to heal.

I know that my parents’ blindness, and their histories, which I’m still uncovering slowly, were more of the culprit than that little boy was. I know that growing depressed kept me intact, safe, from what was much worse. It was adaptive, now it’s not, and I’ve taken about a millions steps through and out of the pit.

I can take care of my girl. Remarrying (and a big macho man, at that) demonstrates that I can act appropriately. She’s not me, and I’m not my mother.

I was isolated. My mother felt contempt for the world. I’ve just been through enough of that, and I’m starting to love it, warts and all, again. I trust it (but require that all others pay cash). I like the complexities of our differences enough to look at them straight.

My daughter will be part of the world. As everyone reminds me, her challenges will be in some area that I can’t even imagine.

Will I be awake?

I face the flag of our land, which I’m so lucky to love. Let me not be afraid to ask for help. Let me know my limits. Let me be a good enough Mom for my joyful, secure daughter, keep my eyes and ears open. May we be safe. Please.

Amen.


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(Fragments) Intro, Widows in Social Media (Etc.)

Bitchin’ great weather this summer, until now. My reluctance to quit eating gluten, dairy, and peaches. Or the fact that I have to Mom full time for the two weeks between preschool and K. Whatever is causing my problem, I have a ton of ideas and can’t pull them together.

Maybe it’s also the nature of the subject. I’ve been taking notes on widows in social media for months but nothing coherent or post-like has come together. Given the ADD inherent in Twitter (where I am spending an unfortunate number of little bits of time most days) it might make sense to just take it on the way it is. To post frankly and fast. To inhibit overthinking, for once. To share my (OH GOD) thought process (PRAY).

How about we just pretend that I’ve applied the punkrock ethos of “don’t bother learning your instrument, just get up and play” to writing?

Forthwith, a series of short posts that may or may not fit together.


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First Marriage, Second Marriage, Part 1

I married for love the first time.
I got together with Gavin because I needed a ride to a party, but the summer night helped me hear his gentle voice.
I was growing up, learning about the real world, money, and emotions. We loved the same books and music.
He was 20 years older than me, an Irish mama’s boy with a pinch of the ascetic.
We felt lucky to have each other.
We faced death and decided our commitment mattered.
He loved this world but didn’t really accept it. I was the breadwinner, making choices about my time so he could continue his life’s work.
We bought an old house, paralyzed over palettes and too poor to upgrade any of its “charming features.”
We were idealistic and often chose not to fight.
His Chinese horoscope sign was dog, I am the horse.
Where I was brash, he was kind and calm.
I wanted him to soften me.
I carried all the fire, and I brought him a child, a new life he looked forward to with an appreciation of the divine and the temporary.
We faced death again and he lost.

I married for love the second time, too.
I met Mr. Fresh half a lifetime ago, when I was studying with his teacher.
When we got together recently we were both mature, bouncing back after our different losses. We didn’t look crushed or burned any more. Beneath sarcastic smiles, we were tough.
We’re both intense and goofy, lucky and fierce.
We bring equal fuel to the fire.
He’s fire rooster, I’m fire horse.
We’re both practical, but where I stall, he finishes.
We both tilt at windmills, but we’ve demonstrated appropriate use of the “off” button.
When he lacks faith, I bring him shelter, tools, and love.
I worry like a Mom, but he supports and protects us.
I’m considering the range of real choices and talents I was born with.
I love our world well enough to believe that somewhere, it needs me.
He hasn’t stopped changing, either.
Till death do us part.


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The Posture of Grief and Recovery

During active grieving, most of the young widows I knew described their cars as perfect compartments for crying: soundproof, childless, portable, and stocked with Kleenex. I was fortunate enough to be held by a faith community instead. Every Sunday church was a refuge where I could cry in peace or on a shoulder, and sing brokenly as loud as I wanted to.

By instinct and feeling, over many months, I adapted my own posture. The position is a little like Eagle Pose: my upper and lower body twist to enclose the heart in a knot, but it’s smooth on the outside and every part plays a role.

The legs are crossed, right knee over left. Left elbow nests on the right inner elbow, resting on the lap. My back is bent but just enough to fit the puzzle together. Two fingers of my left hand pinch the earpiece of my splendid eyeglasses, which dangle out to the right to avoid harm. The chin tucks naturally. The right hand is all business, cradling the bridge of the nose, offering a span of Kleenex to both eyes at the same time. The tail of the Kleenex is ready to spread down to the two nostrils if they flare or bubble. A dozen more Kleenex wait on the blue cloth seat of the chair next to me.

Unlike other slouches, in this one the lower back pulls up and forward and the head can still float like an egg about to hatch. In this position, you can really feel the breath elevate and spread the spine. It’s a bow being slowly released. You’re free to cry, well protected, still available to hug and somehow, you can even provide your shoulder to someone else.

I wept at service a few weeks ago, at a song or a sorrow, and it came back to me. I remember that grieving is a physical process and one that uses your entire body.

Being unemployed and newlywed has changed my body, too: I’ve been lifting weights and feeling as that strength helps my hard, crushed chest to open up by slight turns. I’m using my hips more freely when I run, and the wonky alignment of my right knee seems to be gone.

But one morning about a month ago I woke up in hell. The weak spot in my right side middle back was throbbing, unstretchable. It’s happened before, and usually goes away after 3 or 4 days. I saw the allopath and got two Rx’es, which help, but mornings are almost unbearable. I can’t stay in bed and stretching is hard. Sometimes I just get up at 3 or whenever the pain wakes me and I stay up. It creates a constant present where I want only one thing: let the pain stop.

Boy, pain really has a way of focusing the mind. I remember all the pain that Gavin suffered when he had a metastasis eroding his spine all summer long. I empathize with his long-lost daily struggle and remember all the pain meds he took.

Even as the pain seems to be stepping back, slowly, it’s still hard not to look at the metaphors. At 42, after years of unbearable stress, I am waking up. What is my body trying to tell me?

Perhaps I am strong enough at last to confront some demons and kill some gremlins. Surely one of the new directions pointing at me is the right one. Maybe I could throw out about 1,000 pounds of STUFF. I'm sure it was impulsive to remarry so quickly, though I have no doubt Marshall is the best man for the job.

I am on the verge of insight in several areas of my life, if I may be forgiven for hubristic navel-gazing on my blog (what else, excuse me, is it for?). But I know it will hurt to pull all those band-aids off. I suppose I’m not doing it fast, but can I handle it at all? They’re flesh colored; I’m sure no one can see them.

I’m surrounded by loads of natural, situational stress. We’re in the process of moving (nearby), girl begins Kindergarten in a month, Marshall’s new job starts Monday. These things are hard to untangle.

The only way out is through. I guess I’m going to stretch out my legs, slowly, at 5 a.m. as I have been doing, and listen to my poor neglected muscles and nerves with brave ears.

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The Third Anniversary, Part 2

It’s never simple, is it? Just when I decide there was nothing dramatic associated with the third anniversary of my husband’s death, Short Stack gets a high fever in a strange town and I have a full blown, true, fantastic spastic panic attack.

My foundation had slid away in a tenth of a second. In the depths of the attack I said to myself, “I’ve never felt this before.” But after all I’ve been through, I’ve always been able to cope. How many times have I called 911? How much bad news have I taken in? I’ve had trouble sleeping, trouble eating, but never lost my moorings. Lately I tell people that I got close to falling a few times in the past 5 years, but this felt worse than a fall.

Even at my lowest, I’ve always been able to take care of my child. Her needs always revived me.

Not tonight. Whining that her back hurt, her fragile arms radiated heat before I even touched her. I woke Mr. Fresh up and said, “Shortie has a fever and I’m totally freaking out. I don’t know what’s going on.” I lay down in this new agony, without any anchor.

No, not falling; fallen. LOW, paralyzed, airless.

My therapist always says, what does it remind you of? I remembered the moment I learned Gavin was going to die. “Oh honey. It’s cancer.” (Did you know I was a writer/editor specializing in cancer research in September 2004?) I knew it was the end because it was in a lymph node. Part two of many cancer stories starts there. I felt it was the end, and look, I was fucking right. I looked back with magical thinking: I’m so powerful. Maybe I can predict shit. It happened once.

Her back hurts. Shit. What if it’s meningitis!?

Even as I thought about moving, taking action, I felt completely helpless. And I really sort of was: I had no thermometer or kid medicine with me. I didn’t know the area. My girl needed my arms for comfort and I had to think and act, too. Task #1: Breathe. Task FAIL.

I felt alone. Where were the in-laws? Sleeping with old ears. I was alone. Almost.

I heard Mr. Fresh say something about medicine. Slowly I started to feel the floor under my back. I proposed smashing up a grown-up Advil and mixing it with a spoonful of honey. He played along with a groan. She looked at the lumpy concoction with disgust but tried, throwing it right up. He put on his pants and shoes and drove off. She screamed at me to snuggle her and I said, over and over, that everything would be okay once the medicine got here. My freakout subsided as we listened to 1:30 a.m. birds, an owl hoo'ing gently. I recalled the comfort I took nursing her for the 6 months after our loss. Flesh works, this body is all we have.

Mr. Fresh strode back into the nightlit bedroom and cheerfully tossed a little white bag at me. “The clerk said, ‘Huh, you’re the tenth parent in here tonight, there must be something going around.’”

“Mmmmmm! Deee-licious cherry syrup!”, she oozed, licking every last bit from the see-through graduated cuplet. She was already cooling off.

Poor Mr. Fresh was the only one who wasn’t back firmly asleep an hour later.

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The Third Anniversary

How did I remember my husband on the third anniversary of his death? While my daughter was at daycare, I set up a shrine with my favorite picture of him, candles scented like his favorite plants, cooked his signature Thai chicken red curry, and cracked open a Rolling Rock to toast him. It was a sacred ritual of remembrance of which I will be forever proud and I felt his spirit was truly present.

How did I make time for my precious self on this date? I took a hike in the foothills of the Sierras, received a luscious spa treatment, and reread old journals, remembering how far I've come. I ate bon-bons and watched gardening shows. Then I had my Broadway debut. The crowd showered me with roses, from which they had considerately removed every last thorn.

Yeah, right. That was total bullshit. IRL, I had lunch with a girlfriend, went to the post office to ship off a $350 book of his that I’d sold, and bought two white shirts at Target and two pink ones for my girl. I mentioned the anniversary in simplest terms to my Facebook friends and Twitterverses. Those 24 hours were nothing special.

But during the two weeks surrounding the anniversary I also: imagined that Mr. Fresh was due for a heart attack, took to my bed for 3 hour naps, and believed I needed a CT scan to detect a fantasy brain tumor. I had several major headaches, the usual fatigue, and miscellaneous cramps and aches.

Sad anniversaries, for me, are marked by murkiness, muddy thinking, and emotions that lie in ambush behind fog. Around the time of the anniversary of my husband’s death or diagnosis, his birthday, and sometimes around my father’s birthday or death anniversary, I take special care to drive carefully and avoid making decisions. I want to stave off any disaster that is cruising for me. But I’m always surprised when I can’t think well or when an emotion leaps out and grabs me.

I think I need to hear to my own advice: “Listen to your body. Grieving is physical and inevitable. The body knows.”

This muddy feeling and lack of articulation about everything (which led me to not be able to write anything more than 140 characters) must be my brain, unable to read the feelings. The body goes on, processes, moves, and grows, and my heart is healing, but my brain can’t deal with it.

But grieving isn’t rational. It’s not just intellectual or emotional learning -- it uses everything, just like life does. And it’s not a weakness, you can build your strength to any degree and it will still be there. If you don’t want it, it’s happy to hide for a while. It’s not penance, you can’t pay it off with 72 Hail Mary’s or a novena.

Grieving becomes you. It changes as you do, but it never leaves. Several times a year I forget this, and sublimate, and stay safe. I might pray or pick flowers or apply special ritual band-aids. But each anniversary is still real -- the shadow of something that sucks but isn’t happening now.

Maybe it will look at me straight if I invite it out from behind the curtain. Perhaps, like the Little Prince’s fox, it can be tamed. I’m not sure. If I'm smart, next time I’ll be looking for something dark gray, not a warning sign. But I’ll still stick to the speed limit.


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What Short Stack Gets

I am often asked what Short Stack remembers of her father, and how much she understands about his death. Family and friends sought reassurance and I didn’t find much authoritative material on toddler grieving, so I thought I’d, as usual, share.

Grieving is complicated even for grownups; it's deep, lumpy, unpredictable, sticky (“Non-linear” is such a genteel way to put it). I've written about the unanticipated feelings it can stir up and about how death is such a common topic for me that I can laugh like a loon. But a post by Snickollet reminds me how much mining I have to do here -- even superficial excavations turn up ore.

Phase 1. Short Stack was 2 and a half when Gavin died. For a week or two, she asked, "Where Daddy go?" because he'd been in the hospital, and then in hospice, for several weeks before he died. First thing in the morning, and several more times, every day. I’d remember how just a few days before, the answer had been, “Daddy is in a special hospital where special doctors can take extra-good care of him.” But now. I'd say, "Oh honey, Daddy died. He went away and we can't see him any more."

"Want go visit him!" she'd say. "Oh honey, we can't, Daddy died. His body got very, very, very, very, very sick. The doctors gave him very, very, very, very, very strong medicine but it didn't cure his sickness and so his body broke and we can't see him any more." "But I want to see him." "I'm sorry, honey, it makes me very, very sad, but we can't go see him. Your Daddy loved you and me and Grandma very, very, very much and he didn't want to leave us. But his body broke and his body had to leave us." (Then I would start to cry, and she would flip out a little, "DON' C'Y, MOMMY!" "Protocol" says not to shield your kids from your expressions of emotion... but it was too heartbreaking to see her little face fall apart and reassemble with adult concern. So on this, I ignored the experts until I saw signs she could handle it.)

Some things that happened during this time:
-- (Looking out her bedroom window): "Mommy, look! I see Daddy in dat tree over dere!" "What's he doing?" "He smiling." (she laughs).
-- (To Gavin’s mother, one of her key caregivers): "Gramma, where Daddy go?" I break in: "Honey..." "No. GRAMMA!" "Honey, your Daddy had to go away." "What he doing now?" "Honey, I don't know, but I think if he could see you right now he'd be smiling."
-- (On a trip out of town) "I want go home! I want my Daddy come home!"

Phase 2. "Why can't I go see Daddy?" (Same story). "But why he body break?" "The sickness was very, very, very, very, very strong and he went to see many, many, many doctors and they gave him a lot, lot, lot, lot of very, very, very, very, very strong medicine. But the medicine could not fix the sickness and so after a long time Daddy's body broke. Your Daddy did not want to leave you, he loved you and me and Grandma, but he had to leave us."

For a while she insisted that he lived in "our other house." I don't know if this is some natural thing because kids this age don't understand permanence, or whether it’s because he was well known for drawings of suburban houses. I would say, "No honey, we don't have another house, Daddy's body died and we can't see it anymore" but she was pretty confident she was right.

Phase 3. "Why did my Daddy get sick and die?" "No one knows why someone gets that kind of very, very, very, very, very bad sickness. It’s very different from little sicknesses, like when someone sneezes or coughs." (Repeat earlier themes). Around this time it was growing less painful for me to look at snapshots. Family pictures and artwork were on my iPod and around the house.I experimented with bringing him up casually: “Your Daddy’s friend Cathy made this picture just for you when you were born.” “Your Daddy loved chino pants.” “I bet your Daddy would be so proud to see you using that fork so nicely.”

Phase 4. After daycare one day she told me, “My Daddy got a crack in his butt so he die.” I don’t know where this idea came from, but definitely from the peer group. I mean, I get the "body broke" part but does she know about plumbers' crack already? I was worried about the horror-movie image she in her mind, but she seemed pretty calm. I briefly tried to reframe what had happened but she was adamant so I let it stand.

(I don't think I ever understood how important it is to "choose your battles" until I had a kid.)

Phase 5. As I came to terms with loss and widowhood and single parenting, I resolved to find a resting place for his cremated remains. Looking around his studio for a few minutes, the idea brightened. On the first anniversary of his birthday after his death (he had a birthday RIGHT after he died, so this was one year plus a little later) I placed the powder in an Acoma pot that his grandmother, who raised him, used to burn palm leaves in during thunderstorms. He’d always said this was the one valuable Indian thing his family had, except that the (Catholic) palm soot had probably ruined it for collectors. I was proud to place this reliquary next to the Buddha's head in his unchanged studio.

And Short Stack knew, somehow. One day she came out with: "Where Daddy body go?"

Deep breath. I can do this. “Well, after Daddy’s body was already completely broken and his spirit and memories and feelings weren’t in it any more… people do a special process where they send the body to a special place and it gets turned into powder.”

“What they do to he body?” I knew not to talk about fire. That’s supposed to freak kids out. That, and being buried in the dirt, you’re not supposed to mention till later. (When? I don’t know yet).

“Honey, they did a special thing to it, kind of like magic, and his whole body turned into a special powder.”

“Magic Powder!!!! I want some!”

Hoo boy. Yeah, that went well.

Phase 6. During her fourth year, Short Stack was gaining awareness that other people had died, and meeting kids who’d lost a pet, or a grandparent. She’d always been pretty articulate about her feelings (I overcompensated for my own deficient upbringing) but she still was taking great leaps in understanding them. Once in a while we’d talk about Daddy or death but I couldn’t see dramatic shifts in her awareness and there were no remarkable stories. Her ideas seemed fuzzy but they were changing.

One day for circle time, her Sunday school class read 2 or 3 age-appropriate books about death, dying, and ways to remember someone. Afterwards the teacher took me aside and told me how articulate SS had been and how she had been okay, but she wanted me to know in case further questions came up. She described it so clearly: Short Stack shared that her Daddy had died. That he can never come back. She was clear that she would never see him again. (This was the first time I’d heard this.) She also mentioned his artwork and the pictures of him as ways to remember her Daddy.

Phase 7. This area of inquiry is a bit fuzzy for me during her fourth/fifth year. She was learning tremendous amounts at preschool, where she was also learning letters, numbers, dinosaurs, insects. She was able to play on her own more and blossoming in many ways. Bringing ideas home, bigger ones, faster, with more kids to test and talk and listen to and in a more consistent, challenging, structured environment. I was dating and then settling down with Mr. Fresh. She adored him. The crisis was over. I was tired, and probably not listening as closely.

Mr. Fresh and AA’s Dad took the kids apple-picking (both age 4.5+):
AA: Short Stack! I’m really happy that you got a new Daddy!
SS: He’s not my Daddy.
AA: Yeah, but because your real Daddy died, isn’t it great that you were able to get a new one?
SS: (Nothing).

Phase 8. Lately Short Stack is asking much more mature questions and death is one of many interesting topics. She's not fazed when characters on TV die, and if they come back to life, she understands that it’s for pretend. (Lots of questions around age 4.5 concerned what is “in this world” vs. what is “only in movies.”) She adores Scooby (Dooby) Doo and doesn’t seem threatened by ghosts, Frankensteins, talking skeletons, or witchcraft, even though the etiology of zombies that I provided was probably too cautious. I suppose these TV scenarios are not very scary (especially since 70s clothes seem to be permanently back in style) since the spook is always exposed as a jewel thief or an old man trying to get the oilman off his land. Nonetheless monsters do seem to provide some training in ideas about mortality. How many adults do you know who have a much better handle on this stuff than Shaggy, Daphne or Velma?

She’s starting to understand age (even though she still thinks “fifty-five sixty-six one thousand” is the largest number there is) and sequence. "Mommy, you going to die before me?" "Is Gramma E.R. going to die before you?" "Am I going to die before Noma (her best friend, 2 years younger)?" I know it’s a cliché, but you really can see the little wheels turn around in her head.

-- She clearly remembers her Dad, not just as sense-memory – I believe she remembers more than the feel of his hug.
-- She is beginning to understand that these huge forces exist.
-- She seems not very interested in the spiritual aspect, but that could be the way I color our conversations.
-- She is strong-willed and imaginative, as she is in all things.
-- She asks questions, but is pretty sure she already has all the answers.

And last week I overheard this:
SS: Noma, you know what a stepdaddy is?
Noma: What dat?
SS: It’s if someone has a Daddy who dies, and then they get another Daddy, then they will be that kid’s stepdaddy.
Noma: (Nothing).

If you listen, and if you wait, the heart does begin to heal.

I received some practical advice and guidance from these books: Helping A Child Cope with the Loss of a Loved One and Guiding Your Child Through Grief.


(Read part 2 here).

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Grieving: How We Survived the First Year+.

From sex to sadness. Sorry for making readers relive my rollercoaster. Here's how we got through the first year after our loss:

• I stayed at my job, even though I was in a bad situation and bored to tears. (They gave me benefits at 30 hours, I could walk to work.)
• I sent my daughter to day care for the first time, two blocks away, even though there were "issues."
  
• We didn’t see people as much as we should have. Little kids need other little kids (dogs like to be with other dogs), and extroverts need company.
  
• We went to church every single week. All kinds of strangers expressed all kinds of sympathy and empathy and other things I never heard of.
• We participated in almost every structured event we were invited to unless it involved preparation (potlucks) or dressing up (art openings) or being out after 7 p.m. or politesse. I guess this means we stayed in a lot.
• I wanted as much sleep as possible. I tried to get the kid to nap. We spent many, many days lying on the couch watching hand-me-down kids' videos. (I was pretty sure Short Stack would grow up thinking Barney was her Dad.) Nothing makes you feel more used-up than nursing a kid in the late afternoon and then she still doesn't sleep.
  
• Trader Joe’s. Every evening I took something out of the freezer, put it in the ‘wave or the Swiss Diamond, and we ate it between tantrums. My cholesterol went through the roof.
• I ignored finances. I kept it at the back of my mind that I could always sell the house (how “gift of the Magi.”). Gavin had minimal life insurance, but we lived off that, art sales, gifts (MBA classmates) and savings (already depleted during his illness). I knew my job would not support me, but could not imagine having a 40-hr-plus-commute job or taking on any more responsibility.
• I complained a lot, about everything. This predilection took care of reorganizing my rolodex.
• I said that anyone whining about George W. Bush was very lucky to not have any real problems. I canceled the paper.
• I wrote a bunch of thank you notes. I neglected most phone calls. I cursed a lot.
• I wondered why the hell no one was calling. I checked the mailbox like a freshman, but looking out only for condolence notes and gifts, preferably money.
  
• After dark, I worshipped in the church of Buffy (all seven seasons in full).
• I forgot the words “dentist” and “salon.” I got fatter and still lost weight.
• I went for massages at least once a month, more when I was on leave.
• I attended support group as my truest religion. I cried and laughed with new friends.
  
• I made wonderful plans and lists, and lost them.
  
• I was heavily preoccupied with Gavin’s 91-year-old mother, who could no longer conceal her growing dementia.
• I believed Gavin would care what I did about some matters but often ended up cursing him.
  
• I took care of a few important matters and coasted on everything else.
• I cherished my child but did the very least in almost every department.
  
• I started a blog with a strong sense of mission and humor. I abandoned it with many other "projects."
• I took one three-month unpaid leave from work and began a second one.
  
• We started dinner each night with a moment of silence, holding hands. I've always imagined one is "saying a personal prayer" or trying to feel lucky. Mostly I was cursing inside, or thought of something tiny ("Today I am so, so grateful for my dumb job"). How I would have thanked the holy one, blessed be he, for a shred of true silence during one of these moments.
  

You can see why that turning point was such welcome relief. I was ambitious, futile, desperate, unproductive, litigious, angry, and blinded. I was weary, a shell. But somehow I knew it wouldn't last forever.

Even a spent sigh somehow turns into a breath.



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When is an insight “blinding?” One duality illuminated.

I have been told that the job of a creative is to pluck concepts from the “ether” that surrounds us, the inchoate, and build an image or story from those bits. In polite society, this ability has sometimes earned me the label "crazy." You'll be judged, on one axis, by whether your result resonates with anyone, whether you've picked things that speak to others.

Last night Short Stack had a 15-minute pre-bedtime tantrum which was clearly* an incredible simulation (because it was frequently interrupted by giggling). It pissed me off and I couldn't see a way out, so I took a Mommy Time Out and went into my bedroom to read for a few. I’d been saving this piece about “restorative justice” from a recent Washington Post Magazine. (Things do sit around). Some ideas in the article hit me hard if slow; in the 24 hours since, that blunt insight has expanded and brightened:

“Abramson is a big believer in the transformative power of such face-to-face meetings, as are others. While spiritual leaders have long asked folks to accept the benefits of forgiveness on faith, the secular world has lately jumped on the bandwagon -- and proffered scientific evidence to support this view. Everett Worthington, a psychology professor at Virginia Commonwealth University, has been studying forgiveness for more than 20 years. He reports that a survey of the scientific literature in 1997 turned up only 58 studies on the topic, but that has grown to a total of 1,000 documented studies exploring the subject today.

Evidence of the potential benefits is piling up: Recent studies suggest forgiveness can decrease your cardiovascular risk, elevate your immune system and reduce your chances of depression, anxiety, anger disorders and post-traumatic stress disorder. Worthington attributes this to the conflicting messages the body sends. ‘Biologically, we have an immediate vengeful justice motive when we've been wronged, but over time we have a biological urge toward empathy and reconciliation,’ he says. The desire for justice gives us a buzz, he says. ‘Pretty much everybody can get aroused and motivated by anger and the prospect of getting back at this person. It is lighting up... those same dopamine-releasing pathways that are in the reward section of the brain.’

But at some point, an evolutionary response kicks in, he says. A human who is totally cut out of the group doesn't stand much chance of survival. The others in the group ‘want to do something to not cede them to the wild beasts out there,’ he says. ‘That's when we start to feel conflict and pressure.’”

I reread. I tore the page out. I went into the other room once Mr. Fresh had wrapped up "Green Eggs and Ham." I reassured the person who'd been pushing my buttons with pretend emotions that I loved her dearly. Small arms reached up and pulled my neck downward. I delivered a goodnight kiss to a restless, slightly blubbering girl and stayed for three minutes.

Who among us, particularly those who live on with great loss, hasn’t felt that pull, that desire to stay angry, knowing you could not keep it up? Isn’t it fantastic to hear there’s a scientific basis for both sides, the two crazy ends that fight inside each of us? (No, not crazy: it's science.) I feel I’ve been running back and forth between the two walls of anger and moving on for years. It's a relay race where I'm the only runner. There's no medal and no ending. I direct ferocious intentions at these walls and end up with sore knees and ankles, fists clenched, no baton.

In restorative justice, sharing stories is a big part of the answer. Perhaps it’s the same for me. I don’t think I would have heard this lesson if I hadn’t opened this channel to write. So, thanks.

* not the Beatles but...

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I Am Widow, Hear me Roar

It wasn't so hard to kill the first seven mice. Usually I found them splayed with the trap on top of them, gory bits concealed. Once I figured out to put out newspaper under the traps the cleanup got a lot easier. And it was harder to be sympathetic to the poor little animals the morning that I found two in the same nook, a few inches apart. I mean, was it simultaneous or are they not only dumb but lacking in basic instincts? We made "seven in one blow!" jokes all day.

My four-year-old loved hearing that we had mice in the house: “ooh, can we keep him as a pet and catch a mommy and a daddy for him too and have they all for pets?!”

But the eighth mouse was a little scary -- the trap caught his leg and he dragged himself partway behind the dishwasher. I asked Mr. Fresh to handle it. He also confirmed it was indeed dead.

Then the very next morning I checked back there and -- no trap. Great -- somewhere there was an angry, wounded mouse, dragging a piece of wood and wire behind him. He could show up anywhere in the house (though probably on the first floor :-) ) at any time. He could pop out while Short Stack was watching Disney channel. It was almost too much to contemplate. I poked around the most likely refuges and then settled down to coffee and tried to forget about the threat to my child's sanity.

Mr. Fresh came back from his run, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, singing “M – I – C – K – E – Yyyyy…” I broke in. “Speaking of which, one got away, so don’t shoot if you hear something…” Huh? We looked at each other. “Oh, I checked the trap and cleaned it up before I went out.” I told him my fearful fantasy. “No, don’t worry, it was dead and in the right place.” Thank heaven.

Over the course of 2008, I killed a dozen and felt supremely competent. While I was dating, this was evidence that, yes, I could manage everything as a single Mom. And Mr. Fresh was impressed when I told him one of my tricks early in our relationship: One night I bait the trap but don’t set it; then use the same bait and set it the next night. And sprinkle the same bait nearby to whet their appetites. (I use chocolate chips or Stilton). "You are brutal!", he said. I smiled.

To really eliminate the problem, I need to analyze their tail hair to find out if they are house (city) or garden (country) mice. Do I plug holes or seek out and destroy the nest? My old work roomie, Tobias, who has lab background, is working on this. I’m sure his report back will cite Latin names.

This type of acceptable murder is so gratifying for those of us with anger issues, with usually-barely-repressed rage, who are on a slow boil. I’m exploring the combination of aggression and helplessness than marks my worst tendencies. Perhaps I am the mouse that roared, or a Jekyll/Hyde (maybe Gertrude Jekyll?). Another post will delve into my psychoanalysis, but I’ll backdate it so you can skip it.

See, I’m not so cruel after all.

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