Mizpah

Back in the early days, I would get really upset about this, and kept saying that I didn't want time to keep going on, because time was like the wind, erasing his footprints in the sand, and that eventually you wouldn't even know he'd been here. His parents and siblings and I remember. And that is all. When they die and I die, there will be nothing of him here but a gravestone and a plaque on a bench in a park in the City. But it no longer upsets me, somehow. (Your joke is absolutely hilarious. Sick, dark, widow humor. I would've laughed so hard.)

The one year anniversary was really hard for me. I felt the normal grief, which doesn't alter significantly day to day, but only over larger periods of time, but I also felt - this may sound strange - grief over the end of this commonly seen "acceptable" period of mourning. I felt exiled, like in some way, the first year, the year of firsts, was over, and I was flung out into the world and I wasn't ready yet, I wasn't done grieving so hard, I wanted to stay in the bubble. These are all imaginary lines and boundaries, but for some reason, it hit me really hard. I'm thinking of you.

In a life/culture of two, the little things are the big things. We are the holder and carrier of all of those sweet, simple, beautiful shared things now, they are like small glowing jewels in our hearts/souls. You know, 6 1/2 years later, there are still little phrases and things we shared that bubble to the surface. Sometimes I even say them out loud. It's a long road to integrating the joy and sadness. I'm thinking of all of you early out. And as far as "reality sinks in" and whatnot, in a way, you are rebuilding a reality as time goes on, extremely gradually, even though it may not seem it, laying the internal foundational "bricks" in your new life. The roots aren't out in the world, visible, but inside, and in what you love, what nurtures you, even now, when it doesn't feel like it. And I hate to make light of anything grief-related, but hey - don't knock holding it together in public! I remember one day I realized I hadn't done any public sobbing in a while, and I was like, "Go me!" (I think, then, it's likely I probably privately sobbed, hahahaha.)

I'm so sorry, Leadfeather. It's so hard to go from a full life to being forced to reenvision your entire life and future. Rebuilding is so long-term and gradual, at least it has been for me (6+ years out now). I think my whole first two years were simply processing. It was small decisions that led me to a new life and routine and identity. I hope that over time along the way you can find things and people that will bring you comfort and even joy. Thinking of you!

So true, TooSoon. We would race through the work week to get to Friday nights, when we'd be so happy to have the weekend together. Also, he left for work Friday morning, super excited for our weekend, and by noon, the accident had happened and he was about to go into brain surgery (obviously, to no avail). Friday nights were the worst for me, worse even than Sundays, which were a close second. "Lucky" for me, we are Jewish, and he was extremely devoted to and proud of our Jewish heritage - I was not observant at all. Once he died, I wanted to honor him with every thing I did, and so I started going straight from work to Friday night synagogue services. It's one of the things that saved my life - to have that replacement routine, to not have to go straight home to the emptiness my life was. It was a place of solace and beauty and stillness and reflection for me - also, it was good to be around people, even though I was alone. And know where I'd go immediately after? Home to talk (type, really) to the widows who made me feel sane and not alone on the predecessor to this board/forum. Hang in there, everyone - you will find your footing again.

I think a lot of this is about habit, rather than quality of friendship. I've found that people don't reach out, even when they would love to get together and would say yes to things. I think this is about slowly changing habits, creating community. I moved about 3 years ago from a place I'd lived for over a decade, and had a wonderful social network, to a place where I had no friends. It's taken a really long time, and lots of sucking up pride, and rejecting the idea that if they don't contact me I won't contact them, to get what I need: community/friendships. If you want to hang out with someone, reach out. Gauge their reaction. Do they want to but can't? Then try again. And again. It also helps to suggest things that are easy to pull off or makes sense in the schedule of their lives/interests/location. Try not to keep score about who initiates unless the person doesn't seem interested. Most people are passive and in the ruts of their routine.

The firsts are so hard. It's hard when there are no longer any firsts. It's all just hard. I'm so sorry for your loss. I spent my first birthday without him alone, to avoid that feeling you describe - of feeling alone among people. Either way it's just hard, there's no way around the pain. The firsts also come with a lot of second-guessing and a feeling I describe as "if I was inside, I wanted to be outside, and if I was outside, I wanted to be inside." But, now, from a few years out, I realize that all my decisions (even ones I would do differently) were right for me at whatever time they were made. My widow friends and I, on each other's birthdays, didn't feel, "Happy birthday," was appropriate, given how much pain we were in, so we started saying, "Birthday," to each other instead. So: Birthday! I'm thinking of you.

Hi Mishka, You've got a lot of good advice here. Widowhood is isolating, AND motherhood is also isolating. So hard. For me, and take any/all of this with a grain of salt, because it really is different for everyone, and everyone has their own circumstances, but for me, therapy was key and probably my #1 most important thing. I realize it's not like that for everyone, but I leaned heavily on therapy as a time and place for me to allow myself to fall apart, so I could "be strong" in real life, whatever TF that came to mean. I made a big effort to find widows on-line and in real life (this may have been a tie for #1), and made them the biggest part of my social life, even just writing back and forth on-line. I identified the people who could handle talking about "real" things in a "real" way - I ended up losing some friends, but I also gained new ones, by forgetting about being "shy" when meeting someone new who seemed like a good person (I mean friendship-wise). I tried to be active physically, to capitalize on endorphins for feeling "up," when inside I felt so dark. I tried to get lots of sunlight - didn't allow myself to sleep too late and made myself get out of the house - if I was going to sit around feeling sad, I was going to do it sitting on a bench somewhere pretty rather than in my living room while the day passed me by. I avoided thinking too far in the future. I tried to cling to very simple things for peace and, eventually, happiness - like ridiculously simple things, like, "The light on those leaves in the breeze is nice." Like stripped it down to super basic stuff. I wrote a lot, just to get my overwhelming feelings out of me. I also clung to ritual, and part of that for me was going to synagogue once a week - this helped with a feeling of community and of being out in the world with others, and also gave me peace and comfort. I visited his grave once a month - no more, no less. I also watched lots of movies and binge-watched TV shows. Healing takes place extremely gradually over a long period of time. It's not something we're used to - having so little control. I tried to accept the badness.

I'm so sorry for your loss. I call it having to bear the unbearable. I remember so little of the early days, but I remember thinking that if I was inside, I wanted to be outside, and if I was outside, I wanted to be inside - nothing felt right, there was no relief or comfort. I remember always feeling like I couldn't really be ok until I talked to him about what I was going through - but of course, how could I, because what I was going through was his death? Other widows saved my life and sanity, just by virtue of existing and surviving and speaking my same language, by knowing what I was feeling. I am thinking of you, and all of you.

I remember eight months being really hard for me. Going through the motions, still in deep grief on the inside. And I too looked to nature for my small comforts. Even with a rebuilt life six years later, I still do. I tried to take refuge in simplicity and simple things.

All you did was be genuine, an authentic person, and be a good father. Doesn't sound at all like you played anything or anyone. Give yourself a break.

At 6 1/2 years, my only advice is to not make huge decisions right now. Or at least don't make "I will never" decisions right now. You don't know how you will feel in a year or two or few. If ministry doesn't feel right any longer, don't pursue it right now. But don't rule it out in the future. Your feelings may change. Grief and loss significantly change (or delay) many of our paths. But it's hard to know how sometimes until we let some more of the dust settle inside ourselves. (Keep in mind that your struggle could eventually make you even better at spiritual ministry, more compassionate and understanding, less simplistic or naive than perhaps you may have otherwise been. Not to push any decision on you. Just a reminder that anything can be used for good, depending on what you see as good.) I used to be very ambitious. Losing DH made me realize that none of it mattered as much as the people you love. In the couple years after he died, I adopted a very "take it as it comes" approach and tried to avoid long-term thinking and planning. (Same as you, I lacked motivation and worried I couldn't handle any kind of heavy lift. Grief is like a full-time job with tons of overtime.) The things I care about now are different from what I cared about when DH was alive, and different from what I cared about in the immediate aftermath of his death. I tell you this: I don't remember much from the first 3-5 months. It is still very new. Don't pressure yourself any more than you have to. Not yet.

I can relate to so much you said. It's so true, and a lot to synthesize. At more than six years, I'm only now starting to get what feels like a true perspective or insight into these three people I've been, starting to synthesize or integrate it all into the me I am now, figuring out how to proceed, what I value, what I want, less in a life way but on an individual level. This widowhood $h!t throws you for a loop, and the dust settles slowly over years, all jumbled, all the pieces there, but everything in different places and pointing in new and different directions.

That's what this place is for. And nothing you said sounds crazy to me, except that the man you love so much died so young. (I can relate very much to that, as my DH died at 28 (just as we were about to start trying to start our family) in a freak accident as well - a car got into an accident that flew up onto the sidewalk right where he happened to be at that moment. That was more than six years ago now.) I encourage you (and all the other new widows) to write here as much as you need to and not worry about seeming crazy. It really helped me and others. I also strongly suggest therapy, which helped me as well, to have a time and a place to say all the things I thought sounded too crazy and hopeless to say in real life. I was spared from asking "why" because of my particular belief system, but I know many who struggled with this and with their faith. I read all the grief books I could find, and there was one you may find something in: "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," by Harold Kushner. It was written by a rabbi whose very young son died after a short life of lots of suffering. He was forced to confront exactly the thoughts and struggles about Gd that you are confronting. I loved the book. Nothing can take away your suffering, but you can find little pearls of comfort and solace along the way. I am thinking of you. It feels so daunting, to breathe, to survive each moment and day, let alone to have to reenvision a future and even to rediscover your own identity apart from him and your relationship. From years out: it is a very very very gradual process. Take each moment as it comes, and try not to torture yourself by focusing on the huge overwhelming stuff like what you're going to do with your life now. That will be a very gradual process made up of lots and lots of moments. This moment is all you can do.

From 6+ years out: There are things I may have forgotten. But there is so much I never will. The day-to-day does increasingly take over. But I shared your anxiety - I didn't want to feel better and I did not want to forget. I compulsively wrote. Every memory I could think of, every mannerism, every word habit, every inside joke, every story, every piece of information about him and us. I carried a little journal with me everywhere I went so I would always be able to write down anything that crossed my mind so I didn't lose it. I eventually stopped. I had something like 10 journals filled. But still, it is elusive: I knew even then that all the most important things couldn't be encapsulated in words, that things like what it felt like to be in a room with him, a shared glance, the way he moved, the feel or scent of his skin, etc., etc. - could never be retained. And it killed me, for a very long time. A couple weeks ago, I was doing something mundane, though, and out of nowhere, for absolutely no discernable reason, I had a flash of a memory - totally commonplace, us getting ready to leave the apartment to go grab bagels or breakfast or something, me walking into the living room, him looking around like he'd forgotten to grab something that was nearby, embracing, looking up at him, that amazed feeling, his astonishing beauty. I was transported for the most fleeting second. I *felt* the memory. Part of the loss *is* a loss of memory - I used to say that the passage of time was like waves or wind blotting out his footprints in the sand. It's part of what we mourn. But you won't lose ALL of it.

From 6+ years out (he was 28, I was 32), I would definitely recommend one-on-one therapy as soon as possible. It's a place and time of freedom to totally fall apart, to express your hopelessness or devastation or whatever aspect you need to digest, in a healthy and safe situation. For me, it really helped to spend time in the sunshine, and to work out/run - I think the vitamin D and endorphins kept me from spiraling into an even darker place than I already felt inside me. I clung to very simple things: staring at leaves in breeze, watching a river from a bench, etc., etc. (If I hadn't lived in a City at the time, I think hiking probably would've been a good idea.) I tried to keep my apartment tidy and clean (imposing order/control in a situation in which I felt totally out of control and chaotic inside, maintaining my home as a sanctuary/haven). Jotting down memories and stories about him/us really helped me - I didn't want to lose them, and the process helped me I think. Hydrate and get nutrition. Keep it simple. Allow your grief. But also allow moments of comfort or even smiles when they come. I tried not to get too socially isolated but engaged according to my needs/comfort level: for me personally it meant making plans with friends one-on-one every now and then, and avoiding large groups, but staying connected. Don't pressure yourself and don't worry that you're not normal - the situation is abnormal and the worst, whatever emotions you're feeling are normal. I say it like this: What happened will never be ok, but one day you will be. (In the beginning, that made me angry - I didn't WANT to be ok if he couldn't, but it still is true.) I'm thinking of you and wishing you solace. We're all with you on the path.

I want to know EVERYTHING, not just every word and every nuance of every communication with anyone, but every fleeting and/or meaningful thought or feeling. It can come from any number of sources - curiosity, fascination with humans, obsession with whoever the object of my love is, natural insecurity, nosiness, etc., etc. I want it, but is that impulse healthy? The way I look at it - would I be comfortable, though, with HIM demanding to or wishing to know every word of every communication? No. I think I would feel a little distrusted or invaded, or that we would be magnifying something I wouldn't want to magnify (maybe a toxic ex and the negative emotional impact it can have, and that we could multiply by sharing).... Sometimes NG doesn't tell me about stuff about his son's mom, and while I want to know everything, am voracious for connection and information, I think it's wise of him not to fan the flames of problems, especially when it doesn't involve me in any way and has no bearing on me, him, us....

Are you in therapy? That's my advice. To figure out how to navigate this, to figure out how to stop patterns that are damaging to you, etc., etc. (Maybe especially to discuss the feeling that your mother "got her wish" by DH dying - that's one of those big ones.) I had a less pronounced, less extreme struggle (and this is years ago for me now, and as always - take anything with a grain of salt, use what's useful, and discard the rest). My mother often (and still) talked to me about how hard it was for her, which has always blown my mind. (THIS!!!!! http://www.dailyshoring.com/circle-of-grief-ring-theory/ ) I would try to do something less extreme than cutting ties, and think of a different way to distance and set boundaries for yourself. But I don't know you, or anything, or your history with your mother. Early in, I realized that talking to my mother about my sadness was not beneficial for me, and so for the most part, I stopped. Our relationship changed. We'll always be their children, but separating ourselves, as adults, is necessary, and it becomes so magnified when they don't deal supportively with this situation. It's like an accelerated crash course in that idea that our parents are as helpless as we are (and are some of them emotionally immature and are some of them too self-centered to be able to show real, socially clear empathy), and sometimes more so, that we can't always look to them for comfort and safety anymore. I think it's somewhat normal to feel closer with MIL at this time - she's a connection to DH, she understands the depth of your suffering, you have a deep bond. I spent tons of time with my ILs in the months afterwards, even though in general, I didn't really relate to them. They were who I needed to be with: people who loved him, people who hurt like I hurt. Something I also can relate to: giving in in the early days to things I didn't want to, because maybe I didn't feel strong enough or present enough to say no, or to understand that it was good for me to say no - I was (understandably!) distracted by the chest-crushing, soul-crushing devastation. The people who try to take care of us don't always know how. For me, forgiveness isn't my goal. I've said before that I don't believe in forgiveness (I know it's an unpopular position). For me, understanding and acceptance and moving forward from whatever happened is what I try to do, learning to try not to repeat it in different ways. Accepting what occurred, why it occurred, that it wasn't ok, but that there also was not malice.

Going on vacation in August (we have NG's son for a week then). Decided where - we do lots of outdoors stuff - hiking, camping, canoeing, etc. NG's son's mom does none of this. But to pre-one-up NG and so NG's son would be all "been there done that," she decided that they would go exactly where we're going, two weeks before we do. She keeps texting him photos of highway signs and license plates just to show him that they're where we had planned to take the kids in two weeks. Can't make this $h!t up! It's crazy! So pathetic and insane. And what's she gonna do there, other than feel psyched that she did this to NG? Before her, I didn't believe people could be this.... Malicious, empty, spiteful, obsessed? You name it. Yikes.

I had this same struggle, because DH was an extremely good son, and so I wanted to honor his parents - to be more like him, to be more like what I believed he would want me to be (but still not really sure on that on - what he would've wanted me to do).... There came a point for me, on many things, where I had to let go of trying to either figure out or follow what it was he would've done or wanted, and started making decisions not as tributes but as good life choices for me, as a still living person. I think paying tribute to him through my decisions made sense for a time, and helped me, and was part of grieving/healing, but, like I said, there was a time when I had to lay that part down, and continue to re-center, from him-and-me and from honoring him, to what was best for me.

KK, like you I had some very hurtful, upsetting things done to me by the ILs very early on, and like you, I prefer to keep relationships rather than discarding them. I decided to put aside everything that happened in the first month, but draw a line for myself, and if they crossed it, I had to force myself to stop engaging. They didn't cross the line I set for myself, but years later, after what I felt was consistent, sustained, hurtful indifference on their part, I stopped contacting them, and we were out of touch for two years. I resumed contact only recently, because I'd heard that MIL was ill, but the point of me sharing this is to tell you that while the rift upset me in the beginning and in theory, it made my life far easier and I did not have any regrets. It also helped me feel less hurt by them because it was easier to realize from afar that it had everything to do with them and nothing to do with me. I hope you find some peace now about this.

Yes. All of you. "When's the easy part?"

My situation is different bc NG and I live together and share a child, so our integration was accelerated, but he has a son from a previous situation, and he's someone who puts the kids first and I put the relationship first (not to the detriment or neglect of the kids, but I think that one of the most important things for kids is the example of the relationship). It was a hard, hard adjustment for me, and still is at times. Also, it wasn't until our kid was about 1 that our family truly started to integrate - there were lots of times before that when it felt like he and his son were one family, and our kid and I were another family (and sometimes he and I and our kid were a family). Now the division is adults and kids, and I think that's a more natural order. I do think this is truly, at heart, about what the definition of the family is. Not living together makes this more stark, I would guess (can two households be one family?, etc.). I think if you two have a long-term hope/plan, you need to get on the same page about how and when the integration begins and progresses. Is this going to be one family or two (or rather three: you and your daughter, him and his daughter, and him and you and your daughter)? How can you turn the three into one? We have NG's son every other weekend, and even after years to get used to it, it is still a major shift in the dynamics of the household and relationships every single time. I didn't used to feel like we were allies; I do now. It takes time and effort and decisions (by both) to make it happen. I feel for you. Back in the beginning of my struggles with family integration with NG, I used to rail against feeling like I was always waiting, that I spent my whole life just waiting around, or that he put me on pause whenever he felt it was convenient. It is not a good feeling. I hope you can get this a bit more hashed out as soon as possible so you can function with less hurt and struggle.

I did group therapy, in a group formed by my therapist. I didn't do grief-specific groups, because the ones available to me were attended by much older people, and I didn't feel I could relate. So the group my therapist formed was for people around my age (late 20s and early 30s) going through major life changes and/or dealing with trauma. At first, there was a lot of anger involved for me - these people had no idea about the levels of pain and hopelessness and devastation I was experiencing. But as time went by, it really was a source of comfort and coping and "growth" in many ways. Not for everyone, but was good for me.

I lost DH when I was 32, a couple months before he was to start a new job and we were to begin trying to start a family. I think two was the plan. But then years of my life disappeared into grief, and I hadn't wanted kids before him, so I just assumed it wasn't to be - I was ok with it, but was angry that the choice had been taken from me. Now, years later, I have a 3-year-old, and no resources (financial, personal, real estate, etc.) to have another, and am getting on up there in terms of risk. I feel sad for my kid that she won't have a full sibling (has a half, but doesn't live with us), and I feel sad that I didn't have the sort of pregnancy and early baby experience I had hoped to have/assumed most people have, and I love babies more than ever. There are many reasons I'm ok with not having another, but also reasons it kinda breaks my heart. Death steals.