Euf

I still check in here from time to time, although I rarely post. This place (or YWBB, the former “this place”) saved my life. I give honorable mention to some of my friends in the real world, but the wids were the ones that carried me, pushed me, held my hand and walked with me over a terrain that no one else understood. I’m glad you have all found this place. It is nice to not feel alone. My last post here was in May. May and August are my two hard times. May is my birthday and my anniversary, August is the month that he died. I don’t understand why flipping that calendar page and seeing “MAY” and “AUGUST” still is so hard. In May I was bitching about being 19 years older than Jim. (Yes, I was a cradle robber, but how did I end up 19 years older?) I was pathetic and pitiful in May. It felt as if my entire life was a useless, pathetic, piece of crap. But I’ve been widowed long enough to know that this was a temporary thing. A flipping of the calendar page thing. This was part of my May post: Do you know what month we are in? Yep. August. I wrote some depressing piece of drivel (yes, I even used the words broken and destroyed) on my blog, but don’t feel like posting it here. Because I really will be fine. And so will you. Instead, I took a walk down Memory Lane this evening, looking at August and things I’ve written in the past. I think I wrote with optimism. Not quite Little Susie Sunshine, but still, when I look back, I see someone that believed she would survive. And she did. Poem on the Second Anniversary of Your Death It’s like picking a scab. Each time its almost healed I rub and scratch until the blood flows. I bleed for you. I bleed for me. Sometimes I just bump into things And knock it open. But mostly I pick at it. I know songs that can rip it open, I have photographs I hide away until I want to see what I have lost. And there is still that little seed of doubt that I was good enough for you. That seed I can plant and water with blood until it grows so tall I cannot see the top. If the scab heals, all that’s left is a scar. Scars can fade away. I would have died for you. I would have died with you. That would have been easy. The hard part is letting the scab heal and believing you won’t fade away. Widow’s Weeds widow's weeds - a black garment (dress) worn by a widow as a sign of mourning I wear my widow’s weeds. Although I envy those who wore the black veil, that was a different time. I could not see my computer through the veil. I often picture myself in a long black dress, but I haven’t worn a dress for years. My life is more jeans and tee shirts. I have a black tee shirt, but it doesn’t fit anymore. Still, I wear my widow’s weeds. Visible only to me, unless you count the black Converse high top sneakers. The ones he bought me because I always wanted a pair when I was a kid. The kid never got them. The wife did. The widow wears them. Widow’s weeds. Flying I sometimes told you that you saved my life. You would grin and make a joke. Or in a more serious mood say “No you saved your own life, I was just with you when you did it.” I guess it was a little of both. But either way I am still here And you are not. My life was in your hands. I put it there and chose to keep it there. Hands that sheltered but never held too tight. Hands one could curl up in and feel safe. I am still here And you are not. I am the trapeze flyer without a net, The baby bird pushed out of the nest, The boat riding the rapids, heading for the waterfall. You are not here I am. The hands fell away but I can walk on air. CHANGE I’m a silent beggar, Standing in front of tomorrow Holding my cup gently so I don’t spill anything. Sometimes my cup is half full And sometimes half empty But either way, it’s always the same. Maybe I need to shake my cup up and down, Make a little noise, Rattle my change, Risk spilling what I have. If you don’t risk losing your change Nothing will. Planting a Life You can’t grow much in rocks and clay. It’s too hard for the roots to grow down deep. A little compost helps. Compost made from that pile of discards. The things you peeled away, The leftover scraps of what used to be good, The things you thought were of no use anymore. At first it’s just a pile of garbage, But throw it all together. Let it sit and stir it once in awhile. Add more garbage when you have it. Eventually it all breaks down. Mix a little compost in that hard packed clay soil That nothing can grow in. Dig down deep. Throw away any rocks that you find. Plant something and hope it grows. But I don’t recognize these crops springing up From what used to be barren soil. I’m harvesting things I never planted. Sweet or sour? Annual or perennial? I don’t know what to make from them. That’s OK because I mostly cook without a recipe, Just throwing things together until they taste good. If it’s not fit to eat, I’ll just throw it in the compost bin again. 8/28/11 Today is the day where all things are measured from. There is before Jim died and after Jim died. There is the mounting irritability and tears just beneath the surface as August 28th draws near. There is the sigh of relief when this day is over. This is my New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow begins another year. A fresh start. A year full of possibilities. I think of Jim frequently. He just sort of lives in my mind. Not intrusive but always nearby, ready for me to tell him something, or smiling with me at a shared memory. But it is not the real Jim. It is some image of Jim that I can carry around with me and take out and talk to. I guess he is like an imaginary friend. My imaginary friend, Jim, is someone to talk to that shares the same past. The real Jim is kept in another place in my heart and I don’t let him out very often. The loss of the real Jim is not something I can face day after day. At least not while I am trying to rebuild a life. The real Jim was so much more wonderful than the one that lives in my mind. The loss of the real Jim can still feel like being punched in the stomach. But on this one day each year, I look him in the eye and say: “Yes, I see you. I remember who you really were. I know you. I still love you.” So I guess in the end, after all these words, that is all I want to say. “Yes, I see you. I remember who you really were. I know you. I still love you.”

It has been almost 11 years since he died. But I want to say his name again. Jim Smith. LOL Yeah, Jim Smith.

I wrote something similar on the old board at around 3 years. I wrote it a few more times as the years went by. I worked so hard and made progress but when I actually looked at where I was, it seemed such a small step forward compared to the work and agony and frustration I’d been through. I tried not to compare myself to others but it was hard not to. Every word you wrote. . .read that again. . . EVERY WORD YOU WROTE describes how I felt for what seemed like longer than everyone else. One of the old time widows back on YWBB (I forget who it was) used to say that most of her healing happened between 5 and 10 years and it happened without her really noticing it. I guess now I get to be the old time widow that says that. I don’t mean things didn’t improve before 5 years but simply that between 5 & 10 years I started making leaps forward instead of inching my way through life. Still some backsliding but overall I kept going in the right direction. I was what I considered a slow griever. Maybe you are too. So I just wanted to say that I did find my way through grief and came out on the other side of it. I know how discouraging it seems at the point you are at but I am sending you a message from the future. It’s OK to still feel the way you feel so try not to get too discouraged. It may take longer than you once imagined. For some of us widowhood is a marathon and not a sprint but we still get to the finish line.

No I don’t. I never had any interest in dating after Jim died. I tried to stay open to the possibility that someday I might meet someone that I was interested in, but it seemed unlikely. I think Jim was that once in a lifetime kind of guy. I’m also the type of person that doesn’t mind being alone and I can easily entertain myself. I wasn’t even looking for any type of long term relationship before I met Jim. I had been married before and it wasn’t a good marriage (a bit of an understatement) so had no interest in trying again. Meeting Jim changed my mind. It’s not the life I would have chosen, just the one I ended up with but it is actually a good life. It took me a long time to be able to honestly say that but it's true.

Your post also resonates with me. We are all so tied together. Yes, we break and mend and break and mend. Easy memories to you too. (((hugs)))

My husband has been dead for almost 11 years. Since he has died I’ve made a new friend or two. I still hang out with my old friends. Some new grandkids have been born. Our dog died and I got another one. Our cat died and someday I’ll get another. I’ve painted every room in our house. I’ve ripped up carpets and uncovered wood floors. I have a garden and grow asparagus, strawberries, blueberries, tomatoes, peppers and a lot of different herbs. Jim’s dad died and his mom is getting Alzheimer’s. My dad died and my mom has Alzheimer’s. Time passes and the ordinary joys and sorrows of life happen. Jim and I would have been married 34 years this summer. I remember we used to say we hoped we were still around to celebrate our 50’Th anniversary but we never even made it to 25. I’ve been without him 11 years this summer, almost half as long as we were married. It is all just so disorienting. Time makes no sense to me. It seems as if he was just here. Writing is how I have always worked my way through life. This is what I wrote on my birthday this year. I will soon be 67. My dead husband is still 48. He will always be 48 and I will just keep getting older. I look at his picture and see a young man. I look in the mirror and see an old woman. This was a part of grief that I didn’t understand at first. Not only are they dead, but they stay dead. Not only do they stay dead, but you have to keep getting older without them. Not only do you keep getting older but you have to suck it up and pretend that your life is something you are still living. Mostly I am not such a pathetic, useless, sorrowful piece of human flotsam, drifting through the currents of my life. But my dead husband is 48 and I am almost 67. Yes, I agree that I sounded pretty depressed. Perhaps overly dramatic but the key phrase is Mostly I am not such a pathetic, useless, sorrowful piece of human flotsam, drifting through the currents of my life. I turned 67 and a few days passed and I’m fine. (Is that right??? Am I really 67? How did THAT happen?) I will probably be fine until August when he will have been dead 11 years. So I will write something and I will feel broken and destroyed until a few days pass and I will be OK That has sort of been the pattern for me as a widow. Good days , bad days. In the beginning so many more bad than good. Now so many more good than bad. I expect that no matter how long I live, I will have days that it still seems nearly unbearable that Jim is no longer in my life. That probably makes more sense to me than anything else. I will keep living and changing and growing and making a life for myself. But every now and then I get to feel sorry for myself. Every now and then I get to stop making an effort. I get to be that pathetic, useless, sorrowful piece of human flotsam, drifting through the currents of my life.

In August, my husband will be dead for 11 years. I am OK. Not as OK as I would be if he was alive, but I’ve built a life without him. That was the hardest part: putting the pieces of myself into some shape that held together and eventually having those pieces stick together long enough until they became an actual person. I owe a debt of gratitude to the widows that went before me, walked beside me, and moved on with me, ahead of me or behind me. Once I thought I would continue be more of a presence here. I thought I would eventually become one of those widows that were inspirational. LOL But I think that living an actual life is the best I can do. I often check in here but rarely post anymore. Now I am thinking ”where in the heck will I post this?” Am I inspirational enough for the new wids? Is this for the bag ladies (Beyond Active Grieving). Somewhere there is a thread for “Those That are OK with not Recoupling”. Surely, I could belong there. But I don’t belong anywhere. Except maybe I belong in the real world, where I am an actual person. There is no new man in my life and there will never be but I have a real life and have friends and have plans and a future. I guess that is as inspirational as I get.

Sandwich generation for sure. But it sounds as if things are being handled as best as they can be handled. No easy answers as I'm sure you know. ( Don't mean to be condescending.) I'm sort of in the same place you are except it is my mother. I guess we just keep on keeping on and try doing the best we can. ((hugs))

((Hugs)) my friend! I'm never sure if that makes it harder or easier. But either way, I understand.

I did it Barney. I’m not sure it was the right thing to do or not. But I started collecting Jims SS when I was 61. (When I retire, I can collect mine if it is more than Jim’s.) Jim died at 48. I am now 66. I plan on working until my boss tells me I’m too senile to show up. It’s hard to know what to do. If Jim had lived, I would have retired at 62. I’ve heard both sides of the argument. Wait as long as you can or get it as soon as you can. My dad retired at 62 and said “If I had known that I was going to live this long, I would have kept working”. He retired at 62, and what seemed like a lot of money then, eventually was not enough to live on. By the time he died (age 92) his children were supporting him. I guess that’s the problem. The answer only comes with hindsight.

I love Leonard Cohen. This is one of the things that made so much sense to me from the beginning. I was shattered, I was broken. Broken enough to let the light in.

I just want to say that I hear you and sympathize. Things that we could take in stride when we were part of a couple seem overwhelming when we have to deal with it on our own. I hope things get a little easier for you.

(((hugs)))

In the early days, I couldn't understand how most people had no concept of what my life was really like. I went to work, took care of the animals, mowed the yard and planted my garden. I guess that looked like "OK". Inside myself, I was crazy. But I had to function. So I did. Friends called that “being strong” but the last thing I felt was strong. No one that hasn’t been widowed can really understand. The thing that helped me the most was not looking too far ahead. I handled each day as it came. Eat, breathe, make it through another day, Looking toward a future was too much to handle. Eventually I could look a few days ahead, and then a few months. It just takes time and one day you realize you have made progress. You have laughed, not because it seems like that is the expected response, but because something is funny. You feel bad because you are enjoying yourself. You make plans and look forward to doing whatever it is you have planned. One day your first thought is not “they are dead” and you feel bad because you forgot for a minute. One step forward, two steps back. The other thing that helped was realizing that I was not alone. There was YWBB (the place before Widda.org) and we were all going through the same thing and people have been going through this forever and somehow (although I couldn’t figure out how) people survived so I would too. I did and so will you.

What Maureen said. Being widowed is not the end of your life. But I don't understand how ones experiences (and being widowed is a doozy of an experience) don't influence who you are. The sum of our experiences seems to me to be who we are. Sorry also to hijack. piecesofapart (((hugs))) I still have those moments at 10 years where I have to tell someone that Jim died. Yes. I think the slapping stops and it becomes more a pinch or a scrape. I would hate for it never to matter so I'm OK with those scrapes and pinches.

(((Maureen)) It's just never easy is it? But if it was easy, I guess it would mean we didn't love them so much. I'd rather have loved and hurt.

I’ve been widowed for 10 years and for the past 10 years I’ve heard about chapter 2. I am probably older than most of the widows here, partly because people of my age are less likely to be hanging out on the internet and partly because even though I am one of those that came from a previous site called YWBB (YOUNG Widow Bulletin Board) I was just trying to pass there. I haven’t been young for a long time. When I joined YWBB I was just trying to fit somewhere. YWBB defined itself as young although the only thing I felt was widowed. I couldn’t find a site for middle aged or old widows so by default joined the young ones. It is hard to define young, especially when talking about being widowed. I assume that whoever is left behind feels too young to be widowed. At least that’s how I felt. I’ve always been happy for those that found love again and remarried but the phrase “Chapter Two” always rubs me the wrong way when it means remarriage. It so often seems to be some sort of race and the finish line is that whoever remarries first wins. To me, it both trivializes new relationships and also pits us against each other. There is a race to the finish line and those of us who are still single are the losers. Maybe it is because I am older, but I passed chapter 2 long before my husband died and it didn’t involve remarriage. In fact I passed chapter two before I even met my husband. I guess that is really where my dislike of the term “chapter two” comes from when it only relates to being married. As if we are measured only by who we marry, when we marry, how long we are single. I have no plans to remarry or even fall in love again, but who knows what may happen? I’m not looking for love but if it says hi and shows up on my doorstep, I’ll pay attention. Either way, I’m not in a contest with anyone. I’m not counting chapters. I’m just living my life.

Thanks Maureen. Sometimes the passing of time is just so surreal.

Thanks Marsha. ((Hugs)) to you too.

Today, my husband has been dead for 10 years. This seems unbelievable to me. Ten years is such a long time and it seems that he was just here. Two years seems possible. Maybe three. But I remember five years because that was some kind of milestone to have survived that long although at five years I was still so broken. At five years, living without him just kept getting harder. It’s hard enough to lose a husband, harder yet to lose your best friend, and the icing on the cake was losing myself. Yet somewhere, someday, somehow I found a life to grab on to. Little by little it became my life and it turned out to be not so bad and now here I am with a husband that has been dead for 10 years. I still read here from time to time but rarely say anything. I don’t think there is too much I could say that would be relevant or helpful to anyone here and I don’t want to write something just to hear myself talk. . . . . Except for today. Because there is no real point to this post except the need to be somewhere that people may understand why, after ten years, I still miss him. And why although I have a not so bad life, for today I’d like to imagine what it would have been like if he was still here and I lived in a world that didn’t take so much effort.

I?m not sure why this bothers me so much. A salesman came into work this week. I?ve known him in a business setting for about 25 years. It has been a few years since I?ve seen him and he mentioned that his wife passed away last year. She had a heart attack and died instantly. For as long as I can remember I?ve had a problem with the phrase ?passed away?. I?ve never understood what it meant. I guess it would make some sort of sense if the person that died progressed from being healthy through various medical issues and then slowly, little by little their body gave out until they died. But if that definition is valid, I guess ?passed away? would apply to my husband. He was healthy and then cancer and chemo broke him down until he was a bald, skinny, invalid. He died inch by inch, day by day. ?Passed away? seems so peaceful. So inconsequential. My husband had a good death if there is such a thing. But he didn?t ?pass away?. A hole opened up in the world when he died. Death pulled him out of my arms and out of my life. He didn?t pass away. He was torn away from me. A hole was ripped into the world and he was taken away and it can?t be fixed. It was not easy for me. It was not peaceful for me. It was not inconsequential to me. I don't know why it upset me to hear about some one passing away. Why what someone chooses to use to explain a death bothers me so much. But when I die, I hope someone cares about me enough to say I died, not that I passed away.

I'm sorry to be so late in responding to your post. I guess this is part of the good news/bad news of beyond active grieving. The good news is that you no longer spend every second of your free time on the widow website. The bad news is that you sometimes miss responding to posts that you would have liked to respond to. I relate so much to what you have written even though my Jim will be dead 10 years in August. Although I've not dated, I have built a new life too. A new life but sometimes a strange life. A life with pieces that just don't always fit together. Sometimes I live here and now. Sometimes I live in the past. I'm a little late but am raising my glass today. Toasting us all. (((Hugs)))

Hey Crunches, It's good to hear from you. I've not dated and have no interest in dating so I really can't give any advise based on experience. Widowhood is not for the faint of heart is it? It's a rough road to travel. But it sounds as if maybe you panicked. Do you think talking to your new guy would help? Is there still any communication? Just sending (((hugs))).

There isn't much by him that I don't like, but I've always had a soft spot for this one. Even more so, now, as a widow.

I'm a bit over 9 years myself and I understand how it can still ache after all this time. Hugs to you my friend and I hope the memories are a little less tinged with sadness today.