lcoxwell

I truly have no words. I just wanted you to know that I am very, very sorry for the loss of your friend.

That is a good question. While it has been 10 years, since I have had "traditional intercourse", I have to admit that my Kenneth was quite creative with the use of his tongue, fingers, and toys to make up for the fact that he wasn't physically able to have sex in the "traditional" sense of the word, anymore. Still, in the last few years, he wasn't feeling up to even the "creative" intimacy, but I could recalculate my earlier numbers, at least, so it doesn't sound quite so bad as 10 FREAKING YEARS!

Two years ago today was the last day that my Kenneth was able to carry on an intelligible conversation, though he slept most of the day and was only awake for a couple of hours that night. During those few hours, we talked about our kids, our life together, and how much we loved each other. He was worried about my future, and expressed his desire that I not spend my life alone, mourning his loss. When I think about that final week, I am often shocked at how many times he brought up my future and his desire that I not spend my life mourning him. He was absolutely obsessed with my future happiness. I cannot tell you how many times that week that he grabbed my hand and looked deeply into my eyes, refusing to let go or look away unless I promised him, over and over again, that I would not spend my life sad and alone. At times, it was a desperate plea that I would not let his death destroy me. At other times, he turned it into some seriously sick and twisted humor about waiting until after the funeral before I started dating; or telling me that, if I had him cremated, to please remember to stick him in the closet if I had a man over, so he wouldn't have to watch. Even though he had slept most of the day, as with those in end stage renal failure, he tired easily and wanted to go to bed early, about 9:00. One of the last good memories I will ever have of him is of getting ready for bed that night. I had new shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in, and he smiled when I put them on, telling me I looked really good in them. He couldn't get his hands to work to turn off the light on his side of the bed, so I had to reach across him to take care of it. When I reached across him, he patted me on the butt, smiled again, and looked down my t-shirt. He got that old twinkle in his eye, which he hadn't had in a while due to being so sick. Then he kissed me and said he loved me and we settled in to go to sleep. I always loved that twinkle in his eye, that look that said there was someone in this world that loved me, that wanted me, above all others. It was a beautiful thing, and I shall always miss that twinkle of his. In the middle of the night, he woke up and was very restless and confused. Several times, he fell to the floor, and I had to get up and help him back into bed. Historically, that had been a sign that soon, he would fall asleep and I would not be able to wake him up. So many times, I had called the ambulance to take him to the hospital at that stage, and he managed to pull through; but I knew that there would be no more calls for the ambulance, no more pulling through that night, or ever again. I didn't want his final day or two to be sad, so I tried to hold back the tears, as best I could. Instead, we laughed, as I struggled to get him back into bed, and as he struggled ineffectively to help me. He had such a wonderful laugh. It was one of those laughs that made the world laugh with him. Some days, I wish I could have held on to every moment of that night forever.

I have to be honest, I truly miss the being able to fill that void with chat some nights. Due to the significant increase in migraines and medical complications that I had after my mini stroke a few months back, I went for a while without being able to log on. When I reached a point where I could hop back in, there was no one there. I would love to get back in a few nights a week. I miss conversations, too.

May 6, 2014, just four short days before Kenneth would take his final breath, would be the very last "normal" day he and I would ever spend together. Looking back, I wish that I could have taken those last few days off from work, so that I could have had more time with him, but maybe it is best that we carried on our normal routines. That day, I got up and went to work, as usual. Except,, that day I knew the end was very, very near, and I spent my day making preparations and emergency lesson plans, knowing that those plans were going to be needed within the next few days. After work, I went by the grocery store and picked up a few things, then cooked his favorite dish for dinner. We watched TV and spent the evening talking about anything and everything, then went to bed as usual. In the middle of the night, he woke me up, as he had done so many times before, because he was restless and having trouble sleeping. Only that night, I, new it wasn't like all the other nights. The night, I knew that it was one more sign that the end was near. And that night, I cried myself to sleep, knowing that soon, he wouldn't be there to wake me up anymore.

Words seem so inadequate, but I am truly sorry for your loss and that you have a reason to be here. In these early months, the pain truly is excruciating. In the first few days and weeks, I remember people telling me to take things one step at a time, and I truly tried. Then one particularly difficult day hit, and I remember thinking how hard it is to take one step, when you are drowning in the middle of the ocean, with waves crashing down on your head, and you can't even feel the ground underneath your feet. The people here gave me a life raft, though, and they pulled me back to shore and helped me to stand, once again. Hopefully, being here will help you, too. Please, come here as often as you feel the need to read or to post. I promise, there will always be someone here, willing to listen, or who can relate in some way. In the meantime, please remember to try and take care of yourself. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. Drink plenty of water and exercise. When all else fails, just remember to breathe.

Continuing the countdown of Kenneth's final week, on Wednesday, March 5, 2014, five days before Kenneth died, we met with home hospice. Below is what I posted a year ago about my memories from that day: Exactly one year ago today, was when my Kenneth and I met with the people from home hospice for the very first time. During that meeting, he had to tell them that he no longer wanted life-saving medical treatment. I had to hear him say he understood that stopping the treatment meant he was going to die. He then looked over at me, with a smile on his face, and said to the hospice workers,"I wanted to die a long time ago, but my damn wife wouldn't let me." I remember smiling back at him, and I remember fighting back the tears. A part of me wanted to beg him, plead with him, not to give up, to hang on a little while longer. I didn't, though, because I knew he had been fighting and beating the odds, for years. I had watched him rocking in pain and I had sat by his side through one hospital stay after another, for years. For years, I had seen him lose bits and pieces of himself, both literally, through multiple amputations, and figuratively, as the chemicals in his brain slowly robbed him of his cognitive abilities. So, while every part of me wanted to run away and pretend that his life wasn't ending, I instead stood by his side. I knew he needed me, and he needed my support, so that's what I gave him. I held his hand, I smiled through the tears, and I learned what I would have to do to keep him comfortable in his final few days, and to help him die peacefully, at home, where he wanted to be.

I agree with SVS, you truly have nothing to apologize for. Personally, I think your questions were very good ones, and ones that I am certain other people have thought about, even if they did not come here and ask. I've wondered about this, myself, from time to time. I also agree with Quixote, that there is a fine line between wallowing and suppression. As we all know, trying to find that balance can be such a struggle, at times. In my two years of widowhood, I have run the gamut between complete and utter wallowing and absolute suppression and every single place in between. It took me a while to find good ways to cope, but I think I have finally reached a healthy place that works, for me. I'll gladly share how I cope, but keep in mind that everyone is different, so my strategies may, or may not be useful, for others. Here are my strategies: When I look back to reminisce, I try to keep a balance. I try not to over-romanticize my relationship with Kenneth. There were parts of our relationship that were absolutely spectacular, and I would give anything to go back and relive certain moments. I know that it is impossible to go back. At the same time, I know that focusing too much on only the good (and not remembering that there were bad times, too) can keep me stuck in the grief. I also try not to demonize him. My Kenneth could be a hard man to live with, and there were parts of him I didn't really like very much, sometimes. The last few years of our marriage were very, very hard. It wouldn't be fair to him to only allow myself to remember the sad or difficult times, either. So, if I find myself reminiscing too much on either the good, or the bad, I make a mindful decision to also remember the other side and to be truly honest about the life we shared. I think that also makes the remembrances more real and special. Our life wasn't perfect, but it was our life and it was a good one, overall. Like you and others, pictures, music, certain places, or certain movies/television shows seem to be triggers for me. I am jealous of people, who have lots of pictures or videos or voice recordings of their spouses, because that's something I don't have. All I have is a small handful of pictures. For a while, I was so desperate to just be able to look at his face or to hear his voice, and the mere fact that I couldn't completely tore me apart. I could not bring myself to listen to music or watch certain shows. Even driving by certain places completely destroyed me. I finally reached a point, where I decided to do as Quixote suggested. I learned to set aside time to allow myself to pull out the few remembrances I do have or to revisit those things that would trigger the grief. I would allow myself the time to think of him and to let it out. I would have myself a really good crying spell for an hour or two, in a safe place, while I was alone. After having my crying spell, or when the memories get to be too much to handle on my own, I come here and write out my thoughts. Or I call my Mother or my sister or my daughter or some other close friend or relative. Sometimes, I visit the chat room and just chat for a while. It doesn't really matter what I do, as long as I go somewhere to make a connection of some kind with at least one other person. If I cannot connect with anyone I know, then I will force myself to get in the car and go somewhere in which I will have to interact with someone, even if it is just to go to the ice cream shop and order an ice cream cone or to go to the nearest store and buy a soda. Something else that works well for me, but that is not for everyone, is spending time in prayer, reading the Bible, and listening to Christian music. When the despair and loneliness and grief tear me down, I can find comfort in God's word. There are songs that lift me up and give me peace. When everything else falls apart and I feel that there is no hope left and that all my strength is gone, that is the one thing that has always worked for me. Like I said, though, that particular strategy is not for everyone. A few other general coping strategies that I have used include seeing a grief counselor for a while, exercising, and trying as best I could to eat and sleep regularly. I also learned a few breathing techniques that really do help. When I first became a widow, several other widows/widowers would routinely ask if I was remembering to breathe or would pass on the advice of "just remember to breathe". Honestly, I thought this was the most ridiculous piece of advice I had ever heard, until I learned the magic of it all. Now, I realize, it was probably the smartest thing anyone ever told me.

I have to add my heartfelt gratitude, as well. As many of you know, I was particularly traumatized by the closing of the old board, as it coincided with the final week counting down to the one year anniversary of my Kenneth's death. Had it not been for the incredible efforts of Jess and the rest of the team here, and for their quick action in getting this board up and running, I truly do not think I could have managed to get through in one piece. You all were there, when I truly NEEDED you, and I have no words to even begin to describe what you did for me. Even now, when I think of that week, I am filled with tears of thankfulness; and I shall forever be grateful to you.

I had almost no sleep last night and am having a whale of a good time with fibromyalgia pain, over in my corner of the world, on this cloudy, icky Saturday. New Guy has a date night planned, since one (or both) of us has been sick nearly every weekend for the last month. I am in the great debate of deciding whether to disappoint both of us and cancel, or to suck it up try to enjoy myself, even if I am in pain and miserably tired.

I swear I will not do this every year, but I do want to continue the countdown of Kenneth's final week one more time this year. In part, I feel I need to do this for myself, since I lost the files where I had written down the memories from that final week. I don't want to lose any more of the memories, so I am trying to record what I can. In part, I also feel as if I need to do this for him. Next year at this time, I will be married to someone else and will no longer be solely his (not that I am now, really, but there is some symbolism here, even if I can't explain it the right way). Exactly two years ago, on Tuesday, March 4th, any false hope or thoughts that Kenneth might just possibly honor his promises from the night before were completely shattered. I had gone to work that morning, as usual, and left his sister at home with very clear directions to make sure she got him to dialysis, no matter what. I reminded her and him of the time he was supposed to be there before I left to go to school. In the middle of my classes, I stopped teaching in order to call and make sure he hadn't fallen back to sleep. I arranged for a taxi to pick them up, since she wasn't able to drive. Thirty minutes before they were supposed to leave the house, she started interrupting my class with phone calls to say that he was refusing to go. I was supposed to be teaching, but instead, I was arguing with her and becoming angry with both her and him, for their excuses and their refusal to just do what they had promised, and for their interruptions while I was trying to teach. So many emotions went through my mind, all at the same time. I was furious at her, and at him. Had I been at home, I would have drug him out of the house in his underwear, if I had to. If one of our sons, our daughter, or her fiance had been there, they would have made sure he had gone. But, they were all in other states and couldn't be there to help me take care of him. The reality was, his sister did not want to be bothered with going to dialysis and having to sit there with him for four hours, and he knew it. He knew that if he refused or called her names or threw a temper tantrum, she would just walk away. And I was stuck at work, completely unable to do anything at all about it. I couldn't leave, unless I took time off without pay. If I did that, there wouldn't be enough money to pay rent and buy groceries. I felt completely helpless and frustrated and bitter and so very, very alone. Hopelessness filled the pit of my stomach, as I came to the realization that there was no possible way I could keep him alive, unless I had real help from someone, who could make sure he went to his doctor appointments and that he went to dialysis when he was supposed to. Who else, besides me, would be willing to put up with his verbal abuse, though? Who else would be willing to fight for hours, just to convince him to do what needed to be done to keep him alive? Who else would be able to find ways to sneak his pills from one bottle to the next, to find various hiding places around the house, and to slyly place just enough pills in the bedside bottle for the next dose, so he wouldn't know he was no longer in control of his pills? Devastating reality hit me, as I had to make the painful decision to go to his doctor that day and explain the reality that I had no options. Kenneth refused to go into long term care. Home health refused to come to the house and treat him. There was no money to pay for full time nursing care in the home. I was all alone, with not one person to help me, other than my 17 year old son and Kenneth's sister (who was essentially useless). To give my son credit, he helped all he could, but there is only so much a 17 year old should have to be responsible for. As it was, he had transferred to an alternative high school the month before, so he would get home from school earlier in the day. He stayed with Kenneth every afternoon for a few hours, until I finished up at work and made it home. My son can be credited for saving Kenneth's life on a number of occasions, due to his vigilance and keen sense of when to call for an ambulance. On March 4th, I asked Kenneth's doctor if it was time to call in hospice, and he told me it was time. I had known the moment would eventually come, but sitting there, hearing those words, realizing that time was running out, I suddenly just went numb. Everything felt so unreal. Kenneth and I spent hours talking that night about so many, many things. He made it perfectly clear that he wanted to die, of that, there was no question. He made me promise, multiple times, that I would find love again. We talked about the kids and the grandkids, and we talked about our love for each other. It was such a wonderful, intimate conversation, but in the back of my mind, there was this numbness and this repeating thought of he's dying, he's dying, he's dying.....

If my Kenneth were alive today, this would be his absolute favorite thread of all. When he was alive, he liked nothing more than swearing, and while I have always been too ladylike to curse, he absolutely loved dropping the f-bomb into conversation as often as possible. If I ever get to really missing him, I can always come here and imagine him reading these posts out loud, and it usually makes me smile. (Sorry you all have reasons to take out frustrations, but reading all your swearing is really therapeutic for me).

Truly, at this moment, I have no words to tell you what this means to me. I have read through it several times, and the tears are just quietly trickling down my cheeks. It seems to insignificant to say this, but thank you. I needed to read this today.

Exactly two years ago today, my Kenneth came home from the hospital for the very last time. He managed to hold on for one more week after that, and then he was gone. Earlier tonight, I tried to find the posts from those early days, when I first lost him, and the posts I had made counting down the week before the one year anniversary of his death. I wanted to be able to remember all those tiny little details that time and distance seem to rob from us and to once again remember him by coming here to write about his final week. Sadly, those posts are gone, and I will have to try to do this without some of those tiny little details. I only hope that I am able to truly say what I want to say, how I want to say it, in a way that will truly honor him. My memories of March 3, 2014 shall likely always be filled with a mixed bag of very intense emotions. For years, Kenneth had beaten the odds time and time again, living far beyond what specialists and medical personnel had predicted. In those last few months, there was an imperceptible change; however, and I knew that time was running out. March 3rd was on a Monday. I was in the middle of teaching one of my classes, when I received a call from the hospital. Kenneth's doctor had signed discharge paperwork for Kenneth to either go home or to a long term care facility. The hospital did not have a bed lined up for him to go to a long term care facility, and his home health nurse had informed them that she could no longer work with him, as his needs had progressed beyond the scope of services that she would be able to provide. Essentially, the hospital was expecting me to pick him up, without having any kind of after care lined up. A state of panic completely overwhelmed me, and I remember crumbling into a ball of tears in the hallway outside my classroom. I reminded them that if home health was refusing to take on his care, because he was beyond what they could do, then I was seriously concerned about my ability to take care of him. I was so desperate, pleading with them to find someone who could help me. My mind bounced back and forth between panic and desperation and fear and anger; and the whole time, I remember thinking that I could not leave work to handle any of it, because I had already used up all my sick days and vacation days on all the other times I had to take off due to his hospitalizations. Eventually, through multiple phone calls back and forth and through many, many tears and much begging on my part, the decision was made to transfer Kenneth to a long term care facility near where we lived. At the time, I thought I was making the right decision, because it would allow me to visit him each and every day. The other option was a facility that was about three hours, or more away, and would only allow me to visit for short periods on weekends. To this day, there are times when I am tortured by guilt over that decision. There are times, when I think he could have lived longer, if only I had sent him to the other place instead. Within just a few minutes of Kenneth's arrival at the long term care facility near where we lived, before they had even checked him in, they were calling to tell me to come and pick him up. They said he would not comply with the rules and could not keep him. Although I had medical power of attorney, they said he was coherent enough to make the decision to leave and they could not force him to stay. And so began our final argument. For the next several hours, we sat outside in his truck as I cried and I begged and I pleaded and I yelled, hoping against hope that he would agree to go back inside. That whole time, he tried to make deals and empty promises to come back later, if I would just let him go home. I tried calling his son, the only person in life he would truly listen to, in hopes that his son could talk him into staying. Instead, his son told me to take him home. I remember feeling so betrayed. In my hopelessness, I even tried calling the police, in hopes that I could get them to at least admit him for a psych eval. After all, he knew that going home was paramount to a death sentence, and yet he was still making the choice to go home. Couldn't that be considered suicidal? In the end, I reached a point where I couldn't argue anymore. Many years ago, I had promised that, when the time came, I would try my best to make sure he was able to die at home. As we left the parking lot that night, I knew that he would be going home to die, and I was so very angry at him. I just knew that if he would only agree to stay for a couple of weeks, he would start feeling better and I would have him with me for a while longer. Our daughter's wedding was planned for later in the year, and I knew he was making the choice to die and not make it to her wedding, and I was so, so angry at him for giving up. At the same time, I was angry at myself for not sending him to the other place. If I had sent him there, he wouldn't have been able to leave quite so easily. As we were preparing to go to bed that night, Kenneth wanted me to know that he could see how hard everything was on me. He told me he was tired of hurting and that he wanted to die. He also told me that it was time he quit fighting to stay alive, so that I could move on and have a life. I'll be honest, I have blamed myself for his death, at times. As I begged and pleaded for him to stay in the hospital, in my frustration, I told him that I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I couldn't possibly take care of him alone. I was trying to convince him to stay for just a little while, not permanently, just long enough for me to be able to find help. Sometimes, I worry that he thought I was giving up on him, so he decided to give up, too. Realistically, I know that isn't true. For a long time before that night, he had been saying he was ready to die. He had said his goodbyes to my family weeks before, preparing them to help me deal with things, when the time came. But in my irrational grieving mind, there are times, when I can't help but think, if only....

Exactly two years ago today, my Kenneth came home from the hospital for the very last time and we began to make the preparations for him to die at home. In the early days, I posted memories of that final week on the old YWBB site, so I wouldn't forget some of the details. I was traumatized beyond words, when they shut down with almost no warning, right before the one year anniversary last year and had to scramble to save some of the posts. I didn't have time to save everything. It has been a while, but tonight I felt the need to look back on some of those early posts. I wanted to remember some of those details. I needed to relive some of the memories from that day, which leads to why I am currently a complete mess of uncontrollable tears and why I am completely and utterly devastated..... The files are gone! When my computer was updated a few months ago, they must have been accidentally erased. I thought I had them backed up in a number of places, but they are nowhere to be found. I have checked Google Drive, every thumb drive I own, and all my online backup places. Nothing! I am sure they were saved somewhere, but I have no idea where, and I cannot find them. With YWBB being completely inaccessible, it isn't like I can go back there and copy them all over again. And since I had my stroke last May, many of my memories are somewhat muddled, so there are details that I cannot access without having the written record to help me remember. I feel like I have lost Kenneth all over again, and I am grieving harder than I have in a very long time. I would give anything in this world to have those memories back. :'(

I promise not to be too hard on him. I don't want to break him on the wedding night and not be able to enjoy the rest of the honeymoon.

Honestly, there are so many things I can relate to in this thread. Both in the original post and in the comments that followed, everyone had something to say that rang true, for me, in one way or another. I love my Kenneth, and I always will; however, there are a few harsh realities that I had to face in the 13 years he and I were together. For one thing, he was the single most stubborn, bull headed, obstinate man I have ever known in my entire life. First and foremost, above all else, he had that cop mentality, in which he felt the need to always be in control. He could be a bit too harsh with the children, at times (grounding them far longer than he should have, or taking away an important dance for a minor offence); and he loved nothing more than picking an argument with me over the silliest of things. On top of that, the man had a near genius IQ, so trying to convince him he was wrong in said arguments was nearly an impossible feat. I will be truthful, there were times, when that man was hard to love, and there were many times when I wondered if I had made the right decision to marry him in the first place. Even in the early stages of his illness, he could be hard to live with. Over time, as the illness took him piece by piece, and robbed him of his strength, his "manhood", his ability to be in control, his dignity, and all those parts that made him who he was, he became harder and harder to handle. The man, who had dedicated his life to serve and protect became verbally abusive and was one step away from becoming physically abusive with me, shortly before he died. My once loving husband reached a point, where he would scream and yell curse words at me and call me such horrible names, that I am surprised the neighbors did not call the police. And yet....In the 13 years we were together, he loved our children deeply. He stayed awake at night, worrying about how they were doing, after they moved out on their own. There were times, when he was so overcome with love for me, that he would just look deeply at me, with tears in his eyes, and hold me. He was a man who felt everything more deeply than any other man I have ever known, and he had more life in his little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. Though the last few years were some of the hardest I have ever had to endure, they were also filled with some of the sweetest, most loving, most intimate moments I will likely ever experience. When the time came for him to die, I know that Kenneth was ready. It is what he had wanted for a very long time, and it was what he had asked for. He was able to die at home, in our bed, with me by his side. He had had the opportunity to say his goodbyes to our children the day or two before, and his final waking moments were to hug our daughter and to tell her he loved her. I watched him suffer for years, and he was able to die in peace. While none of us can truly decide when we die, it was his choice to call in hospice. It was his choice to end all life-saving medical treatments. I have always been able to take some comfort in knowing that he had some level of control in deciding when he had had enough. As I am approaching two years, in exactly one week from today, I can look back and see that I have been on that roller coaster for so long I don't even remember when I wasn't on it. There are times, when I know I am actively grieving the loss of my Kenneth and of everything that we could have had. Over time, it has moved from active grieving to remembering and feeling that sense of loss. Not a day goes by that I do not think of him at some point, though often those thoughts are fleeting and it is just as likely to be a happy memory as a sad one. There are other times, when I honestly just feel relief. I am relieved that I am not having to constantly worry, that I am not having to constantly go back and forth to the hospital, that I don't have to spend every waking moment as a caregiver, that I don't have to wonder from one moment to the next whether I am going to be looking into the eyes of my loving husband or whether I am going to be called some horrible name that should not be uttered in mixed company. Most of all, I am relieved that he doesn't have to suffer any more. And then the guilt comes.....I feel guilty that I found a way to rebuild my life and to move on, even though Kenneth obsessed about that very thing and wanted more than anything for me to do just that. I feel guilty that I feel relieved, as if I didn't love him enough. I feel guilty that I am happier without him, than I was with him. Most of all, I feel guilty, because his death taught me to live life more fully and to love more deeply and to appreciate all the good things in the people around me. Knowing what I know now, I have become a much better person than I was before, and I am a much better partner. I feel guilty that I am able to love my New Guy so much more than I ever loved Kenneth, and I feel like Kenneth deserved to be loved just as much.

I'm just bumping this up to remind people to make plans to join us at Disneyland in July. This is my very first widow gathering, so please, please, please do not disappoint me with your failure to appear! Some of the very best widows you could possibly find anywhere will be there, so you won't just be stuck with me. I promise I will try really, really hard not to be a major embarrassment. Although, if you get bored while waiting in long lines, I can entertain with amusing stories and impressions of goofy teenagers, which could be mildly embarrassing, depending on who you are. ;D

Given the fact that my Kenneth's physical disabilities prevented such things for several years before he died, added to the fact that I have been widowed for nearly two years, AND New Guy and I are waiting until we get married this Summer, it is has been right at 10 years for me, too. Not that I am counting, or anything, but in exactly 100 days from today, I will be breaking my 10 year "dry spell".

I get this. I can read about the public deaths, and I feel great sorrow and empathy and so many, many other emotions. A part of me thinks it's a good thing that those going through "public deaths" are able to see the support of so many people surrounding them with positive thoughts and prayers, with support and encouragement, etc. Then there is the part of me that remembers going through 13 years of struggling to take care of my husband, with little or no help from anyone, and I will admit that there's a part of me that is a bit jealous. Where were my accolades? Where were my positive thoughts and well wishes? Where was my encouragement? And where were all the people to tell my husband how strong and brave he was? Of course, those thoughts are fleeting, and leave me feeling somewhat petty and feeling guilty for feeling jealous in the first place. Mostly, I have a hard time seeing all the public deaths, because they bring me back to a place of remembrance. I remember all those sleepless nights, sitting alone in the hospital ICU or ER. I remember watching my Kenneth struggle and fight to stay alive for all those years, and I remember watching all the suffering that he had to endure. I also remember that special intimacy that came, when we were looking into each other's eyes, as I was helping to bathe him in the shower or to change his clothes, when he could no longer manage alone. I remember laughing, when he had fallen and I did not have the strength to pick him up and he couldn't help me; so we ended up struggling for an hour in the middle of the night desperately trying to figure out some way to get him back into the bed, while the silly dogs kept licking our faces, because they thought the whole thing was a game. I remember the tears. So. Many. Tears. I think you said it so perfectly, when you said this:

Honestly, I do not consider your suggestion to be a silly one, at all. I did give some serious consideration to keeping both last names, or to changing my middle name to my current last name and then taking the new last name. I know that there are many, many ways to look at remarriage and I remember reading discussions on this very topic on YWBB. As I recall, I could easily see every single point of view and agree with the decision each and every person made. It was so hard for me to decide what to do. After giving it a great deal of thought, I decided to drop my Kenneth's last name. For me, it came down to the thought that I will always carry him with me. The memories I have of him, the knowledge that I was his wife and that we were together until he drew his last breath, and the fact that I carried his name for so many years will never change. I will still be me, and all that I hold inside will still be there, regardless of what name I choose. My New Guy has never been married. He has patiently waited his whole life to find me, and he loves me like no other. The fact that he is ready to share his life (and his name) with me, means more than I can possibly even begin to describe. I feel as though I willingly gave up my previous name, when I married my Kenneth; and now, New Guy deserves that same honor. Frankly, though I never discussed it with him, I think New Guy would support whatever decision I made; however, I think a part of him would be hurt, if I wanted to hold on to Kenneth's name. While this is not true for everyone, I know that for me, personally, I should not have been considering remarriage, unless I was ready to also change my last name. For me, I knew that as long as I felt the need to hold on to Kenneth's name, I would still have some grieving to work through, first. So, I can feel some sadness at closing that chapter on my life and letting go of yet another piece of Kenneth, but I know that it is the right thing to do, for me and for my New Guy.

Michael, I cannot tell you how deeply touched I was, when I read this. I had wanted to take the time to thank you properly: but life and recent illnesses have gotten in the way, and I simply have not had the opportunity. Words cannot express how grateful I am to you for always finding the words to life me up and encourage me along the way. I am thankful that I have been able to return even a small portion of the kindness that you have shown me.

My Kenneth had this ratty old pair of jeans that had holes in them, paint stains on them, and white blotches from where he had dropped bleach on them by accident. They were the most God-forsaken, ugly pair of jeans imaginable. On top of that, as his illness progressed over the years, he lost so much weight that they just hung loosely on his body. There were times, when it was a good thing he was in a wheelchair; because if he had had to take more than three steps, he would have been flashing his underwear to anyone who happened to be in the immediate vicinity. I had begged him for years to get rid of those things, and he flat refused. I bought him new jeans that he never wore; but nearly every time we left the house, he would have those ugly old things on his body. It was embarrassing to be seen with him. After he died, one of the first things I did was go to the closet. I thought, "Finally! I can throw these ugly things away!" And then, I broke down into tears. I simply could not bring myself to let go of them. When I moved last Summer, I tossed, gave away, or donated nearly every possession I/we had owned. Those jeans came with me, though, and are still hanging in my closet. For nearly two years, I was convinced I would likely never, ever let them go. I've recently had a change of heart and made the decision to make a special ceremony of finally getting rid of them on June 9th of this year, the day before I get married to New Guy. It seems like the right thing to do, and I feel ready to part with them, now. It also seems like a way that I can spend a little time thinking of him, honoring him, remembering him in a special way, and of letting go, before I start my new life. I still have a few very special, treasured items (like the black cowboy hat Kenneth wore in our wedding) that I will be keeping; so I won't be completely erasing all traces of Kenneth. At nearly two years after Kenneth's death, though, I realize it is a bit silly to hold on to ratty jeans that I hated so very much, when there are more meaningful remembrances I can hold on to, instead.

Speaking as one who has made a very successful move, for all of the right reasons, I think it is perfectly okay to want to leave and to do so. At the same time, I also agree with much of what Portside had to say. In the end, I think what it boils down to is your motivation for leaving, and whether there are unresolved issues that you are running away from, or whether you simply need a fresh start. Only you can truly know which one of those two reasons is fueling your desire to leave. Since you asked for people to share their stories, preferably good ones, I will share mine: As for me, I can see many similarities between my story and yours. I moved across the country to be with my Kenneth. He and I raised our children together, lived in the same small town together, and shared the same house for the last 11-1/2 years of our life together. In those 11-1/2 years, five of our six children became adults and moved to other states. His family all moved away, as well. After his death, I was left alone, with just our 18 year old son, the two dogs, and a lifetime of memories. I had no support system of any kind, no one I could count on to help me in times of need, and no real reason to stay other than to hold on to memories in a house that was way too large for me to manage on my own. In all honesty, continuing to live in that house and in that town was holding me back and keeping me from processing some of my grief. I had gone as far as I could, and would have remained stuck in my grief, had I not moved on. Outside of being stuck in my grief, there were a number of other factors that contributed to my decision to move. I was experiencing a number of significant health problems and needed to be closer to quality health care, including specialists, that were not available in my isolated small town. My 18 year old son was offered a job in another state and had planned to move out; and my one close friend in the area also moved away, leaving me virtually alone, with no friends or family close by. Additionally, I was struggling financially and knew I could find a teaching position, that would pay significantly more and would allow me to get back on my feet, if I moved. Most importantly, I had unexpectedly found this truly remarkable man and had fallen deeply in love. He was there with love and support and a shoulder to lean on, BUT he lived a little over two hours away. After many, many hours of deep discussion and several months of planning, it became clear that my best option would be to move closer to him. At about 18 months after my Kenneth died, I made the move to be closer to New Guy, and I am so happy that I did. Since moving, my stress levels have gone down significantly. I'm now established with specialists, who are working to find the right treatments for my medical issues. I have a teaching position I love. I have made new friends. I have joined a church and sing in the choir. I love my new apartment, which is small and manageable and easy to clean. I can pay my bills! Best of all, on June 10th of this year, my New Guy is going to become my New Husband and I will begin my Chapter 2.

This made perfect sense to me, as this is EXACTLY what I did in my early days. I wanted, needed, to know everything I could possibly know. Although it hurt to know that others had had to suffer this horrible pain, that no one should ever have to suffer, there was comfort in knowing that I had found a group of people, who would understand. I am so sorry that you have a reason to be here, but I can tell you that the people here will lift you up, they will share their wisdom and advice, they will open their hearts, they will share their triumphs and their pain, and they will help you through this journey, if you will let them. I can honestly say, at two years out, I am in a healthy place, right now, and I owe most of that healing to the people I met in this forum. Without them, I would likely still be a grieving mess, balled up in my bed, crying into a heap of wadded up tissues. Please, feel free to come here as often as you need to to read and to post. There will always be someone to read and respond.