Young Widows Guide to Grieving

To TnFishers Wife

2008-04-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

I didn't know how else to contact you, so I hope this reaches you.

I received the following message from TnFishers Wife:

Thank you for sharing your feelings, for I'm a new widow. My Husband passed away 1/14/08. Your feelings are my feelings. You write about the separation...friends & family stop calling, etc.. What do I do at this time? My husband battled a rare & deadly cancer for 10.5 months. During that time our phone rang off the hook, visitors constantly...I wanted them to all go away & give us our time together. When people would ask what can we do for "you", I'd answer - "nothing". When I will need you most is when this is all said & done. When my beloved Jim is gone is when I'll need you most. Well, now that time has come and the phone doesn't ring. Family and friends don't call to ask what do I need nor to they come to see me or invite me to family gatherings. Mine is a different situation - Jim & I were only married 12 days when he was dx w/cancer. So I understand that I don't count...I felt like I was more of a buren to the family, then a welcomed member,'cause it was always all about Jim - not about us as a couple. So how do I deal with this rejection or separation? How do I tell his family that I need help? I've never been one to ask for help before, but now I need it and it's no where to be found. Thank you for any advice you can throw my way.
Sincerely,
Jim's Wife

Dear Jim's Wife,
Don't ever feel that you don't count. Everyone who misses Jim and mourns his death counts, and especially you. You were the person Jim chose to spend his life with, and maybe that means you count the most to him. In a way, you've lost more: you not only lost someone you loved, but you've lost your future, too. You've lost all your hopes and dreams for the future, for the life you and Jim had planned to build together. All of Jim's friends and families have lost something very precious and irreplaceable, but they still have the rest of their lives to build on and return to. Your road to healing will be more painful and take more time if only because you've got to rebuild everything from the ground up... it's like they had a break-in to their home while you lost everything in the fire. Both are horrible and painful, but it's easier to heal for them. A lot of the people who said they'd be there and aren't, they don't mean to harm you. They just don't know what to do. Your pain is so complete that it is probably overwhelming to them. In time, if they were good friends to begin with, they will come around again. I know that doesn't make the abandonment and isolation any better. But the truth is that a lot of grief is a battle fought on one's own... all those hours in the night when you can't sleep, the drive to the supermarket that seems to take days, the mornings in the shower. All of that time alone where you confront grief on your home turf, that's where and how the fight is won. Right now, you're in the very most difficult period for most people. The four to eight month is incredibly difficult, and for me was the darkest part of the journey. I want you to know that you will be OK. I know, I didn't believe it either until it started to happen, but it did help to have someone say it. The pain does ease, but it does so in it's own time; not mine or yours or anyone else's. Grief is a selfish, sneaky bastard, but in time you will be OK. Life has a way of healing itself. The best thing you can do is to accept that it will take time, and be gentle with yourself... be willing to let yourself grieve.

In 1988 Yellowstone National Park endured the largest forest fire in recorded history, destroying nearly 800,000 acres of land. Have you ever seen a forest after a fire? The ground stands blackened as far as the eye can see, the trees break off at a certain height, leaving burned husks broken and jagged at the top, pointing toward a sky so thick with smoke that you can barely see the sun. There are no birds, no mice, no insects... nothing but the charred out skeleton of what was there before. When you're standing there looking at the remains of what was just days ago vibrant and alive, you can't imagine that the forest will ever recover. But, as it turns out, forest fires very rarely damage the deeper roots of the plants; the main core of the forest is still alive underneath the devastation. And the burned foliage provides a nutrient rich environment for new growth: the year after the fires, wildflowers bloomed prolifically everywhere that had burned, and the year after that. The trees that had been most prominent in the forest, the lodgepole pines, have yet to recover, and the trunks of the dead trees still stand in memory of the fire. However, the graceful Aspen tree has begun to grow in greater abundance, changing the face of the forest, but still a beautiful tree. The new growth has made the forest stronger and more prone to survive future fires. It is still painfully obvious and evident that the fire destroyed huge sections of life in Yellowstone park, the forest will never forget the damage that has been done. But life has gone on, new trees and plants are thriving, creating a different forest than the one that was there before, but no less beautiful, no less worthy, no less vibrant. Life finds a way, life heals... but it definitely takes time to turn that kind of devastation into a forest that you want to walk through or have a picnic in.

I pray that you find moments of peace on your journey, I know the road is long and hard. Just give it time. Find joy in the small things that you loved before you even met Jim: mint ice cream in a cone, wildflowers on the side of the road, I Love Lucy. And get a dog or a cat... we all need to love and be loved, and it's SO comforting to have someone to share your dinner and the bed with... even if they shed and drool =]. Light be with you.

Time to change...

2007-04-22T10:35:00.001-07:00

A very smart woman once told me that when making value or ethical choices, it is far better to err on the side of caution. So, anytime we are unsure of the facts of a situation, it is better to act in the most ethical way to ensure the best outcome. So, is global warming as dire as some say? I don't know. But, I do think we are better to err on the side of caution, especially when the worst scenario is so horrible. Even if you can't change everyone else's behavior, you can always change your own. World change happens, one heart, one mind at a time. Here are some further things for your consideration.

Educate yourself. And if you care, than make a change.

http://www.thehcf.org/index.html
http://carbonfund.org/site/

If you can't feed the world, feed one person -- Mother Theresa
If you can't change the world, change yourself.

A mother once brought her child to see Ghandi. She asked Ghandi to tell the child to stop eating sugar. Ghandi told the mother to bring the child back in two weeks. Two weeks later, when the mother came with her child, Ghandi looked at the kid and said sternly, "Stop eating sugar!". The perplexed mother said, "how come you couldn't have told him that two weeks ago when we were here?!?". Ghandi looked at her and replied, "Two weeks ago, I was still eating sugar...". So, I won't lecture as a hypocrite =]. I have signed up for the recurring payment to carbon fund to offset my carbon footprint. $99 dollars is a lot of money to most people. But I dare you to look back at your bank or credit card statement for the past year and see if you didn't waste $99 dollars somewhere else along the way... Hey, at least this is tax deductible.

Tamsen

Home is where...(?)

2007-03-04T08:56:00.000-08:00

You know, it's funny. I've always hated Oklahoma. Every time I've been here, I couldn't wait to leave. I wanted to go home, back to where I came from, back to my life. I loved my mom and dad, of course. Loved seeing them and spending a bit of time with them. But in the end, I was always relieved and happy to go back to my little niche in the world. So, now, as most of you know, I've been in Oklahoma again for almost a month. Same routine as when my mom died, I guess. Living out of a suitcase in a hospital, occasional nights in the rural mecca that is Cushing. Fulfilling my day job by taking care of the details and maintaining the festive atmosphere. Yet, for the first time, of all the time I've spent in this state, I don't feel the usual unbearable pressure to go home. I feel almost the same here as I did in Vegas, and really it's all the same. Same damn song, just a different damn tune. If anything, it's better here; because here I don't have to wade through the waters of memory that make up what remains of my marriage every hour of the blessed day.

It took me awhile to figure it out, but I think I know why I don't hate Oklahoma anymore. It's because I don't have a home anymore. I have a place where I live, live with people I love even, which makes me all the more lucksome. But it's not really my home. You see, home is where the heart is (quaint cliche alert goes haywire); and if your heart doesn't belong to anyone but you, then you don't belong anywhere either. If pain is lessened by it's division between partners and joy is doubled in it's sharing, then those who belong to no one find themselves at a loss in the sea of connections that tie this world together. I don't really belong here in Oklahoma any more than I really belong in Vegas. Dad has a new love in his life, so I find that I feel more like excessive baggage than usual. I know, I know. I have friends, I have family. And you are all wonderful people, and I love you dearly. But that doesn't change the fact that I am auxiliary to your lives. See, I used to be somebodys somebody. I used to be the center of someones world, and he used to be the center of mine. I guess a couple makes for a small family unit, but we were one anyway. So without a place to hang my heart, there is no place that holds meaning for me. At the end of the day, when you go home, you probably think of yourself going to a place, not to a person. But if that person were gone, would it still feel like home? And if home were just a place, just another suburban box with colored walls and cable TV and a couch, then you could never move, you could never rebuild.

I keep saying that I'll pick a new direction, that I'll make a new life once the world stops spinning. But the world doesn't stop spinning, does it? The world didn't stop turning just because my world came to an end. Everyone else still has their jobs to attend to, they have to head home at the end of the day. They have to talk to their parents and their significant others on the cell phone. If you are no one's significant other, does that render you insignificant? For months now, whenever I have a crying jag, I'll find myself sobbing that I want to go home. In my case, this is just another way of saying I want my husband, that I want to be with him, and asking God to make that happen in a more timely fashion. I have no home now, and I am unsure how to go about making a new one. If the concept of home is based on the premise of belonging, of being one of many, then how does a person create that alone? There must be a way; there are millions upon millions of single people in the world, and I'm sure they all mean it when they say they're headed home. What is the element that I seem to be missing here? Besides him, I mean.

When you were a kid and went to summer camp, did you get homesick? What did that mean exactly? Did you miss your room? The living room carpet? Running water? I bet what you really missed was your mom and dad, the dog... security... belonging. You didn't miss your home, you missed Home; the concept, the idea. Not the place. I think maybe that's what grieving is. Intensive homesickness, debilitating homesickness, terminal homesickness.

Of course, there is an upside to all this newfound personal freedom. Family, home, love, life... these things bind us to our circumstances, and often time one must sever ties if one is to change circumstance. So, the benefit to belonging to nowhere but yourself... I'm sorry, I mean to no one but yourself, is that you're free to wander where you would. An unfettered life is an unlimited one. I guess there are a lot of people in the world who wish for a bit more choice in their lives, choice to make bolder decisions, to not be burdened by their obligations to others. But my guess is that by that time those people finally let go of Home, they've already been gone for awhile. They may have been looking for a change of scenery for quite some time, so it doesn't hurt them to go looking for Home somewhere else. Kind of like relocating from Seattle to Miami. I guess that we're more like Katrina survivors trying to relocate. We survived the storm to find our Homes washed away. Now we're living in the FEMA trailer with our water-logged possessions trying to figure out where in the hell we're supposed to go now.

It's very important to grieving people to try to fill up the voids. We often try to go out and find new people to replace the roles of the person we've lost, or we try to find activities that make us happy or bring us meaning and purpose. Anything to stabilize our hearts, to find somewhere to say, this is where my heart is. This is where I belong. It's just our way of re-anchoring a ship that's been pulled off course by the ever-changing tides. I guess, mostly, I just hope that you folks that have a place where you are Home, realize what a gift that is. We all take things for granted I guess. But you have much to be grateful for. So live like it.

Joy: No Longer Just for Dishsoap

2007-02-22T13:36:00.000-08:00

My father is one of the happiest guys you've ever met. He's the man of eternal sunshine. I don't think I've ever met anyone who didn't just take to him right off the bat. He practically emits little rays of smiley-face essence from his pores, much like a jolly Buddha. He finds the good in every situation, every person and every broken-down, thrown-away piece of junk that's ever existed. I've never known him to be judgemental or unkind. To some extent, his affability makes him gullible, but this just adds to the aura of lovableness that follows him around. My dad has been diagnosed with Leukemia, and has been lying in the hospital taking chemo for a month now. Yet he smiled at me yesterday and said, "life doesn't get much better than this, Sis." That's the kind of man my Dad is.

So I ask you: what makes you happy? Careful, this is a trick question. Know why? Because nothing makes you happy. Now, I know I sound like a man having a fight with his wife, but bear with me here. It's an issue of semantics. Let's suppose that I say puppies make me happy. See it's not really about the puppies. It's that the puppy produces a sensation inside me that is pleasurable. Let's say that I tell you money makes me happy. But it doesn't really. If I was stranded on a desert island a bajillion miles from civilization, all the money in the world wouldn't make me nearly as happy as a crate of Skippy peanut butter. It is not about the money, it's about what I do with the money and how that makes me feel on the inside. What if I say it's my spouse or having great sex that makes me happy. Well, they don't really do that either. If I found out my spouse was having sex with my best friend, then I wouldn't be very happy (especially since my best friend is a guy...). What makes me happy is how I feel in response to him, within a very narrowly defined set of parameters. Marriages end all the time because people change, and because what makes us happy is completely impermanent. Same with sex. Even though it might make me really happy to have sex right now, if I was stuck in a burning building, I could probably care less whether or not I was going to get laid in the next fifteen minutes. Or if I had pneumonia. Sex probably wouldn't make me nearly as happy as a bottle of Nyquil.

So you see, this teaches us two very important lessons about joy and happiness:

1) It is a futile endeavor to expect our external property and experiences to fulfill our internal needs. Happiness is not produced out there, it's produced in the mind, in the soul - on the inside. This is why there are some people who are never happy, no matter what's going on, and then there are people who can be just as happy while they're dieing of Leukemia in the hospital as they are when they're doing anything else. It's all in your head, man. Beauty can be found in the ugliest setting. Happiness is a choice, maybe even a habit, of seeing things in one light rather than another, and that is all it is. Of course, there are circumstances that make us unhappy: life is full of tragedy. But I mean in a general sense, a day-to-day sense. Grief is a part of everyone's life at some stage, but you choose whether or not it becomes a permanent part of your everyday life.

2) Joy is momentary. Now, this may sound like the cliche about happiness is fleeting, but it's a little bit different concept. What I mean is that happiness occurs from moment to moment. This is another reason that nothing outside of you can make you happy. What seems to bring you happiness right now will not make you happy forever. A puppy that makes you happy right now can make you very unhappy if he attacks your mailman or eats your favorite pair of pumps or digs up the bushes you spent all day yesterday planting. Money can make you very unhappy if you get sued or divorced or have to work through your children's school plays. The thing that seems to make you happy right now gives no guarantee of making you happy tomorrow.

This is the secret. Happiness is an internal process, and the harder you try to make it an external one, the more you're setting yourself up for disappointment. This means that it is completely possible to be happy no matter what your circumstances are. Read that again. How many of you really believe that? Those few that do are the ones that will be happy; the rest of you will always find something lacking, something missing. You will spend your whole life thinking, "just over that next ridge I will find my happiness. Once I find that thing or fix this thing, or get rid of that person, or make more money... then I will be happy." Your happiness will always be fleeting and you will grow old and bitter wondering why. Joy lives in the moment - joy IS a moment - and it asks nothing more of the moment than what's already there. Can you do the same?

First Date

2007-01-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

So, I've finally crossed a threshold. For so long, the very thought of going out with someone new, with the express purpose of "meeting someone new", has made me sick with guilt. I'm so afraid that it's an insult to his memory, to his family and his friends for me to try to build something new with what remains of my life. But I'm finally coming to the point where I'm ok with it. I think CJ would be ok with it, too. At first I kept thinking that he might feel betrayed if I found someone to go out with, but you know what? I feel betrayed, too. I'm the one who's still here, damn it. I'm the one here making it alone. But, even more than alone, I'm lonely. And believe me, there is a big difference between those two states of being. I don't mind, and in fact rather enjoy, being alone. Being lonely fucking sucks though. So, I decided it was time for me to get out there and meet some new peeps. (Yes, I just used peeps in sentence).

I'm not seeking anything permanent or serious, mind you. Just to, you know, meet some new people. People that don't know I'm a 26 year old widow who's never been on a date. See? There's a distinct advantage to meeting New Friends. You can edit yourself and your life however you want to with New Friends. New Friends don't have to know that I'm a huge Star Trek geek, or that I can't eat a meal (ever) without dumping some portion of it on myself or the table. New Friends don't have to know about that embarrassing time I tripped on the carpet and gave myself a black eye and a concussion on the corner of the TV, or about that disgusting habit I have of leaving half glasses of milk sitting out for days. New Friends only get the parts of me I want to tell them about, and I've got to tell you, there's great allure to that. It's safe. If they don't know any of the things about me that make me me, then I can feel perfectly ok about severing ties at a moments notice should it suddenly become too hard to make New Friends. I don't have to get hurt, I don't have to be attached, I am in complete control: those who control the information control the world (evil laugh).

With this mindset in place, I began mentioning casually to friends that I was interested in making "New Friends". Within a very short period of time, one of my friends at work told me that a guy she knew was in town for CES. Apparently we had a lot in common, and he looked pretty cute from the pictures on his MySpace page. So she invited him out to meet me, and the three of us all agreed to go out to dinner after work. So far, so good. The night before the Big Event, I spent three hours trying on practically every piece of clothing in my closet. I spent THREE goddamn hours trying to figure out what to freaking wear on an outing that didn't even qualify as a real date, with some guy I would likely not really ever see again. None of my sexy clothes fit like I remembered... I have been wearing pajama bottoms and Star Wars t-shirts and my husbands sweaters for a year now. I'd packed away the thongs and the push-up bras because - really - no woman in her right mind would wear these things without a male incentive. As a result of my personal carelessness, I found that my sexy jeans wouldn't go over my hips, my cute t-shirts showed the bulges around my tummy, and most of the skirts showed the expansion of my thighs. Well, shit. Finally settling on a skirt that looked ok, I realized that I hadn't shaved my legs since I got a pedicure nearly two months ago... another one of those things no woman in her right mind does unless she has to. With winter being here, I can wear long pants everyday and save myself lots of cash on razors. So, at eight thirty in the evening, I find myself in a panic driving to Wal-Mart to buy razors for my not-a-real date. On the bright side, my new efforts to look presentable are noticed by almost all of my co-workers (making me realize how dreadful I must actually look on a daily basis... I quickly realize how far I've let myself go from not really caring about this shit for over a year and from placating my depression with Ghiradelli chocolate and Hagen Daz... mental note: it's cheaper to start working out than it is to buy a new wardrobe...).

After work we head over to the MGM to meet up with Dave. He'd done well on the slot machines, so apparently he's buying dinner. I normally would have felt a bit uncomfortable with this, but since my other girlfriend was there I figured it was ok. We had a great dinner at an Italian restaurant and I managed to keep from dumping any of it on myself, though the table didn't fare so well. I don't think he saw that though... or when I tipped my glass up too fast and poured wine down my chin. Thank God there were three of us, so his attention wasn't all on me. He seemed like a really interesting guy. We had a lot in common, and he seemed to appreciate my geeky side. After dinner we all headed to one of the bars to have a drink. After a little while, my friend has to leave. While this worries me a bit, to be on my own in this new situation, he seems pretty nice and everything so I decide to stay for a while. He lives in LA and I'm thinking, hey this guys isn't so bad, maybe next time I come down to see my sister, I'll give him a call and we can go out to dinner or something... It's about this time, about fifteen minutes after my friend has left, that he leans towards me and says "I don't know about you, but I'd like to go back to my room and make-out...". My first thought was "Wait... with me?". Then it sinks in that he's just propositioned me. I manage to keep my cool though, rather than choking on my drink and panicking, I laugh and say, "No offense, but I just met you. I'm not going to go make out with you...". I figure if I keep it light, he at least has the ability to still recover. He can say "Oh, no problem, I wouldn't want to do anything to make you feel uncomfortable." Or "Oh no, no, no! I said 'I don't know about you, but I think it's really cool to get take-out...'". Say something, you know? He says "Well... this is awkward." Well shit... there's no recovering from that.

"I'm sorry, I just never really connected with someone like this," Dave tells me. So your solution to that is, Hey Baby, let's go make out?!? I think. But that's not what I say, because I actually feel really bad for the guy. Suddenly I'm thinking that it's my fault. Maybe I'm some kind of weird prude who has unwieldy expectations. Maybe I was giving him some sort come-on signs without even realizing it. Though based upon how my friends tell me I act, I really don't think that was the case. I mean, where do you draw the line between trying to indicate you're enjoying someone's company and indicating that you'd like to go dance the mattress mambo? I mean, there's got to be standard codes of behavior on this listed somewhere...

Anyway, the evening ended amicably enough. Obviously, I think it was pretty clear that our expectations for the evening were vastly different. It's kind of sad, because he seemed like an interesting person with interesting stories. But I'm not about to let someone else push the boundaries on what I'm comfortable with. No matter how much of a prude he thinks I am. But actually, I'm glad it happened because I realized a number of things. First, that I am worth going out with. I'm funny, I'm smart and I'm pretty so I shouldn't let this whole meeting New Friends thing make me so nervous that I start doubting myself and what I have to offer. Second, I'm glad it happened because now I know exactly how to handle it if someone wants me to do things that I'm not ready to do. I was afraid I would feel bad, or feel pressured, and instead I can laugh at the whole thing and know that there is nothing wrong with my standards or my expectations.

So, dear friends, stay tuned. Same channel, same time for next weeks thrilling installment in the on-going adventure of Tamsen's sex life!

A Reflection on Year One: A Study in Four Acts

2007-01-10T16:13:00.000-08:00

ACT 1: A LETTER TO CJ

Dear CJ,
Well, here we are. One whole year around the track, been there and back. You're still gone, and I'm still here. I guess that doesn't really surprise you; it doesn't really surprise me, either. But it is disappointing. I'd really kind of hoped one of those two things would have changed by now, but they haven't. I guess I've mostly gotten used to the changes: the sleeping by myself, the being alone in a crowd, the stiff upper lip, the roller coaster (baby, baby). I've tried to take care of your family and your friends as best I could. I've done the best I could to pick up the pieces you left behind and put things back together. I never was very good at fixing things that were broke (that was your job, remember?), but I guess we're limping along. I know I sound kind of angry, and I guess I am. I'm angry that you left me here to do this by myself. I'm angry that you left me just when things were getting better. I'm angry that you were supposed to be my best friend and my soul mate, but left anyway. I'm angry that you hurt your parents and your friends like this. I'm angry that you're not here so we can have a real fight about this.

Besides angry, I'm tired. I'm tired of being the exception to the rule. I'm tired of having nobody understand that it still hurts and it always will. I'm tired of reliving the same moments over and over, the one when Skate said "There was an accident, and CJ didn't make it." The one where the coroner gave me your wedding ring. The dinner last August when I gave you the key to the bike and saw your heart heal before my very eyes. The first time we... well you know. I'm tired of seeing all the happy couples and families. I'm tired of standing back up and leaning into the pain when I'd rather lay down and die. I'm tired of talking to you and having no replies. I'm tired of trying to make it better and tired of trying to comfort myself.

When I try to explain our relationship to people, I tell them that you were the soul and I was the heart and we shared a body. So it feels like my soul's been ripped out and my heart is all broken, and I've paid an arm and a leg. I guess duct tape doesn't fix everything. I think about you all the time. I feel so unprepared for this. I feel like I'm choking to death on my own loneliness. I feel like a broken puzzle piece, like I don't belong here anymore; I don't fit in anywhere. You were everything, and you still are.

I have good days, good weeks and bad ones. Eventually it will be ok again. That's what they say anyway. But there are times when I look at the pictures of us and I can't breathe. I will always love you, and the pain of your death will always be with me. I've learned that grief is not about learning to "let go" of the pain or "get over" the loss. Grief is about learning to live with the pain, how to find joy and peace and love despite the dark stains on our souls. You will always be one of my best friends, even if our conversations are pretty much one way now. I carry with me the memory of your smile, your touch and all the things you taught me. Those things are eternal, and live on in me. Small consolation, but I'll take what I can get. When you can do nothing else, you just do the best you can. And I'm proud to say that I have honestly done the best I could. I still don't really know what comes next, but I will do my very best to make the most of everything. I'll try my best to remember the lessons I've learned this year, and to live my life accordingly. I promise.

I want you to know that I'm not really angry at you. I believe in a grander plan, and I accept my small place in it with wonder, hope and faith. I thank you, for everything. I hope I haven't let you down. I hope you still remember me when next we meet. I hope you know how much you were loved, how much you meant. I hope this is a better year, for everyone. I hope... and maybe that's enough. For all that you were, with all that I had, I loved you.

Between now and then,
Until I see you again,
I'll Be loving you.
Love, Me.

ACT 2: A LETTER TO GOD
Dear Creator of all that is and is not, all that ever was and ever will be,

A very wise parent once told me that, "'Why not?' is a perfectly appropriate response to a child's constant question of 'why?'". So I suppose Your response to my constant question of 'why did this happen?' May very well be "why not?". In the book of Isaiah, in the Bible, there is an emphasized theme that we are doomed to failure if we ever try to comprehend Your world or Your intentions. Apparently, Your existence is so completely different from our own that it is completely incomprehensible, and actually an insult to You when we try to understand. This is because trying to understand You on our terms limits what You can be, because our own understandings are so limited. Not really sure where I was going with that. But that's ok... God's world is supposedly eternal, so I guess You have the time. I'm not angry at You, either - I want You to know that. I know I said I was... and that I kind of stopped talking to You for awhile. Really though, I was more confused and disappointed and hurt than angry. It seemed awful unfair that CJ died like that, when he did. But I guess you could say that I've cooled down a bit. But like all couples that go through a bad time and come out on the other side, I feel that we're closer now than ever before. I know I can lean on You when the going gets rough and You won't let me down. I've come to realize that faith in the system, in the method, in the madness will see me through almost any storm. Hard to keep the faith, sometimes, though. But I guess You know that too... do I at least get points for trying? Like I told Siege, I'm doing the best I can. I hope that we can become closer in the future. I'm still not sure what to think about you. You're kind of a mysterious guy, You know? I bet You get that a lot. I want to thank You for all the little signs, the little conincidences You sent me to keep me going. LOL, I guess coincidences are how You help when You wish to remain anonymous and miracles are how You help when You want to shine. So what are the tragedies, then, I wonder? When You want to be remembered, when You feel forgotten? Sorry... I guess that scorning the Grand Almighty is probably not a good idea. Especially since I really am trying to be positive here. I guess my point is that I came pretty close to checking out of this game a few times this year and that one of the things that kept me here was faith that things will turn out as they're meant. I believe in You, and I don't think it's even possible for You to create an imperfect system. As such, all things must end well. So, for now at least, I'll assume that if it's not well then it hasn't ended, and I'll play a little longer. It's a wonder-full, beauty-full world, My Lord. I have so many things to be ridiculously grateful for, that I'm sure it's baffled You to hear my laments over this one thing. But really, Dude? This one thing has pretty much sucked. However, this one thing has also helped me to appreciate so much more the things of this world, and how fleeting this world can be. So, anyways... sorry about all the bad feelings I've been putting out there. I really am grateful for this life, and all the good stuff and the color purple. I'll keep in touch. I look forward to meeting you in person.

Sincerly, in perfect love and perfect trust,
Tamsen

ACT 3: TO THE NEW WIDOW
As you know already, there are no words. No words to describe it. No words to heal it. No words to explain it. I wish I had some. But the trick of it all is that, even if I did have words for you, they would be words born from my own experience, and thus of little use to you. You have been wounded in the most horrible way a human can be, from the heart. They say that time will heal it, and to a certain extent that's true. But it will never heal completely... it will never not hurt to think of. It may hurt less someday than it does now, but it will never completely be ok. Some may find it cruel of me to say so, but I will not lie to you. I won't tell you lies, but I will tell you this. It does get better. There will come a day when light shines once again into that black hole where your heart used sit, beating out the moments of your before-life one by one. There will be moments when it doesn't hurt to laugh, when you remember how to be happy, even if it is just for moment. There will be days and even weeks when it hurts even more than it does now. But those times don't last forever, honest they don't. Eventually you will smile more and more, and cry less and less and your heart will heal. Having gone through so much this year, I know that I'm nowhere near the end of my grieving journey; I'm not sure I ever will be. But, I do know enough that I can give you some idea of what you're in for.

In the beginning is shock and denial. It's real, but it is not real. You may even feel early on that you are ok with things, that you're doing ok with the whole shebang. Or, you may worry that you're not grieving enough, feeling enough. Neither of these is true. It just hasn't hit you yet. How will you know when it sinks in? You'll know. This is the numb phase. You probably don't think of yourself as feeling numb, but compared to a few months from now... A few months from now is generally the hardest for most of us - months 4-6 were the hardest for me. Things always go up and down within these time frames, but those months in particular were horrific. The problem is that almost everyone else will have returned to their daily lives by this time, right when you are going to need them the most. Expect others to feel uncomfortable with you, your ghosts and your grief. They won't understand, and many of them will leave you. They don't mean any harm, they just don't know how to help or what to say. Be careful not to punish them for failing to make it better, they just Don't Get It. The sense of isolation, loss and physical pain wrought by the mental anguish are hardest here. But endure, lean into the pain and, I promise, you will come out on the other side. Month 7-8 was when things started to get a teensy bit better. Keep in mind that all time frames are generalities, some people will heal faster, some much, much slower and that however you heal is just right and fine for you. Don't let anyone tell you different. Don't let anyone tell you that what you're feeling isn't right, or that you should be doing better. How in the fuck would they know? Just take it one breath at a time (because, believe me, there will be times when it hurts so much that you forget to breathe). Take one step, one day at a time. Forget to take it one step at at time and you'll fall on your face, look too far ahead of one day and you'll start to panic. Baby steps. Things will be better someday... you will want to live again, you will find joy in the simple things, you will find peace at night, you will meet new people and make new friends, and it will be the hardest thing you've ever done in your life. But there are many of us that have gone before you, and many that will come after. And if we all made it through, so can you... I promise. You have a long road ahead of you, but it is not a road without end. Your life will never be the same. You will never be the same. But, to quote the remarkable Pentha, we are forever changed but not forever broken. Make it through the forest, and we'll see you on the other side.

ACT 4: TO THE UNINITIATED
I know it's hard, isn't it? To want to help so badly, to fix something so much and not be able to? We don't mean to alienate you, but there really is no way for you to understand. But here are some things you can do to help. Most of all, be there. Be there for the long haul. Our pain gets a lot worse before it gets better. So, you need to checking up on us just as much in month six (if not more) as you were the first couple of weeks. But, here are some other things, mostly compiled from various grief books and posts on the YWBB.

1. Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk about him, and I need to do it over and over.

2. Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.

3. Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that."

4. Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.

5. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my loved one's death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had for watching our children grow, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.

6. I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.

7. I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable.

8. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right.

9. Please don't tell me I can find someone else or that I need to start dating again. I'm not ready. And maybe I don't want to. And besides, what makes you think people are replaceable? They aren't. Whoever comes after will always be someone different.

10. I don't even understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on, I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.

11. I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.

12. Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you some ideas:
(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together - avoid love stories.
(b) Send me a card on special holidays, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.
(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may so no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone.
(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by couples, to walk into events alone, to go home alone, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.
(e) If you're thinking of me, call me and let me know. I've lost my family and my best friend all in one, and when you don't call it makes me feel that I've lost everything. If you don't know what to say, simply say, "I was thinking of you, I still care, I'm still here." Believe me, that sentence will mean more to me than you know.
(f) In the beginning I may completely give up on life. If you come over, don't ask me how you can help, but look for something to do. Are there dirty dishes in the sink? Weeds that need to be pulled? If you really want to help, find ways that you can.

12. Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.

13. Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve.

14. Please don't call to complain about your husband, your wife, or your children. Please don't relate the loss of a pet, the estrangement of your children or a divorce to my grief. Right now, I'd be delighted to have my loved one here no matter what they were doing or how much we were fighting.

15. Don't tell me what your beliefs about the afterlife or God unless I ask, and don't criticize any beliefs I profess. I'm closer to dealing with God, death and life right now than you can possibly imagine, and I don't need to be criticized for what I'm feeling while I work through this pain. Whether I say something offensive or talk about experiences that you don't believe in (signs or psychics) you need to support me without doubt or criticism while I figure out what I believe. Sometimes, more than anything, we need these small signs to keep going, and it is wrong for you to rob us of that with your doubts. Conversely, chastising me for a loss of faith is not appropriate, and assuring me that it's all in God's plan will only piss me off.

15. Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding. Thank you for praying for me.And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.

Happy New Year

2006-10-31T11:12:00.000-08:00

I've always found Halloween to be an entertaining holiday. It's an excuse holiday, like Valentine's day. It's about buying candy and dressing up funny and fueling the US economy. That is the only modern purpose to be given to Halloween. Not very meaningful or significant is it? But that's alright. The origins of our modern Hallow's Eve traditions are descended largely from the pagan/pre-Christian religions. In Celtic paganism, Halloween is often known as Samhain. Samhain (November in Gaelic) was meant to celebrate the end of the growing and harvesting seasons, and the slumber of winter that would bring rebirth and growth the following Spring. It was the ancient Celtic New Year's eve. This idea resonates with me. I feel like I'll never be able to celebrate January First again. Never will it be a light-hearted day for me, nor a festival of renewal. But it makes sense to celebrate the beginning of a new year right after the fall harvest, I think. Better weather, anyway. It was also a holiday meant to honor those friends and loved ones who had passed away. Places were often set for them at the table, and stories about them were shared to keep their memory alive for those who live on.

So, from now on, I will be celebrating my New Year on the Pagan holiday of Samhain. As such... here are my New Years resolutions:

I resolve that while I may sometimes have a right to be angry, I don't have the right to be mean. I have been far to judgmental and critical of people I've been unhappy with. Taking out my unhappiness on other people and their reputations no longer reflects who I am or who I want to be.
I resolve that I will not take the easy out. Every lesson I've learned that mattered and every good habit I have were learned the hard way. The easy road is for pussies. (Pardon the language, Kim).
I resolve to be more patient. Life happens on it's own schedule. Once you accept that now can be just as enjoyable as later and that later never matters more than now, life get's a lot more fun and a lot more easy.
I resolve to be more grateful and more forgiving. I've always been able to forgive others, but I have a hard time forgiving myself. However (to quote Aldous Huxley), rolling around in the muck is not the best way of getting clean. Regarding gratitude, it's hard to pay attention to what you lack when you pay a lot of attention to what you have.

So, my dear friends, Happy New Year. I hope the coming year is better for all of us. I love you all, and I sincerely thank you for standing by me these past ten months. If you feel that January First will be difficult for you too, please feel free to join in with me in forming a new tradition. Anyone else have a New Year's resolution?

Blessed Be and love to all.

Tamsen

Life After Death

2006-10-19T09:43:00.000-07:00

Well, October's almost over, Halloween will be here soon. Then Thanksgiving and Christmas. November first will be ten months. TEN MONTHS. How in the hell can it be ten months? I wonder if I'll be asking that questions years from now. Five years? How can it be five years?!? There was a movie I saw once as a kid, I think it was called Hello Again, with Shelly Long. Anyway, she dies very early in the movie (by choking on a chicken ball). Her sister owns an occult shop and is heavy into the "magical arts", shall we say. So, it shows time passing, her family adjusting to her death as the days and weeks pass by. Then in one scene the sister finds this ancient spell book that has a spell for bringing a person back from the dead, on the full moon if it's the one year anniversary of the person's death. So she brings her back, and wacky hi-jinks ensue. But the thing that strikes me lately are those scenes of her son, jerk-off husband and sister adapting to their newfound circumstances. When she comes back, her husband has married the ex-best friend, her son is newly married with a baby on the way and a new career. Their house has been sold and the husband/best friend live in a high-rise NY flat. Everything has changed, all the people she loved are different.

I wonder, if CJ were to miraculously come back this coming New Year's eve, what he'd make of it all. I have a new car. I've moved. I bought two pairs of skis. I got a puppy. But those are just material changes. I wonder, have we changed? I think so. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I feel like a different person. I'm not afraid of death or injury anymore. I'm not afraid of failing or looking stupid. I don't take my career goals, money or my possessions as seriously, and I don't take the people I love for granted. I figured out that life is not about doing. It's about what you're being while you're doing. It doesn't matter what I do anymore, it just matters if I'm happy while I'm doing it. I've lost some friends and gained others. I've gotten new hobbies, interests I never would have had the guts to explore while CJ was here. I've learned that contrary to popular belief I can be alone in this life and still be happy. I've learned that I'm a lot stronger than I ever gave myself credit for.

One of the most prominent questions on the mind of every widower is, When does it get better? This is, of course, assuming that they have an answer to Does it get better?. Grief takes its toll, and grief takes its time. The one thing, more than any other, that you "normal" people need to realize is that life is changed. We are not the same people we were before. We will never be the same, and our lives will never "go back" to normal. We have to make up a new normal. If you are sitting around, waiting until the "old" us comes back again, you're wasting your time. The old us is never coming back, just like our spouses are never coming back. What you're doing, if you're a good friend that is, is waiting for us to decide who we are now.

So, you want to know when it gets better? It gets better when you make the transition. This is the pivotal moment when you stand on the breach between the old and the new, the familiar and the unknown. You've walked all these lonely miles, and you stand on the precipice. Behind you is that dark scary forest you've been calling home for months now. In there, you're alone and you're afraid. But you've spent enough time there that you have a familiarity with the area. You know all the monsters that play in 'dem 'dere woods. The danger, you see, is that we've become comfortable with our grief. We had a role, as a spouse. We were a husband, a wife, a lover, the guy who lifted heavy stuff and fixed things, the nag... whatever. Now we've become "the widow/er". We're still being defined by our spouses, but in a different way. People now identify us by our grief, our isolation, all that pain that "they can't imagine what we're going through."

I believe things get better when you start to redefine yourself. You recognize the loss, and it's weight, but you begin to make stakes to reclaim your life. It's the point when you say, this event will no longer define who I am. Did I mention that I bought new skis? (Summit Nomads, aw yeah =). I LOVE to ski. But I've never done it very much because CJ didn't like the cold too well. So we did other things instead. But this season, I'm going to be a skiing fool! And I'm really excited about the prospect. I have to deal with the pain, though. You see, it hurts to take those steps. These new things in our lives that don't involve our spouse. It hurts because you're actively letting go, you're acknowledging that you want to move on someday. You're acknowledging that you're still here, hanging on, alive. And you're acknowledging that they are not. That's a very painful choice.

But still, slowly you let go of the pain without losing the love. You learn new habits, make new ties, get new hobbies, but retain the memories. So... tell me. Do you believe in life after death? I do. I'm proof.

Blessed be,
Tamsen

Normal

2006-09-29T10:16:00.000-07:00

So, a close friend left me a message on my cell phone yesterday. In a serious sounding voice she says "Tamsen. You have to call me." then hangs up. When she doesn't answer her phone, I begin to worry. By the time she calls me back, I'm a nervous wreck. I've convinced myself that her boyfriend or a member of her family has died. I feel nauseous, and I've already planned out the phone message I'm going to leave for work, telling them that I had to go to LA to be there for her. In the end, all she wanted to tell me was that she'd run into one of our old friends at work.

I just want to be normal. I want to be care-free and young and stupid and drunk, like your twenties are supposed to be. I don't want to be 26 and feel 48 anymore. I don't want to feel like all the important parts of me are dead before I ever really got a chance to live. I want to go to bed at night and not spend three hours staring at the ceiling wishing my dead husband was there to tell me not to cry. I want to meet new people and not think, "you have no idea, do you? Just you wait... just wait until that long black train comes to pick up someone you love... then you'll know..." I want to go out to dinner with friends and not feel compelled to talk about life and death. I want the trivial to seem important again. I want my family to not be broken and hurt. I want to have somewhere to go on the weekends and not hate Sunday. I want to go to the movies or out to eat and not resent being there. I want to feel like life has meaning again.

No, you know what? I want to start over with a whole new life, a whole different set of choices and memories. Or I want my old life back, in the month between Thanksgiving and New Years, when things were the best they'd ever been. Or I want to die, to go Home and be with him, where I'm supposed to be. I want something, anything other than this! I JUST WANT MY GODDAMNED HUSBAND BACK! But you can't start over, can you? There are no brand new beginnings. But I hear everyone can start today and write a brand new ending. I guess that means asking how you want the story to end from here... where do you hope the future goes? I don't fucking know. I don't fucking care. All I know is that I wish I was like all the other people my age, the ones who feel like the world is theirs for the taking, the ones who are full of hope and optimism and blind faith that they'll get everything they ever wanted and never lose it. I just want to be normal.

Of Snails, Ink and Monty

2006-09-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

I got this tattoo about two weeks ago at the SkinFactory in Las Vegas, courtesy of the wonderful NickHole. I know the picture looks a little crooked, but that's just because I was trying to take the picture myself - behind my back. I think if you click on the picture you can get a bigger version of it to show up...

I got a snail, because CJ's always kind of been referenced with snails in our group. When we were first going out he'd make up stories all the time about this friend of his, who happened to be a secret agent snail. I would laugh until I cried as we made up stories about this snails James Bondesque adventures (I'd tell you the agent snail's name, but then I'd have to kill you...) CJ always used to draw snails when he was doodling, God only knows why. Over the years I came to associate snails with him so much that I always had to stop and save them if they were in the sidewalk so they wouldn't get stepped on. I also bought a tiffany glass-style night light in the shape of a snail. During the phases of our life when CJ and I were living apart it brought me comfort. And now it still serves that purpose, I guess. Interesting factoid of the day: the number phi (not pi, but phi) is considered the "divine ratio" or "golden ratio" because of the perfection of it's properties, and it is often represented by a nautilus (snails) shell.

NickHole put the blue flower on my left, because that's my married side. I've heard of widows who put tattoos on their right side because their spouse was "always right there" or was their "right hand guy". Some get them on the left because they "left" us or because we wear our rings on the left. I got mine where it is because I know CJ's always got my back... no matter how far apart we may be.

I think she did a great job on the tattoo, but I made the mistake of having it a bit too high - it should actually sit about three inches lower than where it is. But it's not like you can return a tattoo, you know? "Excuse me... can we just move this down a little?" I was kind of beating myself up about the whole thing after I got home. I was just a bit depressed in general, thinking about how I messed it up and how CJ probably would have thought it was stupid... So I was going to check my comics before I went to bed, and this was the first one I came across. It's from a strip called 9 Chickweed Lane. The old guy in the photo is this crazy old farmer who calls himself Thorax. He believes he's a higher being from another planet and that he talks to God. According to Thorax, God's real name is Monty.

I think it was CJ's way of telling me he liked the tattoo. And his way of saying that he's always got my back. And of course, reminding everyone that he's a God (cocky bastard =]). I have another small tattoo of a ladybug. I named the ladybug Sid after Sidhartha (Buddha's real name for you trivia buffs ;-). So, I've decided to name the snail Monty.

Intimate Details

2006-09-12T11:05:00.000-07:00

This is kind of an awkward and embarrassing topic for me, very personal... so please bear with me if this makes you uncomfortable.

The worst thing about being a widow/er is the loss of love. Of course you miss friendship, companionship, someone to take up the other half of the bed, all the extra clothes and dishes to wash. Someone to take care of and someone to take care of you. But mostly you miss the intimacy. When you have a great marriage, it becomes something that goes far beyond friendship. It's having someone who knows you. Knows what kind of food you like and don't like. Knows that you're just going to love a certain movie or book. Knows all your dirty little secrets and harbored wishes. Knows exactly what you're thinking when you raise your eyebrows like that. Knows not only how to make you feel better when you're down, but also knows how to make you livid in zero to sixty. Knows what it means when you put on that little black dress (and probably can guess exactly what you have on under it =P). When your spouse dies, it's not only traumatic, it's extremely disorienting. You've had this constant, intense connection for so long, and it's almost impossible to function without it. Suddenly no one knows you anymore. No one understands you, and no one understands what you're going through.

I remember that whenever CJ and I would go out somewhere, if I took too long to get ready or was getting worried that what I was wearing looked bad, he'd look at me and say "Who are you trying to impress?". If I only really cared about what he thought, and he thought I was pretty, then who cared about the rest? That boy was incredibly good for my self esteem, because he always accepted me for me, and even liked me if I wasn't wearing make-up or hadn't shaved my legs that week. He wouldn't let me say bad things about myself (like calling myself fat or stupid or incapable). He thought I was amazing, and wouldn't let me or anyone else say otherwise about his wife.

The problem is, without our lovers constant acceptance and affection, it's a bit harder to maintain self esteem. (It's very difficult to keep momentum if it's you that you are following). For the first time in ten years, I feel like I really have to worry about how everyone else sees me or thinks about me. Being widowed young is a very unique experience. The person you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with is gone. It's as if you had your date for the prom all set months in advance. Then they call you the night of and cancel, leaving you to decide if you'll stay at home alone feeling sorry for yourself , or try to be brave and go to the dance alone anyway. Either way, it's a horrible choice compared to the one you had. You don't want anyone else, you certainly don't want the trouble of having to find anyone else... but you don't want to spend the next fifty years eating Rice-a-Roni alone with your cat, either. It's a horrible Catch 22.

Even worse than the general feeling of loneliness and outsider-ness is the desire for physical contact. We have a phrase for it in the widow/er community. It's called skin hunger. Let me be clear: you don't want anyone else to touch you, you certainly don't want to date or be single. But you've gotten so used to having someone there all the time; for hugs, for kisses, for sex, for hand-holding, for movie-snuggling and ear-nibbling. Suddenly, you can't be close to anybody. There's no one to turn to, lean on, make love to. You are truly severed - mind, body and soul. You come to yearn for simple human contact: a connection of minds, a moment of understanding, the brush of hands. But the yearning makes you feel like a bad person: a cup of weak and a handful of pathetic with a dash of guilty and unfaithful for seasoning.

We lose so many things, as young widows. But, being young, it's assumed we have so much life left. It is a common complaint among my fellows that people, trying to be supportive, will say, "Look on the bright side! You're young, you're attractive! You'll find someone else, no problem!". Yeah. Screw you and the optimism train you rode in on. They just don't understand that from our perspective, we had everything. Then we lost it before we even got to enjoy it. While it's true (it has to be true) that life goes on, it's very difficult to see that from our tortured and short-sighted perspective.

In large part, being a widow is a multi-year process of redefinition. Regarding sex, this is a very tricky process. I don't' know what it means to be sexy without CJ. I don't know what it means to be a woman without him there to counterpoint the alternative. I know what it means to be a wife, a role and a definition I loved; but now I'm not a wife anymore. So now I have to learn what it means to be a woman in a vacuum. How in the world am I supposed to learn that? I don't know how to date... more important, I don't know how to be datable. I don't know how to read other men, I don't know the rituals for flirting, I don't know what colors are in this Fall, I don't know at what length a skirt goes from stodgy to sexy to slutty... I don't know anything. And that's just the beginning! What happens if I make it through all that!?! I don't know how to be with another guy, if you know what I mean (wink, wink; nudge, nudge). We had a great sex life. And really? I don't care how "lonely" it gets, I don't think I really want to go through all the trouble of learning someone else's style or teaching them mine. (Just another one of those little side benefits of being with someone who really knows you... wink, wink; nudge, nudge; knowhatImean?) I never dated anybody but CJ. People say they don't know how "the game is played" nowadays, but I never learned it in the first place. Even more than that, I'm afraid to learn.

I hate being lonely, I hate being without my CJ. And between the guilt of even thinking about ever being with someone else and the incredible terror at having to undergo the process of dating - the rice-a-roni option doesn't look that bad. Yeah... yeah, you know, I do pretty well alone. I read a lot, and I have all the South Park and Star Trek: Next Generation episodes on DVD. And I really like rice-a-roni... especially the cheese and broccoli one. Rice-a-roni's cheap, too. For variety I can switch to ramen. God damn it... why the hell does life have to be so damn complicated? *sigh*

Blessed Be,
Tamsen

Back From Hell

2006-08-28T15:12:00.000-07:00

I'd like to share another song with you. It's had me thinking alot lately about the process of grief. It's called Back From Hell, and it's also by Gary Allen. It's country, so forgive me if it's a bit simplistic and redundant.

I just got back from Hell
and I'm standing here alive.
I know it's really hard to tell,
Don't know how I survived.
I can't say that I'm doin' great,
But I think I'm doin' well.
That Devil's gonna have to wait
'Cause I just got back from Hell

Well, I just got back from Hell
And I guess to tell the truth
I've been mad at everyone,
including God and you.
When you can't find no one to blame,
You just blame yourself.
And I know I'll never be the same
I just got back from Hell

Forgive me if I had any part
If I ever broke your heart in two
Forgive me for what I didnt know,
For what I didnt say or do.
And, God, forgive me as well
'Cause I just got back from Hell

Well, I just got back from Hell
And I need to make some plans.
It's the last thing that I wanna do
But I'll do the best I can.
I'm gonna learn to live again,
But I think I'll sit a spell.
Tell the world that I'm alive
and I just got back from Hell.
I can't say that I'm doin' great
But I think I'm getting well
Gonna let the world know I'm alive
And I just got back from Hell

It's especially the last stanza that I want to talk about today.

I'm very afraid of the end of the year. All the way from Thanksgiving through New Years I expect to really, really suck. Sometimes all I can think is that I wish I were through this year already. Other times, all I can think is "I can't believe it's September...". I feel like I'm stuck in fast forward and reverse at the same time.

I feel like I've been living in a scary, dark hole. I'm afraid to come out, though, because the world out there is even scarier. Many people have been telling me that things don't get better in the second year. They just get different; but I have it on good authority that things won't get easier. I've started to have these flashes where I look around and realize the world is still moving on without me... without him. This causes me great distress, since my personal theory of relativity said that that wasn't possible. It violates the laws of nature that the (my) world still turns without him here to stabilize it.

I'm finding grief at this point to be alot like giving birth (well.... what I imagine giving birth is like). I'll be ok for a short bit of time, and then the pain comes out of nowhere. You grit your teeth and scream and breathe until it passes. Then you wait with relief and apprehension until another wave comes. The moments of peace in between the waves of pain are where life continues. I'll start to think about life after this... and the idea repels me. I'll start to have hope that maybe things will be ok, but this thought racks me with a guilt that is indescribable. You see, things can't ever be ok again, because I made a promise. If "CJ and Tamsen" was the most important thing that ever was, how can anything "only Tamsen" does ever be worthwhile? If he was the only thing that really mattered, how in the hell am I supposed to find something else that matters at all? I feel like I'm being torn apart from the inside: half of me desperately needs hope that I'll come out of this alright, the other half of me feels like anything resembling a normal life would be evidence that CJ wasn't necessary.

But the moments of clarity are there, and they're becoming more frequent. Like someone who's been lost at sea that starts to see signs of land - a bird in the sky or a floating tree branch. For eight months now, I've been living within the shadow of CJ's death. It's always there, lurking in the corners waiting to jump out and grab me. But a few months ago I went away for the weekend with a friend. For two whole days, I felt like a normal person. The love I have for CJ, my adoration of him, my respect for him, my gratitude for him were all still there - but the pain wasn't. And I didn't feel guilty - which is usually what I feel whenever happiness sneaks up on me. It was the first time since the day he died that I felt - that I believed - that life without CJ was possible. (See? Even writing that last line still inspires a sense of guilt...)

Even so, I feel that that weekend was a break-through of sorts for me, emotionally speaking. For so long now I've been getting by on just hoping that things would work out, that I'd find a way to get better, a way to be content, if not happy. But that one brief, shining moment where I really knew that I will be alright, and that there will come a day where my life will be worth the trouble again has helped me to move forward another step in the process of grief. It's easier to deal with the pain today if you really believe (instead of just hope) that things will get better, that the pain will ease as the years go by. Like the last stanza of that song, I feel like I'm at a place where things can start to change. I may not have come all the way through Hell yet, but I'm finally through one level of it, I think. I'm ready to start thinking about the possibilites - without guilt, if not without pain. I need to make some plans. It's the last thing that I wanted, but I'll do the best I can. So, I'm gonna try to learn to live again, but first I think I'll sit a spell. I just wanted you all to know I think I'm getting well. See you on the other side of Hell.

Blessed Be,
Tamsen

Anger Management

2006-08-18T15:25:00.000-07:00

I can't believe how angry I've felt lately. I didn't really notice it at first. Then I began having these dreams - all these angry, violent dreams. Dreams where I get in fights with people and beat them up. Dreams where I run down pedestrians with my car. Dreams where other people who would ordinararily never be anrgy or violent are. Dreams with lots of punishment, blood, beatings and rage. I find I've been grinding my teeth and biting the insides of my cheek while I sleep, too. In general, I've just been running on a short fuse, quick to anger and quicker to annoyance.

The problem is that it's an elusive anger. I'm not mad at anyone in particular, not really. I think I've been a bit cranky, a bit edgy of late. Maybe even (a little =D) bitchiness will I admit to. But I'm not really angry at any one person or event. I wasn't even going to bother posting about this, but as I've talked to others in our social group, I've found a common thread in our resentment and anger towards the outside world. And towards each other, truth be told. All along this road, I've harbored anger at those I felt weren't towing the line, weren't doing their fair bit to keep up with the rest of us, if you know what I mean. Things that had been small differences and minor annoyances before CJ's death became an outlet for my negative emotions, allowing me a funnel to get the incredible rage over my own misfortune out of my heart, off my chest and out into the world. As time has passed, these directed tirades have subsided to be replaced by a general sense of discontent.

The worst is the anger I feel towards people whose lives are going well. I got an email today from an old and somewhat distant friend of mine. He just had a baby boy, and was emailing out pictures to all of his friends and family, as any proud father would. It just makes me so sad when I see other people happy with their new lives, starting new families. And I hate to be sad, so I suppose I translate that emotion into an undefined bitterness instead. But just the same, what kind of terrible person must I be to hate others for their happiness? What right on earth do I have to be angry because other people get to be happy? What kind of intolerance is that, when you are mad that others have the gall to be happy in your presence. It makes me wonder if, in the before time, CJ and I made others unhappy with our friendship, our relationship. Are there those who resented us, who were angry because we were happy in a way they weren't?

We all seem more hardened, in our own way. You deal with the hurt and the loss and the grief as best you can, but it leaves little calluses on your heart. Hard spots that may not have been there before. I find that I can't handle people's minor grievances anymore. Anytime someone starts to trip out over the small things, I just want to bitch slap them. Sit down! Shut up! Get a fucking grip! You have no idea what a real problem is! But just the same, such incredible anger is unjustified. In their own limited range of life experience, maybe this minor crisis does seem life threatening. Maybe they just aren't aware how small and insignificant their complaints are to others because in their world it's the biggest possible existing problem they can see. I'm pretty sure that my life was like that before. All the minor, petty things that drive us crazy - I used to have all those complaints, too. I think they just withered up and died like weeds in the ever present shadow of mom and CJ's deaths. I hope they don't come back; I'm better off without them, I think.

The third and final vein of this anger is the worst, though. It's when you meet people you don't like for whatever reason and think, why are you still here and CJ isn't? Or even worse than that, why am I still here and CJ isn't? It's the presumption that the loss of your beloved was unjustified enough by itself, compounded when you meet others who are - you ready for this one? - less worthy of life. Yeah, I know how atrocious that sounds to those who aren't bereaved. But it's there, it's true. Sometimes you pass judgement on other peoples right to life based on the life that was lost, it's potential, it's importance in your own life. The good may die young, but that doesn't make it alright. And that alone is enough to piss you off when you come face-to-face with those you might find lacking... even when that person is yourself.

There's not any real resolution to this type of anger. Not for me anyway, not yet. I just hope the heat of my anger and resentment doesn't wind up burning down all the bridges I've built over the last decade. They say that anger is one of the bedrock emotions of grieving. I think it's the most destructive one, though. Anger doesn't really serve anyone in the long run. It's a very satisfying emotion, though. Feeling lost, hopeless, sad - you can't do anything with those, you can't fix them. But anger... anger feels constructive. You can find outlets for that. You can do things with anger and hatred. (Disclaimer: I'm about to geek out here, so bear with me). In Star Wars Mythology, a dark jedi gains ability far faster than a regular jedi and is usually more powerful. That's because they funnel anger as leverage, as a tool. Of course, the lesson, the moral, if you will, is that doing so will destroy you in the end. And I believe that. I think that anger is a healthy part of grieving, a necessary part. But don't let it consume you. Eventually, in order to move on, you have to let go of it; let go of the resentment and the feelings of injustice. If you can't move past anger, then you'll never move past grief. Like everything else, that may be simple, but it's not easy.

Memory

2006-08-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

In the beginning of this journey I had the constant fear that I'd forget. Forget his face, his smile, the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice, his sense of humor, the way his dimples showed up whenever he was trying too hard to be serious. I was afraid I'd forget everything. This is not an unnecessarily unfounded concern. I've forgotten most of the people I went to High School with, and don't even remember the time period before that - the hazy first fifteen years of my life are depicted in my mind as bright flashes of sunlight and senses of lingering emotion more than as real memories. I was so afraid that CJ would become that: a set of out-of-focus pictures dancing around in the background of my mind.

I needn't have worried. Now, I'm drowning in my memories. I see him everywhere I look, both right in front of my face when I'm sitting alone and out of the corner of my eye when I'm with others. I hear his voice in my dreams right after I wake up, and everytime I answer the phone. Everytime I come home and call out, I hear him answer. I hear his running commentary on the inside of my head. I feel him breathing beside me when I sleep at night. I'm haunted by him, but not in the romantic Ghost way. More in the tortured Scott Summers way. His being gone just makes the voids where he used to be pronounced enough that they've become entities in and of themselves.

You know in the movies, when they show someone standing in an empty room, and then some section of the room lights up and a flashback scene happens while they look on? Usually in a soft focus lens, in slightly slowed motion with a bright filter on - you know, for atmosphere. It's like that. I walk down the driveway every morning, and there we are in our first kiss. I walk in our old room and he's sitting there at the computer, knee bopping up and down to keep the rhythm of his thoughts. I'll be cooking in the kitchen, and he'll come up and put his arms around me, tell me how he loves me and how glad he his that I'm his wife. He passes me on his bike at least once a day. I'll be at the movies with friends and see the two of us one row down, holding hands with my head on his shoulder. He's everywhere he's not. He's with me always except I can't touch him or talk to him.

I remember everything, but there are days when I wished I didn't. Remembrance is a double edged sword: reminding us why we loved in the first place, but also why it hurts so much when that love is gone. This is Shakespeare's ancient quandary: better to have loved and lost? Somedays the loss hurts enough to make you wonder... there was a book I read once - long enough ago that I can't remember the title or author (see? there's my awesome memory at work yet again!). In the story, the man is coping with the death of his wife sometime in the near future. He runs a business where people can plug themselves into virtual realities (like the holodeck on Star Trek, kind of). Anyway, the machine can also download a person's thoughts and memories onto a program, erasing them forever from our minds. Towards the end of the story, the man winds up downloading all of his life from the time he met his wife forward into the computer. He "wakes up" bewildered to find a hand-written note that goes something like this pinned on his chest: You are a good man. You've had a good life and nothing bad ever happened to you. Go out and live the rest of it in the same fashion...

Makes me wonder. Not worth it, I figure. I don't imagine the pain of loss ever gets bad enough that you'd rather not have danced at all (to misquote Garth Brooks). But just the same, I sincerely look forward to the day where the past isn't more real than the present, when my memories are sweet and kind friends instead of harsh and painful masters. Experience makes us, in large part, who we are. And it's what we've gone through, survived or done before that defines who we are today. If you like who you are, then it stands to reason that you have to appreciate all the thorns that brought you here. Like Kirk, in the Final Frontier: I need my pain! (Wow... two Star Trek references in one blog... I am such a loser...) In many ways my previous hurts are what define me, and I wouldn't be who I am without the lessons learned. While none of us want the bad hands that get dealt, in the end I hope I can appreciate the changes wrought by them. At least I don't have to worry anymore that I'll forget - I suppose that's a gift in and of itself.

Love to all, blessed be.

Tamsen

Grief and God

2006-07-24T15:31:00.000-07:00

Warning: Just about any discussion of faith is bound to offend someone.

There is nothing that calls into question your spiritual beliefs more than death. In life, it's easy to ignore God. He's up there, we're down here... you know how it is. Most people give some passing thought to their belief structures, but very few sit down and really have a heart to heart with God until they have to. Grief forces that experience on us. One of the things I've realized is that when the world that exists beyond this one becomes personal, than the whole life/death/afterlife thing becomes a lot more central to daily existance. I imagine it's a lot like how a child views the IRS: you may hear of it, you hear old people talk about it with fear, frustration and awe, you may glean the impression that it is an incredibly complicated issue rife with monetary tribute and yearly rituals, but you don't have any real relationship with the IRS until life forces you into it. The death of our loved ones requires us to re-evaluate what we really think, because suddenly it actually applies to those we care about and ourselves. I'm not sure, but I bet the terminally ill also know what I mean. Well, the terminally and any child whose parents lost their house to the demi-God that is the IRS.

What concerns me is that I find this experience - this coming to terms with ones own faith, if you will - to be a personal journey. One that every person has to figure out on their own. Maybe they run out of gas halfway through. Maybe they want to stop and ask others for directions. Maybe they stop and buy some Cheetos. The point is that the only person that can drive that road is you, and in the end we all wind up in different places. Even if you're the same faith as someone else, there are always elements of faith and religion that remain open to debate and varying interpretation, which means there isn't a single person on this earth that holds the exact same views as any other. It's part of what makes us incredible, part of what makes us human and part of why the divine is a mystery. Nobody has all the answers, not even you. All you've got is what you believe to be true based on what made the most sense out of all the stuff you've been told by those who went before you. Yeah, the road to faith is a personal one; but there seem to be an awful lot of backseat drivers.

Now, I understand as well as anyone that the grieving experience can wreak havoc with our faith, whatever it is we have faith in (be it God, Allah, Buddha or asparagus). It is natural to reach out to others in pain by offering them a sampling of your own beliefs: if it comforts you, then it may comfort them as well. It's usually a gesture made out of kindess and a wish to ease the pain others feel in the way your own pain is eased. Especially if a person has yet to come to any conclusions about what they believe, they may reach out to others, asking for other peoples opinions about what goes on with that Man behind the curtain. I can respect that, just as I can respect your unfettered right to believe whatever it is that strikes you as truth.

But so help me God, don't preach to me. Now before you lay into me for that last line, let me clarify. What I mean is don't look down on me because what I think is different than what you think (feel sorry for me if you must, but don't hold me in contempt; Jesus didn't). Don't tell me the consequences of not following your religion. Don't lecture me, don't chastise me and don't tell me what to believe without a reason to believe it (btw, "because it's God's word" is not a reason). Most of all, don't expect me to listen to your opinion if you're not willing to let me sell you mine with equal respect. It's one thing to offer ones beliefs when asked, one thing to offer your opinion respectfully as no more than that: a personal truth that means a lot to you. It's another thing entirely to pass judgement on my life, my beliefs or my faith because they don't line up with your personal truths. I'm perfectly willing to hear your truth and why you believe it to be so. I welcome that discussion, for we can't make informed opinions unless we have a lot of information to draw from in the first place. But that discussion needs to be taken with an I belive __x__ stance, and not a Believe this or else stance or a Believe this for it is the only truth stance. Do Not assume that just because a person's faith is different from yours that they have no faith at all. I respect you and your right to believe in whatever God brings you peace and meaning. But I think even God Asparagus would agree that I deserve that same respect in return.

I'm sorry in advance if this is offensive to anyone, but my experience of late has shown me that it needed to be said. I welcome and respect your point of view even if I don't agree with it, and I hope - expect - that you'll do the same.

Six Month Slump

2006-07-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

July 1st was the six-month anniversary of my widowhood. From the many resources on grief I've explored, many of them identify landmark months that are difficult for many people - especially prominent are the fourth, sixth, eighth and twelfth months. So, I pretty much take this to mean that you spend the first four months walking around in a fog thinking "this can't be happening." Then you spend four months in an on-again off-again relationship with pain. I'm ok... wait a minute, no I'm not... no, no wait... yeah, I am ok... wait... no I'm not. Then you spend four months thinking ok, I can live through this... this sucks, but I'll be alright. Or maybe the previous four-month roller coaster is just so exhausting that you're numb for four months after that. But then one day you wake up and think... holy shit, it's been a year since my life was destroyed?

For myself, I'm finding this past month (month six) particularly difficult. As many of you know, I was blessed to have the opportunity to go on a trip to Ireland with my beautiful and amazing sister for two weeks. The country was incredible, I was ridiculously grateful to have the opportunity to become closer to Trace, and it was a chance to take a trip many people only dream of. But, to be honest, it was one of the hardest periods I've gone through since CJ died. I was so often reminded of him, of how life was before, of what it's like to be young and happy and in love. What should have been the trip of a lifetime was painful for me because in the end it didn't change my circumstances. Several times in the past six months I've thought about how much I just want to go away and start over. But that's not it, not really. More than wanting a change of scenery what I really want is a change of circumstance.

This month I have been so angry and cynical, far more so then before. The hope I was harboring that it was all for a purpose, or that it was all just a bad dream or whatever... that sense of "hang on, things will be alright" just never panned out. I've described before how I felt this driving sense of anxiety or anticipation, like I was waiting for change or waiting for answers. But at some point in the last month I've realized that I wasn't looking for anything new, I was searching for what I'd lost. Like my dog if you hide his toys from him. I've spent this past six months walking around looking for the missing piece of my puzzle, the one that used to fill this hole that consumes me. Realizing that has in some way reinforced the reality that he's not coming back, that I won't ever see him or touch him or talk to him ever again. And it is that realization that has preyed so heavily on my well-being this month.

My fourth wedding anniversary is this week. I guess that got me thinking about the idea of anniversaries in general. If you look at other young women in their twenties, their anniversaries are a bit different than mine, aren't they? They're six months pregnant, they've been with their fiance for 8 months, they've been out of college for three months, their baby girl is seven months old. All I've got to look forward to is counting months since he's been gone, counting the number of years we would have been married if he'd been here, his birthday next month would have been his 25th. I'm so dreading our birthdays, and don't get me started on the holidays. The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas... all the New Year's. When you lose someone like this, you begin to count your milestones in reverse instead of forward. Instead of "someday we'll" you think "we used to". Instead of "two months until" you think "six months since". It's hard to focus positively on the future when you're living life marking time in "sinces" instead of "untils".

The widow support groups I participate in all assure me that the "six-month slump" is normal. I'm not even sure that's what this is. All I know is that the last month as seen me change into an angry, bitter, old, lonely and devastated woman. Before, I felt him. I thought I got signs from him... but now I don't feel him there at all. Me and what remains of my life are all that's left, and frankly, that's not amounting to a whole lot this month. Maybe it gets better. But in all honesty, my give-a-damn's busted. With that, let me also add a sincere apology to anyone who's been subject to my anger or my malaise of late. Apparently if you talk to me again in November, I'll be better. Maybe this drop is part of the healing process; what goes down must go up?

While I usually try to end these conversations of ours with a message of hope for all my fellow widders, I'm afraid I just can't make it work today. Everything I've tried to write comes out fake and forced. All I can tell you is that sometimes, you need to sit down and cry. Sometimes you need to yell at God and break things. Sometimes you need to drive ninety on the open road without a seatbelt on and dare fate to do something about it. Sometimes you need to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's by yourself and to hell with the fat count. Sometimes you NEED to grieve.

The following song is by Gary Allan, a country singer whose young wife committed suicide last October. His new album, Tough All Over, has several songs dealing with widowhood and grief, especially Just Back From Hell and this one, which I've been playing all week.

Life Ain't Always Beautiful

Life aint always beautiful
Sometimes it's just plain hard
Life can knock you down, it can break your heart

Life aint always beautiful
You think you're on your way
And it's just a dead end road at the end of the day

But the struggles make you stronger
And the changes make you wise
And happiness has its own way of takin it's sweet time

CHORUS
No, life aint always beautiful
Tears will fall sometimes
Life aint always beautiful
But it's a beautiful ride

Life aint always beautiful
Some days I miss your smile
I get tired of walkin all these lonely miles

And I wish for just one minute
I could see your pretty face
Guess I can dream, but life don’t work that way

But the struggles make me stronger
And the changes make me wise
And happiness has its own way of takin it's sweet time

No, life aint always beautiful
But i know i'll be fine
Hey, life aint always beautiful
But it's a beautiful ride
What a beautiful ride

-- Gary Allan

Roadside Cross

2006-07-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

We put CJ's roadside cross up last weekend. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who came out on the day we put it up. Toby went to a lot of effort to have it made and painted for us, and our gratitude is inexpressable. Special thanks to all those who helped us dig the hole and lay the concrete, and to Skate for bringing the shade. I must admit, I was surprised that so many people came. For those of you who would like to visit the cross, you'll find it on Lake Mead Road, at mile marker 36, just after the 40 mph left curve. You'll find it on the south side of the road, across a ditch. There is also another cross close by, for the motorcycle rider that died in the same spot the month before CJ's accident. We have also placed several orange cones out there to warn of the ditch that CJ didn't see. Maybe it will help save someone elses life... We encourage you all to visit as often as you like.

The brass plates were given to the family by an incredibly kind woman. Even though her business only takes commercial clients, she took the time out of her schedule to personally make the brass plates for us, and then refused payment. I mention this only because it seems sad that we're so touched and surprised by simple human kindness and compassion. I've always thought celtic knots were beautiful, but do you know what they represent? No ancient symbol is merely decorative. The trinity knot (three points in a never ending line) represents the eternal nature of life, and the divine mystery. A quote I like (from one yogi or another - do those guys even have names?) says this philosophy better. It goes "Aren't you enjoying your chocolate? You should, for I tell you this: you have nothing to fear and you should not worry. For birth is not a beginning and death is not an end..."

Kim read a beautiful Irish Funeral Prayer that i would also like to share with you:

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Everything remains as it was.
The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no sorrow in your tone.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

The cross is beautiful. But Toby should have never have had to have it made. Kim and Jerry should never have had to put their sons name on it. I should have never have had to look at it. None of us should have had to do this. But if we had to, I'm glad we did it right. All we can do is the best we can, and I think that this cross is the best tribute we could have put up there.
Oh, and if you do stop by, feel free to bring a little Captain Morgan Private stock to share with him... I'm sure he'd appreciate it. When I go, I'll drink a toast the good old times, the friends we should never lose and the things that we don't want to do but do anyway, because sometimes there's nothing else to do.

Blessed be.

Public Displays of Affliction

2006-07-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just me; I'm willing to accept that. And maybe it's unhealthy; I'm willing to accept that as well. But the fact of the matter is that I HATE to cry in front of other people. I hate for them to see me hurt. I suppose it's twofold: I don't want to burden them with my problems and crying in front of other people makes me feel self-conscious. Rest assured that if you've seen me cry it was most likely against my will. But I don't think it's just me... I think we all have this problem. Don't reach out, don't open up, don't share, don't lean... don't tell them how you really feel. Apologize to them when you cry. After awhile the bereaved become experts of hiding their emotions from other people. In the beginning, it showed all the time. You had "I'm in pain," written all over your face. Sometimes people notice, sometimes they don't. Sometimes the people who notice care, but most often they don't know what to do. And really, I'm not sure I ever really wanted anyone to either notice or care. Grief has become something personal. I could have shared this experience with Siege; but with him gone, there's no one else I really care to let see that side of me. It's kind of like how we'll let everyone in the world see us when we're clean and make-uped and dressed nice. We only let those we truly love see what we look like right when we wake up in the morning. It's personal, you know?

Why do we do that, though? Why do we close ourselves off that way? Sometimes when I see pictures of people in other countries (especially during celebration and tragedy) it strikes me by how close they all are. They seem to touch, to share, to care - total strangers are as open as the closest families. It gives a new meaning to community. They hold each other, either in despair or in joy, and everyone around seems to take one person's feelings on as their own. Men hug each other, console each other and they cry together. When's the last time you saw two men hug each other and cry, either in pain or joy? I'm not sure I ever have... It seems to me that we, as a society, seem extermely uncomfortable with other people's emotions. We tense when others touch us - what are their intentions? what do they want? why aren't they respecting my space? am I wearing deoderant today?. It's even worse when we see people who hurt. We can't face other people's grief, we don't know what to do with it. We are a results driven people, and you just can't fix some problems. They'll give you that look, that meaningful, slightly panicy look. "You okay?" God, I hate that fucking question. I know (as we all know) that they mean well. But it's just... how in the hell do they think I'm doing? I'm freaking awesome, thanks for asking. So we smile wearily instead of roll our eyes, and say "I'm fine, thanks". And then we stare at each other for a few seconds while they wait to see if you'll say anything else, before dropping it with a sense of relief. You can almost hear their telepathic entreaty to you, "Please, please feel better."

There was a post on the Young Widow's Bulletin Board the other day, where the author referred to all the other people as "normals". All those who continue on in their daily lives, blissfully unaware of how quickly and easily the things that matter can be ripped away from you. It's like a twisted version of the Sixth Sense: "I see normal people...". Grief and loss change so much, so fast - both in our outer lives and within ourselves - that you can't help but view everyone else as living in some rarified world of ignorance. So when they stare at you like that, like there's something wrong with you that they wish they could fix, it can't help but make you feel like an outsider. I imagine that's why veterans rarely care to talk about the horrors of war to anyone except other veterans: you can't possibly understand unless you've been there.

But it's more than that. I think we, as a society, are inadequate at dealing with death in general. We don't teach our children how to handle it, how to face it. We have so little death as a country - compared to places like Africa which faces Aids, famine and civil war, or the Middle East which suffers from daily random violence. We want to tell our children that everything is always going to be alright, that bad things don't happen to good people, that when bad things do happen they happen for a reason. We want to protect those we love from the bad things, from the truth: that life isn't a fairytale, that it certainly isn't fair, and that part of being human is learning to live with that, and make the best life you can anyway. People know that. We understand it, on some esoteric, metaphoric level. But until you experience it, you really don't know anything. It just makes me wonder which version of the truth better serves our children? The version where life is fair if you work hard and are a good person and death only happens when we're old and ready for it? Or the version where nothing good is permanent and life can change on a simple whim or in a single moment?

People believe the first version because we like for things to have meaning, to be explainable and understandable. People like to think that even death can't stop true love and that the good don't die young. And maybe for a lot of people that's true. But perhaps if we were taught the second version, we'd have a greater appreciation for the things that are really important - no matter how permanent we think they are in our lives. Maybe we'd stop worrying so much about what everyone else thought. Maybe we'd be kinder to one another and not take the small things for granted... But even more than that, maybe we'd be better at handling life when things don't turn out the way we'd planned; and perhaps we'd find an even better and more comfortable way of dealing with other people's loss and pain as well as our own.

Why, Who and What

2006-06-06T02:12:00.000-07:00

3-29-06, 3:35 AM

I created this blog as a means to publish a number of essays I've written over the past six months. Originally, they were just part of my personal journal. Then I decided to share them with my friends and family. Then I decided I didn't really care who read them, and that it might even be good if other people could read them. I don't really care what you think about them or whether they're any good. I wrote them because it made me feel better. I share them because I hope they might make someone else feel better (misery loves company). They (they of course being the "experts" who advise us on such matters as grief) say that knowing you're not alone, knowing that other people have similar experiences and feelings as you can help people suffering from loss and grief. I know that in my own circle, very little of our emotions and experiences are being shared or discussed. We don't want to burden each other, so we focus on keeping everything to ourselves. We may "talk" to one another, but we never really let out everything we're going through. I'm posting these essays as a way of sharing my feelings and experiences with others without "burdening" them. You want to know how I'm doing? It's all here. Now you don't have to ask, I don't have to tell, and no one has to fail miserably at making anything better. We can all just share it here, like a virtual tissue box. I hope that these discussions may in some way help others who are also suffering in silence and isolation. Find hope all ye who enter here, for you are not alone.
For those who stumble accross this set of inane ramblings that don't know who I am, my name is Tamsen. I am twenty-five years old. Last June I lost my mother unexpectedly to brain cancer. We knew she was ill, but the tumors weren't identified as the cause of illness until three weeks before her death. She had two tumors, the one the doctor tried to operate on was bigger than a chicken egg attatched to the base of her brain. She went into a coma after surgery and never regained consciousness. She died three minutes after we took her off the ventilator. About six months later, just this past New Years day, my husband died in a motorcycle accident. We'd been best friends and lovers since high school. He was the most important person that ever existed in my little universe. He was only twenty-four years old.
These things are most likely uncomfortable for people to read about, think about, talk about. But in order to really appreciate life, one must really appreciate the nature of death. I know that if any of those who know me have gotten this far, they probably won't want to read the rest of these essays. It makes us uncomfortable to have to face other people's pain, especially when there is nothing we can do about it. That's ok; I have no hopes or expectations about anyones reactions to what I write here. I just wanted to share it, and in the sharing hopefully help others who need to know that they're not alone. Well anyway... thanks for listening.

Prologue

2006-06-05T02:29:00.000-07:00

I wrote this essay last October, about four months after mom died and two months before CJ died.

You know, it’s never like it is in the movies. In the movies you see the grieving widow, the forlorn and orphaned child, the devastated lover, the clichéd best friend. There’s usually a drizzling rain falling from a gray cloudy sky or, at the very least, there will be autumn leaves falling softly on dry, dead grass. (Think about it – how often have you ever seen a movie funeral on a bright, sunny day in the middle of July?) The actor’s grief is gripping in its’ intensity – it’s so real, so immediate, so alive. Then the funeral is over and the condolences have been given and everyone has moved on; this happens so the plot can move on too. Without the plot being able to move on you wouldn’t have a movie. More importantly, you wouldn’t have the plucky heroine or the down-on-his-luck protagonist to keep rooting for, knowing without having to be told (thanks to the countless other survivors of familial deaths you’ve seen in the movies) that they’re going to make it, they’re going to be all right, they’re going to pull through. In the movies, the story is never about the person who’s died, it’s about the people who live on after someone has died.

In real life, the hardest part is not the month of the actual death. It’s not the month you spent with the non-responsive, comatose loved one in the ICU. The month you spent every night sleeping in the bed-side chair, watching numerous other patients make it, pull through, come out all right. The month you spent everyday waiting for the neurologist to make his busy rounds just so you could ask if anything had changed –for better or for worse. The month you left home telling your husband, don’t worry I’ll probably be back next week, you know they say her chances are really good, she’s just being sedated to be on the safe side, don’t worry. When in all reality they’re not worried… but you are. The month you passed the time by staring at all the monitors, trying to turn every irregular breath or unusual heart beat pattern into something meaningful, something proving that she’s still there. The month when you waited and waited and waited, but the day they took her off the sedation meds she didn’t wake up like they said she would. The month she died, and you stood there and watched her die.

It’s not that hard right after, either. The month right after, when you make all the arrangements, and call all the relatives and close friends and long-lost friends, and the credit card companies. The month when you take care of everything because at least then you’re doing something. The month when you listen to a hundred different people tell you how sorry they are. Let me tell you something I’ve learned about the word sorry: it’s a comfort word. It’s a question word, begging not to be held accountable to your grief. It means, Gosh I really hate that this happened to you, but more than that I really hate standing here talking to you and looking at you, because I can’t fix it and it makes me uncomfortable, it makes me think that one of these days I may be in your shoes, and I really don’t want to think about that. People say “I’m so sorry for your loss,” and after awhile you learn to say “No, it’s ok”, just so you can make them feel better and get on with whatever business you have with them without having to see that scrunched up look on their face, the one that stares and gauges and estimates and measures the amount of loss they’re supposed to be sorry for.

None of that is the hard part of death though. You know why that is? It’s because we know that part of the story. We’ve seen it, we’ve heard it, we’ve thought about it, and in the vicarious sense, we’ve lived it. From Old Yeller, to Ghost, to Roots, to the six o’clock news - we’ve been inoculated with a kind of social training for the proper behavior for “surviving family”. We know we’re supposed to be the plucky heroine, the young widow, the heart-as-pure-as-gold orphan… we know we’re supposed to be strong… we’re the ones who make it, pull through, will be all right.

It’s the month after that that’s the hardest. The months after the funeral and the burial that you have no script for, no navigation chart, no cinematic role model. The month when you walk around and look at all the stuff, the debris of a lifetime, the flotsam and jetsam that is all that remains of what was once a vibrant and living member of your family. I really think that it’s the all the freaking stuff that’s hardest to deal with. The clothes that someone loved to wear, the figurines that she loved to let collect dust on the shelf, the miniatures ship models he would start and never finish. This stuff is the biggest metaphor for the life that’s just left, and the one that we’re left to. Unfinished projects stored in a drawer with proclamations of “I’ll get to it one of these days”, made when you’re young and stupid and don’t know that one of these days is going to come along and slap you right upside the head before you even turn fifty. Clothes with the tags still on that she bought because it was on sale and she couldn’t beat the price. The car that cost a fortune but she was afraid to drive too much because it was so nice; so she made the eight hundred dollar payment every month, but still drove the older one anyway, because it made her feel more comfortable. Goddamnit… why didn’t she just drive the stupid car when she had the chance?

When you think about it, in America you define yourself through what you own. I own books. My husband collects pirated software. My dad buys beat-up, broken-down tractors at auctions, and then rebuilds them to a second life. My sister has a collection of all manner of equine decoration and movies featuring men with large swords. Kids define themselves through clothing styles and rude t-shirt slogans. Each of these forms of ownership says something about who we are, and if you contemplate it long enough and have an imaginative nature, you can probably learn a lot about who people are by what they own, collect, buy and wear. You ever just go somewhere and look at the shoes people wear? You’d be amazed at the conclusions you can draw from a person’s shoes. Are they comfy and broken-in? Painfully stylish? Dressy heels or muddy work-boots? Cheap no-names manufactured in third-world China or thousand-dollar Italian loafers? A buck’ll get you fifty that you can divine deep and meaningful clues about a person’s job, their income, their health and their basic philosophy on life from one snapshot of their shoes. Now just imagine seeing their house, their possessions, the things they’ve had tucked away in drawers and closets and boxes for years. Imagine what you could learn about a person then; imagine what people could learn about you.

You see, it’s all this stuff and clutter, junk and treasure that really crystallizes the person gone, their hopes and dreams, their inner secrets, their hobbies, their nature, their daily lives and their very soul. You wouldn’t believe how many times the surviving spouse and children feel as though they’ve discovered a whole other side to their parent or wife or husband once they start to go through their belongings. Interesting word, isn’t it, belongings? That means that things belong to us, right? Not that through these things we feel that we belong… I’m sorry, I’m rambling. The point that I started out to make is that at the end of it all, after everyone else has gone home and it’s just you and the personal accumulated residue of the person you lost… well, that’s when it gets hard.

A Matter of Relativity

2006-06-04T02:38:00.000-07:00

I realized a very important concept today; an epiphany, if you will. I realized that we know who we are by our relationships to others - in other words, we decide who we want to be in relation to those around us. It helps us to define ourselves. To exist in a vacuum with no point of reference prevents us from knowing who we are. Kind of like how you decide what kind of parent you want to be in relation to your own parents. When your life becomes intertwined with another person, you lose (in some sense) your identity as an individual in favor of being half of a couple or a member of a family. You will, in a way, be identified by others and defined by yourself as a relation to others. I'm LaDonna's daughter, CJ's wife, so and so's mother etc.

I think that's why we feel so lost and confused as widow/ers. Our most important frame of reference has been removed. When you've been with someone for years, know them better than you know yourself at times, well, it makes it hard to judge who we are without them. For me anyway... I realized that this was a problem earlier this week. It's been a week of bad events, and I spent all this time wondering what CJ would do, how he would have reacted if he'd been here, what he would have said and done. And then it occurred to me that it didn't matter as much what he would have thought and done, because there's no one here but me. I was forced to ask my self what I thought, what I would do, what I would say. It was an unsettling realization. I don't know why it should seem so bizarre to be making my own decisions and forming my own opinions without considering his... I think that I respected him so much that it just always seemed natural to consider his opinion and actions as superior to my own. For practically the first time in my life I'm forced to consider who I am in these situations instead. I'm only Tamsen now, and - sadly - I'm not quite sure what that means. Who the hell is "Only Tamsen"?

In a sense, I will always consider what my mother would think, what CJ would do when making up my mind. They were too big a part of my life for it to be any other way. When you have known and loved great people, you can't help but be an improved person as a result. In this sense, they will always be with me. I'm not sure why it concerns me so much to have no one else to fall back on, no one else to make the choices with me or deal with the problems I'm afraid to solve on my own. Perhaps, rather than fear, I should look at this with a sense of liberation - see it as an opportunity to come to a better understading of who I am when I stand alone. Human beings are generally a pack animal, and I think it scares us to stand alone in front of everyone else. When there's only you there to take responsiblity for the failures, endure the pains and feel the joys, it's scary and it's sad. Even when we might be better off alone, we 'll often choose to stay in a bad relationship because a known unhappiness is better than the doubt and lonlines of having only ourselves for comfort and strength. But if there is any gift to come of this loss, I think it will be in the strength and confidence we are forced to find within ourselves. It can be liberating to define who you are when you're by yourself, because there's a lot more options available to you. You can choose to be anyone, anything you can dream you can be, when you define yourself by nothing other than your own standards, preferences and ideas. I wonder what kind of person "Only Tamsen" will be? Will she be very different from the person "Tamsen: CJ's Wife, LaDonna's Daughter" was? Will she be someone CJ and LaDonna would have been proud of? I guess I'll let you know when I find out...

Today's the Day

2006-06-03T08:55:00.000-07:00

I used to be one hell of planner. CJ used to joke about my "five-year plan". It could change fluidly from day to day, but the point was that I always had a course laid out, Captain. That way, no matter what happened I was five steps ahead. I always figured you can't move forward without a roadmap, you know? CJ was much more fluid than that and would often refuse to make plans more than a week or two in advance. I remember trying to get him to talk about a dream vacation once - you know, a where-would-he-go-if-he-could-go-anywhere type of thing. After about half an hour of shrugs and "I-don't-know"s I got pretty peeved. But he told me to ask him when it became a real possibility - when we had the means to go. It just didn't make sense to him to live for tomorrow when you could be living fine right where you were today. (Reminded me of Yoda in Empire Strikes Back - he'd poke me with a stick saying "Never her mind on where she was, what she was doing. Humph. Adventure, excitement... a Jedi craves not these things.) Hell, for all I know it may have just been impossible for him to look and plan beyond the immediate. He just never saw any use in putting more emphasis on tomorrow than he put on today (hence his favorite catch-phrase Have Fun.) It was always a fundamental difference to our marriage, one that was extremely frustrating on both sides. (It's very hard to have a five year plan if you don't know your soul mates preferences, I will have you know...) Turns out, CJ didn't need the five year plan after all...

After my mom's passing last year and then CJ's just five months ago, I've found the tables reversed. I realize I'd spent so much of my time we had focused on some hazy "one-of-these-days" that I never really took the time to appreciate what I had when I had it. Now I find myself adrift, no roadmap, no destination, not even a goddamned star to steer her by Captain. In a sense, this entire string of events has left me with a much greater appreciation for the life I'm living right this second. On the other hand, I find I can't plan more than a day or two out anymore. It takes too much effort. Friends will call and say "Let's _______". And if it's right now, I might. Otherwise, ask me when it's tomorrow. Even better, ask me when it's in an hour. I suppose it must be frustrating to them, this change in me. I do recall the frustration I had towards CJ when he'd often ask me what month it was (you think I'm kidding?) They tell you to take it one day, one minute at a time, and you think it's advice, but it's not. It's fact. There's no other road through this land of briars and thorns. I just can't seem to focus on the future at all anymore. But, in a way, I'm not sure that's all bad. Because, really, tomorrow was never there to begin with. It was just a big mirage that made me forget to love and appreciate the things that were. Even so... I hope to one day return to a happy medium. For a five-year planner it's kind of scary to only be able to survive moment to moment. I HATE not knowing where I'm supposed to go...

I received this lovely response from a fellow widow over at the Young Widow Bulletin Board. With her kind permission, I want to print it here for all of you new friends to our lonely circle. I think her metaphor is perfectly worded, and - for me at least - resonant with the hope we all so desperately seek. Thank you, Judy.

Tamsenita,

I often refer to this widow life as having the rug pulled out from under our lives. When we lose our spouse we are violently thrown into the air, with no idea where, how, if or when we will land. On our feet or on our face. Intact or with a broken back. Perhaps gently, having learned grace as we fly up and then down.

Will we twist around like a crazy diver, going in slow motion before we finally get back down to earth? How long might it take before we even feel like living again (even if it IS just a day at a time.)

I have found that as we go through grief, changes occur. We change from within and from without. Sometimes, when we do finally land, the person who gets to the ground is nothing much like the person who got tossed to begin with.

It is NOT an enjoyable ride. Someplace in my experience of being tossed, little tethers of hope and optimism attached themselves to me. I learned about floating and being suspended above my former path. It helped me to see things more clearly, to hang there for awhile. I learned about the triple gainer and the somersault. I got a handle on the gravity of my situtaion. I figured out that the ground was where I wanted to be.

Your loss will no doubt scramble your former sensibilities. I believe if we allow it to, this journey up into uncharted territory, will teach us what it is we need to know to grow as human beings.

I know you hate not knowing where you are going but maybe the real importance is in learning a new way to look at life. Take a good, hard look. I feel sure your husband has his hands under you to guide you back down to earth. Feel his assitance and allow yourself to stay up there for awhile. The five year plan can be a very scary and uncharted place. One day at a time is not the worse way to get through this terrible time.

Judy

Strength

2006-06-02T02:03:00.000-07:00

Personal strength is a very relative concept. It is quite common for the bereaved to be told "You're handling it so well," or "You're such a strong person". Because, really we are. There's no other choice. The more hardship you endure in life, the better able you will be to handle hardship. It is my belief that people deal with personal crises in one of two ways: they become bitter or they gain a better sense of humor and humility. Because, either way, when shit like this happens, there's nothing that can be done about, nothing that can solve the problem. There are no answers, no fixes, no miracle cures, no deus ex machina, no clever plot twist. In the end there is nothing left but you and the glaring brutality of the fact, and how you react to it.

When Fate kicks you in the teeth, it presents the opportunity for learning; a chance to evaluate ones behaviours or beliefs. All events in life present us with the opportunity to choose who we are, who we want to be, in relation to those events. However, when Fate kicks you over and over again as you roll around on the ground screaming, you either learn that Fate is out to get you, or you learn to appreciate the times when she lets you stand back up. People who have lost those they really care about, be it parents, spouses, children, siblings or friends, suffer something that is indescribable to those who have not undergone the process themselves. While nearly every other form of loss or pain can be overcome, death is an unhealable wound. You do not get through grief. You do not get over grief. You do not overcome grief. You survive it. Time heals all wounds, it's true, but it doesn't heal them all completely. Sometimes life leaves scars that never go away, painful reminders that we're never in as much control of our lives as we think we are.

In the novel Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley, there is a character that works in the department that writes marketing and propaganda for the state. He always feels like there is some element that is missing in his work, preventing him from being able to really create. Though his work is brilliant, it is still somehow lacking. As the plot unfolds, the argument is put forth that what he "lacks" is suffering. That, in a perfect society, devoid of want and suffering, there is no impetus for the creative nature of man. Our souls become stagnant when our every immediate need is met. I think that this idea might just apply to us as individuals as well. Not necessarily that our minds and character stagnate when our every wish is realized (though I could point to Paris Hilton...), but that when we do suffer and survive, we are better for it as people. Don't get me wrong, I would be much happier the way things were. I was very happy. But there can be no doubt that this past year has probably been the most character building of my 25. It might be argued that our grandparents were "the greatest generation" because they'd had the worst hand dealt - a world-wide depression, two world wars.

Those who suffer loss are strong by necessity. There is no other way to be. Sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes we barely manage to drag ourselves through the minutes of each passing day. Sometimes we lose our grip, our control - sometimes it just takes too much effort to keep hanging in, keep hanging on. But we will make it. We always get back up again. Not because we're special, but because we have no choice. I can't tell you how many times in the past few years I'd thought "Well, this it. I've finally hit bottom. Nowhere else to go but up now..." I don't think I'll ever entertain that sentiment again. When you endure a loss so complete, it makes you realize that nothing, nothing can ever hurt you again. We are strong people not in spite of our pain, but because of it. No matter what else happens to me in this life, it will never compare to this. We can face anything, because we have already survived the worst. The question then becomes whether we continue on the path angry and bitter for our loss, or with a better sense of understanding about the precious nature of life.

Passive Suicide

2006-06-01T15:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not really the suicide type. It's not my style, dig? I'm more the "I-shall-overcome-so-help-me-God" type. In fact, I find that I often become aggressive with my own grief. I take it all head on, because in a lot of ways there's only two directions: down or through; and if I'm going through, I'm going through, you know? Screw you Grief, you faceless, silent son-of-a-bitch. I'm better than that; CJ made me stronger than that. My soul is not yours to claim, you heartless prick. You ain't seen nothing until you've met a girl with nothing left to lose and a bone to pick with Chance. I'd rather roll forward in fury than languish in despair - it strikes me as so much more proactive. Sadly, I've found no direction in which to focus my anger except the elusive emotions that haunt my days: grief, despair, depression, apathy. I'd rather pick a fight with my own loss than let the pain it inflicts end me. As such, I'm not likely to prematurely end my life. However I do think that I, like many other bereaved people, suffer from passive suicide contemplation. To put it bluntly, I'm never going to kill myself, but if I was diagnosed with cancer tomorrow I'd probably be thrilled to death (no pun intended). Tamsen, you've just been diagnosed with terminal melanoma; you only have two months to live! What are you going to do now? I'm going to Disneyland, yay! Hell, I think I'd probably even throw myself a going-away party. I have also been riding around without my seatbelt on... you know... just in case.

Essentially, there comes a point when those in mourning realize that they are no longer living out of their own desire to exist. Rather, you're living for everyone else's benefit. There are days when the only reason you get up in the morning is because all the other personal relations you've forged on this tiny speck of rock have instilled you with a secondary sense of concern and obligation. You've got children counting on you to see them through this. You've got parents, siblings, friends all mourning the loss as well and you just can't bring yourself to do it to them again. They may even mention it - "please, don't you leave me too." You know in your heart of hearts that to leave them alone to deal with the current loss as well as heaping on the guilt they would suffer if you offed yourself is something that is far too cruel to even contemplate. And I hate to break it to you folks, but on the darkest, most painful nights on this guided tour through hell, it's really hard to convince yourself that sparing other people pain is a compelling reason not to end your own. There's a little voice in the back of your mind whispering dangerous promises to ease your sense of obligation in the dark reaches of the night... Don't worry about them... isn't this pain too large to allow your heart concern for others? Besides, they'll be fine! The loss of your life couldn't possibly be worse than the loss of his...

Which leads me to wonder, what does keep us going? In the middle of the night when it's only you and the aching sense of alone that's become your personal valet, while you lie awake staring at the ceiling, stewing in your own thoughts... When the realization comes that there is no longer a personal motivation to keep up this charade known as life, why do we? A friend of mine opined that most people don't follow through on suicidal thoughts because of fear. They're afraid of the pain of suicide perhaps... because - really- there isn't a nice way to go. Pills have a high failure rating, and usually induce vomiting at some point. Shooting yourself takes a hell of a leap of courage and is pretty much impossible if you live in California. Standing in front of a train, jumping off a bridge, yelling racial epitats in Compton... all likely to work, but again you'd probably need to be high on E to have the gumption for the follow through. Other people have a fear of suicide for more esoteric reasons. Many religions tell us that to kill oneself is to destroy God's creation and is thus just as damning as murder. Many of us don't want to risk the possibility that we would be denied the chance to see our loved one again, post mortem. We're already in hell, so I'm not sure that's such a great deterrent, but the idea of not getting to see them again is sufficient for most people to tough it out.

However, I don't personally like to think that I'm making decisions (especially life and death ones) from a position of fear. As such, I need a more compelling reason than "being afraid" to say why most people don't commit suicide. I believe the real reason is hope. No matter how far gone you get, there's another little whispering voice struggling to be heard in the background of our grief. This quiet little voice is the one that says things will be better tomorrow. That this pain can't be this strong forever, that we can wait it out. It promises that there will come a day when our memories no longer bring us to our knees in grief. It's that sense of hope that carries us through. Every once in awhile, you have a good day. A day when the future doesn't quite seem like the bleak wasteland it was yesterday. The days when the warm summer sun breaks through the clouds and for just one moment, you're not sorry you're still alive. The moments when the love you feel for your husband or wife or child or parent or friend is reminiscent of the pure joy it used to be, untainted by the pain caused by their lack of physical existence (in other words the idea and memory of them brings you happiness, despite the lack of their physical presence). The good moments, few or short as they may sometimes seem, are the precious gifts that give us enough hope to batten down the hatches and weather the storm, rather than going out to sacrifice ourselves to the fury of the tempest.

This song came on as I was writing this, and seemed apropos.

All day, staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall.
All night, hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep,
Because tomorrow might be good for something

Hold on - feeling like I'm headed for a break down
And I don't know why
But i'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell,
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A diffent side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know that right now you don't care
But soon enough you're going to think of me
and how I used to be

Talking to myself in public,
Dodging glances on the train.
And I know, I know they've all been talkin' bout me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
Out of all the hours thinking somehow I've lost my mind.

Hold on - feeling like I'm headed for a break down
And I don't know why
But i'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell,
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A diffent side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know right now you don't care
But soon enough you're going to think of me
and how I used to be

How I used to be
How I used to be
Yeah, I'm just a little unwell
How I used to be

I hope, dear friends in mourning, that you hang on to that hope and find your way through darkness back into the light of day.

Tamsen

Sucker Punch

2006-05-31T15:28:00.000-07:00

During the first month after CJ died there were only occassional instances where I would really lose it. These outbursts were almost always spawned by dramatic outside stimuli. For example... one day I was sitting at Starbucks and a young man about CJs age came in carrying a helmet exactly like CJs. CJ had convinced me he needed a $700 dollar Shoei helmet because it filtered out road noise better and had a higher crash rating than his previous helmet. I think he really just wanted the damn thing because it matched the metallic red paint on his bike. Anyway, this poor guy came into Starbucks with the same stupid helmet; my vision got all hazy and I started hyperventilating. I just sat there staring at him. I wanted to tell him to be careful, to watch out for bumps in the road, to pay attention to the other drivers. I wanted to tell him that somewhere there were people who would be crushed if he got hurt, people somewhere who loved him so much that they would never be ok again if something had happened to him. I wanted to tell him all the things I would have told CJ had I the chance. Awhile after he left I realized that I'd been clutching my hands so tightly that my fingernails had cut crimson cresent moons into my palms.
The second one I remember was about a week after the accident. CJs parents had gone out to the crash site. When they got back we were all standing outside talking and it was mentioned that there was something in the back of the truck I should see. For some reason it just never occurred to me what it would be: they'd picked up all the parts that had come off the bike when he wrecked. I recognized one of the signal lights and pieces of the side panels and headlights and windshield. Worst of all, they'd found the face plate off his helmet. I became absolutely hysterical... in that one moment I saw the accident, saw his body flying through the air and knew that he was dead. I just kept screaming over and over again "but it's broken! Why's it all broken?"
These incidents are what I call the sucker punches. They're the things that hit you out of the blue, the hits you're not ready for. They're immediate, they're intense, they're unexpected. These are the moments that grab you by the throat or twist in your gut, the moments where time stands still for one whole second, and when it starts again the pain is so immediate that you can no longer think or feel anything else. When they hit me I usually stop breathing and can no longer stand. The sucker punches are things that hit you in the face with reality, the moments when you can hold no other understanding in the universe except that they're dead, dead and gone.
I suppose they're different for everybody. Hell, they don't really even have to be spawned by anything particular event or item. It's just that when they hit you, you're not ready. It breaks down all your defenses and you can't hold on to your self-control anymore. For me, they started out rare and were usually induced by major coincidences or events. Now, three months later, just about everything hits me on the bad days. A song on the radio will bring up a memory, I'll say a line to an inside joke before I remember that no one else gets it. There'll be a man talking on his cell phone to his wife at the grocery store. The girl at the bank is wearing a new engagement ring. On the bad days anything, everything reminds me and those memories are painful. But it's not always so bad. There are some days when your thoughts are more pleasant, and you become grateful when you're reminded of things because at those times you know that the person you loved won't be forgotten, that you'll always have them there in the back of your thoughts to keep you company. The bad days will always be bad no matter what memories pop-up, and there will be good days that are ruined by really prominent sucker punches. But it's important for us to remember that there are good days, and to value them when they come along, because it's the good days that keep you afloat when the bad ones try to drown you in your own grief. So for the meantime, I try to be glad on the days when I can sing along to the radio just like I used to with him (he'd always wince when I sang off key), and I laugh at the joke anyway (you can't go backwards, lol). I still want to hit the girl at the bank... but well, you know, nobody's perfect.

Random Journal Entries

2006-05-30T15:31:00.000-07:00

This post includes several snippets from my personal diary. I'm making this posting because I believe others in mourning (especially other widows) will see a lot of similarity here. You are not alone. Your situation is completely unique (as the person you lost was), but we all share some of the same symptoms of loss. In time, these feelings do pass (or so the story goes - I haven't gotten there myself yet), giving way to more positive emotions and better days. But in the meantime it helps to know that you are not alone. You are not going crazy, and there is nothing "wrong" or "inappropriate" with anything you feel. Recognize, embrace and accept your feelings, because when you shut them down or shove them back you are only putting off dealing with your grief. You have to deal with your grief in order to move through it and come out on the other side. I hope that reading these personal thoughts of mine will help you to know that everyone grieves and everyone does it in their own way; your means of grief are perfect for you and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I'm just sharing mine in the hope that it helps you, whoever you may be. Keep in mind that this is all cut and pasted selectively, I've posted the worst days and that means that there are a lot of good or ok days in between (they're just not very interesting or helpful). So, if you actually know me, please also keep in mind that this represents the worst of my feelings and bad days, and thereby is unrepresentative of how I'm doing overall.

1/12/05

I have been a 25-year old widow for twelve days now. It sucks. I went to a group grief counseling session this evening. It’s been hard for me on one level, because I feel like no one else knows what I’m feeling or going through. I guess I was hoping that there would be other people there who had lost their spouses, that I could glean some hope from them. They were all older than me. The first person I met there was another widow, named Lois, aged late fifties. She was dancing with her husband on the dance floor New Years Eve, and he just keeled over dead – heart attack. Apparently she met him on the dance floor ten years ago, and finds it ironic that she lost him there as well. She’s angry that he didn’t say goodbye… and that he ate too much bacon. She talks pure New York and is covering her grief with anger, humor, self-absorption and lots of talking.

There was a daughter and her mother, both older ladies. I was doing ok with them until they started trying to sell me on healing through Jesus. The daughter is a Chaplain and says she gains strength for her own pain by remembering what the Savior suffered in his attempt to redeem humanity of its many sins. They also assured me that God has a plan, and that this happened for a reason. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that God and I aren’t on speaking terms this week.

I don't think I'll be going back...

1-14-06, 3:45 AM

I had dinner with some friends this evening. They are trying very hard to be supportive and to make sure I’m not alone at night, but in all reality they’re starting to fray my nerves… there are times when I’d frankly rather be alone. I have to pretend so much when I'm with others, to smile and laugh and offer them hope. It's like everyone wants me to feel better, but in so doing they're not letting me grieve. I can’t be a great dinner companion anyway, since inevitably I end up on some rant related to CJ’s death (this evening, rant #372 was on my loss of faith). They’re kind about it though. There’s only so much of other people I can take before I just start to feel sorry for myself though… In the end no one understands and no one can fix it, so no one can really help.

Oh, God… I just don’t know if I can make it in this life without him. No matter which way I turn, every option sucks because every option has a distinct lack of CJ in it. Where do you turn when you’ve got no good options left? Lesser of all evils?

1-14-05

I’ve decided that today I hate eHarmony.com. In fact, today I hate all happy people everywhere. Fuck it, I hate all the unhappy people too. Apparently so does the weather, since we’ve got a nasty storm brewing to the west. I’ve tried to keep busy today, but ran out of things to do early on. I finally wound up sitting in a Starbucks for about two hours just staring at the walls. I’m not sure if it’s better or worse than staring at the walls at home, but at least it’s different. And I don’t want to cry in public, so that’s a definite bonus… now if I could just stop glaring at all the innocents, we’d really be making progress. It disturbs me to see forty-year-old women who I’m pretty sure are emotionally more immature than I am. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so old in my goddamn life. Or so isolated. As I told a friend when he commented recently on the loss of my “child-like innocence”: you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve put on a few years in the last week. Boy, there ain’t no finer reality check than death.

1-15-05, 8:52 AM

I’m pretty sure life sucks more today than yesterday. I dreamt that mom said something slightly insulting to CJ, and I blew up, hitting her and yelling at her. I’m having suicidal thoughts, but they’re weak. Mostly like wishful thinking: “gee, I really wish I’d lost all my faith and had the guts to shoot myself…”

I’m angry that I’m still here in my own version of hell, while everyone else gets to be happy and normal. I want my husband back. I want to feel normal and real. I want to be held and told it’s going to be ok. I’m afraid that none of those things is ever going to happen again. I miss CJ… and the darker side of my nature realizes that this is only the beginning… I’m not sure if it’s comforting to know that right now my overriding emotion is an intense fear of the coming pain, rather than pain and loss themselves. What is it everyone keeps telling me? Oh, yeah: one day at a time… Doesn’t anyone realize how fucking long a day is in hell?!?

Sometimes I feel like everyone else views me as a walking reminder that CJ is dead… I can’t shake the feeling that I make everyone else uncomfortable. I wonder if everyone will stop being friends with me in the long run… I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this. I want my goddamn husband back. I miss my best friend. I feel like I’m going to be alone and isolated for the rest of my life. I just wish I could curl up and die.

I desperately wish I could just sleep all day and night – sleep is a great exit from reality. When I sleep, then I’m not here; sometimes I get to see CJ and time goes by faster. I think the key to surviving will be making myself get up and move and do things every time I start to crash. We’ll see, I guess. I hate life. I really wish I could die, too. I’m so confused… so lost. I’m so hurt and alone. I’m not sure if I have the strength to live through this… I guess we’re going to find out. I wonder what CJ would’ve wanted me to do… I hope I get a sign from him, from God, from somebody soon. I’ve never been so clueless about the next step, the road ahead, and I don’t fucking like it. I’m never going to be ok, and I’m never going to be the same, and I’m never going to see CJ again… and I really don’t like any of that either.

1-16-05, 9:20 AM

I just had another classic denial dream. We were in the old apartment, the one I lived in near Bonanza. CJ told me it was all a big mistake, that doctors must have misdiagnosed him. I was really happy, but then started to throw a fit over the doctors and how terrible this was and how much pain it had caused his folks and his friends and me. Then the dream kind of morphed into some weird West Side Story retelling… and I woke up with a start, realizing once again that I’m deluding myself. I didn’t go through a denial state at all with mom… her being in ICU and having been sick before pretty much cleared up any doubt in my subconscious mind. With CJ, every time I go to sleep my unconscious tells me it was all a bad dream and I have to wake and remind myself that that my unconscious is lying to me.

All in all, denial isn’t all that bad. It allows me to ignore the situation to a great extent: every time the subject comes up, my subconscious makes it feel like it’s all a bad joke. My rational brain knows that CJ’s dead… it knows that my friends would never have done this to me as a joke, it knows I’ve been sleeping alone for over two weeks now, it knows that I picked up his ashes at the funeral home downtown, knows that we had his memorial service. My heart feels that it’s all just pretend… it doesn’t feel like he’s gone yet, so none of it seems real to me… almost like it’s all happening to somebody else. Perhaps if I’d gone out to the crash site, or had gone to the id viewing with his parents, everything would seem more real. I am curious to how I’ll be handling it once my denial stage wears off… I have the distinct feeling that it ain’t gonna be pretty. But for today, I’m perfectly content to be living in denial – it’s where all the cool kids will be hanging out this month.

You can’t jump the track; we’re like cars on a cable

Life’s like an hourglass glued to the table…

And no one can find the rewind button, girl

So cradle your head in your hands and breathe… just breathe

There’s a light at each end of this tunnel and

You shout ‘cuz you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out

These mistakes we've made, we'll just make them again

No hard feelings, darling, no regrets

No tears and no broken hearts

Call it quits, calling off all bets

It just wasn’t in the cards

Goodbye. Farewell. So Long.

Vaya con Dios. Good luck. Wish you well.

Take it slow. Easy come, girl. Easy go.

90 miles outside Chicago

Can’t stop driving, don’t know why

So many questions, I need an answer

Two years later, you’re still on my mind

Whatever happened to Amelia Earhart?

Who holds the stars up in the sky?

Is true love just once in a life time?

Did the Captain of the Titanic cry?

Someday we’ll know if love can move a mountain

Someday we’ll know why the sky is blue

Someday we’ll know why I wasn’t meant for you

I bought a ticket to the end of the rainbow

I watched the stars crash in the sea

If I could ask God just one question…

Why aren’t you here with me… tonight

Went to dinner with the gang tonight. We ate at Hannah’s, it’s a Euro-Asian Infusion place. I guess that means they have a bit of everything (from Irish Stew to Sushi), but because it’s Euro-Asian Infusion they get to charge twenty bucks a dish. I’m feeling pretty down. Melancholy, I guess. I miss CJ terribly. Going out with a lot of people was great at first… it was a great distraction from his absence in my life. Now it’s kind of worse to be in a group than to be alone. Everyone is nice, but I'm so depressed I must be a downer for all of them. Plus, it makes my heart ache to watch couples interact. The brush of hand, a shared story or joke. It just makes me miss him more. We were so much a part of each other’s lives, we were so in sync; his absence is such a weight on my heart. The worst part is walking to my car and driving home alone, back to the empty house we only shared for one month. Oh, I miss him so much. I keep trying to act happy and strong for every body else’s benefit. But, oh it hurts. It’s not that I can’t handle being alone. It’s that I can’t handle being without him. I loved him so much.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to recover from the loss of CJ’s friendship. I’m not sure who my best friend is now. No one, really. He knew me so well… inside and out, through and through. Most of the time, he knew me better than I knew myself. He was clever, so sweet… so honest. His importance in my life will never be replaced. I’m beginning to really feel his absence, and it makes me realize how much it’s going to suck to be alone for the rest of my life. I will never find another love like the one I had. I just wanted to be happy…

1-22-05

Another day, another dollar, I guess. Yesterday was Saturday, but I can’t remember what I did in the day time. I think I went shopping yesterday, at Target.

God, yesterday seems like last year.

I just sit there and stare at the walls in the dark… sometimes I try to imagine CJ lying there in the bed with me, holding me, comforting me. It doesn’t really work, and it hurts more than it helps because it seems to underline his absence.

The rest of the day has pretty much sucked. I cried for a long time today… well, screamed and sobbed more than cried. I just miss him so much. And it hurts almost more than I can bear sometimes. Other times I can push it away, so it’s almost not real, but other times it just hurts so much. God I love him. I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to say “love” or “loved”. And why does that matter? It’s not ever going to be better…

I feel so cold… so bitter and angry. Mostly I just hurt. I want him to be here so much and there is nothing I can do to make it happen. All I have to do is manage to live through it. Yeah. No problem. Piece of fucking cake.

1-26-05

Yesterday was a pretty good day.

Today's not going quite so well... I slept until nearly noon today. I’m feeling pretty down. I miss CJ like crazy. God, I just fucking miss him so much. I feel so alone in so many ways. I’m continually dragged down by the loss of my friend, the most incredible man I ever met. There just isn’t anybody else like him in the whole world, there isn't anyone who knew, loved and appreciated me the way CJ did. And that knowledge just seems to compound my sense of loss and loneliness.

1-27-05, around 3:00 AM

I’m curious as to how many of us are awake right now. I tried to sleep for awhile, but to no avail. Well, it’s Friday, which signals the end of the work week for most of the people I know. Just another day in the life for me, I suppose. Nothing new to report, except for the fact that I’m not asleep when I should be, and that I wish I was.

2-1-06

Well, today marks the one month anniversary of CJ’s death. I notice I’m starting to have more “bad” days, and the nights are definitely getting harder. I just miss him so much; the sense of anxiety, of isolation is, at times, crushing. I’m really not sure how I’m supposed to learn to live without him. Alone is a very poor substitute. Through every other rough stretch of road, I’ve always had someone else there to listen, to help and to lean on. I never realized how incredibly difficult it is to stand alone. I mean, I have other friends… but... I miss CJ, I miss his presence; but more than that, I miss the intimacy and depth of our relationship. I miss having someone to cry on, to laugh with… take care of and be taken care of.

2-5-06

I miss him terribly, I just miss him so fucking much. Sundays are definitely the worst day of the week for me, emotionally speaking. I just really miss my friend and my lover. It truly sucks to be alone in the world. Please, God, give me strength and lend me hope.

I went out to the crash site on Thursday. It didn’t really affect me as I thought it would. I was really dreading going out there, but it was…ok. I guess it does help somehow to have a clearer understanding in my mind of what happened. In the end, having him gone is the greatest loss and seeing where and how he died can neither worsen nor diminish the pain of that fact.

2-9-06

It’s Thursday. It’s been a hard evening. I miss him so much I have no words to describe it. I don’t want to be here anymore; I want to go home. I can live without him (probably... maybe), but I really don’t want to anymore. I just want him here so much… I miss my best friend. There is no one else that really matters to me. With the exception of of a few people, I don’t really care anymore. I just want my love back – I feel so alone. I love him so much. I have no purpose, no reason for being here anymore. I’ve never hurt so much in my life. I don’t know why I’m still here. I really don’t think that I’ll ever be whole again. I’m not even sure I’ll ever be really happy again. I want CJ, I really just want to be held and loved. God, I miss my friend.

God, why did you leave me? Why did this happen? What the fuck am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? I really don’t know. Nothing matters, nothing.

I don’t have anything I want to do or places I want to go, because I’ll be doing or going alone. More specifically, I’ll be doing or going without CJ. And if that’s the case what’s the point… what’s the goddamn point? Life is such a funny thing. Precarious, pointless. Painful. I’ll continue to exist, I guess. I’m not suicidal (I figure if I put it in writing it must be true), I’m just pointless. Directionless, I guess is a better term. The question of the reason for living has never weighed so heavily on my mind. He’s my whole life, and very really a huge part of my self – my identity. I can’t talk to anyone else because I don’t want them to see me crash – I want to give them hope, not make them despair.

No one has any clue what I’m going through. They’ll all be fine. Their lives will all go on, they’ll all move on without me. I just want my life back. Things were just starting to go right. I was going to make it work – we were going to be great. What the fuck happened?

You know, I’d feel better if I really thought there was an afterlife. Or if I felt like there was a fucking reason for all of this. If I thought that someday I’d see him again or that someday I’d have all the answers. But I’m just not sure anymore. I have hope, but I’ve lost so much faith. I feel so lost, lost in the woods. In a lot of ways, it still feels unreal. I’m not sure it will ever feel real. Realization comes in degrees, not in tectonic jumps. That’s why sometimes you’re ok, and sometimes you’re just not. I want my husband back. CJ is the only thing in my life that seems like it matters, mattered. When I look towards the future, I don’t see anything because the only thing I want is to be in love like I was, to have him here by my side as he always has been. I keep coming back to lines in the Princess Bride. Death cannot stop true love… What a load of crap. It’s funny too, because I used to believe it. What do I believe now? I just really never thought that anything could happen to him, you know? I thought he was… eternal.

Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares? It’s just that I like to have a plan – it’s one of my defining characteristics, dontcha know? Oh, but God I miss you CJ.

Until I find the reason for this scarring of my soul it will be hard to move forward. To move forward you have to have something you’re headed towards. Otherwise you’re just standing still and letting time move you along at her own pace, until she finally shoves you off the edge into oblivion.

Well this it Now

Everybody get down

This is all I can take,

This is how a heart breaks

=================================================

I’m alone in the universe

So alone in the universe

They all call me a lunatic

Ok, call me a lunatic

If I stand on my own so be it

One small voice in the universe

One True friend in the universe

Who believes in me

No one notices anything

Not one person is listening

They don’t have any way of knowing

2-11-06

Nothing new to report; the days continue to pass in quick succession, with little concern to my existence in them. I am feeling a bit better than last we spoke. I went to see a movie by myself last night. I don’t mind going to movies alone, hell – I don’t mind being a lone in general. It’s the overriding sense of being alone for the rest of my life. I’ll just never really find another friend like CJ, that’s all. It’s very hard to adapt to.

2-14-06, 1:14 AM

One of the grieving books I’ve been reading has an interesting insight on interpreting the sudden death of a spouse. It says that rather than searching for the meaning of the death, you should instead look for the meaning of the relationship. Why did the relationship need to begin in the first place, on a spiritual or personal level? I’m not sure this question is fair. It assumes once again that CJ’s life, like my mothers, was in large part to help me, to serve my ends and purposes more than their own. I feel it diminishes his life and death to try to analyze why he was present and necessary in my life.

Today happens to be Valentines Day. My first holiday without CJ. I’m very glad that it’s something inconsequential, and not – you know – Christmas. Or New Years. Ha Ha Ha. Yeah, I know that's not funny. I don’t think that it will bother me too bad, as CJ and I never really celebrated this holiday with any sincerity. I just hope no one asks me if I got anything, or wants to tell me all about what they got or did.

In the moments when I’m not overcome with grief (which are, thankfully, still comparatively rare – I’m attributing this to a continuing sense of shock and denial), I feel a vague sense of curiosity about what comes next in this saga that headlines as my life. I can’t help but think that to lose CJ and Mom both means that there are further huge personal developments waiting in the wings. That, for whatever reason, I had to go through this trial-by-fire to be prepared for whatever may be coming next. I just hope that whatever comes next is not worse. I must admit that a part of me is very afraid that it’s more downhill than uphill from here forward. But, goddamnit, I deserve a break here, someday, don't I?

I just want to understand. I have no clue where to go from here but blindly forward, so I guess we’ll see where that takes me.

Seems like just yesterday

You were a part of me

I used to stand so tall

I used to be so strong,

Your arms around me tight

Everything felt so right

Unbreakable, like nothing could go wrong

I told you everything

Opened up and let you in

You made me feel all right

For once in my life

Now all that’s left of me

Is what I pretend to be

So together, but so broken up inside

Now I can’t breathe

No I can’t sleep

I’m barely hanging on

Here I am, once again

I’m torn into pieces

Can’t deny it, can’t pretend

Just thought you were the one

Broken up, deep inside

But you won’t get to see the tears I cry

2-19-06, 2:00 AM

I can’t sleep. I miss CJ so much it aches at the very core of me. It's been nearly two months since I've really slept. I find that I’m coming to resent being with normal people very much. It seems like everyone else’s life is getting back to normal right when mine is beginning to fall apart. The sense of isolation is profound.

I’m at such a loss. I don’t know where to go, what to do or where I belong now. I yearn in desperation for someone to talk to, but there is no one. Not that it matters, because I don’t really want or need to talk. I need to yell and scream and sob and break things and kill people. There is so much on my mind and so much shock/hurt/anger/fear locked up in my soul – but there's no one left to help me carry this burden because they're both dead. Everyone that's left has their own burden to carry, or has no responsibility, inclination or obligation to help me with mine.

Everything still seems so unbelievable to me. How can CJ be dead? Dead, dead, dead. He was invincible, eternal. Essential. My mind continues to reject this contingency; continues to reject the truth. I’m trying to maintain some sort of forward momentum, but the currents keep dragging me back down, drag me down and drown me. There is no comfort, no retreat, no way out – the only two directions left are forward and down, but forward is getting a lot harder to maintain.

I just feel so lost, so purposeless. Is purposeless a word? Probably not. Pointless then. My life has no purpose. I have no purpose, no point. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, one day behind the next and eventually, someday, you’ll outlive your pain (or die trying). That’s what everyone tells me. But why bother putting one foot in front of the other if you’ve got no where left to go? Once again, what’s the fucking point? When you’ve lost everything that ever mattered, what reason is there left to live? I’ve always lived my life with the expectation that someday things will be all right, that they’ll be better. What a sick fucking sense of humor the universe has, huh?

I’m reminded of Poe’s Annabel Lee, who was knocked off by a bunch of angels who became jealous of such a perfect love. You gotta love Poe, man: the original master of macabre and champion of the depressed and manic insomniac.

2-28-06

Last day in February means two months have past since CJ’s departure.

I miss CJ very much, but am getting by. Like Zoe says in Serenity: “She’s pretty tore up, sir; but she’ll fly true.” I’m incredibly lonely without CJ, but I think I have come to a place of greater acceptance. I will be alright. Someday. Right now I’m just getting by, settling for ok. I’m not sure why I’m still here; I hope it’s an important reason. Time is so fucking relative. I know, on a deeper level, that the two or twenty or sixty years I’m destined to remain here (left behind) are nothing in the grand scheme. It just doesn’t always feel that way, you know? I miss you Siege.

3-8-06, 3:05 AM

I realize that I haven’t been writing in this journal nearly as often; I surmise that this is a sign of progress. All in all, I’ve been feeling better over the past week or two… much better. I still miss CJ terribly, he resides in about 70-80% of my waking thought. I still love him and wish he was here, but I’m coming to a place where emotionally I feel as though things are alright. I still feel him, miss him, need him, want him; but I no longer feel paralyzed or debilitated by grief. The difference between a sprained ankle and a broken spine, I guess. They both hamper your ability to move forward, but one’s a lot worse than the other. I’m probably at the broken leg or ripped knee cartilage stage: I’ll be able to walk again, but only after time and physical therapy. Wow… that was a really bad extended metaphor… oh well.

3-13-06

OK. I'm delusional. I am NOT feeling better, I will NEVER feel better. The past three or four days have seemed especially rough on me. CJ’s absence is a stinging, gaping, throbbing, aching pain in my chest. I miss him constantly. It hurts so much that at times I feel like I can’t breathe. I keep telling myself to hang in there. That I will be ok. That I will make it. That I will pull through. I don’t think I’m falling for it though. Some moments in life are so short and others seem to drag on and on. There are some days that I really just don’t want to be here anymore. Dear God, I miss him so much. I’m just not sure I’m strong enough to drag myself through this. Oh, it hurts. I want my husband back. I want my life back. That or I want to die. "Be not discontented, for the Lord is at your side. You have what you need. Have faith, for you shall receive the help you need to find your way".

3-24-06

My computer hard drive died a horrible death last week, which is why I haven’t made any recent entries. Well, that and the fact that there’s really nothing new to report. Somedays I feel pretty good and somedays I want to shoot myself (literally on both counts). Same old story, I guess. I must sound incredibly redundant. I miss him, and that sentence is both complete and utterly incapable of expressing the depth of pain. Boy, aren't I depressing? Otherwise things are going ok... (other than this big gaping hole in my chest where my soul use to be I'm in perfect health, doctor.)

I used to think we made our own direction in life; I guess that’s still true. But I also know that when one barely has the willpower to get up in the morning that charting out a new life course takes on gargantuan possibilities. Don’t you love that word? Gargantuan. I so rarely get to use it in a sentence. Anyway, it’s 4:32 AM. I guess I better try to get some sleep, eh? I don’t feel sleepy, I just feel tired, exhausted, drained, old. It’s either one or the other: either I sleep fifteen hours a day or I sleep two.

3-29-06

A whole group of us went to dinner this evening. It was ok, but the whole thing left me feeling agitated for no particular reason. Well, actually, one particular reason. The fact is that all of us being together in one place and time emphasizes, italicizes and underlines CJ’s absence. His absence and my continued presence. I feel more isolated and alone, especially when I’m surrounded by couples. Everyone seemed a little awkward together. It’s been a hard week, I’ve broken down repeatedly almost everyday. I miss him so much that the grief seems like a burning, aching pain at the back of my chest. You know, where my heart used to be. I started a blog, and posted some of the essays I’d written at the beginning of this dialogue. I figure I’ll add more as the mood suits me. Maybe people will read it. Maybe they won’t. I don’t suppose it matters; I don't suppose I care. God, there's so much I don't care about anymore... In the end, I just hope it helps somebody to heal a little. Me... for instance.

And that brings us up to date, I suppose. I have several other topic oriented essays I will post as days go by. I want you, oh lost and mourning reader, to know that there ARE good days in between the bad ones. But you don't have to suffer alone, either. Whether you share your pain with others or you don't, I hope this posting of my grief helps you to anonymously know that you are not alone and that you will make it, as cliched as it is, with time. (Let's all say the line together, boys and girls... One Day At A Time... very good. You all get gold stars). If you have no one else to talk to, you can always talk to the rest of us anonymous souls wandering the wastelands of cyberspace as we search for meaning at three o'clock in the morning.

Books for those in Grief and Mourning

2006-03-29T05:04:00.000-08:00

This is just a list of some of the books I've read that might be helpful to those searching for insight. Of course, what you're really searching for is answers, but we'll never find those. As such, insight is just about as close as we can come in our gropings for meanings in the face of death, especially unexpected death. If you have read other books that you would like to recommend, please feel free to add the titles, authors and a description as a comment at the end of this post.

I'm Grieving As Fast As I Can, Linda Sones Feinberg - This is a book written especially for young widows. Being young and alone is a very unique experience, and one that lacks coverage in most grieving material. This book deals specifically with the issues facing young widows and widowers, such as parenting after the loss of a spouse, dating, the in-laws and feeling alienation from others in our age group and social circles. It's a very good book and though not really helpful in helping you deal with any specific issues or grief blocks, it does cover a lot of the range of emotion you may be having trouble sharing with your friends and family. It includes a lot of testimonials from other widowed people, which helps relieve the feeling of isolation and guilt about our feelings. This book actually inspired the name of this blog, as the blog title was what I kept referring to the book as when I mentioned it in my journal or to friends.

The Worst Loss, Barbara Rosof - This book was mentioned to me by my mother-in-law a number of times and it recieved many good reviews from readers on Amazon. Several of the reader reviews mentioned that this was the best book they had read, and that it was very helpful to them. This book is for parents who have suffered the loss of their child and it covers several topics including suicides, adult and childhood deaths, sudden death and your relationship with your spouse after the death of a child.

I Wasn't Ready to Say Goodbye, Brook Noel and Pamela Blair - Also an excellent book, actually the best one I've read. This book specifically deals with those who are mourning someone who died suddenly. It has several different sections dealing with spouses, parents, siblings and the death of children. Both of the authors have suffered the unexpected death of a loved one and their writing is correspondingly sympathetic, understanding and supportive. The book is especially good at presenting comforting and important information, no matter what your personal belief system may be, and includes a number of exercises for helping to move through (rather than beyond) grief.

The Bible, God (or a bunch of old, dead, white guys, depending upon your point of view) - I've acutally never read this one, nor do I intend to, but I have heard from several people that comfort, salvation and answers are to be found within. The guy with the flowers down at the airport assures me that reading this book will put you on the fast track to understanding the death of your loved one and being at peace with said death. However, the guy with the flowers at the airport seemed a little shady to me... but I promised I'd pass the message along. Personally I think if you want a message from God, you're better off talking to Him yourself. I've spent many hours yelling at him, but I think he's put me on call waiting. (I'm sorry, God is currently busy. Please try your call again later. If you require immediate assistance or results, you could always try the Devil. His lines are always open. Thank you for calling, and have a nice life).

Mom's Birthday, Five Months After Her Death

2006-03-29T03:19:00.000-08:00

I wrote this essay last November - five months after mom died, one month before CJ died.

Today is my mother’s birthday. She would have been fifty-one. I spent the day taking her clothes out of the closets and drawers and putting them into plastic bags, to be taken next week to the women’s shelter. Mom had a lot of clothes, and she had a lot of nice clothes. She took great care of things, all her work clothes were dry-cleaned and hung up, all of them were good brands. Every once in a while I came across an item that had been worn and then hung up again. These things, usually suit jackets, smell strongly of her, of her perfume, and they fill me with a profound sense of loss and sadness. It is amazing to me how much there was. I have the habit of going through my wardrobe a few times per year to purge out items that I no longer want or wear, or that don’t fit. I find that very few objects retain emotional significance to me, I believe that things are inherently replaceable. Mom saved everything. There were pieces of clothing that I know she hadn’t worn in years, pieces that I recognize from pictures of us when I was eight, and many pieces that still had the tags. In one back closet I found the denim suit and turquoise shirt she wore on her wedding day.

I find that I can only work at packing this kind of stuff for very short periods of time. I spend a lot of time alternately crying or trying hard not to cry and I find the effort exhausting. Dad seems a bit saddened by the day’s significance as well, though we go to careful lengths to avoid mentioning it or our feelings to each other. At the end of the day Dad takes me to KFC for dinner. I don’t eat much, I’m not hungry; I feel plagued by an overriding sense of the surreal.

I feel trapped, and extremely depressed. I sincerely hope that I will regain my sense of balance, direction and purpose upon my return home. There are two ways to look at my current situation: profound hope or profound fear. I have always been afraid that if I don’t make every effort to fulfill and achieve my greatest potential and ability, that one day I will look back and deeply regret and resent my life. I look at my life and know that I could find great happiness and joy without ever going back to school and becoming someone of prolific success and importance. But there is a part of me that finds that appalling and sees such a life as lazy, selfish, failure. John once said to me that he was uncomfortable becoming a speech coach because it was the easy road. I know exactly what he means. If you don’t have to struggle and fight to achieve your life, can it still be said to be worth anything? On the other hand, my mother fought and struggled for her achievements and to secure my own… and look where she is.

In the end, this is the cowards way of life – always flitting back and forth between a discontent with where one is, but a profound fear of what the future may not hold as opposed to what it may. I’m twenty-five years old. In one sense my life could already be half over. Sometimes it seems that way to me. CJ told me once that he refused to believe that he as himself today could possibly have fewer options than he did at seventeen. I think I may have been going about my life all wrong. I always wanted recognition for achievement more than I wanted to achieve anything itself. I am terrified of waking up one morning to find that I failed to become something, but I have no clue what that something ought to be. Mostly, I’m tired of being afraid of what may not be, and I desire desperately to find hope in what may. I want to be able to be content with what I am and what I have right now, instead of being discontented because it should be better five years from now. I have lived a long time trying to prove something, and I’m tired of that. For once, I just want to live for today instead of striving to be something else tomorrow. I find that it is very, very difficult to change such perceptions.

There is a line in Julius Ceasar, in scene two of act two where Ceasar, when his wife bids him not to go to the senate because she has had dreams of him being killed, responds that “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” This line seems to crystallize my fear of the future. I’m terribly afraid of growing older, of running out of time, of not being enough in the end. This fear is paralyzing to my ability to enjoy life in an average way, to be happy in the present. I will send my application to Denver and see what they say back, but it doesn’t feel like a priority anymore. Instead, I want a home. I want to be a family with CJ, to be his friend, and help us both find happiness. I don’t know what will become of me, but I’m going to try and find peace and happiness on a day to day as opposed to a year to year basis. It’s just too short, it’s all too short. In the end I think my mom achieved a lot. She was an incredibly professional, dedicated and successful woman. But I don’t think she was ever truly content or truly happy. There may come a day when I do go back to school, when I do manage to become someone of note. But for right now, I feel the need to step back and find out for once what it is that will make me happy, because, God help me, I don’t want to die at fifty without ever having been truly content with myself or my life. I hope that this won’t be too much of a disappointment to you, mom. It just seems terrible to think that I view your life as sadder than your death. That on some level I’m more depressed by how unhappy you were while alive than I am by your leaving us.

Morning at Starbucks

2006-03-29T03:14:00.000-08:00

This essay was written in October. Four months after mom died, two months before CJ died.

I’m headed back to Oklahoma today after a short visit in Vegas. CJ has gotten tired of living in Oklahoma and is enthused about returning home and getting his life back on track. Even more importantly, he’s enthused about returning to a place with seven different flavors of high-speed internet access. We stopped at Starbucks on the way to the airport. Over the past month in Oklahoma I’ve found myself having frequent dreams about going to Starbucks. Not doing anything there, just going, getting myself a decent cup of coffee and sitting there enjoying the benefits of blissful consumerism. Yes, I realize how sad that is. CJ hates coffee and isn’t particularly fond of Starbucks in general; he is baffled by both my desire to go to them and my enjoyment of their atmosphere. I think it harkens back to my college days. I have spent quite a bit of time and money at Starbucks over the past few days here, and maintain nostalgic memories of good friends and a simpler life. I have had several lattes and peppermint mochas already this trip, but I want to get one more fix on the way to the airport before I’m shuttered back off to Cushing.

As we pull into the busy morning parking lot, CJ has to park nearly a block away. This Starbucks is at a very busy spot along the route from upper-class Summerlin and the Lakes area down to the Strip and business districts, so there is never a lack of morning customers jockeying for position in the drive-thru lane. For some reason, I’d never really realized how busy this place was, but after months in rural isolation I see it in a new light. It now occurs to me as a testament to the frenzied pace of modern life when people can’t even spare the time to get out of their cars for a cup of joe. Most of the people here this morning are in their business suits on their way to work, with their cell phones attached to their belt buckles or purse straps, and earpieces stuck to the side of their heads to quickly facilitate any business related communication. They remind me of the Borg. I’m startled by the loud screeching of tires as we walk up the ramp towards the front door; a Mercedes has nearly t-boned a Lexus as they both sped toward the drive-thru window. The gentleman in the Lexus leans out his window and glares at the gentleman in the Mercedes. “Asshole!”

“Hey, fuck you!” responds the man in the Mercedes with an appropriately communicative hand gesture. The matter having apparently been settled, the silver Lexus pulls forward as the driver peruses his caffeinated options. None of the patrons seem startled by this exchange, most of them looked amused. I’m suddenly, strongly overcome with the image some wild pack of dogs – like hyenas, or jackals – fighting over the last ham steak of a downed gazelle.

The ROMEO Club

2006-03-29T03:06:00.000-08:00

Dad and I ritually eat breakfast between eight and eight-thirty at the local McDonald’s. I’ve never been a huge fan of McDonald’s (especially their bland breakfast offerings), but if I’m not awake, dressed and coherent by the requisite time Dad comes over and honks his horn outside of my bedroom window until I am. I believe this serves as punishment for sins against humanity in a previous life; Dad believes this serves as entertainment. Dad’s dog, Odie, goes with us every morning and is given his very own breakfast burrito, a practice I find detrimental to the dog’s manners and well-being. Odie disagrees.

The predominantly Chow-mixed mutt has gotten into the obnoxious habit of barking incessantly the entire way to Mickey-D’s and back, announcing to the world his incredible fortune in having such well-trained humans. In response to this racket, Dad has taken to slamming on the brakes every time the dog barks, propelling Odie forward across the truck bed and into the back window. As a result, the drive to McDonalds has quickly become the most exciting part of my day.

“I need you to get that financial statement printed up today, Sis.”

I brace my knee against the dash as he slams on the brakes, watching the Lincoln behind us swerve in the side-view mirror. “Yeah, I know, Dad. I’ve just been really busy. I’ve still got-“

“Oh, and see if you can’t do something with that order form Ron’s little girl sent over,” he cuts in. “I told them I’d have my secretary get right on it,” he adds with a good-natured wink and another gut-wrenching, tire-squealing attack on the brakes.

His recent habit of constantly referring to me as his secretary has started to get on my nerves. The first month I was here I had taken it upon myself to do everything for Dad: his grocery shopping, taking care of the bills and mail, hacking through all the red tape associated with settling mom’s death and assets and compiling a more accessible filing system for Dad’s records. I felt that because of the insurmountable grief he must be enduring that I should handle all the stressful things, so that he could go out to his shop and distract himself with his projects and toys. Because of this he assumes that I am more than willing to continue handling all the minutiae of his daily life and routinely provides me with a list of things that he could easily be taking care of himself. Even worse, he has begun to sign me up for menial jobs as favors to my grandparents and his friends. I’m suddenly much more sympathetic and aware of all the complaints my mom used to make about having to handle everyone else’s problems.

The problem is that I’m trying to take care of all the rest of mom’s collected things before I leave in December, which has basically turned into a full-fledged, full-time eBay business. This endeavor has left me with little time (and little inclination) to fill out Dad’s magazine subscriptions, do his laundry or mail his bills, jobs I’m certain he should be doing for himself. However, anytime I try to relay any of this to Dad he gets this hurt look on his face, or tells me how I’m “just so much better” at that kind of thing, but that he’ll bravely “try to muddle through.” Behind me Odie yelps as he hits the back window before resuming his high-pitched yipping at a passing jogger.

Mostly due to a lack of traffic this early in the morning we miraculously make it all the way across town to arrive at McDonald’s without having been rear-ended. The Cushing McDonald’s is unlike any other McDonald’s I’ve ever been to. It’s owned by a local elderly lady and her eldest son, and it’s always the same familiar, cheery faces that greet us every morning. They know our order by heart and have most of it assembled and rung up by the time we get from the door to the cash register. The weirdest part of it though, is how freaking friendly everyone is, how happy they seem to be working at Mickey-D’s at six o’clock in the fucking morning. Having never, ever been to a McDonald’s where the employees seemed both thrilled to serve you and thrilled to have jobs as cogs in the wheels of corporate America, I always get the sense I’ve entered the Twilight Zone when we pick up our food.

Usually it’s just me and Dad, but I’m spared from the conversation today as Tubby, one of Dad’s role models, happens to be joining us for breakfast. Whereas Dad has only maybe five or six acres of broken-down stuff, Tubby must have close to fifty. He is the archetypal horse-trader, making his living going amongst his followers, trading this or that for the other thing. Dad recently traded something from his unfinished project pile to Tubby for his favorite new acquisition: a bizarre little motor home, with an outer shell reminiscent of a ‘50’s style space ship and an interior upholstered in resplendent red velvet and faded pink lace. Dad refers to it as his “former-cat-house-on-wheels,” and has proudly taken pictures of this cultural oddity with his mobile phone so he can show it off to his friends at truck and tractor shows. He’s also using the poor little thing as an excuse to buy cheap used pick-up trucks, in case one of them actually comes with a title and can be used to carry the motor home into the great blue yonder of future traveling adventures.

Tubby is wearing the same ensemble he was dressed in the last time I saw him: grimy denim overalls, a frayed flannel shirt and an old, abused trucker’s cap. He sits down and happily engages my father in a discussion of transmissions in sixties-era Fords. Since he’s married, I hadn’t taken Tubby as a member of the ROMEO Club, and so I must assume that he only eats breakfast at McDonald’s on special occasions. The ROMEO Club became an inside joke between my father and I after he pointed it out as one of the social oddities of the local McDonalds. Apparently, the small town hot-spot serves as the usual breakfasting choice for most of the town’s older bachelors and widowers, giving rise to the acronym for Really Old Men Eating Out. On any given morning you can find a number of elderly gentlemen sitting alone in their plastic booths, eating their McMuffins, wiping their beards, reading their newspapers and downing the acidic witch’s brew that McDonald’s brazenly advertises as coffee. A few of the local, single lady seniors have caught on to this trend and forgo their own home-cooking in case a romantic opportunity presents itself over the potato cakes and pre-manufactured flapjacks. Ah yes, breakfast at the Cushing McDonald’s is rife with sexual tension and unrequited love simmering beneath a flimsy senior citizen disguise.

“At least the durn music’s not so loud today,” Tubby observes after the transmission discussion has been exhausted. “Usually they’ve got the music blaring out of the speakers so loud, why, you can’t even hear yourself talk! One time when I was here, and they had that music blaring, why I said sumthin’. I walked right up to one of them kids and I said ‘You think you could turn that blasted music down, as I’m trying to have myself a conversation?’ and do you know that kid got fresh with me?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Yessiree, she got fresh with me. Said how she didn’t have to turn it down. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t have to eat here!’ and I turned around and I left!” His nose it stuck up in the air and he wears the barely-controlled-indignant-fury look of the righteously vindicated. I wonder to myself if he really thinks his bold act of capitalist choice really meant a damn thing to the “kid” or to the behemoth corporation by which she’s employed; somehow, I doubt it.

“Kids today!” A woman at the table behind us interjects. “They ain’t got no respect for nobody! Running around with their spiky hair and their rude t-shirts. All of ‘em need a good beatin’, that’s what!” she adds, slapping an open hand on the table for emphasis. My father and Tubby nod sagely at this opinion. While most small towns carry several brands of social stratification, age is one of the truest. If you are anywhere under the age of 42 you are still resigned to the children’s table, expected to address all your elders with ma’am and sir, and are obligated to listen attentively and respectfully to any stories they think you need to hear or advice you need to be given (no matter how many times you may have heard said stories or advice before). Such social expectations are ignored at your own peril, as most of the elder citizenry seems to believe that good beatings are the best remedy for such misguided behavior, and most of them carry wooden canes.

After breakfast we head across the street to Tubby’s place so Dad can pick up a tractor wheel he’d bought from Tubby last week. Tubby’s lot is covered by row after row of old, neglected equipment and rusted used vehicles, each waiting for some person with skill and vision to come along and pick them out of the sad pile to be put to good use again. As he rummages through piles of miscellaneous car parts looking for Dad’s wheel, Tubby tells us he’s planning on selling out his property in Cushing so he can retire outside of town limits. Apparently, he’s taken offense to new city regulations that have declared the display of his trade wares on the front lawn as a blight on the cosmetic face of the community.

“It’s a whole bunch of new people, younger people… that’s what. New people comin’ in with their fancy ways and city-fied ideas on how to do things. I’ve lived out here for over sixty years, been a pillar of the community, a member of the chamber of commerce! What do they know about this damn town? And here they are, just comin’ in to change things so they can stand up later and say they changed sumthin’. Boy I tell you, it sure ain’t like it used to be.”

“Boy, ain’t that the truth,” Dad agrees solemnly. They stare at the tires of Dad’s truck for a few moments in quiet contemplation of days and ways gone by. Finally Dad breaks the silence by changing the subject to one of his current favorite topics. “Hey Tubby, you see this little pick-up I got down in Agra a couple of weeks ago? I only paid two-fifty for it! Runs like a dream!” Dad says proudly, beaming at the truck with a wide-legged stance, arms crossed over his chest in the eternal pose of Man Admiring Machine.

“Well!” says Tubby loudly as he assumes the same stance in an enduring symbol of commaderie and brotherhood. “Can’t beat that can you?”

An Oklahoma Auction

2006-03-29T02:49:00.000-08:00

Dad and I are going to an auction today. This is one of the cultural oddities of Oklahoma: the estate auction. Most small towns of Oklahoma look remarkably similar. Former boom towns from the high days of Texas tea (oil, that is), they all have a patently fifties-style main street, full of brick storefronts facing off side by side across a wide avenue. While there may be some unique small stores, almost all forms of local business fall into the same categories: hardware store, gas station, super Wal-mart (or, in even less prosperous towns, a regular Wal-mart and a locally owned grocery store), one or two fast food joints and a few antiques stores to draw in any tourists who might be passing through. Many of the store fronts stand empty, with their sad and faded signs proclaiming the business need they use to fill. Aside from these quaint and common local revenues there are only three businesses thriving in rural Oklahoma: healthcare, senior home care facilities and providers, and funeral-related services. Every town I’ve been to has a hospital, at least two cemeteries and a few funeral homes. Tiny little Cushing has three funeral homes that I can think of off the top of my head and the only new building to be constructed in a decade is an advanced healthcare center on the edge of town.

What all of this basically means is that the strongest client base in Oklahoma is a lot more likely to be checking out than checking in. One of the by-products of the Circle of Life out here in the middle of nowhere is that every weekend is populated by estate auctions and property sales, mostly instigated by children living in a different state who want to clear their deceased parents’ belongings as expeditiously as possible, or widows who can’t stand to be alone in their family homes anymore. The auction we’re headed to today is one of the latter. My parents went to auctions frequently, and my mother spoke of them often, so I’m enthusiastic about going to one.

While I have been a professional eBayer for years now, I have never been to an actual, real-life auction before. Wait, I take that back; I forgot about Enlows. Enlows is sacred to my father. It is a large (mostly tractor and farm equipment) auction that takes place on the first Wednesday of every month in Tulsa. My dad waits anxiously for this monthly event and schedules all other priorities, appointments, financial obligations and family gatherings around it. The man would hail Hitler as Jesus before he’d miss Enlows.

I have, sacrilegiously, only been to Enlows once, and once was enough. We have to leave at six (no later than seven) to make it to Tulsa in time. I really believe this deadline owes more to Dad’s childlike excitement of undiscovered treasures than it owes to being late to the auction. Some people come from as far as California to participate in Enlows monthly tractor auction. There are two categories of merchandise: new equipment and salvage. Dad tells me that they have very stringent demands for the things that go in the new equipment line, so most things that have seen any use at all usually show up in Salvage. People bring stuff from hundreds of miles away to sell, and many equipment dealers and manufacturers use the auction to quickly off-load machinery. The local law enforcement agency also uses Enlows to liquidate crime-related repossessions and wrecked squad cars.

CJ and I were shocked by the buying psychology of Enlows bidders the first time we attended. While nearly working, decent condition, just-needs-some-TLC tractors went for far below their worth, completely trashed machinery, useful only for spare parts, went for much more than said parts could ever be worth. Jim, my dad’s neighbor and best friend, quipped that if you have a nice tractor you want to sell you ought to take it out, set it on fire and roll it down a hill first. While I laughed at first, I quickly realized he wasn’t joking. I take this phenomenon philosophically. I mean, the trashed tractor may not be worth much to the naked eye, but it spells something very valuable to the people massed at Enlows: potential. These tractors will take months to ever make work again, but they present the possibility of being made to work again. The tractors that run? Well, they just don’t have as much to offer. The trashed ones are like maps to sunny beaches with the possibility of ancient hidden treasure. The working ones are like mutual fund stock portfolios. A lot less risky and challenging form of investment, but a lot more boring.

The first time we went there were three items I distinctly remember being up for bid. One was a year-old Audi two-seat sportster that had been repossessed when a drug dealer was nabbed; they’d found $10,000 dollars in a hidden compartment in the gas tank. It had a great sound system and leather interior, and was in really nice shape with low mileage. The car next to it was a Chevy Caprice that had lived a former life as a police squad car before becoming corrupt and running drugs as well. It had been refurbished with expensive custom rims and a sound system worth thousands. The last car was a slightly beat-up ’73 Mustang coupe, red. The popularity contest was a clear win for the Coupe, as elderly farmers lined up around it to tell lies about their misbegotten youth. In the end the Mustang went for $14,000, the Lincoln went for less than the worth of the sub-woofer (let alone the custom rims), and the Audi barely trudged over the $4,500 mark.

Almost everyone you see at Enlows is old, white, male, dressed in coveralls and wearing a John Deer ball cap (with the occasional Allis-Chalmers thrown in for variety and competition). Most of the few ladies who attend Enlows sit inside on the bleacher stands where it’s cooler or warmer than the weather outside. This suits most of the menfolk just fine, as they don’t want any interference with the competitive bidding wars that lie at the heart of Enlows, harkening back to a simpler time and place where men fought nobly for resources, mano e mano. Oh, the ultimate embarrassment: the tag-along-wife, crying out loudly to a bidding husband, “Why on earth did you buy that?”

Dad, Jim and Grandpa have worked out a system for hiding their purchases from their wives. Since all three of their properties share the backline, they just put everything in the middle and if any of the women ask about a new acquisition they point to the man across the way as the culprit of the new purchase – “That? Oh no, that’s, uh…. that’s Fred’s. Yeah, yeah he bought it last Wednesday at Enlow’s, honey. What? No, of course I don’t think it’s ugly!”

I have since been banned from Enlows for such gender blasphemy. The problem started when my father exuberantly bought my husband a riding lawn mower to fix up (my father being under the impression that every real man needs a riding lawn mower). When I patiently explained to Dad that this was stupid because in two months we were moving back to Vegas where, thank God, there is no grass to mow, he denounced me as an interfering female who is no longer allowed to attend the sacred ritual that is Enlows. My husband, however, is still welcome, expected and obligated to be up at six o’clock on the first Tuesday of every month. I take my banishment with studied remorse and silent gratitude.

The auction we are attending today is quite a different matter. It is what is known as a living estate auction. This means that the owner is still alive, but wishes to liquidate all of their property for some reason. In this country that often means for health bills or because a surviving spouse wishes to downsize their formerly shared property. We’re up by seven, have had our habitual breakfast at McDonalds by eight and are on the road. The auction today is in Prague, OK, about 35 miles away from Cushing. I feel this is a much more cultured name than the little town deserves. We drive along the two-lane black-top in the early morning sun, passing cow fields and stone houses and little else. Dad happily chatters on about the truck we’re riding in, a small black pick-up he picked up at a recent auction.

“Yep, sis, this sure turned out to be a good little pick-up. Did I tell you I only paid two-fifty for it?”

“Yeah, you did, Dad,”

“Well it sure is a good little pick-up. Course the windows don’t roll down straight, and that door doesn’t always shut, it doesn’t have a radio and the engine does rattle, but I’ll bet it’s gonna run for another 100,000 miles… can’t beat that for two-fifty can you?”

I agree that you can’t. He then launches into a detailed discussion of his method for fixing the oil leak problem, while I nod often and vigorously to assure him of my interest in this obviously vital topic. As we get closer to Prague we become part of convoy of pick-up trucks and trailers that indicate one is indeed getting close to an auction locale. We finally come to the end of dirt-road lane and find parking in an overgrown wheat field that was probably used for livestock at some point.

We tie Odie (dad's dog) up to the truck in the shade and walk towards the small converted stock trailer that serves as the auction headquarters, where we need to sign in and get our auction placards. Assembled all around the outside of the large, red-brick house lies furniture and long tables stacked high with the remaining property and items up for sale. This allows potential bidders to examine all the merchandise before the auction begins. From the line we’re standing in most of it appears to be your basic household brick-a-brack: porcelain figurines, lots of candy dishes and display bowls, lamps, old used dolls with no clothes and matted hair… the kind of stuff that any of us might find forgotten in the bottom of our hall closets. We finally get up to the front of the line and hand the lady our driver’s licenses so she can give us our bidding placards. It takes her a minute to find my name on my Nevada license.

“Nevada? What are you doing clear out here?”

I smile resignedly and deliver my well-rehearsed line, the one that conveniently omits my mother from the picture and rescues me from explanation to strangers.

“Oh, I’ve come out to spend some time with my Dad.”

Dad winks at me and pats me on the back. The lady smiles approvingly at my daughterly devotion and hands me back my license and my bidding placard. Dad and I meander through the long tables and furniture arrangements, trying to discern from the piles of stuff if any of it would be worth bidding on. Dad is wearing his John Deer jacket, a flannel shirt, Wrangler jeans and his Historical Truck Society ball cap. I’m wearing a silver Chenille sweater from Victoria’s Secret, Ray-Ban sunglasses and designer jeans. I’m also freezing my ass off. While everyone else seems to be enjoying the cooler weather, I’m shivering and my teeth chatter as I blow on my hands and bounce from foot to foot trying to keep warm. I’m clearly the youngest person there, with the exception of a few young children being hauled around by their grandparents. (Grahm, I told you not to touch anything! Is gramma gonna have to whup your butt?) I huff out a sigh and try to blend in. I decide if anyone asks I’ll affect an accent and pretend to be from Russia. It would probably be more acceptable than telling people I’m from Vegas; at least Russians practice a religion.

I go through the glassware and ceramics first, in case there are any valuable antique pieces I could sell on eBay. Most of it’s old, but none of it’s all that valuable. I’ve forgotten my handbook on carnival glass, so I can’t authenticate any of the pieces there. Most of the furniture and lamps are not all that exciting, and the porcelain figurines aren’t made by companies I recognize. Dad seems equally disappointed, having only found some common household items to bid on: a heavy, used table saw and a pair of fire extinguishers. We agree that this isn’t a treasure trove auction, but that we might as well stay in case anything with a marginal resale value ends up going dirt cheap. This is the basic mantra of the weekend auction: If you don’t see anything you really need, you might as well stay in case something you don’t need goes cheap.

Down at the very end of one of the tables I spot some boxes of books and stacks of old papers that I missed on my first circuit browse. I casually wander over. This is another trick of the trade. You never, ever walk excitedly or talk excitedly or whisper or point at an item. To do so would draw the attention of other eagle-eyed bidders to your potential bargain. Instead, you make comments about how common it is and how it’s in such poor condition. You exclaim loudly about how it’s such a disgrace that they even put such junk out to be sold. You remark on how you can’t imagine it will get a bid at all. Above all, you want to sound authoritative, like a person who has deep intimate knowledge about the worth of such items. The real pros even make up critical analysis about such-and-such mark on the bottom of the lamp proving it’s fake, etc. The wary bidder must be on their toes for such deceptions.

The books turn out to be an incredible find. Many of them date to the late eighteen hundreds, most are in good condition. Among the titles are a 1906 copy of the Merchant of Venice, a first edition of Emerson’s Essays, a Robert Louis Stevenson, a Nathanial Hawthorne, a copy of Robinson Crusoe from 1889, a book of poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson from the 1890’s and an 1882 copy of Victor Hugo’s Les Mis. The rest are mostly old bibles and 1800’s textbooks. I’m absolutely ecstatic, and lovingly page through these treasures from another’s past. I love old books with a passion bordering on obsession. While I adore old things in general, books are special. To me, old things are a tie to our past, they tie generations together and are valuable just in their having managed to survive their purpose for a hundred years. Especially books, which are fragile by nature. I love stories and tales, and the idea that a book I’ve read and loved was held and read and loved and owned by someone else over a hundred years ago blows my mind. I quickly decide on my highest price for each of the boxes.

The auction officially starts at ten o’clock. This is my first “real” auction and I’m curious to see how such a thing works. The auctioneers have set up a high stand at the end of two of the rows, in the aisle between the two tables. They clear everyone out from between these two rows of tables, and two of the auctioneers stand inside the aisle, one at each end. Each auctioneer wears blue jeans and a white button-up, long-sleeved shirt, with a white straw cowboy hat and microphone headset. People, with bidding placards at the ready, crowd in around the tables, each angling to get a good spot where they can both see the auctioneer and be seen by him when they want to bid.

I am surprised with how fast it goes. Not the way they talk, I’m used to that, though that’s also an experience the first time you hear it. At first you can’t understand a thing they say, because it sounds like they put a recording of someone’s speech into fast forward. But after a while you figure out that they’re not really talking: they’re stuttering. They stutter out indiscernible syllables, like Porky Pig when he tries to say “That’s all Folks!” They spit out recurring syllables as fast as possible with the only real words spoken being two numbers: the current bid and what the next bid amount will be.

“I’ve got five, I’ve got five, I need seven, need seven (stutter stutter stutter) seven now seven now (stutter stutter stutter) got five got five (stutter stutter stutter) no seven? No seven? Gone on five to bid number double zero, number one zero zero, make that bidder number one hundred!”

Once I figured out that that was all they were saying, the whole thing seemed kind of stupid. I mean, why not just talk normally? If you cut out all the useless stuttering noises it would result in the same amount of time being spent to sell each item. Why make yourself hard to understand? I’ve since realized that it’s psychologically part of the selling strategy. Talking that fast gives bidders a sense of urgency, focuses them intently on the auctioneer and on the manner of competition. Speeding up the sound increases the feeling of haste and excitement with the bidders, making them more likely to bid impulsively because of the perceived sense of being too slow, of being left behind.

No, what surprises me at this auction is the urgent manner with which they seem to want to sell everything. Whereas a single glass candy dish might itself sell for five dollars, the auctioneers seem intent on grouping three or four boxes of stuff together and calling out a starting bid. This annoys me for several reasons, some concrete, some not. Realistically, it’s obnoxious for them to do this if you only want one thing out of a box, and suddenly you have to bid on four boxes. It helps their case, I suppose, because now they’re more likely to move items people wouldn’t bid on otherwise. Though, I’m not entirely convinced of this. If I’m willing to bid five dollars for a green candy dish, I may be dissuaded from bidding if I suddenly have to take four boxes of junk home instead of just one. The other reason it bothers me is harder to identify, harder to define.

One of the auctioneers down in the aisle calls out to the auctioneer up on the platform.

“Now right here Jimmy, I’ve got some boxes of old photos, there’s some frames in here, some old ladies jewelry, We got a whole bunch of doilies in here – I bet some of them’s hand crocheted! – whole bunch of other stuff in here, Jim. Great find, great find. Sell it all!”

The other auctioneer begins calling out numbers going lower and lower until he finally gets a bid for seven dollars for all four boxes. I imagine being the woman who owns this house. Watching from inside her now emptied home as people mill through the boxed up remains of her former life. I wonder how she feels as people pick things up, look them over, toss them back in the boxes. How it feels when three or four boxes of your memories, of your life, barely bring two bucks. I begin to resent the auctioneer for grouping more and more boxes together as whole lots; for some reason this strikes me as insulting to the person who used to own them. The value of such things is so relative. The antique photo of someone who may have been her grandmother or great-grandmother is worth something, it has an intrinsic, immeasurable value. The box it’s in brings a few dollars and the winning bidder tells me happily that she plans to rip the picture out so she can resell the antique frame. I find this whole system depressing, disheartening. Dad is much more optimistic. He sees opportunity, for one thing - the chance to get a box of bolts or an old broken tool that may have otherwise been thrown away; he feels good knowing he can make it useful again. He sees it as a form of cleansing rebirth for stuff that may have been languishing in closet purgatory, sentenced to disuse and disrepair for years. You’d think he was adopting orphans from third-world Africa.

Throughout the day, I jealously guard my boxes as people come through and pick up the books, thumb through them. I wince when they almost drop them and rush over to replace them carefully in their boxes every time they’ve been left out after some savage flips roughly through them as if they were this month’s Reader’s Digest. I carefully size up my competition: the bidders who take their time with the books, coming back frequently to look through the boxes and talk with their spouses about them. There’s a middle-aged man in a fetching camouflaged hunting ensemble: t-shirt, sweat-shirt and hat. There’s a fat, dough-faced man with a perpetual scowl. There’s a young girl who seems especially interested in an old German Bible in one of the boxes.

The auction began with the two rows of tables to our left, and has since moved on to the furniture clustered in the open garage and driveway. Next they’re planning to move on to the vehicles and farm equipment in the backyard before coming back to the row of tables with the books. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. If my items come up late in the day there’s likely to be fewer bidders, which means less competition and lower prices. On the other hand, I’m worried that the later in the day it gets the more likely they’ll be to push boxes together than to sell them singly. I really don’t want to wind up buying eight boxes of books when I’m only interested in three.

As the day passes nearly everyone comes by my part of the tables. As is true of most of Oklahoma, the people are always friendly and talkative, enthusiastically willing to share their opinions, religion and life histories with you. I am plagued by the sensation of not fitting in. Around two o’clock I watch as an elderly lady meanders by, running her arthritic, large-knuckled fingers gently over the spines of the antique books. Her short gray hair is expertly curled with the precise sharpness that only long years of experience with pink foam rollers and cases of hairspray can provide. She’s wearing a faded OSU sweatshirt over a turtleneck covered with Christmas wreathes and reindeers.

“It’s so sad,” she sighs to no one in particular.

Looking around, I see no one else within earshot, and assume she must be talking to me.

“What’s so sad?”

She looks up, clearly startled to see me.

“Well, these books, dear. It’s so sad.”

Racking my brain I decide that the books must sadden her because she remembers using them in grade school, and realizing how old she actually is has depressed her. I’m not quite sure how to respond to such feelings, so I merely nod and murmur an agreement.

“I mean, look at all these books on how great this country is and how free we are. People don’t know how much freedom we’ve lost,” she says sadly after a few seconds.

I find myself surprised to hear such a comment in this part of the country. Most people ‘round here drive big trucks, have big wives they’ve known since high school and proudly display Bush-Cheney bumper stickers; when I first got out here I took the “Promote Peace” sticker off my car for security reasons. I readily agree with her and we engage in a political discussion for a few moments, lamenting the loss of accountability to the citizens, political corruption of the rich and the failure of the current Republican party to take care of their base support. I notice that camouflage boy is giving us menacing sideways glances as he eavesdrops on our heresy.

Finally around four o’clock the auctioneers wend their way back towards the table with the books. Naturally they start down at the other end, meaning the books will be one of the last things up for bid. I steel myself, mentally reviewing my bid limits for the boxes I’m interested in. Other people begin to crowd in around my end of the table, jostling for position. I have decided that I will go to $120 for the box with Shakespeare, Hawthorne and Emerson and $95 for the box with Robinson Crusoe, Tennyson and the majority of the school books. Much to my dismay the auctioneer begins shoving all the boxes together in a large grouping, indicating his intent to sell them all in one large lot. Thankfully, the dough-faced scowler immediately cries out against this maneuver. The auctioneers discuss it among themselves for a moment and then decide they’ll run the books through as choice auctions.

I panic as I’ve never heard of this method of auction before; I call out to the auctioneer on the platform, “What’s that mean?” He quickly explains that we’re bidding to take our choice of the boxes. So everyone bids to their top dollar, and then the winner gets to pick as many boxes as he wants for that price. If there’s any boxes leftover they begin the bidding process again. I nod to indicate I understand, inwardly cursing myself for revealing my inexperience to my bloodthirsty competition. I glance furtively around, looking for any knowing smirks from the other anxious bidders. The bidding starts at twenty, goes down to ten until the first bid is made. From there on it’s fast paced and frenzied, switching back and forth between myself and a bidder standing somewhere behind.

“Now 25, now 30, now 35, now forty,” the auctioneer calls out in a loud, rhythmic voice.

I stare, hard and unwaveringly, at the auctioneer, jerking my head down in one quick motion every time the auctioneer turns back to confirm my higher bid.

“Now 45, now 50, now 55, now sixty,” Sweat is breaking out on the auctioneer’s face as he continues his sing-song chant.

I’m beginning to worry, thinking I may very well have stood here for six hours guarding a box that someone wants to pay more for than I’m comfortable with… I internally begin debating whether or not I’m willing to go to 125 or even 130. Then I hear it… the momentary hesitation, the telling sign that the other bidder is nearing his bid limit, beginning to reconsider his devotion. I know I’ve won; the other bidder is going to swerve first. My eyes narrow on the auctioneer and I become more confident in asserting my next bid.

“Now 65…. Now Seventy… seventy five? I need seventy five bidder? Seven five seven five seven five seven five… and it’s sold for seventy!”

Relishing my victory and pleased that I’m nearly half below my bid limit, I take my time coming forward to pick my two favorite boxes. The process begins all over again, this time only going to forty before I win. This time I pick out a box populated mostly with spiritual texts and bibles. After that the remaining boxes go for $10 each; I leave them to the remaining bidders.

I happily cart my hard-won treasures off to the little black pick-up, then head off to hunt down Dad. Not seeing him among the remaining crowd, I decide I might as well go ahead and pay for my new book collection. I dig my credit card out of my wallet and wait patiently in line back at the auction trailer. I hand the lady my card and bid placard. She hands them right back with a cheery smile.

“Sorry ma’am, but we don’t take credit cards.”

I stare at her blankly for a moment, trying to decide if she’s kidding. What the hell kind of a business doesn’t take credit cards in this day and age? Registering defeat to rural America, I head off in search of Dad and, more importantly, his checkbook.

“Good job on the books, Sis.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

I explain my payment situation, and he agrees to pay for my books if I pay him back when we get to town.

“Ready to go?” I ask, “I’m starving!”

“No,” he sighs, “I’ve got all this stuff to load.”

I glance behind him and realize that he’s won an entire tables worth of garage stuffings in addition to his table saw and fire extinguishers. I laugh when he tells me testily that all he wanted was the stupid extinguishers, but the auctioneers kept shoving boxes together. We finally get all this stuff loaded, most of which will be thrown away. The disgruntled dog is stuffed in the back corner of the pick-up bed and I have to ride home with all three boxes of books stacked up on my lap.

When I get home my husband CJ is sitting up in bed, playing a game on his laptop.

“Hey, baby. Have fun?” he asks without taking his eyes from the screen. I rush over and excitedly show him my new treasures, waiting impatiently for him to pause the game and look at the books.

“Huh. Yeah, cool,” he finally says handing them back to me and picking up the laptop. I blink in disappointment. What the hell does he mean “yeah, cool”? I comment on his lack of enthusiasm, pointing out that these books are over a hundred year old, and classics. He thinks about that for a minute.

“Yeah, and I’d love to look at them in a museum or in someone’s collection. But if I wanted to read Robinson Crusoe, I’d just download it, baby.” With this he turns back to his game. I’m struck once again with this disparity in our way of thinking. The point of these old books isn’t the story; if it were than you could just download it or buy it on Amazon. The point of the antique book is that it’s old, that it used to belong to someone else. The point is that you now have some kind of direct link with someone who lived and breathed before you were even born, a shared interest that links you cosmically across space and time. It’s almost as if, when you got to Heaven, you could find them and say “Hey, remember that copy of the Tempest you loved, the one with your name written in elegant ink with your birth date on the inside of the front cover? Yeah! I found that, man. At an auction in Pawnee, Oklahoma. They were only expecting to get three bucks for it, but I found it and I saved it. Yeah, yeah, I know! You want to go and get a cup of coffee or something?” And then you could walk on down to Heaven’s corner Starbucks and get yourself a latte, and sit and talk about a shared love of Shakespeare or about the times and how they are a-changin’. Hell, you could even invite the Bard himself on down.