Widow dinner

I recently got together with a group of local widows/widowers for a Friday night dinner. Out of a dozen folks only one was further out than me - about three years. Many of the folks had experienced their loss in the last six months, the most recent was only at two months. It felt odd to be the second 'senior' person there at about one year.

We'd all met through an internet 'young widow support' site. I wondered what we would talk about. To anyone else in the restaurant I'm sure we looked like a regular group of folks chatting around the table. It turned out to be perfectly normal conversations about what we'd been through, our experiences before and after our loss, our experiences with relatives, friends and coworkers. One woman remarked several times how nice it was to not be the one single person out to dinner with a bunch of couples. Folks also remarked how nice it was to be able to openly talk about their experience.

One topic was about whether or not you see the deceased in your dreams. Some folks complained that they hadn't but wished they would. One woman said she dreamed about her lost husband every night and every morning she woke to realize he was gone again. She just wished the dreams would stop.

2007 - February - sticky notes

In February of 2007 we had an open house the weekend after Robin died. The furniture was moved around to make space for people. Tables were arranged for food, coffee, drinks.

The very next day I boarded a plane to head down to Florida with Dad. I couldn't imagine staying home anymore. I had a window seat and as the airplane climbed out I could look down and see the area as we departed. A steady stream of tears started down my cheek. They were still flowing later when the flight attendant asked if we wanted anything to drink. I never stopped looking out the window, just shook my head "no".

I remember thinking that when I returned I would be alone and everything would be different.

When I did return fourteen days later two things would strike me. One was that we never moved the furniture back. It was all still setup for the open house. I put down my luggage and immediately went around and moved the furniture back to where it ought to be.

The other thing I found was that Kim and Jessica and Patrick had left "sticky notes of encouragement" all over the house. Notes of every variety from "we love you" to "hang in there" to pictures of hearts. I'd find the notes inside drawers, on the fridge, in the fridge.

Over time I assembled most of the notes and put them in a picture album we had created for the open house. It held about two dozen 8 1/2 x 11 photos of a happy Robin with me, and with family.

I never did put away all the notes. It's been nearly fourteen months and the heart shaped sticky inside the door of the microwave oven is still there. I see its silhouette whenever something is heating up. Then there's the one inside the refrigerator, and a couple more here and there.

2007 - Death rituals, part 2

Since Robin died I've heard various descriptions of the death process experienced by other folks.

None was as comparatively peaceful as Robin's. For three days she lay very still in bed with her eyes closed. Then the evening of the last day she began to breathe more heavily. For someone with such a low energy state her breathing began to take on a rapid pace. This lasted for about forty-five minutes. Four of us sat there. We held her hands, we talked to her.

In the end she unexpectedly leaned up on her elbows, looked around at each of us, then gently put her head back on the pillow and the life left her body.

I'm not really sure about everything that happened after that. I know I checked her pulse a half dozen times. Then it seems like we all milled around the rooms for a while. I guess we were crying then. I had called hospice when the heavy breathing was happening, so eventually we called them back to let them know what had transpired.

We took some time to rub massage oil into her arms and legs.

We gathered together her favorite clothes. Her favorite sweats, a hello kitty t-shirt, a knit cap that she'd been wearing for so long. We dressed her up nicely.

There was a vase of roses. We folded her hands across her body and gave her one.

When the funeral folks came a couple hours later I didn't want to watch them pick her up so I looked the other way and talked to Kim. We'd used humor as a defense for so long now I only felt slightly self-conscious saying "gee, with all that oil we used on Robin, I hope she doesn’t slip out of their hands."

They wrapped her in a blanket as if she were on the way to the hospital. We'll that's what I'm picturing - I didn't look but asked Kim to tell me what was happening. I didn’t want to see because I didn't want to remember her that way.

2007 - Death rituals

Before Robin died I had asked the Hospice folks about what happens immediately after a patient's death. They mentioned that the family often gathers around and folks may say some words. Sometimes families will rub the body with oils. Well, that seemed like a natural enough plan for Robin, the massage therapist.

Asking questions

Before the end of the day I took some time to step out into the hall and talk to the funeral director. I asked questions that a child might have asked at their first wake. The fellow talked about the issues they take care of - even as simple as making sure the walkways are clear of ice and snow. Essentially, if they do their job, then the family won't notice any other issues that day and will simply have the memory of the gathering for which they've come together.

Somewhat of a mystery

My brother-in-law's father passed away this past week. The wake was today in Massachusetts. I guess thoughts of "attending a wake" were overridden with thoughts of "wanting to see Bob" (my brother-in-law) and family. In some way I also thought it's probably time to start attending these events. In a few years the folks my age will be the "older generation". On top of that, I figured the universe is going to keep throwing opportunities my way until I wake up and accept them. No sense in more people having to die, just for me to have these opportunities!

On the drive over I heard the song "unwritten" again. It just seems to remind me that everyday, in every choice we make we're creating our present and our future. The past really doesn't really define where we're going next. That grieving feeling came back again and memories and images of last year popped in and out of my head. Maybe if I'd participated more in the rituals of death over the years I would have had a slightly different perspective with Robin. It probably wouldn't have been easier, but it might have been different..

I had asked a bunch of questions ahead of time so I'd have some idea what to expect today. I guess my memory as a kid had been that a wake was held in dimly lit rooms where people talked in low voices and whispers. Today was much different. The sun was shining. People chatted in small groups about memories that they had about Don. There was sadness and happiness. Family members who hadn't seen each other in years had a chance to catch up.

After some time our family group went up to pay our respects to Pat, the woman who was now a widow. We talked as a group for a few minutes and then she moved back to the front of the room, looking down on her husband. Without a thought, I went and joined her at the casket. I explained that I'd lost my wife last year and that I had some sense what she was going through. We each put a hand on Don's arm and she talked about him. At the time it felt like we were the only two in the room who knew what this was like. We talked about the experience of being widowed and I mentioned the comfort I'd found in being able to meet and talk with folks in the same situation.

For the first time in a long time I felt like I’d found a place where the label "widow" meant that I had something to offer, instead of just being the guy who lost his wife. I had a year behind me, but I knew some of the struggles which Pat would face. As with all the widows I'd met to date we all experience things differently but there are also similarities in the experience. The one thing we share is the knowledge of what this experience is like. It must seem like a mystery to those who have only heard about it, and honestly it even feels like somewhat of a mystery for those of us who have become widows and widowers.

Somewhat of a mystery

My brother-in-law's father passed away this past week. The wake was today in Massachusetts. I guess thoughts of "attending a wake" were overridden with thoughts of "wanting to see Bob" (my brother-in-law) and family. In some way I also thought it's probably time to start attending these events. In a few years the folks my age will be the "older generation". On top of that, I figured the universe is going to keep throwing opportunities my way until I wake up and accept them. No sense in more people having to die, just for me to have these opportunities!

On the drive over I heard the song "unwritten" again. It just seems to remind me that everyday, in every choice we make we're creating our present and our future. The past really doesn't really define where we're going next. That grieving feeling came back again and memories and images of last year popped in and out of my head. Maybe if I'd participated more in the rituals of death over the years I would have had a slightly different perspective with Robin. It probably wouldn't have been easier, but it might have been different..

I had asked a bunch of questions ahead of time so I'd have some idea what to expect today. I guess my memory as a kid had been that a wake was held in dimly lit rooms where people talked in low voices and whispers. Today was much different. The sun was shining. People chatted in small groups about memories that they had about Don. There was sadness and happiness. Family members who hadn't seen each other in years had a chance to catch up.

After some time our family group went up to pay our respects to Pat, the woman who was now a widow. We talked as a group for a few minutes and then she moved back to the front of the room, looking down on her husband. Without a thought, I went and joined her at the casket. I explained that I'd lost my wife last year and that I had some sense what she was going through. We each put a hand on Don's arm and she talked about him. At the time it felt like we were the only two in the room who knew what this was like. We talked about the experience of being widowed and I mentioned the comfort I'd found in being able to meet and talk with folks in the same situation.

For the first time in a long time I felt like I’d found a place where the label "widow" meant that I had something to offer, instead of just being the guy who lost his wife. I had a year behind me, but I knew some of the struggles which Pat would face. As with all the widows I'd met to date we all experience things differently but there are also similarities in the experience. The one thing we share is the knowledge of what this experience is like. It must seem like a mystery to those who have only heard about it, and honestly it even feels like somewhat of a mystery for those of us who have become widows and widowers.

Chopping ice

After Robin died I spent a few days mostly laying in bed staring at the wall. Visitors came and went downstairs. Nothing really registered. No one asked anything of me. Occasionally I talked about helping with funeral arrangements but I didn't help with much. I didn't want to go pick out an urn. Dad and I talked about it and he went out to take care of this, the "after" business.

We'd had a winter storm a few days before Robin died. The week after was warm and the snow was melting. Even though it was melting fast I went outside and chopped ice anyway. Folks were going to be coming the following weekend so I chopped ice in the driveway, I chopped ice on the sidewalk, I chopped ice in the street in front of the house, I chopped ice in front of the neighbor's house. Though it didn't occur to me at the time, my family was probably keeping an eye on me, wondering when I was going to finish chopping the friggin' melting ice.

The stress in the last week had gotten pretty bad. Between the heavy pain medications and the cancer, in the last couple weeks Robin had become a bit paranoid and rambunctious. A regular dose of morphine for a person might be 4mg every four hours. In that same time period Robin was getting 40mg, plus the constant methodone IV. To offset the disorienting effects of the pain meds the hospice folks had recommended an antipsychotic drug which kept Robin pretty sedated, or so I thought.

The last week she started to sleep all the time. I had decided we should start cutting back on the meds so she could "wake up again" and I said as much. I got pretty pissed off with Kim and Dad who tried to remind me how upset and scared Robin had been without the sedative. The three of us ended up in the basement having a "team discussion" (well OK, team argument) about what to do, even though I insisted I still got to call the shots for Robin.

In retrospect I was just trying to get more time with her. An experiment in reduced medication didn't yield any result. Robin's body was plain tired out. I still remember the last time she said something. In the last week I'd asked if she wanted something, a drink, a mouth swab - I can't remember what I asked her - all I can remember was that even with her eyes closed she cleared her throat and worked out in a husky voice the word "yes".

If she couldn't talk anymore it didn't stop me from caring for her. When her lips and mouth got dry I used glycerin swabs to moisten them - just as I'd seen her do for her Dad when he was dying of cancer many years ago. During the day I would massage her arms and legs. Her energy had become so low that wherever I placed her hands, that's where they would stay the rest of the day. Stillness had enveloped her, her breathing in - breathing out the only sign that she was still with us.

The hospice folks were so efficient. The day after she died they picked up all the equipment. I guess it had all been on loan to us and now it was needed somewhere else. Overnight the makeshift hospital room was transformed back into a living room. Things changed so quickly back to looking normal. After all the days, weeks, months of things to do there was suddenly nothing left that needed to be done, with the sole exception that maybe someone needed to chop all that ice.

Spooning

I was in the movie theater this evening. One scene in the movie showed the female main character curled up in a hospital bed and the male lead climbs in and "spoons" in behind her. My eyes were full of tears as the scene instantly brought back reminders of all the times I'd done this with Robin in the city, and in our hometown.

In New York City we had bought a portable DVD player and I had opened a Blockbuster account at the store across the street from the hospital. We'd have movie nights where I'd climb into bed next to her - very slowly, taking care not to pull on her IV line.

Anyway, it was weird to have been transported back so clearly to those moments. Any onlooker would have thought "wow, what an impressive movie scene" for the impact it seemed to be having on me.

Reflective Day

Well, so today is the anniversary date. I did receive a few cards about the anniversary. Talking to folks I get the feeling that people didn't want to bring it up because they thought it might make me feel bad. Well, um, it's not like a widow(er) might just forget the anniversary. I know it's better for me to talk about things. I don't think you'd ever make a widow(er) feel worse than they do already. Maybe it would help a little for them to know that you are aware and that you care. Of course, my family rallied around and didn't shy away from the topic which just reminds me how great they've been.

I spent the morning with my friend Deirdre having coffee. We talked about what's going on in our current lives. Then we spent time talking about Robin and how she always seemed to have a mischievous sparkle in her eye. We laughed, we cried, we both got some relief. Deirdre's partner has been going through chemo and radiation treatments this year, so it's been a tough time for them.

On the way home I stopped to get a get a drawing pad because I felt like drawing diagrams again. Something that represented what my present life was like. The office supply store was right next to a "Panera's Bread" so I took my new drawing pad and pens and went in for lunch. I sat in one of the comfy chairs - the type of chair you might find in a living room.

After eating lunch I drew my "bubble" again and drew other bubbles showing where my present life intersects with other people's and with the activities that I like to do. Then I started making notes about what I'd like to find in a partner, I drew a timeline of memories of my life and relationships which I'd been in along the way. I made a list of items representing "what did that time with Robin mean to me?" I wondered if she got accomplished what she needed to and was that why it was time for her to go? She basically had said that to me - that she'd lived a good life and felt loved and although she'd rather stay, if she had to go then it was going to be OK. We sure learned a lot about each other and about ourselves along the way.

I thought about the effects that becoming a widower had on me and came up with a few things:

-I seem a lot less focused on attaining some future goal, and more focused on the present.
-I have a new understanding of the word "meaninglessness" which I gained last Spring.
-I have a completely different view about living and dying. Seeing someone die in front of your eyes is wholly different from seeing someone alive one day and then seeing their body at a wake another day.
-I have different views on "purpose", though I haven't sorted them all out yet
-I still feel a lack of stability in my life
-I lack a belief in "forever". Alex says "of course the meaning of forever" is changed for me, because what I believed about "forever" has been disproved.
-I feel pickier about with whom I am going to have a relationship in the future.
-I feel like I'm looking for something more (what does that mean?)
-I feel like I gained some wisdom though what it's about eludes me.

Among the widow(er) population I find there are several common themes expressed, some which resonate with me, and some that do not:

-a sense of abandonment - "he/she left me"
-a fear of future loss (what about the next person in my life)
-guilt, did I somehow contribute to his/her death by not noticing a sign or symptom, or by once wishing the person would go away?
-regret, what could I have done differently?
-"they got it easier than me" - their pain and suffering ended when they left.

All the time I was writing and drawing I watched groups of people arrive, eat lunch, and depart. I practiced passing flirtatious glances at women. I thought, this is a lot different from what I expected today to be like.

By the evening time I thought about what a day this has been. It seems like the last couple of weeks were more stressful for me than today. I'm glad that I set aside specific time to be by myself and time to be with others. I considered what a good sign it was for me to have spent the day thinking about my past life with Robin and about my future.

Oddly, I still can never think about "my future" without recognizing that I have no idea how much time I have left here - maybe a week, maybe fifty years…

Can't catch a break

This weekend I carved out time to be by myself. I suppose everyone has a different approach. Some folks want to be with friends, some with family, some just a quiet day. I made simple plans to see some friends here and there on the weekend. No big dinners or other reminders. I spent two hours talking to my sister Kim on the phone.

Today I haven't had the welling up feeling of tears. Now I wonder why I've been so stressed leading up to this weekend, and yet today I don't feel any particular effect. So now I wonder why I'm not crying. I just can't get a break. :)

Which day is it?

So Robin died on a Sunday night, Feb 18th, 2007. But now February 18th is a Monday, so is today the anniversary or is it tomorrow? Such are the philosophical ramblings of a widower which just leave me feeling tired and confused.

That old grieving feeling

Some of the habits of last Spring have been returning. I've been going to bed later, having more trouble getting to sleep.

On the way to work this morning I starting thinking about the upcoming anniversary and I nearly turned around and went home, I didn’t really feel like being at the office. I had a regular doctor visit scheduled near the office in the afternoon so I figured what's the use in going home and then coming back later anyway.

After the doctor's appointment I was walking back to my car when the grieving feeling hit and I just started crying. What a way to start the weekend…

Helpful widower?

In 2006 I'd met a couple in New York City (the husband has been battling cancer for eight years) and I have since exchanged a few e-mails with the wife. A few weeks ago she noted she was scared - her husband's been through all the regular chemo protocols for his disease and is now enrolling in a clinical trial. I wrote and described how I would say to Robin "I'm afraid you could die" and she would say matter-of-factly "we're all going to die". I added that I didn't think we had to fear because there's a plan for all of us and everything will work out in the end.

Afterwards I felt uncomfortable, like I'd just acknowledged/confirmed that her husband was going to die - which is obviously her worst fear. For a while I felt like a schmuck; like I'd done something that could dash her hopes; like I'd done something that might rob her of the full experience of battling the cancer. I'd read that some widowers find themselves focused on helping other people deal with life threatening issues, or they're focused on helping other folks who were more recently widowed.

I guess in the end only we assign the values "right", "wrong" and "schmuck". I suppose there's nothing I could have said that would be a surprise to her. She's in the thick of battle and dealing with all the possible futures herself. Whatever my input might do (or whatever I *thought* my input might do), hopefully she got something out of the message that will help her along her path.

Sparkling ice

We've had a few ice storms this year. Recently trees and shrubs were coated with a thick layer of ice which persisted for a few days. A friend's husband was flying home from travel and he noted that descending into the area the landscape glistened and sparkled.

Recently when driving I'd seen swaths of ice coated trees and thought how beautiful it looked. That made me think about life, which led me to think about Robin. It's not like seeing beauty in life immediately triggers thoughts about her. It's when I start thinking about the mystery of life which makes me wonder where she's gone to. Where do we all go to?

Defragmenting

I've been troubleshooting problems with my computer's hard drive lately. Often the first step in debugging is to "defrag" the drive.

The concept of a fragmented hard drive comes about simply because files are added and deleted from a hard drive all the time. Say the first three files added to a new hard drive were each 100 characters in size. For our example they'd be stored in sequence so the first file would reside on the disk in memory locations 0 to 99. The second file would be stored from 100 to 199 and the third file from 200 to 299.



Then one day you decide to delete the second file, which frees up the space 100-199. Later you add a new file on the hard drive - but it's 150 characters long. The computer wants to use space in order, so it breaks the fourth file into two parts and stores them separately. The first 100 characters are stored in location: 100-199 and the remaining 50 characters are stored after file three, memory locations 300 to 349. The computer keepsd track of all the parts so later it will know how to reassemble them when you want the file. This file is now considered "fragmented".



In the real world this process is going on continuously. Even when you're not adding or deleting files with applications like word or excel, the computer is creating and using files just to administer the system. Files are perpetually getting fragmented into two, three, or more pieces. Over months the computer becomes slower and slower as it takes more and more time to reassemble files, or to break them into pieces for storage.

Defragmenting puts the files back into simple sequences. In this case it might start by taking the two parts of file four and moving them to a temporary location. Then it could move file three so it butted right up against file one (in memory location 100-199). Finally, file four could be reassembled into one continuous file and it could be stored butted up against file three, into memory locations 200-349. Now the computer performance improves because storing and retrieving are once again efficient!



Being a caregiver for a long period of time really messes with your head. No longer are days and weeks logically organized around your lifelong habits (wake up, take a shower, get in the car, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to bed). Even in the case where a loss is sudden and unexpected, there's a period of time in which the grieving person doesn't live in the world of normal habits or normal thoughts anymore. There's a time in which memories are disorganized and thoughts are confused - some items are just misfiled. Some experiences probably don't get stored at all and they're forgotten completely.

If grieving and mourning don't take place then the disorganization remains - to be dealt with at a later date. When grieving and mourning do progress naturally the minds seems to start the laborious process of defragmenting. It's as if the mind sorts through the volumes of memories, evaluates their relationships, and begins to store them in relation to one another. The thoughts and feelings associated with each memory likely play a part in figuring out how to reassemble sequences. I'm not sure if any widow(er)s would tell you that everything get organized once again. From all the folks I've met so far, I wouldn't be surprised if some parts of you never feel like they're fully reconstructed.

Feeling blue

I've been feeling more blue lately. When I think about it, it seems like throughout this last year I've never really been in a level mood. Occasionally I would write about how I hadn't had grieving symptoms in a while, only to find myself experiencing them the very next day. Over time the mood swings form low-to-high and high-to-low just seem to be farther apart and the highs and lows not as deep.

On the widow bulletin board it's common for folks to advise one another to be easy on themselves. Lately that seems to be good advice for me.

Loud music

I started playing music louder in the car again today. One part of me said, "hey once in a while you really should just crank the radio up". Another part of me felt like I was trying to drown out my thoughts.

"It's sad"?

The other day some folks had talked about Jim's death and how sad it was that he'd passed away. I knew what they were feeling because I used to feel that way when someone had died. Now though, I didn’t feel that way. I'd thought about how he seemed to have had a pretty good life and how he'd completed his full life cycle. He arrived, he lived, and now he was gone. Somehow dying doesn’t seem so sad anymore, it just seems more like the natural flow of things…

Godspeed Jim!

Didn't go to the wake

I'd been debating about going to Jim's wake. First I had decided that I wouldn't, then last night I had decided I would. I knew many, many people who would be there. I cancelled plans so I could be there. Then in the late afternoon I just felt like I couldn't make it.

This isn't a new problem for me. The last time I was at a wake where a body was on display I was about fourteen and my grandfather had died. I have a few vivid memories of the day. I remember the wake being a stressful, confusing place to be. A younger brother broke into fits of laughter while his face showed signs of stress. I remember afterwards, sitting on the stoop of my grandparent's home. It was a beautiful, sunny day. One of my aunts said Harry would have really liked that it was such a bright, sunny day.

Widow brain

"Widow brain" - a state in which a widow completely forgets what the next thing is that they were going to do. They can't remember where they put things (keys, hat, gloves, etc.), can't remember what day it is, can't get organized, can't remember why we are here, can't remember to pay the bills. Sometimes, the feeling that something has become chemically imbalanced in our brain, so as to feel like we are in a fog.

Optimism and widows
I've been spending more time on the widow internet 'bulletin board' lately. Funny, I participated a bit last Spring but I haven't been back to the site in a really long time. I guess it's a sign of widower stress that I'm back now.

The board is an environment where people can express anything they're feeling and get support and input from fellow widows and widowers. Often folks express frustration, rage, loss of hope, but there's also a contingent of folks who focus on hope, opportunity and growth. It seems like the messages which folks express typically get more positive (or at least less negative) the further along that they are.

Today someone posted a note about positivity in the face of loss and what impact this attitude could have. The author generated a long thread of responses from folks who admitted that being positive didn’t mean that you felt great about everything, it didn't mean you were happy with your situation. But it did mean that you took note of improvements, you celebrated small victories, you rested when you felt tired. It meant that instead of anger with your spouse, you considered how your spouse would want your life to be getting better over time.

Sadiversaries

Well, finally coming around to the twelfth month. Widow(er)s describe how hard the anniversaries are, particularly the first year anniversary of their loved one's death. Well, actually, in the widow(er) community they're referred to as "sadiversaries" since they are not viewed like other 'anniversaries' which are typically days to celebrate.

For me the anniversaries throughout the year (the day of first symptoms, the day of diagnosis, the day of enrolling in hospice, etc.) have been memories to deal with, but they've been nothing like the recurring reminders of cancer in the present. Today a friend from my flying club died of complications related to cancer treatment. It was the second time in his life that he'd faced cancer. The first time was about twenty years ago when he was in his fifties. This time around the chemo drugs overwhelmed his system.

The weird thing is that in the past when I knew someone who died I had a sense of fear or sadness. I would think "couldn't I have seen them one more time before they went?", "couldn’t they have had a little more time here?" In this instance I thought about all the years that I’d known Jim. I thought about the times we'd flown together, the times we met and talked about things. The smile he would get when he told a joke (corny or otherwise).

I thought about how I'd been a person he knew during his last fifteen years. Here was a fellow who had grown up, married, had a career, had kids. I thought - here's a guy who has completed his lifecycle. He could have had more time, he could have had less time, either way it seemed like Jim did a pretty good job with the time that he had.