Moving on, moving forward ... is there a difference?

Moving on ... moving forward ...

My pre-loss self would look at those two phrases and say they mean the same thing. With a whole new perspective on loss, I see definite differences in those two phrases.

Moving on. When I think about moving on from something, I picture traveling down a road carrying baggage. The baggage is heavy. At one point, it's as if I decide to put down the baggage and move on. It's as simple as that ... drop the baggage and move on.

Moving forward. When I think about moving forward, I picture traveling down the same road carrying the same baggage. The baggage is still heavy. While traveling down the road with the baggage, I see a full, bright life ahead of me. I choose to move forward toward that full, bright life carrying the baggage with me.

There have been so many times during this journey when I wanted to drop the grief, with all of its heaviness and sadness, leave it in that moment and move on.

But, I don't want to leave the pain behind me. Losing Steve was by far and away the most tragic experience of my life. In a moment, life was never the same and it will never be the same. However, that experience has shaped the person I am today. There isn't any way I could leave that behind and move on.

The other night, my fiance, Mark, and I saw Garth Brooks in concert. It was an absolutely amazing show! During his performance of one of his well-known songs, "The Dance," I thought about where I am in my life and what's ahead of me.

I hugged Mark a little tighter when I heard the words:

"... For a moment all the world was right
How could I have known that you'd ever say goodbye

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance."

No, I couldn't have known what would have happened nearly six years ago. But, I carry all that has happened, the love and the memories with me as I move forward as this new me post loss. It is all part of me as I create my dance, this next chapter of my life with Mark, his son and my children.

I didn't feel the spotlight

The other night, I attended an incredible fundraising event called, "Fashionably Late." The event is held in memory of Gretchen Gotthart Skeldon, a woman who was, in fact, always late, but also who was known for giving so much of her time and talent to help other people. She lived by the motto, "Do all that you can." Unfortunately, Gretchen lost her battle to breast cancer four years ago. The event is a lot of fun and raises money for a fund that was established in Gretchen's name.

This year, I attended the event with a friend. We listened to bands, sipped some beverages, talked and laughed. It was fun.

Four years ago, I attended the same great event. It was very different, though. It wasn't the event that was so different. It was me. Four years ago, I was one year out ... one year into this new life as a widow. I was just one year into navigating life on my own.

That year, I attended the event with my dear friend, Sally. Since Sally serves on the committee to coordinate the Fashionably Late event, I knew there would be times during the event when I'd be on my own. But, that would be ok. Not a big deal.

Wrong.

While the band was playing and people were either dancing to the music or catching up with friends, I found myself almost walking aimlessly around the outdoor venue. I grabbed a drink and walked around to check out items for sale and booths set up highlighting the work of some of the charities Gretchen held close to her heart. There were hundreds of people at the event that first year. But, I couldn't have felt more alone. I couldn't help but feel like there was a huge spotlight focused on me ... a beacon pointing out that I was there by myself. The spotlight, although not visible to anyone else, was blinding. I remember texting my friend, Mark (who is now my fiance.) I hoped maybe connecting with him by text might help. It did help, but I was still there alone. Overwhelmed by the feeling of being so alone, I left.

I hadn't realized how difficult it would be to be in a big crowd. Regardless of whether I knew many people or just a few people at an event in the first year or so after Steve died, I couldn't handle the spotlight I felt.

At the event this year, I didn't feel the spotlight. Not at all. I thoroughly enjoyed myself the entire time.

When I was first widowed, no one handed me the playbook. Such a playbook doesn't exist. Since one person's grief can be so different from another person's experience with grief, you have to figure so much of it out for yourself. I didn't know how difficult it would be to be in a crowd of people. I couldn't have anticipated that spotlight.

The spotlight has faded as I move forward with my life. I am happy and looking toward the future. Grief still rears its ugly head at times and I absolutely feel Steve's absence. But, I continue to move forward. I've realized lately that when I'm by myself or with people I know, I don't feel so alone. I don't feel so different from everyone else.

Making progress as the journey continues.


Source: Wikimedia Commons

My past, present and future come together

One year ago, I wrote a post about how much I dread the first half of July. During the few days before the 4th of July holiday and 10 days after, I recall what was happening during those days in 2009 with such incredibly clarity. The same is true this year, but there also is a big difference. It's a wonderfully positive difference.

As I approach the five year anniversary of Steve's death, I am acutely aware of the convergence of my past, present and future.

I've written a lot about my past ...  I was married to a wonderful man who loved his family, the outdoors and life itself. He adored his children, loved his work as a wildlife biologist and spent many beautiful days on Lake Erie fishing for walleye and perch. He also suffered from depression. Although he was doing everything he should have done to get better and deal with the depression (see his doctor, take the medications as prescribed), he couldn't beat the disease.

My present has been a journey to find my new normal. I know I'm not the same person I was prior to July 2009. Life isn't the same. What was normal then is different now. During these past few years, I've been learning how to move forward while figuring out who I am as a young widowed mom. I've been blogging about my journey - the good, not so good, the down right ugly, the happy and sad.

Once I emerged through the fog of the first year or two of grief, I decided I didn't want to just exist. I chose to live ... to live a full and happy life. Part of embracing a full life has meant choosing to love again. I know what it is like to lose someone I love. I know the depths of that loss. Still, I have been open to loving again.

As I look to my future, it's a future that includes a second chance at love. A long friendship with an incredibly kind, giving, supportive and caring man has turned into a very special love. I feel so blessed. He may not fully understand this crazy journey of widowhood, but he gives me his love and support and room I need when I need it.

My journey certainly has evolved during these past few years. It is evolving again in a very big and exciting way ... I am marrying again!

I've ended each post with the same phrase ... "my journey continues." Even as I marry again, vowing love for the rest of my life, widowhood won't end. I will be Steve's widow and Mark's wife. It may sound complicated, but I know my heart has the capacity to love two incredible men. Love lives on in my past, my present and my future.

And, yes, my journey continues.

That song

That song ... you recognize it immediately. From the first few notes, you know it ...it's that song. On my drive home tonight, I was stopped at a traffic light and my mind started to wander. Then, I heard them ... the first few notes of that song ... one of our songs.

For our first dance during our wedding reception, Steve and I decided we both would choose a song to dance to, to sort of dedicate to each other. So, I guess they were our first dances! The song I chose was popular at the time and probably played as the first dance at every wedding that year. Still, I loved the words to the song and wanted to dance to "From This Moment On" with Steve.

As I sat in the car, stopped at the traffic light, that song began:

"From this moment life has begun
From this moment you are the one
Right beside you is where I belong
From this moment on"


I immediately was transported back to the dance floor, remembering our wedding and remembering Steve. My eyes got teary.

It's amazing how music can transport us to a different time.

I listened intently to each word.

As I drove home, I continued to think of Steve. It can still feel so surreal. Even nearly five years later, I can question, "Did that really happen?" or "Did Steve really die?" Weren't we just sitting at the cousins' table at another wedding?Just as quickly as I question it, I remember that day and know it did happen. He did die.

As fellow widows often say ... "Death Sucks," but love lives on. It's not the same. But, love does live on. Sometimes that love is eclipsed by anger or sadness. But, it's still there. Nearly five years later, I am coming to appreciate that there is love in heaven and here on Earth. I feel blessed to have both.

And, as for the song Steve had played for me ... "Let's Stay Together" by the great Al Green. For a long time I couldn't bear to listen to that song. The words actually made me mad ...

"Let's stay together
Lovin' you whether, whether
Times are good or bad, happy or sad"

Oh, the power of music! 

But, tonight, as I listened to "From This Moment On," I wasn't sad. I was just remembering.

And, the journey continues.

18 days ...

I feel like a little kid. I am counting down the days to my birthday like a little girl about to turn 10! Turning 10 is a big milestone. I remember the excitement of finally being "double digits." Now, I am giddy about turning 40.

Some people dread a milestone birthday, especially birthdays after 29! I am looking forward  to this birthday for a couple of reasons.

The biggest reason is the symbolism of closing the chapter on my 30s. My 30s started out on a huge high. About one month after I turned 30, I found out I was having twins. Holy crap ... twins! I was excited and scared at the same time. As my 30s progressed, I was balancing working full time and raising three children. I certainly didn't do this on my own. My husband, Steve, was an amazing father to Steven, Emma and Stella. He adored all four of us.

Behind his smile that could light up a room was an ongoing struggle with major depression. That never mattered to me. I cared for him and took over caring for the kids when the depression reared its ugly head. It wasn't always easy, but I did what I needed to do because I loved him and I loved our family.

By the time I turned 35, his illness was the worst I had ever seen it. That was the same year my life changed forever.

The next four years have been a roller coaster. There have been ups and downs and tunnels where I couldn't always see in front of me. Amid the sadness, I've also had the opportunity to meet so many other women and men from across the country who have been widowed. There's something comforting about being in the company of other people who really "get it."

Another reason I'm excited about turning 40 is the unknown. I don't know what lies ahead, and that's exciting. As I move forward to the next chapter, I know I possess a confidence I didn't have in my early 30s. I also know I am surrounded by love, love of family and friends.

As I move forward onto my 40s, I'll never forget the love and loss I experienced in my 30s. It will always be part of me ... always. Still, I move forward, living my new normal.

Here's to 18 more days ... and a journey that continues.

Source: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

One word critique for "Resurrection," disrespectful

For anyone who has lost a loved one, the fact that our loved one is gone from this Earth is painfully clear. Although we may wish our loved one was still with us or wish that somehow he or she could come back to us from the "great beyond," we know it's just not possible.

The first time I saw the commercial promoting the new show, "Resurrection," I got mad. The premise of the show made me mad. In the commercial, a man opens his door to find a little boy who supposedly had died 32 years ago and was returning home to his parents. The father and mother both are in disbelief that their son, who still appears to be around 9 years old, is standing on their doorstep. In another scene, a woman is sitting in a church. When a man approaches her, she asks, "Did I really die?"

After seeing the commercial for what seemed like the hundredth time, it was the song that eventually sent me over the edge. "I'm comin home ... I'm comin home."

No. People who have died don't come home.

In my little world, I define "home" as being here with me. In that case, no, Steve isn't coming home. I hate that. But, that is real.

A few nights ago, my son, Stevie, and I were sitting in our living room. I was watching TV and he was playing on his iPad. Of course, the commercial came on again. Without even looking up from his iPad, Stevie said, "That's disrespectful." When I asked him if he was referring to the show, he said yes and went on to say that the idea of the show is disrespectful to people who have lost someone.

How insightful.

This is just my opinion, but yes, I feel like the idea behind the show is disrespectful. I'll never open my front door to find Steve standing there. I'll never walk into a church and find Steve sitting in a pew questioning whether he had died.

Maybe there are other people who find comfort in the fantasy that their loved one would return "home."

I just don't find comfort in that.

Regardless, my journey continues.

My "new normal" is now normal

Just days after Steve died, it was already clear to me that the life I had known was never going to be the same. While I was just embarking on this journey called widowhood, and I really had no clue what wild ride was ahead of me, knowing life would be very different was a sense I was sure about. Without a doubt, totally sure. I remember telling people that the kids and I would need to find our "new normal."

New normal meant moving forward as a single mom with three young kids. There was no choice but to move forward. Although there were many days when I wanted to stay in bed huddled under the covers as life went on around me, I knew that couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. I had three amazing kids who depended on me and needed routine and normalcy. The irony ... we needed normalcy, yet nothing seemed normal.

Life seemed to go back to normal ... for other people, that is. For us, our world was turned upside down. Since I knew hiding under the covers wasn't going to be an option, I had to get up each morning and figure it out.

It was the four of us finding our way. And, we did. Throughout the past couple of years, we lived our new normal.

During the holidays, it hit me. Our "new normal" had become normal.

As Thanksgiving approached, it dawned on me that it would be our fifth Thanksgiving without Steve. Five ... That shocked me.

There have been five Christmases, five birthdays, five anniversaries.

Now at almost five full years into this new normal, I had another realization. One that I don't like. One that can still seem so surreal. I realized that I have gotten used to Steve being gone.

I hate that thought. But, it is reality.

I'm beginning this year on a really positive note. In a few months, I'll celebrate a big birthday and FINALLY close the book on my 30s. In July, we'll celebrate Steve's life ... not dwell on the sadness that he is gone as I did last summer. I have vowed to move forward and live a full life. There's a lot to be grateful for ... there's love, laughter and happiness in our new normal that'
s become normal.

So, the journey continues.

*Source: The Grief Toolbox; "A Different Kind of Parenting, Kota Press

Double whammy

I have always loved fall. October and November are two of my favorite months out of the year. The air is crisp and the colors of the leaves on the trees are stunning. My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. November is also a month I refer to as my double whammy. Steve's birthday is Nov. 12 and our wedding anniversary is Nov. 13. (Guess who picked the date for our wedding?) I always teased Steve that he chose that particular date so he would never forget the date of our anniversary. He never disagreed!

Now that he's gone, it's like a 1-2 punch. One day the kids and I will mark his birthday and the next day I will remember our anniversary. Without question, those are two sad days.

This year, I want to change that.

Rather than being sad that he is gone, I am trying to put a different perspective on those two days. I want to remember the good memories and celebrate the time we did have together.

We met when I was 23 ... fresh out of college and beginning my career. We dated for two years then got married on Nov. 13, 1999. During the 12 years we were together, we shared so many great times. There were some challenging times, too. With each passing year, our love grew stronger. We were blessed with three amazing children.

A funny side story - When Steve and I first talked about how many children we wanted to have, Steve said he wanted three and I said I wanted two. Steve came from a family of three children and I came from a family of two children. Made sense. Ironically, we both got what we wanted - three children through two pregnancies!

With his birthday and our anniversary approaching, I find myself focusing on time, both how time passes and how it stands still. For me and everyone around me, time has gone on. Whether we like it or not, time has passed and we've gotten older. But, time no longer passes for Steve.

Recently, I've caught myself thinking that he would be 49 this year and we'd be celebrating our 14th wedding anniversary. But, Steve won't be 49. He will always be 44. And, it won't be our 14th wedding anniversary. We were married nine years, a few months shy of our 10th anniversary. That time stands still.

Time. Does. Go. On.

I learned valuable lessons ... time is precious and life is short. It's not a lesson we should be reminded of through the death of a loved one. Since Steve died, I've vowed to continue living fully. Yes, I still get caught up in the day-to-day routine of life. But, I try to remember what's most important in life. It's about quality time with family and friends, taking care of ourselves, embracing beauty around us, getting out to do things, making memories ...

So the journey continues ...

Things happen for a reason

I'm sure you hear this phrase a lot ... "things happen for a reason." I know I hear it a lot. Actually, I heard it in church recently. It was part of the priest's homily. "Things in life happen for a reason."

I do believe things happen for a reason. Sometimes that reason is easy to see. I remember a friend told me that he had planned to take a walk one evening. He didn't know why, but for some reason he kept stalling by doing little things around the house; things he could have done after his walk. As he finally was ready to leave the house and take a walk that fall evening, a car pulled into his driveway. The person who got out of the car was in bad shape and needed my friend's help.

It's easy to see that because my friend didn't take a walk earlier that evening, he was able to help someone who came to him in need. I see that.

For other things that happen in life, the reasons aren't so easy to see. Why did a 44-year-old husband and father of three die suddenly?

I'll never be able to understand the reason that had to happened. Never. Ever.

I can, however, see some positive things that have happened as a result of being widowed.

• I have developed deep connections and strong friendships with other widows from across the country. These are amazing women who suffered their own tragedies. Regardless of how we became widowed, we experience so many similarities and some of the same challenges. There is a great comfort in having other people really understand what you're going through. They "get it." Had I not been widowed, I never would have met them
• I traveled by myself across the country to attend an event in which I didn't know another soul. Attending Camp Widow was amazing and did so much to get me moving forward. It's a phenomenal and incredibly supportive community of people
• I became closer with my girlfriends
• I stopped putting off things for tomorrow. Rather than telling my kids we'll have to see a movie or go to Cedar Point "someday," we make plans to do those things together
• I realized how short life is, so I've vowed to live fully

While I can't understand the reasons why some things in life happen, I am able to see many positive aspects of this new life of mine.

So, the journey continues ...

Dreading the beginning of July

Lots of people love this time of year. It's summer. That means school is out. Families are flocking to the beach, mountains or desert for vacation. Soon, people will be gathering to watch fireworks for the 4th of July. For many, it's a happy, carefree time of year.

I hate this time of year. Well, at least the first half of July.

During these several days, I recall sad and painful memories with incredible clarity. I'm talking uncanny clarity. In early July four years ago, Steve was in bad shape. He wasn't himself. He was unusually quiet and withdrawn, so incredibly uncharacteristic for him. Steve was full of life. He loved being outdoors. Fishing on Lake Erie with his friends was the second love of his life (I was the first, of course! He loved fishing so much I jokingly called myself a fishing widow ... oh, the irony.) He had this bold, contagious laugh. He adored his children.

The first two weeks of July in 2009 were bad. I had never seen Steve so down and withdrawn. Regardless of how he was feeling, he wanted to get better. And, he was doing all of the right things to get better -- see his doctor and take the medications he was prescribed. There was one thing his doctor wanted him to do, but he wouldn't do it. His doctor suggested he take a leave of absence from work. He wouldn't do it. Although he needed the rest and the break from the stress of work, it was the stigma of mental illness that kept him from obeying his doctor's recommendation. He didn't want people at work to know what was wrong.

So, he kept it hidden from everyone but his family. He wouldn't even let his closest friends know what was going on. He was embarrassed.

Now, four years later, I am recalling how bad he was but also the hope we had that things would "get back to normal." They didn't.

I struggle with these clear memories that flood back causing grief to rear its ugly head. Driving home from work today, I was thinking about our conversation with a close family friend who had stopped by our house on July 2 to talk with Steve and I. Then, I remembered that tomorrow is July 2. The emotion flooded to the surface.

It's been four years and I feel like I have come a long way on this journey to heal and find my new normal. I realize, though, that at times like this, the approaching anniversary of his death, his birthday, Father's Day and the other holidays, grief can surface with such ferocity. On the positive side, as the years pass, the length of time between these bursts of grief are longer and longer.

During these times when the grief is more intense, I know I need to be good to myself. However, those of you who know me know that I am really bad at that. I mean really bad! But, this is a journey ... so I'll keep trying to take care of myself while I take care of my children. Baby steps.

The journey continues ...

Identity crisis

Our identity as a person is made up of a number of things -- our roles in life, career, interests and more. In my "old" life, I was a wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, PR professional and lover of food, wine, the outdoors and traveling, to name a few of the things that defined who I was. In this "new" life, all of that is true minus one key role - wife.

Steve and I were together for 12 years. For so long, it was Steve and Emily. After he died, it was just me. I wasn't a wife anymore. I was slapped with this reality after I went to the Social Security office to file paperwork. I read through the information to make sure everything was correct. As I scanned the information, I came upon this line, "Marriage ended in death on July 14, 2009."

Wow. That was harsh. I think the Social Security Administration could do a lot to soften their writing, but that's another story!

July 14 will mark four years since Steve died. While I am all too aware that I haven't been married for that length of time, I've recently been dwelling on this change to my identity. Widowhood has caused me to have an identity crisis.

Being married was an important part of my "old" identity. I loved being married. Of course, there were ups and downs, good times and bad, but overall married life was good.

I know that I have needed to take time to heal and get used to being alone. It has taken a lot of time and work, but I am healing and trying to figure out this "new normal." I often wonder what the future will hold. Will there be a special someone? I hope so.

I've spent time thinking about what I want should moving forward in life mean that I'm blessed with someone to share the journey. It's exciting and scary at the same time.

Hopefully, this identity crisis will be temporary.

Time will tell. Until then, the journey continues ...

A bump in the road

On this journey to move forward after a horrible loss, I hit a bump in the road. As I hit this bump, I was forced to remember that this journey isn't just about me.

Moving forward as a young widow has its challenges, to say the least! Moving forward as a young widow with three young children adds a whole complex dimension to this journey to a new normal. It's a journey the four of us are on ... each of us on our own path.

Part of my path has included dating ... yes, dating again after many, many years. I never would have pictured myself at 39 widowed and dating again. The last time I dated I was just beginning my life after college and starting my career. I met Steve when I was 23. We were young and had our whole lives ahead of us. We married two years later.

Fast forward 14 years later ... and here I am. Losing Steve by far has been the most devastating thing I've experienced. EVER. It seemed as if one minute, we were happily married moving toward our 10 year wedding anniversary. Just shy of that anniversary, I came home from work one day to find my husband had died unexpectedly.

Although Steve had been ill, suffering from major depression for many years. I didn't see death coming. Not for a 44-year-old husband and father of three. We managed the depression when it reared its head, but overall we were very happy. Our love grew stronger with each passing year. Then, it was gone.

For the longest time, I couldn't sleep on my left side (sometimes I still can't). When I'd lay on my left side, I would open my eyes to an empty space where Steve once laid. Seeing that empty side of the bed was surreal.

I miss being married.

Steve was my husband and also my best friend. We knew what each other liked and disliked. When something great happened at work or the kids had done something new, I couldn't wait to tell Steve. Now, when I have something great happen, I pause knowing I can't pick up the phone and call Steve or send him an email.

So, after a bit of time, I began dating. Now, this is a topic that could fill the pages of a very large book, probably a volume of books! I'll skip ahead to the present time. A time when I had been dating a great guy for about nine months. From the beginning, we seemed to hit it off. Eventually, I introduced him to the kids. They adored him.

We spent many weekends together often finding some adventure -- biking a trail at one of our metroparks, hiking or sledding -- or we'd spend nights at my house making dinner, watching movies or playing games. It was great!

Until a few months ago.

To make a long story short, I recently ended the relationship. I wasn't happy. I didn't feel like I was an important person in his life. In the first few months of the relationship, I loved receiving texts telling me how happy he was that he had met me or that he couldn't wait to see me again or even a "good morning, beautiful xoxoxo." I loved hearing that special sound alerting me I had a text from him. I'd reciprocate sending him short messages to let him know how I felt. More recently, though, I'd send a short message, something like "I can't wait to see you" or "I've had you on my mind" and I'd get this message back - "that's nice."

Ouch.

What was that about? A distance seemed to grow between us. At one point, I thought he might be the one, my chapter two. But, as this distance continued, I grew more unhappy.

With the loss I've experienced, I've vowed to live each day fully, to love more deeply, to find happiness.

I wasn't loving deeply and certainly didn't feel like I was being loved deeply. So, I ended it. I'm ok.

What I didn't expect was how hard it would be to tell the kids. As we sat around our kitchen table and I began to tell them he and I were no longer dating, I could see tears begin to fill their eyes.

Ouch.

It's not fair. They lost their dad. Now, they lost someone they had grown close to. I want to spare them heartache. I wouldn't mind skipping some heartache, too! But, I can't imagine being alone the rest of my life.

So, now what?

I don't know.

Well, like Jane Seymour says, I need to keep my heart open. In the meantime, I will let go and see what happens.

So, the journey continues. It continues for me and for my three awesome kids.

Sad and unnecessary end to a life

I was saddened to hear the news of singer Mindy McCready's tragic death. It hit very close to home. Although it sounded as if she tried to get professional help, the stigma of mental illness and the ridicule she thought she might face were bigger and stronger than she was.

In a statement about her death, Dr. Drew Pinsky said, "Mental health issues can be life threatening and need to be treated with the same intensity and resources as any other dangerous potentially life threatening medical condition." He went on to say that treatment is effective, so long as treatment is maintained.

I agree - treatment can be effective. In my opinion, mental illness is a serious medical condition just like heart disease, cancer and diabetes are serious medical conditions. It's a medical condition that requires medical intervention.

According to the National Association of Mental Illness, fewer than one-third of adults with a diagnosable mental health disorder receive treatment in a given year. That means many people are able to manage their illness. They follow their doctor's recommendation for treatment, whether it's medication, counseling, inpatient treatment or a combination of therapies.

What about the other two-thirds of people with a diagnosable mental health disorder who don't seek treatment? Is it the stigma of mental illness? Like Mindy McCready, do they fear ridicule?

I'm hopeful that the more we talk about mental illness, we are able to tick away at the stigma. I hope that movies such as Silver Lining Playbook demystify mental illness and encourage people to seek professional help. I hope that celebrities and other public figures who suffer some type of mental illness are able to talk about their experience. Catherine Zeta-Jones comes to mind. She bravely shared her story about suffering from bipolar disorder. While she said she didn't want to shout it from the rooftops, she hoped "fellow sufferers will know it's completely controllable."

However, there are people who follow their doctor's recommendations, take the medications that are prescribed for them and attend counseling, yet the illness still wins. That's the ultimate tragedy. The tragedy I'm all too familiar with.

And the journey continues ...

Signs, signs ... am I supposed to see signs?

Are our loved ones who died still able to communicate with us? I don't mean communicating in the sense of actually hearing them speak to us. Can our spouses communicate with us through our dreams or special songs that come on the radio? Are there signs that hold particular meaning such as seeing a bird pause on a branch outside our window or watching a butterfly land near us that are intended to speak to us?

During the past three and a half years, I've been fortunate to meet so many amazing women (and a few men) who also are widowed. Through blogs or posts on Facebook, some of them have commented about vividly sensing their spouse. For one woman, the connection came in the form of a butterfly. For another widow, it was a series of songs that played on the radio; each song held special meaning for them. Others have said they smelled the cologne their spouse wore. Another widow said, for the briefest moment, she could see her late husband smiling at her.

I haven't had those same experiences. If I did, especially smelling Steve's cologne or seeing him, even for a second or two, I wonder if I would be comforted or freaked out. I don't know.

I did have one distinct moment when I truly sensed Steve communicated with me. This happened a little more than two years after Steve died. I was attending a wedding with a guy I was dating at the time. We were at the reception. Dinner was over and the standard dances had started -- father/bride, mother/groom, wedding party and so on. Then, it was time for the dance when everyone is invited to join the bride and groom on the dance floor.

The song started playing. By the first note, I knew the song. I knew it well, actually. Al Green began singing the first words of his classic song, "Let's Stay Together." Seriously? Of all the songs in the world, the couple chose this song? But, this was our song. Not with this guy ... but my special song with Steve. It was at our wedding when Steve played this song for me and we were the bride and groom dancing.

I glanced up at the ceiling ... and thought "Really?" It was then that I could swear I "heard," "Go, go make new memories."

Wow.

So, I smiled, stood up and walked to the dance floor.

I haven't had other experiences in which I sensed Steve was trying to communicate with me. At least, I don't think I've sensed him. I wish I would, though. By sensing his presence or feeling like he's communicating with me, maybe I'd feel a sense of comfort in knowing he's "in a better place" or perhaps feel like part of him is still with me.

Signs, signs ... maybe they are all around us. I don't know.

Perhaps I need to stop, take time out of my busy schedule, breathe and be more aware of the signs that may be right in front of me.

So, the journey continues ...

Can I get off this roller coaster?

I love a good roller coaster. Well, now I do. My first experience riding a roller coaster wasn't so pleasant. I was afraid. Just seeing that first big hill was enough to scare the bejeezus out of me!

As I think about riding roller coasters, I'm struck by the similarity of the enormous mass of twisting steel (or wood) that is a roller coaster to the mass of twisting emotion that is grief. You may be thinking that I've totally lost it, but stay with me. On the surface, these two things couldn't be more different. However, the similarity comes in the wide range of emotions you experience both in riding a coaster and in living with grief.

In my experience on roller coasters, I've reacted with anxiety, screams of utter fear then laughter and excitement. The range of emotions that come with grief is like a roller coaster in itself. There's sadness, anxiety, longing for what was, longing for another close relationship and numbness, but there's also happiness, laughter and hope. And, the most important of these is hope!

While there are many, many, many days I want to get off this roller coaster of grief, I can't. It doesn't happen that way. I know the ups and downs of grief will still come. What I can do is learn to live with it and manage it as best as possible.

I have chosen to really live the rest of my life. I want to live it fully. For me, that means deepening friendships, choosing to love again, taking joy in the simple things in life, caring for myself so that I can care for my children, embracing new opportunities and approaching work with confidence.

There will be bad days and things that trigger a grief response. On this journey to a new normal, I'll continue to learn how to manage the twists and turns that cause grief to rear its ugly head. Because it will!

So the journey continues ...

Unexpected triggers

During my three and a half year journey, I've come to learn a thing or two. I'm by no means an expert. Just learning and figuring it out as I go.

Sometimes I wish there was a book that laid out a road map for grieving. Instead, it's something everyone experiences in their own way, in their own time. One thing I've learned is that certain events, holidays, pictures or songs will trigger a grief burst. For me, the grief burst can come in many forms - feeling sad, down or irritable, finding myself staring off in the distance multiple times a day or as tears. When the trigger is expected, especially when it's a special day or when I'm planning to see someone who knew my husband, I can prepare for it. I know in advance it will trigger a grief response. It's those unexpected situations that are the worst.

Earlier today, the snow started falling ... this first of the season. The kids were ecstatic. They couldn't wait to bundle up and play outside. As we were driving home, the very short distance from my parents' house, it hit me. I saw men with snow blowers plowing out their driveways.

Yep, that's what did it.

I got inside the house and looked at my driveway. It was covered with snow. Immediately, I was flooded with images of Steve dressed from head to toe in Carhart clothing -- hat, coat, coveralls, gloves -- ready to head outside to plow our driveway. He was like a little kid riding our John Deere tractor up and down our long driveway. While those images made me smile, the memories also made me sad. Another reminder that Steve isn't here. It's like a kick in the gut.

So, I allowed myself to be sad and down in the dumps. Early on in my grief, I felt like I had to snap myself out of feeling sad. Then, through the help of a wonderful grief counselor, I learned that it's OK to give into the feelings. To let them come. What I've found is that when I allow myself to feel sad, blue, down in the dumps or just ho-hum, I end up feeling better in no time.

The triggers, whether expected or unexpected, will happen. My goal is to change how I respond to the trigger. Rather than getting sad, irritable or teary, I hope to get to a point where I will take the trigger as a chance to stop what I'm doing, remember Steve, love him in that moment and continue on. It's a journey, but I'll get there.

Until then, the journey continues ...

Finding my "something"

Last Friday morning, the unthinkable happened in a small Connecticut town ... a mass shooting claimed the lives of 20 elementary school students and seven adults. Hearing the news brought me to tears. Who would go into an elementary school and start shooting innocent people, especially young kids? My heart went to each parent, each family who lost a loved one.

My sadness turned to frustration and anger. During one of the television news broadcasts, as the journalists tried to piece together what had happened, an anchor interviewed a medical correspondent. He asked questions to get a sense of the type of person who would carry out such a horrific act. The doctor responded and ended her comment saying that when we see a picture of Adam Lanza, it "will be the face of mental illness."

That's the moment when my blood started to boil. My husband suffered from severe depression. Does that mean he too is the face of mental illness?

By mid afternoon, we didn't know much about Adam Lanza. Yet, medical correspondents and countless Americans started diagnosing him. Granted, I don't know what would cause a person to commit such an evil act. But, what good does it do to start throwing out names of illnesses such as schizophrenia, Asperger's and depression? This only adds to the misperceptions and stigmas about mental illness. The National Association of Mental Illness has reported that 57.7 million Americans experience some type of mental health disorder in a given year. That's one in four adults.

Mental illness doesn't discriminate. It's not limited to people who are homeless or addicted to drugs. People in all walks of life suffer from some type of mental illness. Most people are able to manage their illness through medication and counseling. Unfortunately, others don't seek treatment.

I had to share my frustration about the "Adam Lanza and the face of mental illness" comment so I did what I often do ... I turned to Facebook. I posed a question asking if that meant Steve is a face of mental illness. A friend of mine commented that the face of mental illness should be the person who works, raises a family and deals with their disease. Yes! She gets it!

Never in a million years would I have imagined that I'd be in my mid (ok, now late) 30's and widowed. But I am. Not long after Steve died, I felt like I needed to do something so that no one would have to endure the pain of this kind of loss. At the time, I didn't know what that "something" was. Now, I think part of my "something" is to advocate for people suffering from a mental illness by pushing for more education. Knowledge is power!

So the journey continues ...

I thought I knew what grief was

By day, I work for a marketing public relations agency. Much of my time is dedicated to PR in our hospice marketing division. To keep up-to-date on what's happening in the hospice industry, I read articles and review studies on a range of topics related to end-of-life care. I frequently come across articles about grief.

Today I was reading a blog post about grief. The blog's author wrote "... most of us think our feelings, our grief, is about the person who died. It is not, it is about us, about how our life has to change and how we are going to adapt to those changes." I agree with that statement ... to a point.

I absolutely grieve the loss of Steve. I miss him. I'm devastated that he's gone. And, I also grieve the life I had and the life I assumed I would have for many, many years.

Before Steve died, I knew what grief meant. Not only did I know what it meant, I experienced it. Each of my grandparents has died, first when I was in kindergarten, then early grade school, again in high school and as an adult. I was sad and felt the void of my grandparents during holidays, regular Sunday dinners and other traditions. Death is sad. Better yet, to quote Michele Hernandez with Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, "Death Sucks." So, so true ...

The grief I have experienced during the past three and a half years has been all-encompassing, sometimes overwhelming. So many people told me to "just get through the first year." I knew the first holidays, birthdays and anniversary without Steve would be hard. And they were. What I wasn't expecting was that the second and third years would be harder. Some days I was just going through the motions of everyday life. Other days were good. Then, when I'd least expect it, a wave of emotion would hit me and knock me to my knees. On those days, it felt like I was taking two or three steps backward after the one step I had taken forward.

On Wednesday evening, the day before Thanksgiving, one of those waves kicked me in the you-know-what. The kids had gone to bed. I was in my living room folding laundry and watching a movie, Anna and the King (always one of my favorites). I forgot that Anna was a widow. At some point during the movie, the tears started to flow ... and flow ... and flow. I let the emotion out. My grief counselor used the term "grief bursts" to explain these times when grief comes out of nowhere and brings you to your knees. I let myself feel sad that Steve wouldn't be there the next day to celebrate Thanksgiving with our families and I moped. But, I woke up the next day feeling better.

I didn't expect the day or two before an important date would be worse than the day itself. I assumed THE day, whatever special day it was, would be the hardest. Unfortunately, there isn't a manual that tells us how to grieve. We need to figure it out on our own. This is true not only for the grief of a loved one who died, but also other types of loss, like divorce. We grieve the life we had and what we thought it would be.

What I've experienced during the past three years has changed me. I'm not the same person I was on July 13, 2009, the day before Steve died. The "new" Emily is strong. There's a greater sense of confidence.

I know grief doesn't end. Being a widow and grieving the loss of my husband is part of who I am today and the person I will be in the future. Even if I marry again, I still will be a widow as well as a wife.

So, the journey continues ...

The journey begins ...

This is a journey I never pictured myself taking. In 2009, I was 35-years-old, a wife, mother to a boy and twin girls and owner of a small freelance public relations business. "Widow" didn't fit in that description of how I saw myself.

To me, the term "widow" conjured images of a lonely old woman. I was the opposite. I was young with a full life ahead of me. That life included my husband, Steve, me and our three children. We had so much to experience ... together. There was so much to see and do ... together. It's as if I could see it. However, that life I could picture so clearly wasn't to be.

Instead, on a summer day, I came home from work to find my husband had died.

Died?

Died.

I couldn't wrap my head around it. I left for work that morning and my life was how I knew it to be. Just hours later, the life I planned, the life I could so clearly see, was gone.

These have been three long, difficult years. Emotions have run the gamut. A lot has happened since that awful day. But, it hasn't been all bad.

During the past year or so, several people have suggested that I start a blog. I wasn't sure. Much of what I do for a living involves writing. While I love to write, I wasn't sure about "putting it all out there." However, I've been inspired by so many other young widows I have been fortunate to meet during these past few years.

Through this blog, I want to share my journey of life as a young woman, single mother and widow. The good, the bad and the who knows what!

So, my journey to a new normal continues ...