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 He was unusually quiet and withdrawn, so incredibly uncharacteristic for him.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 I had never seen Steve so down and withdrawn.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 ...

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.