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.