Adventures in Lost

 Today Ellie was supposed to graduate with her Masters of Science in Nursing. After she passes her boards she will be an Adult/Geriatric Acute Care Nurse Practitioner. But it was cancelled.

I was reflecting on all of the losses that we’re all experiencing. There are so many. Not only the loss of life. That’s a story for another time. I’m talking about all of the losses. The high school wrestler trying to be a four time state champ. The college senior excited about her last time to get to play softball at this level of competition. The underprivileged basketball star whose coach had lined up scouts to come watch him play so that he’d have a shot at going to college. Prom. Yearbook signing. Kindergarten spring play. MLB Baseball. Even the funerals for those who have died during this terrible time.

I’m reminded of my favorite story of my nephew, Bridger. My sister and her husband were out of town and my parents were taking care of Bridger, about 4, and Caid, about 2. They had gotten happy meals at McDonalds that day, and the toy that came with it was a really awesome Star Wars Storm Trooper. Bridger was so proud of it, he came in and showed my husband Sawan and me, who happened to be at my folk’s house. We oohed and ahhed. It was bedtime, so the kiddos started the bedtime routine, and fifteen minutes later, Bridger was completely distraught because he couldn’t find the Storm Trooper. So we formed a search party. Mom and Dad took the upstairs, Sawan and I took the downstairs. We moved couch cushions, we looked under furniture, we tried to think of what a four year old could have possibly done with the toy in the last 15 minutes, but we didn’t find it. Finally, my dad took a knee in front of the crying Bridger and tried to get him to retrace his steps. He said, “Ok. So, you had it when you came in from the car.” Bridger nods. “Then you showed it to Noey and Sawan.” Bridger nods. “Then you went upstairs with it?” Bridger nods. Dad says, “Do you think you know what you did with it after that?” Bridger nods in the affirmative again. We all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Why hadn’t we started with this tactic? “Oh! Well, what do you think you did with it?” In a loud sob he cried, “I think I LOST it!” It was so cute and heartbreaking and hilarious all at one time. Sawan was so tickled. When I try to remember the sound of Sawan’s laughter, I go to this memory for it.

When I recounted this story to Bridger’s mom, though, she didn’t think it was as funny as I did. She explained to me that Bridger thought that Lost was an actual place. It’s something he said all the time. “Where is it Bridger?” “Mom, I told you, it’s Lost.” 

When people talk about loss and death and grief and people dying, everyone has different language that they prefer. I know lots of widows that hate it when people refer to their husband as “lost.” “He was not a set of keys,” says one of my widow friends of her husband. My personal distaste is for the term “passed.” Because to me, I think that he was not gas. My dead husband was not a fart. So I say that I lost him. I like to think of him going to Bridger’s place. To Lost, where all of our favorite needed or loved things go. He’s there, hanging out with Bridger’s Storm Trooper.

But, I thought about this Lost place for the first time in a long time today. Maybe Lost is a place for experiences, too? Maybe all of those losses that we’re experiencing here are being enjoyed by those that we’ve Lost. Maybe Sawan and his homies got to watch this year’s Opening Day. Maybe he’s getting to watch cutie pies in plays and awesome softball games and triumphant wrestling matches and come from behind wins. Maybe he’s getting to cheer rights of passage and comfort the grieving. And maybe, just maybe, he’s getting to watch Ellie cross the platform, and he’s standing up and doing that whistle thing with his fingers really loud. ‘Cuz I know he would if this all were true.

Eight Years

Eight. Years.

It feels like yesterday. And also like a different lifetime.

I still remember the way the light looked on the morning that I kissed him goodbye, not knowing it was our last kiss. The sun had that beautiful butterscotch hue to it as it flooded the kitchen of our little condo, the rich color that only August sun has. I had on a too-big green give-away t-shirt and still had my TMJ mouth guard in. He scolded me for being out of bed early on my day off, but I wanted to make him coffee before he left for school. It was so--ordinary.

I would be widowed by the time that lovely sun set.

***

I find myself reflecting on the last eight years. What lessons have these years taught me? Among other things, this:

I learned how to grieve. Well, I know I’m still learning, but I learned early on that grief is a relentless teacher that never really takes a break, only changes, but can apparate back to it’s original form and back again in the same moment. I learned to give myself grace about timelines and linear “progress” and anything else that felt like expectation. I learned to give grace to others; too, even if they had expectations for my grieving that I could not meet.  Some of the support I got was tremendous (saints, I tell you!). But, it’s also amazing to me how few of the people in my current “inner circle” even knew me eight years ago. It’s hard for me sometimes that they never even knew Sawan, this man that changed me so fully and completely by his presence and then by his absence.

I learned that there are no guarantees. I was not promised a husband that would live until we were old. I was not promised children. I was not promised an easy life. (I was also not promised other marriage benefits-- like orgasms, or someone to do the “dude” things like changing the furnace filters and taking out the trash and opening all the jars.) I was only promised sufficient grace. You know, just enough grace to get by. Over the years I recognized that so much of the time I enjoy not merely sufficient grace, but rather an extravagance of grace.

I learned that life isn’t going to look like I thought it would. It isn’t even going to look like I thought it would once I realized I had to re-think life. I’m still learning to get over that and just live. I’m learning to live like this is my one wild and precious life, and I won’t squander it by merely surviving.

***

And where was I before the day

That I first saw your lovely face?

Now I see it every day.

And I know that I am the luckiest.

-Ben Folds from The Luckiest (which was “our song”)

It was pretty great while the luck held, Baby. I miss you every day.

Lonesome

Today, in my “memories” on Facebook, where it shows all of the posts you’ve ever had on this same date, from previous years, I had a status from 2009, less than a month before my husband died.  “I get ready for work so much faster when there’s no one around to pester.  It’s kinda lonesome, though.”  Sawan was out of town, fishing with my Dad, I think.  He was not a morning person, and hated it when I woke him up as I was getting ready for work.  So I of course woke him.  Every day.  If I had only known.  Less than a month later I’d be forever lonesome in my morning ritual.

It’s that time of year again.  I used to love summer, and now I merely survive it, especially the brutal 7 or 8 weeks between our wedding anniversary, July 1^st, and the anniversary of the day he died, August 24^th.  His birthday is thrown in there on August 2^nd, just to really make it hard.  It’s been almost seven years since my husband died but as the days get closer to the same length as that hateful day, my body remembers, and even though so much time has passed, it’s still hard.

I walked through Costco tonight.  The Halloween costumes were out.  It’s been a long time since an image like that has made me cry, but suddenly my eyes just leaked.  Will I ever get to have a little person to put in one of those?  It’s looking more and more like the answer is “no.”  On days like today I grieve for the loss of the life that I thought I was going to have.

Most days I’m ok.  Most days I remember that I’ve found my new normal.  I even have found a way to enjoy myself again.  I laugh a lot.  I don’t feel sad every single day.  Not even in this gross 8 weeks. 

But today, I’m just not that ok.  I long for the days when I thought that one morning without him was too hard, and when I still believed that it was my destiny to have a small, costume-clad person holding my hand.

The Bod

I’ve been crazy busy living life, but when I told a client in my chair this story the other day, she said, “You should write a blog.”  I told her, I do write a blog (you know, in the loose sense of the word, I should have said I sometimes write a blog).

Right before Christmas, I met a man.  What makes this remarkable is that I had just made a statement, the day before, that I was done for awhile.  Benched.  I felt a bit creeped out by men in general and needed a break.

And then I met this guy.  I was at an event at church, one of the happy hours for the 30’s group.  I was actually there to avoid being home because of a (before mentioned) creepy man situation (but that’s another story for another time), even though I was benched.  Anyway, we ended up having a 30 to 45 minute conversation, which is rare in that setting, and had a ton of things in common.  He was handsome (my friends came to call him The Bod), was soft spoken, and super kind.  Because of the fact that I was “done,” I was just totally being my authentic, unfettered self.  I wasn’t trying to impress him.  It came up that I was a widow (because I was benched, my guard wasn’t up), and in a totally non-weird way, he asked about the story and I told it.  He was compassionate.  At the end of the conversation he told me to find him on Facebook, and mutual friends overheard that, and had been observing our long talk, and got excited.  This meeting had potential.

I found him on Facebook, and we exchanged messages over Christmas, but nothing substantial. 

After New Years, a friend of mine had a birthday and a big group of my friends, including the Bod, went out to celebrate.  We had a lot to drink, closed the bar down, went to get food afterward, and then he kissed me in my car.  I was shocked.  Other women had been throwing themselves at him all night.  I had actually been having an internal dialogue with myself all night:  Don’t fall for this guy, Noel.  Church guys are weird.  They can be such pussies.  He’ll never make a move.  You don’t want to be part of the harem.  So when he actually did make a move, I was shocked!  In a good way.  My internal dialogue changed to: Oh, it’s on.

And then the next day I saw him and it was like he was giving me the Heisman (as in, the body language that the trophy shows).  We finally had a conversation a week later, where I totally gave him an out:  We had been drinking a lot.  We don’t really know each other.  Blah Blah Blah.  But, he assured me that he had felt a connection, that he had meant to kiss me, but that he wanted to take things slow, base a relationship on friendship.  He wanted to get to know me.  Internal dialogue: Well, I don’t typically do slow, but that hasn’t been working for me lately.  Sure.  I could try slow.

After a couple of weeks of more awkwardness, with just enough hint of connection to keep me guessing, I sent an email.  I kindly told him that he’s not the type that I normally date, so if this is slow, I can be patient, but if he’s not interested, well, basically, could he help a sister out and just let me know?  He responded saying that he wanted to talk about it in person, and could we get together the following week because he was out of town?  “Sure,” I said.

But then he didn’t follow up, either via email or in person when I ran into him twice that week.  So, I felt mildly disappointed, both in the fact that he clearly wasn’t interested and also in the fact that he was, after all that, exactly what I had been warning myself against the whole night before we kissed.  But, whatever.

The problem is, we’re part of the same friend group.  So, a couple of weeks later, after seeing him a few times and not talking to him, he asked me if we could grab coffee or a drink.  Internal Dialogue: Do we seriously need to get together now, a month after I emailed you, for you to tell me you’re not interested? I think I got it, buddy.  But, I agreed.  Why not?  I’m pretty sure that I can’t remember what I ever saw in him, but, I’m pretty good at giving lots of chances.  Plus, because we run in the same gang, I’d like for him to be able to make eye contact with me.

My friends all told me not to worry anyway.  “What kind of asshole wants to get together after you’ve clearly moved on to tell you that he’s not interested?”

Oh, my friends, the Bod is that kind of asshole. We met for coffee, and I waited an hour for him to beat around the bush, to hint at the idea that he’s not interested.  I had to say, “Um, could we just circle back to the fact that you aren’t going to date anyone at the church that we go to, ‘cuz I feel like that was for me.”  After him stuttering through an explanation, and finally being somewhat direct, I told him he owed me an aplogy.  “You wanted to sit down and talk about this now?  It’s been two months since you kissed me.  You think it’s okay to just string someone along like that?”  He stuttered another explanation, no apology, and told me that he was “spooked” by my direct communication style.  And by the fact that I’m a widow.   

Mmokay then.  I’m actually proud of the fact that I’m a direct communicator.  And the widow thing?  That I can’t change.  I didn’t kill my husband.  It’s completely unfair.  It’s not my fault.  Really, in the whole above scenario, I can’t really think where I went wrong.

But now, even a couple of weeks later, I’m still furious.  Before we sat down, I had felt a bit of rejection, but it was no big deal. I had already moved on.  And then he dropped the widow thing on me.  I’m not someone who struggles with confidence.  Ever.  To a degree that it is probably actually not healthy, it probably borders on arrogance.  But, sheesh.  Every date that I’ve been on since my husband died, this is an issue, (well, except for that minute that I was dating the guy that I’ve known my whole life).  Internal Dialogue: No one will want you.  Ever.

And that just sucks.

I'm trying to tell myself that it's not true.

And, I keep reminding myself that I don’t even know this man.  That my first impressions were that he was just so kind.  That’s not the picture of him that he ended up showing me, but I believe that he has to be bigger than the small (asshole) piece of him that he showed me. 

But still.  F#ck him.

#tbt

A couple of weeks ago, Ellie (my sister) found these photos from Christmas 2008 and showed them to me.  I had never seen them before. 

Sawan and Arthur

Sawan and I with our Christmas cracker hats on

Ellie says she was trying out her new iphone and took this picture before he left for work.  It was his contact photo in her phone. 

After looking through them that night, I had a dream about Sawan, which has seriously only happened about four times (isn’t that strange?).  It was just a normal day, we were back in our old condo and he was making me dinner, which is pretty much how life always was.  His back was to me almost the whole time, and in random dream world he was making a salad but then he was trying to put it all on a pita, not in a “hey this will make a great wrap” sort of way, but just in a “this makes absolutely no sense because it’s in random dream world” way.  He put raw onions on it, which he realized too late and was annoyed about because then he knew I wouldn’t want to eat it (I hate raw onions).  And then I woke up.  I never touched him, didn’t get to tell him I loved him, how much I miss him.  It was truly disappointing.  Especially for it only being the fourth time in six years that I have had a late night rendezvous with my dead husband.

There was also this one.  Because, you know, safety first.

The Intolerable Complement

2016 is starting out pretty amazing.  I’m crazy busy, but I won’t complain.  I’m loving life.

Remember that I said that I was listening to books?  I’ve been on a bit of a C.S. Lewis binge of late. 

In the last few months I’ve “read” The Great Divorce, Mere Christianity, and The Problem of Pain.  I took a break in between to listen to something a bit less heady, and just finished The Problem of Pain last week.  I feel like I’m secure in the fact that I’m an intelligent woman, but when I read C.S. Lewis I feel like I know nothing, that I’m never going to get it.  Like he’s speaking the language of the gods and I am a mere mortal.  I was talking to someone about this and he told me that you have to just realize that every time you read him you’re going to get something more than you got the last time, and be patient with yourself.  So, I’m working on it.

But, reading The Problem of Pain has totally changed my life. 

I struggle with caring too much about what people think about me.  I think I’m better than I used to be, but it’s still there.  In a lot of ways I feel that people think that I must have really screwed up to be in the position that I am.  Widowed.  I have let that affect my own thoughts about myself as well.

It seems like there are multiple ways to process grief and suffering, but the way that I always go is that its all my fault.  Since the terrible thing that happened to me can’t be explained, it must be because of something that I did, or because I’m a bad person, or at any rate not good enough, and eventually, I get to, because God doesn’t love me enough. 

Part of the “messy spirituality" that I’m known for is that (as I have said before) I know intellectually that God loves me and wants what’s best for me, but if he thinks that me being widowed is best for me, then he’s kind of an asshole.  Even though I hate it, that’s  pretty much been the way I’ve been relating to him for the last six or so years.  And then I read this:

"We are, not metaphorically, but in very truth, a Divine work of art, something that God is making, and therefore something with which He will not be satisfied until it has a certain character.  Here again we come up against what I have called the 'intolerable compliment'. Over a sketch made idly to amuse a child, an artist may not take much trouble: he may be content to let it go even though it is not exactly as he meant it to be. But over the great picture of his life - the work which he loves, though in a different fashion, as intensely as a man loves a woman or a mother a child - he will take endless trouble - and would, doubtless, thereby give endless trouble to the picture if it were sentient [the ability to feel and to have subjective experiences]. One can imagine a sentient picture, after being rubbed and scraped and recommenced for the tenth time, wishing that it were only a thumbnail sketch whose making was over in a minute. In the same way, it is natural for us to wish that God had designed for us a less glorious and less arduous destiny; but then we are wishing not for more love but for less." - C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain.

Hmm.  He really loves me after all.  Talk about a paradigm shift.

So long, 2015 (don't let the door hit'cha...)

What a crazy year 2015 was.

By seasons, it was a rough winter, followed by springtime of conflict, one of my darkest summers on record, and a fall that was beautiful but also painful in a different way.  As the year moved on toward colder weather again, I found myself loving winter in a way that I never have before.  I need the cold to seal everything up and let dormant things lie, so that there can be new life.

But, amid the dark stuff, there was light.  Here’s are some of the major happenings:

I got a Fitbit.  I got it in March, and gradually became obsessed with it. By May my crazy was full blown.  Picture me doing laps inside my house getting steps.  The neighbors see me walk by and call out, “Getting your steps?”  Pacing the floor in a quiet moment, causing my friends to say, “What are you doing?” I went from the second week of May through the beginning of September without missing my 10,000-step count goal (When you reach your goal, the Fitbit vibrates.  I call it “Party on my wrist.” It now comes with a dance, as well.).  A combination of it getting more difficult to walk outside and a three-week separation from it in November allowed me to release myself (I have a problem with letting things go once I’ve set a goal).  I still average 9K, but it’s not like the 12K I was getting in July.  Let it go, Noel.  *deep breath* But, summer 2015 will always be the Summer of the Fitbit.  All of my Denver family had one, and we would compete against each other and our Australia family.  My sister would stop by just because she was going out to get steps and she wanted company.  We would all be together and find the furthest parking spot away so that we could all increase our steps.  It was such fun. 

From a Fitbit walk this summer.  Sun setting, perfect weather, and a field full of dandelions.  I hate them in my own yard, but at the park, it was so dreamy, all I could think was, "That's a lot of wishes."

From an amazing encounter with author of the Shack, Paul Young.  

That leads to another great thing about 2015.  I began to “read” again.  Well, sort of.  You see, I used to be a big reader.  I would read one or two books a month.  When I was a kid, I actually got grounded from reading more than once.  I would be reading when I was supposed to be doing other things, like chores, or sleeping.  After Sawan died, however, I had to stop.  I couldn’t read as quickly as I had before, and my comprehension had gone down the tubes.  Reading provided only frustration where it used to bring joy, so I gave it up for awhile.  There have been a few books that I’ve struggled through in the last six years, but it was just that, a struggle.  I have a friend that is an occupational therapist that suggested I try doing two things at once, like reading and swinging, or reading on my elliptical.  That would employ both sides of my brain and therefore help me to remember.  But, I found an even better solution, using her suggestion of two things at once.  Audiobooks.  I listen while I’m getting my steps (or walking, if you want), or driving, or working in the yard, or in the tub, or doing the dishes.  It’s employing both sides of my brain but I’m still being productive.  I “read” 17 books this year.  Plus, I’m old school reading (actual books with paper and words) three more right now, but that takes me forever.

August is always a hard month for me; the majority of my "hard days" fall in August.  I really keep thinking that it’s going to get easier, but man, this one was tough.  I told my mom one day that the only thing I wanted to do was smoke and work out.  A bit counter-productive, I know, but I allowed myself some grace in the cigarette department (I technically quit November 2014) and gained some muscle at Orange Theory.

Which brings me to my very favorite thing from 2015.  Orange Theory Fitness.  Orange Theory is a HIIT workout that kicks my butt every time, but is completely enjoyable.  When I tell my friends about it, some of them say they never want to do it, and some of them have come with me.  Either way, I am addicted to the endorphins and have injured myself more than once from trying to go too often. I think it probably saved my life this summer and so I’m incredibly thankful for it.

I started a new job in September staging real estate.  I work staging on the days that I’m not doing hair.  Well, to be fair, I only worked a handful of days last fall and then things totally slowed down around the holidays, so I had plenty of time for the busy season at the salon.  A really gifted friend is training me, and I love every minute of it.  It’s totally energizing in a whole new way.

I began to use Arthur (my service dog) less and less this fall; it just felt like it was time, because I’m doing so much better than I was when I first started using him.  I just don’t need him as much as I used to.  He and I are stumbling a bit through the transition of him not having to work all the time, but still being a good boy when I need him to work.  I think he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why I’m leaving him.  And, I miss him.  I don’t miss all of the questions or the attention that we got, though.  Anyway, we’re getting it figured out.

Arthur with his birthday cone

freezing his paws off.  not a fan of the boots.

September in Santa Fe

My parents moved away this fall.  My dad started a new job in October, so he headed north then, and my mom came and went throughout the fall working on finding their new house and getting the old house ready to go.  They left for good right after Thanksgiving. I went up there for Christmas (BTW, spending time in the town where I went to high school and have rarely been since was surreal), so I haven’t really felt their absence until this week.  It pretty much sucks.

Sprinkle in there a few bad dates, a few good dates (but none with a permanent solution to my single-girl woes), some awesome time deepening old friendships and making new ones, another season watching the Rockies lose, and you pretty much have my year.  For the most part I feel like 2015 can suck it.  I’m not sad to see it go.

old friends. (Or friends for a long time.  We're NOT old.)

(relatively) new friends.

I’m excited to see what 2016 will bring. 

My dear readers, my Readership of Tens, thank you for reading my words.  Thanks for your comments and words of encouragement.  Especially you widows…we got this!  We’re in it together.  Thanks for another year.

 

Christmas in Montana

Whatever.

Anne Lamott lists the three essential prayers, according to her, in her book Help, Thanks, Wow.  But when I saw her speak about a year ago, she said, and I’m paraphrasing, that she had not realized until after the book was published that there is a fourth essential prayer, whatever.  (Help, Thanks, Wow, Whatever doesn’t quite have the same ring, so maybe it’s for the best that she didn’t come up with that ‘till later.)

I thought, “Whoa.  How often do I pray that prayer?  ‘Whatever, God. I just don’t get you.’”

For the last few weeks, that has pretty much been the meditation of my heart.  I’m not saying it angrily.  I’m not really pissed at God (well, not about that, anyway).  Just confused.  I just really don’t get him sometimes (OK, almost all of the time).

I had a brutal summer.  For some reason, the grief of widowhood just kicked my ass this year.  Summer is always hard but this one was worse, for some reason.  whatever.

I turned off the last of my online dating profiles today.  I give up.  I’ve had a few ridiculous dates this summer.  Only first dates.  The profiles I see don’t give me much hope that there’s anything better out there.  A man in your age range, with a job, that will have children?  You’re asking way too much, Noel.  whatever. 

Plus, even if I find a guy that ticks off all of my deal breakers, he’ll probably just end up being like the last guy, that technically met all the deal breakers, (and I’ve decided not to use this blog as a platform to say mean things about men I’ve dated and broken up with, but I have nothing nice to say about him at all).  So, without giving details, I’ll just say that if the available men are like him, then I’m content to be single for the rest of my life. whatever.

The whole thing about the “Biological Clock Ticking” that you hear about on the movies?  That’s a real thing.  Only, in the movies they’re always joking about it, and in real life, it’s not funny.  It’s so incredibly stressful.  It’s constantly on my mind.  The pressure that it puts on dating, that it puts on me as I give up dating is so intense.  Whatever.

The IRS just imposed a levy on me, for unpaid taxes from when I owned the salon in 2007.  That whole thing about not needing to keep tax records more than seven years?  That’s not really a thing.  There is actually no statute of limitations for the IRS to come after you.  Turns out my accountant still had my 2007 records, and I had paid but misfiled the 2007 taxes, so we’re getting it figured out, but sheesh.  The stress.  And the hours spent on hold.  The hours spent working on finding files, on re-filing the proper forms.  The feeling that I’m being accused of being dishonest. Whatever.

My parents are moving.  My dad got laid off in March, a victim of the low oil prices.  After the stress of looking for a job for six months, he finally got an offer. (Yay!)  In Montana.  (Boo!)  In my whole life, I’ve lived in a different place than my parents for 4 months.  It was in 1996, when I came back to the states to finish my senior year of highschool and they stayed in Ukraine.  This makes me know that if I could live away from them when I was seventeen and they were in a whole other country then, now, as an adult I’ll be fine, but it just sucks to know that I don’t have them around to bail me out.  Especially as a widow.  They’ve taken up the slack with things that my husband would have handled.  My dad helps me when my car won’t start.  My mom takes care of me when I’m sick.  Whatever.

Don’t get me wrong.  I know that I have things to be thankful for.  In a few days I think I’ll be able to get to where I can think about those things.  But right now, this sucks.  WHAT-EVER!

Isaiah 55:9

For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,

so my ways are higher than your ways

and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.

Complete (A Mother's Day Post for the Child-less)

Today is Mother’s Day.  It’s one of my Hard Days, as I call them.  One of the days where my face randomly leaks at any given point.

I’m pretty sure I’ve told you guys this, but I feel like I got “this close” to being a mother before Sawan died.  I was ready to try for a baby a long time before he was, and it took a lot of “discussing” to get him on the same page, but, literally two weeks before he died, we had this amazing conversation and we decided that we would start trying as soon as we got the salon sold.  The closing date for the salon was September 1, and he died on August 24, so I never got the chance.  I have people that ask me, when they find out that I’m a young widow, if I have children, and when I respond “no” they say that I’m lucky.  I want to punch them in the face.  I feel like I lost my husband, but I lost my babies, too.

It’s a complicated thing, this being 36 years old and childless.  I (except for a brief period in my self-centered twenties) always wanted to be a mom.  I was one of those little girls that carried around a baby doll everywhere I went.  I know that I’m not the only woman that is constantly feeling that it’s almost too late (or maybe it already is and I don’t even know) to be a mother.  The pressure that that puts on relationships is ridiculous.  The pressure that it puts on me to be in a relationship is enormous.  I just stayed in one way too long and one of the main reasons was that I thought it might be my last chance to have a family. 

Here’s what’s strange about that.  When Sawan and I were dating, I was (and still am) this super strong, stubborn, independent woman.  I made a big deal about not needing him to come and rescue me.  I think that somewhere in the beginning of our relationship we watched Jerry McGuire on TV and we talked about how neither of us needed the other one to “complete” us.  Gag me.  I don’t buy into that line of thinking in relationships.  He was a soul mate, for sure, and I loved him with every part of my being, and when I lost him I felt like I had lost part of myself, but he didn’t complete me. After we were married, though, I think I somehow bought in to the world’s idea of what a woman should want and be.  I read all of the sappy quotes about how you’ll never know true love until you have a child.  I thought I needed a child to know how to really love.  I thought I needed a child to complete me.

It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally come to the realization that that way of thinking is so wrong.  You know, this may be “it” for my life, and that’s ok.  I guess I’ve just realized that for now, I’m as complete a person as I’m supposed to be.  I’m as complete a “lover” as I’m supposed to be (at least at this moment).  If I was

supposed to know how to love like a mother, then I would be a mother.

Don’t get me wrong.  It is my heart’s deepest desire to find another love, to have again the kind of man that I can imagine being on a team with for the rest of my life.  And then, to get to have a little person grow inside me, to get to hold a tiny baby that has half my DNA, to get to teach them all about life, to hear someone call me “Mommy.”  I hardly ever spend much time thinking about it because it hurts so bad knowing the dream may never come true.

I think that there are lots of women out there who feel similarly to me, who, for whatever reason, have not had life turn out the way that they thought it would.  If you’re one of those women and you’re reading this, to you I say, “Don’t buy into it!  You’re a whole person just as you are!”

And, who knows?  I may still get to be a mom.  All of those dreams could still come true.  But if not (or until then), I’m going to practice being the best lover of people that I can possibly be.  I’m going to love with all of the love I know how to love with.

On this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about how I get to love on my siblings’ and cousins’ and friends’ kiddos.  I get to be “Auntie” and “Tia” and, sometimes just “Noey” (it’s awesome when I get to be “Noey” and the kids have to call all the other adults a formal “Miss So-and-So”).  I get to be a daughter to an awesome, still living Mom, whom I actually really like (and got to spend Mother’s Day with today, don’t think I don’t appreciate how special that is).

I don’t need a child to complete me.  I’m whole and complete, just as I am.  (It sure would be nice, though.)

Happy New Year!

Wow, here we are at the end of another year. 

2013 was a year full of the duality that makes widowhood such an adventure.  It was full of a growing sense of contentment, and a serious sense of loneliness and longing.  As we pull it all to a close, I can’t say that I’m sad to see it go, but mostly it’s because I’m looking forward with hope to what’s next.

As I look back over the year, some really cool stuff happened.

I got a brand new car.  I’ve never done that before.

I took my first college course (Creative Non-fiction).  I got an A.  It was so much fun, and I think that even though it didn’t help me generate much material for my book, like I was hoping, it helped me to be a better writer, so it was definitely not a waste of time.  I loved it.

I did a major home improvement project and I lived to tell about it.  I love my new bathroom and finally got moved in to the “new” master bedroom!  My brother and dad helped me build a closet and it’s pretty amazing!  I’m getting ready to start a new project, wow, am I a glutton for punishment or what?

You know my furniture-painting obsession?  I refinished eight pieces of furniture this year.   Here’s the really cool, easy to miss, widowhood bravery piece of that story: I live alone.  Furniture is heavy.  I work out every day to make it possible to carry that stuff all by myself, and I have the strength to do it. 

This year, for the first time, I got out my old Christmas stuff.  This felt like a huge accomplishment.  The last time it was put in those boxes, Sawan and I put it in there together, and I just couldn’t bear to unwrap the stuff.  But, I felt ready this year.  I felt ready to greet my old things and face that sadness.  I had a friend come over to help, and I was surprised by how it made me feel.  I was prepared to sort things into a box of “things I’m not ready to get rid of but don’t want to see again for a long time” and instead, I hung those ornaments (like our “Just Married”) on my tree.  Sometimes I shock even myself.

The biggest changes of the year are the subtle ones that are hard to quantify.  At some point, I think that I really started to choose life this year.  At some point, the memories of Sawan became something that I enjoyed again.  It was no longer too painful to remember even the sweetness of him.  Now I can enjoy the sweetness, and the enjoyment, even though it carries the sting of his absence, is worth it.  The sadness that I feel now is the sadness of missing him, the loss of what we had and the loss of all of my dreams for our future, but it also carries with it a sense of longing for what’s to come.

And so, I say, bring it 2014.  I’m ready.

Love to all of you, thank you for reading my words, for being with me for another year.  I wish you all the best in the New Year!

Noey's Song. Free Download.

The day has finally arrived!  Listen to and download Brad Corrigan's new album, Someday is Today, with "Noey's Song" on it here.  Enjoy!

Noey's Song

I’ve always been the kind of person that has a song for each particular era of my life.  Play Bon Jovi’s “Always” and I’m right back in my sophomore year, slow dancing with my crush, in the sweaty high school gym.  A song is a warm, soft place to land in my memory.  It’s a comfy couch that I can go back and sit on and re-experience that season of life.

As a brand new widow, I needed a song.  I needed something to ground me, something to relate to, to know that someone had felt the way that I did, to know that I wasn’t alone. 

But I was so very alone.  No one understood.  I had no couch to sit on.  There were no widow songs.  And so, I felt the need to stand, my legs getting tired beneath me, feeling like I had to do it all on my own.

When I heard “Homesick,” by Mercy Me, it was about loss.  I could find a bit of rest in it, a bit of relief.  It’s funny, after three and a half years as a widow, I can no longer listen to the song, it sounds like “the beginning” to me.  I hear it and I am transported back to the rawness of soul that I felt.

But, that song was not specifically for widows.  I couldn’t completely relate, and so it didn’t meet all of my needs.

I found other songs along the way that helped.  I could hear the loss in the writer’s voice, could feel the weight of shared experience.  As my heart began to heal, it didn’t matter as much if all of the details of the song applied to me.  There were some people that got it, in some small way.  I was alone in my own pain, but not alone in the process of grief.  Grief is universal to the human experience, in varying degrees.  Even songs about a love lost because of a breakup began to feel helpful in some ways.  Some of those felt comfortable, like, for a moment, I could go back to their couch and find a bit of rest, feel the familiarity of the community of grievers.

One of my good friends is a musician.  Knowing that I was missing a "widow song" in the beginning, he began writing me a song almost four years ago.  Tonight the album it’s on is being released.  We worked on it a little bit together, he would ask me questions, write things down after conversations, once he made a note on the back of a paper plate. 

It was his gift to me, and to widows everywhere.  It is a place for them to go, to know they’re not alone, to know that they can be related to.  One of the verses is even full of my own words, as a fresh widow, from my own journal.  The song couldn’t be written until now, because it lacked the element of hope that was necessary to make it useful to anyone else at all.  It had to wait for me to heal to be born.  And now, it’s a gift to the world.

Come; listen to “Noey’s Song.”  Sit on my couch.  Feel the embrace and comfort of shared loss.  I’ll cover you with a chenille throw of my own pain, so that you know that you’re not alone.

(Check back for a link to the song.  I’ll post one after it’s available!)

*Don't have plans tonight?  Here's a link to buy tickets to the album release (also a benefit for Love, Light and Melody, a really great non-profit)!  7 p.m. at the Gothic! http://lovelightandmelody.givezooks.com/events/1st-annual-day-of-light-benefit

Restored

Do you remember my wedding ring post?

A few years ago, when I decided to stop wearing my wedding ring, the solution for me was to start wearing Sawan’s. 

Sawan actually had two wedding rings.  He had the one from when we exchanged vows, and then we had bought a cheap silver band at a street fair once, because he was afraid he would lose his good one when he went fishing, but still liked to be wearing a ring.  It ended up that he wore the cheap one more often then he wore the “real” wedding ring.  This cheap silver band is the ring that the paramedics took off his finger when he died. 

The silver one is the one that I chose to wear.  It was thinner than his other one and so it fit better.  It was still way too big for me; it could easily slide off every one of my fingers, including my thumb.  I usually would wear another ring over the top of it, to keep it on.

One day in June, I put it on, and remembered feeling for it with my thumb on my way to work.  At the end of my long day of shampooing, cutting, styling, and chores (cleaning and laundry at the shop), though, I looked down and didn’t have it on.  I realized that I hadn’t put a smaller ring on top of it that morning, so it could have fallen off.  I looked everywhere.  I asked my friend and coworker if she had seen it, but she hadn’t.  I was already late to meet a friend at a baseball game, so I didn’t have as much time to look for it as I wanted, but I was devastated.  I went back to the shop over the weekend, tearing apart my station, ransacking every space that I could think of, but didn’t find it.  I left a note for the cleaning people, and they also looked, and took apart the vacuum cleaner bag, but didn’t find it. 

It was lost.  I was so sad.  I thought about it daily.  It was so hard for me that I couldn’t talk about it.  I told no one.  The only people who knew about it were the cleaning people and my coworker. 

Four months later, about two weeks ago, I was downstairs at the salon, switching out the laundry.  I heard a clinking in the bottom of the washer, and as I pulled out the last of the load to put it in the dryer, my ring came out from beneath the part that swishes the laundry around in the bin.  I found it!

I cried.  It was just a cheap silver band, but it was another piece of him that I thought was lost from me forever, and was now restored.

I’ve worn it everyday since, but am sure to put on a smaller ring on top of it to keep it on.  And, the good news is, after four months in the washer, it’s really clean.

Back on my finger, with a ring on top of it, to hold it in place.