tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78102539509094756132023-11-15T10:49:04.772-08:00Grief Shadowsa collection of grief stories: mine and yoursValerie Willmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05219261050115171913noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-26479933761738454832013-09-18T21:28:00.003-07:002013-09-18T21:28:42.813-07:00Shifting Once AgainHello Dear Readers,<br />
<br />
I'm having my website worked on as we speak. It will be getting a visual overhaul within the coming month, but more importantly, this blog will be merging with my website. Meaning, I'll be now blogging from my website: <a href="http://valeriewillman.com/">valeriewillman.com</a>. Please join me there.<br />
<br />
Blessings,<br />
<br />
Valerie<br />
<br />
p.s. Updates about my <a href="http://valeriewillman.com/smell-the-blue-sky">upcoming book</a> will be listed on my webpage, too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-79492181549750179902013-09-17T15:24:00.001-07:002013-09-17T15:34:43.175-07:00"Grief Revisited" Earlier this month, I did a short reading at our local No Shame Eugene show. This was an excerpt from Chapter Sixteen of my memoir <i>Smell the Blue Sky: young, pregnant, and widowed.</i><br />
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If you enjoyed this excerpt, please send me your email so I can sign you up for my newsletter that will keep you abreast of publication news.<br />
<br />
Thanks so much for watching!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-84663312507082057112013-07-24T13:48:00.000-07:002013-09-17T15:25:53.363-07:00Here I Go Again isn't just a Whitesnake songI'm thinking of "un-archiving" my Grief Shadows blog. Starting it up again. I'm on the internet in so many places right now, and I hesitate to repeat myself in different cyber-venues, but I also don't want to miss someone who could really use the information I'm handing out. Not that I'm some great expert or anything. I just know how to grief. <i>How to let go, move on, but not.</i><br />
<br />
My memoir, <i>Smell the Blue Sky -- Young, Pregnant, and Widowed,</i> is due to be published November 8, 2013. I'm very excited to finally have a finished product to supply to the world of widows that need to hear another's story. That there is another side to grief. That there can be love after death, <b>without </b>betrayal.<br />
<br />
My book cover is being designed at this very moment, and the interior layout and ebook conversion start next month.<br />
<br />
Promotion starts <i>now</i>.<br />
<br />
I'm flying to Massachusetts next Tuesday to drop off my kids with their <i>Vavo</i> (Rob's mom), and then flying straight back into Oregon for the <a href="http://www.willamettewriters.com/wwc/3/">2013 Willamette Writers Conference</a>. I always look forward to the conference: the networking, the staff, the reuniting with conference friends, the home-y community feel when I walk into the lobby.<br />
<br />
Two years ago, I made the decision to self-publish instead of going the traditional route. I researched it up the wazoo, and concluded it was the way for me. And now here it is ... <b>publication</b> ... right around the corner.<br />
<br />
I hope that you'll stay tuned, buy my book on launch day, and that you'll feel inspired to leave a review in the multiple places you can leave reviews these days. (Amazon, LibraryThing, GoodReads, your blog, <i>et cetera.</i>)<br />
<br />
Until next time ...<br />
<br />
Be well.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-56110862947201999742011-11-17T09:48:00.001-08:002013-07-24T13:12:30.374-07:00Introducing the New Me by Kim Malchuk<br />
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<b>Introducing Kim Malchuk. My first guest submission! Keep 'em coming.</b></div>
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<b>Guest Blog Submission </b></div>
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Editorial Contact: Kathy Cabrera, media@fivestarpublications.com, 770.569.8221</div>
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<b>Introducing the New Me...Like Me or Not?</b></div>
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<b>By Kim Malchuk</b></div>
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As my husband Mel was in the final stages in his battle with terminal cancer, I faithfully sat by his side preparing myself for how my life would be without him. I knew it was going to be a scary transition but I thought I was being realistic by readying myself to face the future alone. I was terribly mistaken. </div>
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What I would not realize until many months after he passed was that the service was not just for Mel. Invisible to our friends and family there were two people lying in that casket. The ‘Kim’ that everyone knew was gone forever. </div>
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Experiencing a major loss in life cannot help but change you. When coming to terms with a devastating loss it is not unusual for people to re-examine themselves and life in general. While in the process rediscovering your ‘new’ self this can bring about discomfort to some of the people around you. Change is inevitable but not everyone is open or willing to accept change.</div>
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It had been approximately 6 months after Mel’s passing that I was waiting and hoping to catch a small glimpse of the person I used to be. I waited with anticipation but she never came to visit. It was at this time it finally became very clear that my waiting was pointless. My old normal was gone forever and I needed to find my new normal going forward.</div>
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Once the fog was beginning to clear I discovered something very interesting about the people we choose to have in our lives. I assumed that certain people would always be there for me; however, I quickly learned that is not always the case. </div>
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Through no fault of their own some people will slowly distance themselves for a number of reasons. They too are having a difficult time dealing with the loss and the surviving spouse is a constant reminder making them feel awkward. They don’t know what to say or do for the one left behind so they slowly disappear. The fear of talking about it after the fact makes them feel uncomfortable so the words completely come to a halt. They only saw you as being part of ‘the couple’ and now that is gone so the dinner invitations stop being delivered. Some get frustrated and don’t understand why it’s taking so long for us to ‘snap out of it.’</div>
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The lesson I learned from my grieving journey is that everyone who comes into our lives are gifts. Mel taught me that. The friends who faded away were only meant to be in my life for a certain amount of time. By vacating themselves they made room for new friends to appear that would bring me back to life...a new and different life.</div>
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I have not harboured any ill-will to those who came and left. Death affects people in many different ways but it is up to them to deal with their emotions no how they will move forward. My obligation was to heal myself first, last and always. I did this by writing, reading, spending time alone and with new friends. I got involved with new activities that would help me discover new things about myself I had never known before. </div>
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My grief journey has been a life-changing experience. I compare it to a wild rollercoaster ride because it was filled with ups and downs and loops and hoops. When I was able to finally get off that ride I emerged a changed woman. My feelings about how others perceive me are none of my business. Either you like me or you don’t. Death made me appreciate and learn how to live a more meaningful life. I choose to live it with hope, love, happiness and a whole lot of gratitude.</div>
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<b>About the Author:</b> Cancer took Kim Malchuk’s husband, but not the enduring spirit of their love. Now a motivational coach, speaker and award-winning author, Kim shares her personal journey of loss, healing and hope in her new book, <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Tasting Rain</span> (www.tastingrainbook.com). </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-87385969439348381912011-10-25T14:34:00.000-07:002011-10-27T12:24:56.425-07:00Secret Lessons From Books and Grief<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A cross post from <a href="http://insaneparentsunite.blogspot.com/">Insane Parents Unite!</a><br />
<br />
Strange.<br />
Emotional spilling over.<br />
<br />
While reading a book, I move from one scene to the next -- one sentence
to the next -- and start to cry. With no hint of a reason why.<br />
<br />
<i>"... 'Don't worry so much, my dear," [the doctor] says reassuringly. "There's no such thing as being allergic to India.'</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>One night, I dream of Nana. ..."</i><br />
<br />
<br />
My chest tightens and I feel warm all over. A distant observer part of
me thinks, Here's your emotional PMS showing up. That's good. Let it
come then.<br />
<br />
Not really expecting that it would.<br />
But it did.<br />
<br />
The hotness wells up to my throat and then eyes. I feel the moisture and
with even breaths I exhale through open mouth repeatedly until I can
gain control.<br />
<br />
What was wrong with me? Where did that come from? PMS might (ok, <b>does</b>) make me tender and sensitive, but there's always a catalyst. Where did this come from? I was just <b>reading</b>. About nothing emotional. A follow-up trip to a doctor and 'one night I dream of Nana.'<br />
<br />
I look up, holding the tears in my eyelids like little bowls. I'm still pushing the heat out with my breath.<br />
<br />
Why did those two unrelated sentences cause me grief?<br />
<br />
The eyelashes of my right eye stick together and poke my eyeball. I
blink rapid staccato and the light from the NJ windows looks like a
strobe light for a few seconds. I continue blowing the emotional pain
out.<br />
<br />
I used to hold my breath when I'd cry. But then I learned that our
muscles hold memories, and holding our breath while crying did something
similar. It made the dense emotion of grief to stay within. Now I
struggle to breathe when I cry. To let it out. For realsies.<br />
<br />
<b>Compassion!</b><br />
<b>Being taken care of.</b><br />
<b>Love.</b><br />
<br />
I blink the eyelash straight and two solid fat globs of tears drain down my cheeks. <br />
Like twins.<br />
Separated at birth but still unknowingly doing things simultaneously, across the country.<br />
<br />
The doctor had compassion and kindness for his patient. A tenderness.<br />
The Nana the author dreamed of loved her. Shared a special bond with
her. The author was going on a quest for her now departed Nana.<br />
Love.<br />
<br />
I look to my own life. Past and Present. And feel loss and emptiness.
Loneliness. No one to care for me now. No grandmother figure in my life.
Nor mother figure really either. As mine has geographically and , I
fear, emotionally drifted from me. And the woman I associated as my
other mother figure for years has done the same. Only I am to blame, if
not solely, for that. For divorcing her son.<br />
<br />
Feeling ever much the victim, I wallow, and my stomach sours and my lungs harden.<br />
<br />
I am not blowing anymore.<br />
<br />
I am in my lover's house.<br />
<b>He</b> cares for me.<br />
Nurtures me.<br />
Holds me.<br />
Aches for me.<br />
Does anything and everything for me.<br />
<br />
Is this why I love him?<br />
Is that a good reason to love someone? Because they love *you*?<br />
(No. Otherwise I'd still be married to my ex.)<br />
But somehow N's love for me and mine for him feels different. Newer. With more promise. More possibility. More passion.<br />
<br />
I'm distracted by the blue sky and the sticks of branches that have lost
their leaves to autumn, and the Arabic French music of Souad Massi
fills the apartment. I wonder if it contributed to my mini-meltdown.<br />
<br />
N. and I spoke yesterday of tradition and heritage. Ancestry. What to pass on to your children's generation. What do I <b>want</b> to bring? What <b>can</b> I bring?<br />
<br />
Certainly this love. This love and compassion and caring that I
spontaneously cried about. This delicate reminder of the importance of
life and love.<br />
<br />
And my love of books and words.<br />
And magic.<br />
The seasonal changes.<br />
The Full Moon song.<br />
And reading in bed at night.<br />
<br />
I can bring those things to my children.<br />
<br />
<i>What can you bring yours?</i><br />
<i>What reminders have you found in books lately?</i><br />
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-49385864123479027662011-09-12T10:33:00.000-07:002011-09-12T10:34:00.230-07:00How are you Grieving?Instead of asking "How are you doing?", ask "How are you grieving?"<br />
<br />
This makes far more sense to me as a recovering griever. Whenever someone asked "How are you doing?" -- and I could even be <i>crying</i> when they asked -- I'd always stop mid-blubber and stare at them slack-jawed. Like I'd been slapped. HARD.<br />
<br />
My internal responses were: "What the fuck do <i>you</i> think?! [insert irreverent name based on gender]", or a more generic - yet not quite vanilla - "I feel like shit. Duh."<br />
<br />
Instead, out loud, I resorted to "Fine" or a shrug with a trailing off "Well ..." or "You know ..." Embarrassed-like.<br />
<br />
And then I'd feel even more shitty for suggesting that I was "Fine" that my husband had just died, and I felt like throwing up in my mouth a little bit.<br />
<br />
Seriously. Don't put grievers in that situation.<br />
<br />
What you really want to know anyway is how they are <i>grieving.</i> Do they stare at the wall? Are they sleeping? Can they eat yet?<br />
<br />
Ask <b>those</b> questions.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-49447140011725065072011-08-05T18:41:00.000-07:002011-08-05T18:41:44.010-07:00Guest Posts Coming SoonI'd like to start inhabiting this blog more often. Showing up and spreading peace and hope through other people's grief and loss stories. This may seem ironic to some, but grieving people often find great solace in hearing about other's grief. It reinforces that they aren't alone on this great scary trek of widowhood (or whatever their loss embodies.)<br />
<br />
In the near future, look for an inspiring woman named Kim coming to this blog to tell her story. She's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">an ordinary woman, a storyteller, a motivational coach ... and a widow. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">I look forward to welcoming Kim to these pages.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-18401362446543544442011-07-25T09:15:00.000-07:002011-07-25T09:15:57.940-07:00Call for SubmissionsGrief and loss are ubiquitous. Unfortunately.<br />
<br />
You only have to turn on the news to see it. Or hear your child cry. Or listen to a friend when she's had a fearfully bad day. Or, turn inward and see what you've been thinking of lately.<br />
<br />
Grief and loss don't always have to do with death, or divorce. Grief comes with: losing a job, moving, watching someone move away, fighting with a loved one, missing a child who's at summer camp. Grief spills over into lots of things. And grief doesn't always have to be GRIEF. It can just be grief. With little letters.<br />
<br />
Little lettered grief could be opening up a brand new bag of cinnamon raisin bread to make a much anticipated piece of toast and finding mold. Or gleefully making a birthday cake for your son and discovering that you don't have any eggs because the last person to use any put an empty carton back in the fridge. Or maybe you spilled your coffee on the way to work. See? Little lettered grief.<br />
<br />
I would like to hear from you. I would like to open up this blog for guest posts on the subjects of grief and loss. Big GRIEF, or little lettered grief. To paraphrase Dr. Seuss, Big GRIEF, little grief, what begins with grief? It can be on any topic within that thematic framework. It can be in any format: essay, short story, or article. Fiction or non. Please email it to me (identifying what format it is in) at valeriewillman@gmail.com and I'll post it.<br />
<br />
Let's build some community and start healing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-52177718303587329442011-06-22T23:35:00.000-07:002011-06-22T23:35:09.145-07:00Audio Teaser<a href="http://www.chapterandvoice.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=94&Itemid=203">Grief Shadows Excerpt</a><br />
read by JoJo Jensen.<br />
<br />
The link takes you to a website page where several audio teasers are posted. Mine is the last one. Under the heading: Memoir.<br />
<br />
Let me know what you think.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-88272395624363884582010-11-12T09:58:00.000-08:002010-11-12T10:07:45.293-08:00Grief Changes Friendships<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/TN2AF6amcvI/AAAAAAAABTk/MkD9X-nllT0/s1600/40117_453248373381_714348381_5478635_2803348_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/TN2AF6amcvI/AAAAAAAABTk/MkD9X-nllT0/s320/40117_453248373381_714348381_5478635_2803348_n.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">*Some of the names have been changed.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When Rob died, my best friend, Jennifer – whom I called at least every day and saw at least weekly – was there for me in all ways. She was on bed rest for her pregnancy but still showed up at the house with her husband the morning of Rob’s death. The parlor and the basement with the red countertops were full of family and friends that already missed him and wanted to hold our hands and hug us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When Jennifer showed up I said, “What are you doing here?!,” knowing she should be in bed. I burst into tears. The compassion of her being there. The wretched pain in her husband's eyes. He was one of Rob’s greatest and oldest friends, and we'd attended his sister’s memorial service only months before with some of these very same people.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I leaned on most of them, and a few leaned back on me and we mourned together. It wasn’t quite so lonely that way. Jennifer was one of those that cried with me. We held onto one another and told stories of Rob, and then stared blankly at each other when we just couldn’t believe that he wasn’t coming back to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then a few months later, I felt a definite alteration in our closeness. It happened in her living room one winter afternoon. I was telling her about Sandy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sandy had lost her infant daughter to death at only twelve days old. As a result, Sandy had shifted her worldview enough that she started helping others with their own grief using hypnosis – among other things. She called herself a soul coach and I was seeing her as my grief counselor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wanted to explore the reasons why this tragedy had happened and what I was supposed to do about it and how I was going to make myself feel better. That was it in a nutshell. I felt so unbelievably pained, like all my bones had razor blade spurs on them and each time I took a breath or moved in any way, I would bleed anew with excruciating devastation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I just wanted it to stop. I would do anything for the pain to go away – even something as drastic as having a past life regression done. Even something as drastic as seeing a spirit medium.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was late getting to Sandy’s that first time. I’d remembered the time wrong. She offered me tea and I used the bathroom with the brightly colored fish shower curtain. My session was held in her sun room. Pastel cushions on white wicker, a small fountain splashing and serene music washed over me. I settled into a chair across from her and put my feet up. The tea mug was in my hands but still too hot to drink.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She closed her eyes and rested her hands, palms up, in her lap. Her legs were uncrossed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the silence I waited for messages from Rob. She began by describing him and who he was with, and the first thing he said through Sandy was:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Don’t be fearful. I don’t look like that anymore. Don’t remember me like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I took this to be a message for his mother and sister. They were the only ones to see his body in the coffin – it was closed for the funeral service and wake. But I accepted this message for myself, too. I had my own slideshow of possibilities scrolling through. Those possibilities were much worse than what my mother-in-law and sister-in-law saw in the coffin that day, I’m sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For the next two hours I listened to Rob’s messages and asked a few clarifying questions. It was a strange three-way conversation that I never forgot.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Make your decisions out of love for the children.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“When no one is around, I am still there with you. I’ll be with you until the end.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Don’t worry about finances. There are some (plenty) coming your way – you just don’t see it yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I only came with one question for Rob.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Did you choose to die?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He answered with Sandy’s help:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Not like you think. Soften the word death, more like a doorway. My awareness had </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">an agreement.”</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wiped the tears away and nodded my head. Of course. It would be that way. The way that he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Rob’s telling me that you are not to blame yourself for him dying,” Sandy said. “It was part of the contract. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’We’d decided it before we were even born,’ </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">he’s saying.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“But if I believe he died for a reason and that that reason was for my spiritual growth and maturity, wouldn’t that ultimately make me the cause of his death?” Tears dripped off my chin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“No,” Sandy reassured. “Remember it doesn’t have to do with you like that. You made him feel good!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She paused again and closed her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He says he has instructions for you,” Sandy said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Ok.” I sat up straighter and wondered if I should write this down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“One was coming to see me.” She paused, listening, then laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He’s saying: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She’s stubborn, isn’t she?”</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I smiled through my tears. It did take me a long time to mount the courage to make this appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He says the stubborn part was for </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘ … letting go. Not letting me go. In fact, I’m not asking that – just letting go of your belief system</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then she said for him: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Once you allow the fullness of my presence into your heart, your spirit will find peace – you’ll be at peace. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Remember the promise we made three years ago. Ignore the ‘until death do us part’ part. We do not part with death. You didn’t marry me for my physical body, you married my spirit. The part that defined me. Who I was. That part will never die or leave,”</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Rob said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What are you doing there, Rob?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Getting my feet wet. I’m still getting used to not having a body. I can get really small and then really big. It’s cool,”</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Rob said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He’s kissing your belly.” Sandy smiled. “He says the baby will look like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Can he hear my thoughts?” I asked Sandy. She answered for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I don’t invade your thoughts but if you direct them to me I’ll “hear” them.”</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Rob said. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Do you hear me?”</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“No. I wish I did,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Don’t worry. You will,” Sandy promised.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Did you do what you needed to in this life? Or at least some of it?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I met you. And the kids.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I swallowed and looked down at my lap. I shook my head. Was that enough? Were we enough? How could </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">be enough?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> After a few sessions with Sandy, I started feeling more hopeful and became </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">interested in my surroundings again – venturing out a bit. It was on one of those ‘ventures </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">out’ that found me in Jennifer’s living room that winter afternoon. Our little ones played </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and I told Jennifer about the peace I was getting from seeing Sandy.</span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She wiped her hands on a towel at the kitchen sink and walked to her mantle. She lit </span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">three candles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“One for Baby, one for Beth and one for Bob,” she explained. She meant the twin inside of her she knew she’d already lost; Beth was her husband's sister that had died only months before, and Bob – that was their name for Rob.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Have you ever thought about contacting Rob or Beth?” I asked. Her eyes were round as she shook her head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It’s helped me so much – I can understand the why a bit more and that’s made all the difference for me.” I waited for acknowledgment or a request for more information. This was so fascinating to me that I assumed she would feel the same way.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I offered to pay for a session so she or her husband could go to a Sandy session in the hopes that they could find some comfort as I did. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She said, “No, thanks,” and that was pretty much it. Our friendship started slipping then.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But let me explain: There was no explosion of wrath, I didn’t take her response personally, or as a rejection from her. And I didn’t end the relationship because she wouldn’t accept my gift. I simply started putting my energy toward another friend I had at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here’s the thing -- grieving a big loss turns things around for you. You try on new values (“No, I don’t mind if you only brush your hair every other day …”, said to my son at eight years old) and belief structures. In my case, reincarnation and duality of the soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">These concepts brought me peace at a time I sorely needed it – obviously you’ll have to find your own system to ease your pain; mine may not fit you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I tried to be real careful about who I told my new beliefs to so I didn’t create any discomfort. And truthfully, because it was less than mainstream, I was worried that I would be rejected or ostrocized. So I only shared it with one other friend of mine. Her name was Andrea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I would take Aubrey to Andrea’s house and our children would play together while I went to counseling at my soul coach’s place. After I was done, I’d come back and share my experiences with Andrea. She was fascinated, and a very sympathetic listener. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’d known Andrea for just under two years. We’d met in our childbirth preparation class and our kids were born on the same day, in the same hospital. And she cared for Aubrey while I worked part-time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, I could say that Andrea was a willing listener when I most needed one, and Jennifer didn’t want to hear about it because it made her uncomfortable. But mostly what I think what was happening was the speed at which I was moving through my grief was different from her speed.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No blame. No right or wrong. Just was.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And that changed our friendship.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-2478141800094960962010-10-14T15:53:00.000-07:002010-10-14T15:53:37.947-07:00"I'm sorry for your loss"I never know how to respond when people say this to me.<br />
<br />
Even when it's slightly modified, like in Emma Thompson's adaptation of <i>Sense and Sensibility</i> when Mrs. Jenning's son-in-law says to Elinor when Marianne was sick: "I'm more sorry than words can say."<br />
<br />
When people say that to me, my first and only thought is: Well, me too. <i>I'm</i> sorry he died, too. I'm devastated. Adrift.<br />
<br />
People never know what to say to grieving ones, but grieving ones don't either.<br />
<br />
I went shopping with my mom during my first visit to Oregon after Rob died. We were at a consignment shop to pick up some maternity clothes for me, because I'd already started showing.<br />
<br />
I ran into a girl I'd gone to high school with, also pregnant, also with her mom. She chatted happily about her family and her plans and even mentioned her husband. I plastered a fake smile on, chuckled and said, "Me, too." I left as soon as I could and hoped I never ran into her again.<br />
<br />
I couldn't tell her about Rob. It would've terrified her -- people think widowhood is somehow contagious. Or probably it's just the sudden realization that everyone's mortal and the same thing could happen to them. People don't want a reminder of that having lunch with them. Besides, she wouldn't have known what to say, and I hate putting people in that position -- where their eyes widen, and fear and sadness and grief pool in them and their mouth opens and closes like a caught fish flapping on the shore.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to do that to her. It would've ruined her day. So I laughed instead, and waved good-bye.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-58127794028666571602010-10-07T09:57:00.000-07:002012-05-14T23:17:44.758-07:00Stages of Grief -- Checkoroony<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">No one
asked any of us to identify the body like they do in the movies. No one asked
if Rob had any distinguishing marks on his body, like the blue triangle and eye
of Ra on his left shoulder blade. Wouldn’t they automatically ask that of
everyone? What about the long scar down his belly from the surgery he had when
he was four hours old? Wouldn’t they want to make sure they had the right guy
before putting his death notice in the paper? So maybe he didn’t really die.
Maybe it was someone else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">That
was denial, part two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Most
people I’ve talked to believed Elizabeth Kuebler-Ross’ five stages of grief
were linear, one happened after another – denial, anger, bargaining,
depression, acceptance – though this is not the way she herself said it would
work. </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">If
those crappy stages weren’t enough, there are more. More that she didn’t talk
about. Like, shock and guilt.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Despite
the non-linear approach Kuebler-Ross intended, I still saw the stages as a
checklist of sorts. It didn’t matter in what order they happened for me, I was
just ready to start crossing them off my list. The faster I could do that, the
faster I’d feel better. And that was something I desperately wanted to be in
control of. I was in control of nothing else, so this would be my thing. This I
would rule over. And I was ready to get down to work.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">So,
denial. Ok, that happened briefly for me when the troopers came to the house.
My first words were: <i>Are you kidding?</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> But that only lasted a few moments really.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>This
is great.</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> I cross
the first one off my list.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Shock,
I think, lasted about three or four months. It took awhile to come up for air
and to settle into some semblance of a routine. <i>Check. </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">(But remember, this wasn’t one of
the original five stages. This one was thrown in for free.)</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">I never
did bargaining. I don’t have much to say about that. I do know what it is
though, and I watched out for it, but it didn’t make any recognizable
appearance. For all intents and purposes – <i>check.</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Sadness.
(Or it’s alter-ego, depression.) Sadness permeates everything for years. Sorry
to be so crass and blatant, but there it is. It isn’t the sadness of sobbing
and heartsickness. That took me around a year or so to pass through. But good
days bled through them all. So in the midst of the pain, joy would show up, too.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">But the
sadness that lasts for years is more elegant. It shadows your thoughts and
activities like the dappled sunshine that survives through a canopy of trees
above a summer deck. Soft, nostalgic. Tender, even.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">The
anger was tricky and I’ll tell you why in a little bit. First, I gave myself a
freebie. Before I even started crossing them off, I checked off anger. I
wouldn’t do that. I’d never been raised with anger displayed in obvious ways.
Good Christian girls didn’t get angry. They worked things out calmly. Or in my
case, just avoided all confrontation.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> Growing
up, my parents never displayed anger. Sure, there were disappointments and
disagreements – maybe even disgust sometimes – but never raised voices. Never
slamming doors (except among outraged siblings once in awhile), and never ever
ever any physical anger, hitting or throwing plates against the walls or at
each other.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
wasn’t mad at Rob for dying. I was sad he died. I was lonely because he died. I
didn’t blame him for dying. He fell asleep. It was an accident. </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Irritatingly
enough, denial resurfaced for a small time. </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">But
then Fernanda and Lena went to see the body at the funeral home before the
wake. So that ended the denial bit. Again. The shitty part was: I did the work
again, but I didn’t get to check it off the list again.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">And
then I wondered about the way he died. The troopers said he fell asleep while
driving. But that sounded so unlike him. He’d pull over to the side of the road
to sleep, even with the threat of a commanding officer at formation bearing
down on him. So why wouldn’t he have done that on that night? <i>Maybe he
didn’t fall asleep, maybe he had an aneurism,</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> I speculated. But the autopsy didn’t show one.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Guilt
is another bonus grief stage. Most of my guilt stemmed from not making him stay
home and sleep. He could’ve gotten up after a few hours of rest and made it to
formation by six that morning. And I asked him to stay, but he said, “No.” And
that was that.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">I knew
I really couldn’t make him do anything. He was an adult who made up his own
mind. I left it there; no more dwelling.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">And
acceptance. Well that was dumb. Of course I accepted his death. He was gone,
wasn’t he? It was almost an insult to my intelligence. <i>Fucking check.</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">So, I’m
done right? <i>Checkoroony.</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> Yeah.
Right.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Remember
that anger I was telling you about? Well, four years later after I was “done”
grieving it showed up. Surprise!</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">I was
angry at Rob for dying. I was angry at him for working a 24 hour shift and not
having any sleep. I was angry at his National Guard unit for proposing the 24
hour work shift. I was angry that I wasn’t going to have any more of his
children. I was angry that we never got to go to France and Germany together. I
was angry that he wouldn’t be there for the kids to do daddy things with. And I
was angry that he was gone and I might never have the same intense love that he
showered on me from anyone else.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Whew.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">The
most important thing to remember after that, for me, was that it was <i>ok to
feel this anger</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">.
It was normal and right and safe, and I wasn’t a bad person for feeling it.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Double
whew.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Somewhere
in those four years I was at a certification training for bereavement
facilitation led by Alan Wolfelt, PhD. He spoke several times during that week
and I learned something that has given me peace ever since. And now I give it
to you.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Grief
is cyclical. You can check off whatever stages you want, but you’ll most likely
revisit them. And that’s normal. You aren’t delayed, or dwelling on the death.
This is supposed to happen. Not forever mind you. And it’s not eternally on
your mind, or anything. Maybe six months – or four years -- will go by and
you’ll feel this overwhelming anger or sadness and wonder what’s wrong with
you. Nothing. Grief is cyclical. It’s not a tidy inked line on the paper, it’s
a big ball of yarn that’s been tangled up by the new puppy.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Something
else I learned from Dr. Wolfelt helped me feel much less crazy in those first
few years. He described something called “grief bursts.” Boy, was I relieved
when I knew what these were. I’d had one and thought I was delusional.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">I was
driving to the mountains with my roommate, Susan, for a day of snowshoeing. We
were listening to an <i>India Arie</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> CD in my rig and the song “Beautiful” came on. In the
middle of it I burst into tears. I had <i>no idea why</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">. It was actually fairly
terrifying. I had no trigger: we hadn’t heard the song together before he died,
Susan and I hadn’t been talking about him, it wasn’t a random anniversary of
ours or his. Nothing to warn me. Just an overwhelming sense of him, and my
sadness that he wasn’t there.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Susan
and I dissected the possible causes for the outburst for a long time. The most
plausible to me was that I was wearing Rob’s flannel coat and there must have
been some residual smell of him in the fibers and the heater warmed it up
enough to smell them. His smell being enough to trigger the tears.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">But the
truth is, it doesn’t matter. There doesn’t need to be a reason. In fact that’s
pretty much the definition of a grief burst. You randomly burst out with
emotion related to your grief <i>for no apparent reason. </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">It’s just there suddenly and then
fades just as quickly. Done.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">But it
certainly creeped me out when I experienced it. Not to mention I was again
discouraged that I wasn’t yet “over” this irritating grief. So, to learn that
grief bursts were normal was a huge relief and had solidified for me that the
stages of grief weren’t tasks that need to be checked off.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">Grief
lingers, but not in an irritating-younger-sibling-tagging-along way, or a flu
that lingers on and on and on. It’s a sweet grief. Like the favorite special
sweater of his you saved and bring out every year for Samhain*.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;">*Sambain
is celebrated as the Celtic New Year. It’s more commonly referred to as
Halloween, or the eve of the Day of the Dead. Our family celebrates this
holiday with an altar decorated with things our ancestors, friends or close
family members who’ve died once owned, or liked. A camera, pencil sharpener,
dog tags, a watch, or an empty carton of cigarettes. <i>Camels.</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16.0pt;"> (And we sometimes wear clothes
that once belonged to them, as well.)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;">*Sambain is celebrated as the Celtic New Year. It’s more commonly referred to as Halloween, or the eve of the Day of the Dead. Our family celebrates this holiday with an altar decorated with things our ancestors, friends or close family members who’ve died once owned, or liked. A camera, pencil sharpener, dog tags, a watch, or an empty carton of cigarettes. <i>Camels.</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;"> (And we sometimes wear clothes that once belonged to them, as well.)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-56679616475403918362010-08-06T06:56:00.000-07:002010-08-06T06:56:12.899-07:00Yoga, Grief and Cliches<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Grief is like Bikram Yoga, I think. In class today, I was reminded that my body sometimes betrays me and doesn’t fold into a pose I could do the day before. Or my balance will be all wonky and I can’t stand on one leg in one pose, but in another I can.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I first attended these yoga classes I would rage inside when this happened. I could get my forehead to my knee in this pose <i>two days ago</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">, why not now? Last week the instructor told me I had the best balancing stick pose in the class, and <i>today</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> I can’t even get into the pose without falling forward on to my hands. This new source of irritation would rankle until the whole class was ruined for me and my dour mood would follow me home and extend to the children, or a headache would blossom and I’d suffer the rest of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>Now</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> I know that the trick is to recognize that this is just where my body is that day. I can meet myself where I am and accept that this is who and where I am today. And that’s ok. It’s more than ok, actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grief, for me, was like this as well. I’d get past taking off my wedding ring. I’d give away his last pack of cigarettes. I’d welcome him in my dreams and channel his words in my journal. And I’d feel quite pleased that I was handling it all so well. I was applauded for it, even. And then a grief burst would smack me along side the head and humble me to my boots. I’d hear my infant son laugh for the first time and reach for the phone to call Rob. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was uber-confusing. I’d rant and cry and write in my journal and try to swallow the scorched and scrapey feeling in my throat. <i>Would this wretchedness never pass?</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> Just when I thought I was “over” the worst, a resplendent low would stun me with awe. Like when, on Valentine’s Day night, I was soberly closing my eyes to the unromantic and helpless day I just spent without Rob, when Aubrey crept into my room hours past when I thought she’d been asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s wrong, Aubrey?” I rolled over to face her and brushed back her dark bangs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’s Daddy?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Quite frankly, this stumped me a little. This wasn’t a new question, but it was one I thought we’d dealt with. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s in heaven, Sweetie,” I said. Aubrey looked down at her hands picking at the blanket on my bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When’s he coming home?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My heart stopped. I’m sorry for the cliché, but there it is. Right up in my throat, too. Another cliché. I think I can honestly say, that apart from the soldier handing me the American flag at my husband’s military funeral, that <i>this</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> was the worst moment I’d experienced since Rob died.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh honey,” I said, pulling her into my bed and arms. “He’s not coming home.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Blam</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. My body just crumpled at the base of a brick wall. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After I’d gotten her back to bed, I cried myself to sleep. On Valentine’s Day – when every other lover was having dinner with their sweethearts, eating chocolate and pressing flowers into each other’s hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eighteen months had passed since Rob had died. I had been dating for about five or six of the last ones and had really felt like I was past the grieving stage. I thought I was cured. Life went on and so did I, right? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I was looking for a new partner and parenting my two exquisite children – but occasionally days or nights like these would set me back. I’d feel like I had to start grieving all over from the beginning and the exhaustion that that thought lowered on me would send me to bed for as long as my infant and toddler would let me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">And then things would get better again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I’m sorry to say that it took me about four years to finally realize that my grief would come and go and that that was ok. Like the yoga, I needed to just show up and accept where my heart and emotions were that day. No fighting it; no raging that I’d <i>just been fine yesterday</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I accept where I am and what comes up for me, no matter what I experience on any given day. I’ve stopped calling them “bad” days. They are just “grieving” days. And that’s ok. <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s better than ok, actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.</span><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-89904818397864888792010-08-05T14:58:00.000-07:002010-08-05T14:58:28.484-07:00Grave Intentions<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I wish the grass here was lush and silky like some grass is. I want to swim my arms and legs through it like you do in your sheets when you first wake up on Sunday mornings. But the grass is brown and pokey underneath my belly where my tee-shirt rides up and on the underside of my arms. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m lying on top of Rob’s grave anyway.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I don’t swim in it. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the wind rustle the trees and hear birds. I hear car engines, too, from the nearby roads, but I pretend they are wind, too.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was hoping there wouldn’t be anybody around so that I could talk openly to Rob, though I only have to turn my mind to him and we can converse the other way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind snares madly at the trees in consent.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But there are people here, planting flowers four graves down.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wonder what his body looks like now? After ten years would it be just skeleton yet? Or a mummy? Or only slightly decayed? When does the flesh rot off bone completely – underground, with no oxygen?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The wind is madly hopping from tree to tree, ruffling the pages of my journal and my hair. Smiling, I wonder what Rob is trying say. And why – if he is trying to say something – he’s not communicating in my mind – as was our custom years ago.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>You won’t listen to me now</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, he teases. </span><i>You’re writing and not turning your mind to me.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you have something of import to say?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>No. Only that I’m always here for you. Forever. Through good times and bad.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The wind slows to caress my cheeks, then ruffles again in laughter.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I think of Paul, who promises those things, too.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Being in Massachusetts is weird now. We drove to a park in Rhode Island yesterday and I felt sick with Fernanda driving. Not carsick, but sick with worry and fear. She drives too close to cars and doesn’t lift her foot from the gas pedal when the car in front of us brakes. And I realized today that I was afraid we’d crash. Even when <i>I</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> drive here, my hands are clasped around the wheel and my shoulders are tense and the teeth in my mouth ache from clenching.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remembered for years that I didn’t want anyone but me driving Aubrey anywhere. Her first field trip on a bus was traumatic for me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like lying on my back on Rob’s grave. It feels oddly comforting, as if I’m snuggling with him. On the way here to the cemetery I saw a young man walking down the road and his facial features reminded me of Rob.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember seeing other men through the years that have looked like Rob, but only one that made me look more than once.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was in a group of people outside waiting for my step-daughter to get out of school. He was turned away from me with a young girl in pink at his side. His hands on his hips, the way his shorts fell and his hair cut all paralyzed me. I stared at his back for two minutes but never had the courage to call attention to myself and seek out his face.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first time I brought Aubrey to Rob’s grave after we’d moved away to Oregon, she picked up a rock and handed it to me. I had picked one up, too. But she hadn’t seen me do it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I kept them both for a few years, until they disappeared one time while going through his box of things. (More like Rubbermaid tote – but you know what I mean. Box sounds more elegant.) The stones’ import was forgotten, I suppose, because I don’t have them now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(GRIEF TIP #1: Always label everything even though you know there’s no way you could forget the significance of one of your treasures.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How can I keep coming here to Massachusetts? I feel useless and dis-oriented. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To remember little tidbits I forget back home, I travel here as pilgrimage to never forget.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To forge a bond between the cousins in case it’s needed later on when the children are older and they want a friend that remembers them from back when. Or if anything ever happened to me and Paul, the kids would come here and Zoe and Nora would become their sisters. Insurance against them being strangers if that were ever to transpire. These are all my reasons.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is that cold? Heartless?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel floaty and restless.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know how to tell our story anymore. Has it been too long ago? I want to cry here, at his grave, like a true widow. But so much of what I think widows are, come from books and movies. Odd sentiment, beings that I <i>am</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a widow and lived such a horror. And the truth is, I </span><i>have</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> felt like crying here – even twice on the way to the gravesite – but I stopped them, the tears, to save them for the cemetery. Isn’t that stupid?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ground is hard, but I don’t want to get up from Rob yet – like he’s sleeping next to me. I wonder if he’d like me now. Maybe. Some of me has changed (I think even Fernanda notices my growing confidence) but my parts of color are more pronounced, and that may be likable to him. Or not. He was pretty opinionated and jealous.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I imagine texting Paul.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the grave.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wanna say anything to Rob?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I already know the answer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thank you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As strange as that may seem to others, I understand this perfectly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.0in;">I’m sorry you died – but because you did – thank you. Thank you for my wife. Thank you for helping her become the woman she is now. I never would’ve had her in my life except for you – so thank you. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now I tear up. But I don’t know why. Because of the beauty in Paul’s soul? Because I love Paul and <i>I thank Rob, too</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? Or cry because of Rob’s death -- and that it feels creepy to thank him for dying?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The wind whips up again and I take deep breaths … I allow the love of the universe to fill me up. A mantra. It works and I feel calmer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve collected a little yellow stone from beneath me that reminds me of the sidewalk chalk Joey was playing with two days ago.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(I wonder what Rob’s casket looks like now?)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s odd. When I get up to leave, I find I can’t. Not yet, for some reason. I wait to see if I can know.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like sitting here. It’s the first time in ten years I’ve allowed myself the time to just sit and write or rest while here. Usually it’s just a quick duty call of sorts. Something I do before leaving Massachusetts. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve always wanted a place to visit in Oregon. I planted a pear tree (that’s what Rob told me Pereira – our last name – meant) in Oregon at my first house, but moved soon after. It died under the first renters’ care. I planted another one just this spring – many years later – still with that wish to have an Oregon monument of sorts to visit. The dog ate the damn tree.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was beginning to think I wasn’t <i>meant</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to have a place to grieve, that I must always carry my conversations with me instead of bringing them to his gravesite (or proxy site.) But then weeks later little sprouts of leaves have poked out of this seemingly dead, and definitely violated, stick in the ground. There are no branches, just leaves sticking out of a teeny dwarf variety trunk. The leaves start all the way at the ground. So funny and awkward looking – but determined and proud.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The wind calls again and I wonder if Rob helped those leaves to grow – to remind me not to give up hope. That remembering him and loving him still, after all this time, is not wrong. And that loving <i>Paul</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is not wrong and that, perhaps, Rob is saying thank you, too. To Paul. For loving me and bringing me back to life – and love.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thank you</span><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-84113500286238225932010-06-28T12:01:00.000-07:002010-06-28T12:09:41.002-07:00A Blessing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/TCjyyU9tatI/AAAAAAAABK0/mkx21sn_EWM/s1600/P8120706.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/TCjyyU9tatI/AAAAAAAABK0/mkx21sn_EWM/s400/P8120706.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487903092385868498" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>“I’ll always love you, Rob. And I’ll never forget you. That is my solemn vow and promise. Something tells me I’ve said this before, I’m remembering.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>But here’s the new picture. I’m married to a loving, humorous, kind, gentle man. He likes kids but he loves me. He’s very devoted and I have great emotion and love for him. But you are always there. Your pictures are still in albums in our house. Your Christmas ornaments still go on the tree every year, with new ones from our new family.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>But strangely enough, this doesn’t bother my new husband. He understands and more importantly, he accepts.”</i><i><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wrote this five months BEFORE I met Paul, my husband. What a great manifestation! Paul is exactly like this. He accepts all the things about me, even when my ugly shadow side rears up. And when that happens, and he doesn’t run away … I feel blessed and honored to have him grace my life.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And as far as kids go, he loves mine – which are now ours. And he is devoted, to all of us. We do have Rob’s pictures up and in albums. We talk of him and Paul even reminds the kids of things I’ve told Paul about Rob. Paul wants them to remember Rob. He is not threatened by this. He is not threatened by my continued love for Rob. Paul is his own man, on his own journey.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I’m so glad he’s chosen to bring us along and then helps us with the obstacles on <i>ours</i><span style="font-style:normal">.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-40663101148226354972010-06-24T11:55:00.000-07:002010-06-24T12:01:01.855-07:00Podcasting This Fall 2010I just finished listening to a webinar on podcasting and I'm excited to tell you that <i>Grief Shadows: Young, Pregnant and Widowed</i> will be available to you free as weekly podcasts starting this Fall.<div><br /></div><div>But first I need to school myself in how to do it. :)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-20525263460228058322010-06-03T08:34:00.000-07:002010-06-03T08:50:07.299-07:00One Down -- Infinity To Go!I got my first rejection to "Grief Shadows" yesterday. And I'm actually pretty excited about it. <div>I know that may sound weird to non-writers, but to me it's just bringing me closer to the person who will say 'yes.'</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, this rejection letter wasn't formulaic in the slightest -- that <i>could</i> get a writer down. Form letter rejections are depressing in their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">anonymity</span>. So, below I am proud to post a copy of my rejection letter.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I especially liked about it was the concrete suggestions about what I could do to make another agent say, "Yes." </div><div><br /></div><div>Platform.</div><div><br /></div><div>And while she said that I was doing all the right things, I still just didn't have enough of an audience <i>yet.</i> (Another magic blessing of a word from an agent -- <i>proving</i> they believe in you and your story.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So. "Go Me!" I've got the proposal already out to three other agents and the Willamette Writer's Conference is in August and I will re-pitch it there. <i>Forward Momentum!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; "><br />Thanks so much for sending your proposal. The writing is strong, and your words are compelling. Unfortunately, it's not enough. Especially right now, especially for memoir, author platform is critical. Don't get me wrong. You're doing all the right things, but the audience you're reaching isn't quite big enough at this point. I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear. In order to sign someone today, I need to know that they have an established audience, and from all the positive things you list in your proposal, I just can't see that the size of that audience-the people you're reaching-is large enough to come out to buy the book. I wish it weren't that way. It's hard to even give that message to you, but it's where we are at this point in the industry, particularly with memoirs.<br /><br />I wish you the best in finding the right home for Grief Shadows. Keep at it. The work is good. I wanted to know what was going to happen next, and that is huge. That is the hardest part and really can't be taught to an author, so you have a way with words, to be sure.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-28803758284332756662010-05-22T14:43:00.000-07:002010-05-22T14:43:00.308-07:00Why it took me so long to write this book ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S_WuSW5nPLI/AAAAAAAABJ8/jKFuImqnx6k/s1600/PA300017_1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S_WuSW5nPLI/AAAAAAAABJ8/jKFuImqnx6k/s400/PA300017_1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473472552546811058" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> When I first sat down to write this book, I struggled. A lot. Mostly because going back and re-thinking the past doesn’t work for me. In fact, I try really hard to stay in the present because I usually think </span><span style="font-weight:normal">ahead</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> five years. But here I was, </span><span style="font-weight:normal">wanting</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> to go back, and afraid to do it at the same time. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>On August 17, 2000 – almost ten years ago – my husband died. Being twenty-six and newly pregnant complicated my grief, and in some ways I felt like I didn’t even start mourning him until after my son was born. I knew at that point I wanted to write about my experience – my journey through grief. I wanted others in my place to not feel so alone in their world when they read my words. And also I knew something about the cathartic and healing power of writing, having journaled for years. So I was committed to writing about that time and tried, however, without success for more than eight years.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>At first my grief was too raw. I spent my days staring at the living room wall, and – when I did go out – avoided friendly strangers at checkout counters and swim classes, people who didn’t know he was gone and asked about him. I called credit card companies to cancel his cards and gave away some of his clothes. But I couldn’t throw away his toothbrush or the pregnancy test stick I’d peed on that evening before he died.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I couldn’t write about it then, so I waited and tried again later. I tried again when I’d moved out of state and bought a new house. I purged my emotions into wet clay vessels, and my roommate watched my then two-year-old daughter and six month old son while I ran around and around the block in my Saucony sneakers. I watched the sun flash out from behind trees and counted the seams in the sidewalk. The air was nippy and I composed words in my head to write later.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>But later was always later. The words, when I wrote them, weren’t what I wanted. They didn’t express how I found myself holding my breath for no particular reason. They didn’t articulate how it ached when I had to call my mom to tell of my infant’s first laughter because I couldn’t tell my husband.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>And then I fictionalized it. And a door opened. I wrote of someone </span><span style="font-weight:normal">else’s</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> pain and mine lessened somehow. But I wanted to tell </span><span style="font-weight:normal">my</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> story, so I stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I needed to begin again. It was time. Time to write our story. But I had to go back to do that. I needed to re-open the wounds and examine the pain in all its concrete sensory detail. And I was afraid.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I was afraid of the pain that I knew must accompany that trek. Afraid of how I’d be with my family while I was excavating my memories. Who would care for my children while I was in the past? Who would be a companion to the man I was married to now? Wouldn’t it hurt him to see me crying over Rob? How would me going back to Before affect my relationships in Now? Would it threaten the serenity and happiness we had?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>My two year old is eleven now. She’s learning Japanese, stays up too late at night reading, and draws when she wants to express herself or be alone. She’s in a ballet class now, but will go back to swimming and riding horses this summer. She loves magic, music, nature and American Dolls.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The baby I found out I was pregnant with, the night before Rob died, is nine now. He whoops when he walks and is an expert scientist, especially regarding sharks and snakes. He loves the ocean -- and all the creatures in it – ninjas and sandboxes with running water nearby to make trenches and waterways. He hates people who litter, loud noises and taking his supplements or trying new foods.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Paul -- the man my children call “Dad” -- fed my son formula in bottles, changed his diapers and played “Tickle Monster” with him. He cradled my daughter in his lap when she was little and read to her at night and they both called him “Big Hairy Guy” for laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span><span style="font-weight:normal">So, would it be worth it to go back? Could it shatter the Now?</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> Those questions plagued me and stunted my writing. I couldn’t even start.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>This is perhaps why I have not written the story before now. The potential for hurting the people that I cared about was so monumentally in front of me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Because what would happen was this: I’d remember a flash of memory and go to write it down. While I was there I’d fester and cling to shards of recollection and agonize over </span><span style="font-weight:normal">not the way things used to be </span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal">but the things that would </span><span style="font-weight:normal">never be</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal">. And this was where the present got tricky. How did I stay pleased with my life and my new marriage while I lamented over my dead husband never walking my daughter down the aisle at her wedding?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>And then digressions bleed through, like, I struggle over saying “my” daughter. I want to say “his” daughter. Rob’s. But then flash to “our” daughter. But that couldn’t be right because the man I’m with now, Paul – the one that has raised her since she was three years old – has adopted her. So she’s </span><span style="font-weight:normal">our</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> daughter – Paul’s and mine. </span><span style="font-weight:normal">Not</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> my late husband’s. Not anymore. But how can I say that?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Even now I have to ask: Where does he go in my life? Where can he fit? He must be allowed to stay in some form. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>And so he does. A black and white photo of him feeding my infant daughter hangs on our upstairs wall; a flower he gave me and I pressed long ago is framed and holds a place on our living room altar; and he lives on in my journal, my dreams and my memories. And that is enough. It has to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>So now that I’ve finished the book, I feel like an epic section of my life is over. I still have days where I miss Rob. In fact, I just went to the Azores on a recent vacation (a place he had visited as a teenager and where he still has family) and I got teary-eyed thinking how I wished we could’ve gone there together; or when I went in one of Lisbon’s huge cathedrals during that same vacation, I lit a candle for him and cried, knowing he would’ve loved seeing it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>My “Grief” days, or “I Miss Rob” days, aren’t overwhelming anymore -- or honestly very </span><span style="font-weight:normal">often</span><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"> anymore (a statement which at one time I would’ve been loath to say.) And despite those days, my life is rich and full.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoTitle" align="left" style="text-align:left"><span style="font-weight:normal;font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I remember him with fondness and love. I cry at movies when the husband dies. I write about him. I dream about him. I tell my kids stories about him. We talk to his mom every week by phone, and we fly to visit her every summer. He is still very much in our lives and sometimes we still cry about him, but those times are fewer and fewer between.<span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:.5in">It didn’t hurt those around me to write this book. Turns out, it even brought us closer. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I hope you enjoy the book and that, somehow, it makes a difference in your life.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Namaste,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Valerie<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-17266177288513718102010-05-20T14:30:00.001-07:002010-05-20T14:42:48.509-07:00Grief Shadows OVERVIEW<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S_WqJjUAuWI/AAAAAAAABJs/AhyH2wzhVVM/s1600/IMG_0895.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S_WqJjUAuWI/AAAAAAAABJs/AhyH2wzhVVM/s400/IMG_0895.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473468003213424994" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Three state troopers came to my front door at five o’clock in the morning and told me my husband was dead. He had fallen asleep driving on his way back to the National Guard base on Cape Cod.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span> I just saw him four hours ago. Smelled him. Kissed him. And told him we were pregnant. And now, all at once, I was a widow. My daughter was a toddler and I had one on the way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span> I was twenty-six years old.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But how could I be a widow? Widows were old, with white hair and sensible shoes that cushioned their bunions and who waited for people to visit them in assisted living homes. Or <i>maybe</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> they were fifty-five and had lost a spouse to cancer. Someone with grown children. Not pregnant, like me. Not with a toddler who’d never heard the word <i>death.</i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Grief Shadows: Young, Pregnant and Widowed</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> was the book I needed then.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Grief Shadows</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> holds the reader’s hand and explores both the dark and light places I found during my grieving process – showing them that they aren’t the only ones. Others have done this before. Others have come out the other side. Those dealing with grief will feel less isolated, as if they’ve met a fellow traveler. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Grief Shadows </i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;">is a memoir and shares my spiritual and emotional journey back to wholeness, reaching out to those who are searching for that connection.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I wrote of my horror, my sadness and then how I moved through life without my husband. I sludged through the muck of mundane to cancel his credit cards. I picked my way through horrific minefields, just waiting for the one thing that would send me into a catatonic state: Would it be picking out the coffin? Would it be telling my daughter that her daddy is never coming home? Or what about giving away his clothes? Throwing away his toothbrush?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Throughout the book, I wove in old love letters written by Rob, some of our family snapshots, and newspaper clippings of the accident.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A key element to my healing process was redefining myself and, conversely, remembering who I was. All the labels I had once associated with --mother, wife, friend, student -- were stripped from me in a matter of seven minutes. That’s how long the state troopers were in my house. Yes, I was still a mother, but now I was a <i>single</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> mother. Yes, I was still a friend, but not to the same people as before the accident. Grief changed me, and my relationships to other people necessarily had to change along with me. Here was an opportunity – albeit an unwelcome one – to grow and redefine who I was. To remember who I was underneath all the labels and layers. To discover the person I wanted to be after this tragedy.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The other theme woven through the chapters is that grief had never fully left me -- always seeming to shadow my experiences. But the intense pain did yield, and grief – soon enough – became something manageable. Something I wore with grace, like an accessory:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>a watch that was my grandmother’s, a scarf my mother bought me, or a necklace my daughter made.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I cried in cars, went to water aerobics, decided to move cross-country and delivered my baby. I found art and pottery, and journaling became a lifeline for me. But before I moved to Oregon, I started the strangest trek of all – seeking out a spirit medium. <i>And then</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> <i>there was the dating</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;">.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Somehow this seemed worse than the spirit medium.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">But it worked. I dated, I moved on, I doubled back, I cried some more, and I learned how to ride the grief bursts. I joined a new family and we created our own hybrid of hearts – understanding along the way how <i>not</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> to feel like I was betraying Rob by being with another man.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><i>Grief Shadows</i></span><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"> is more than a legacy of memories; it’s a way to reach out and </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;">connect to other grieving souls – to let them know they aren’t alone.</span></span></span></p><p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-1425761883982029412010-05-05T10:31:00.000-07:002010-05-05T10:36:12.706-07:00The Balm of Phone Calls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S-Gse6vA8VI/AAAAAAAABGk/pDGaVBnxVck/s1600/IMG_0895.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S-Gse6vA8VI/AAAAAAAABGk/pDGaVBnxVck/s400/IMG_0895.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467841069766996306" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">One night I was lying on the couch in the dark watching television. Aubrey was asleep in her crib in the next room, the bedroom I alone shared with her now. It seemed I was doing a lot of this tv watching in the dark thing lately, staying up way past when my head normally hit the pillow. It dulled the senses and for a second I could forget the worst of the pain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">But mostly there was no forgetting. In the quiet times after Aubrey slept, I remembered. I remembered Rob’s face after not shaving for a day or two. Scruffy. I remembered when he’d stroke my hair and face. He was so tender. I remembered that when we were dating and still living in the barracks at the base in Colorado, we’d walk in the nighttime and find places to sit and snuggle. Find private places where he’d get all shy, or he’d sing to me, or tell me his darkest secrets in Portuguese. I remembered his laugh, and the chest hairs that would peep out from above his tee shirt, and that when he got sleepy, he’d get extra snuggly. Or that when I walk away to do something, he’d pull me back to him for a kiss or a hug.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Sometimes he’d think of song lyrics just to sing to me, or play for me. It was like reading me poetry.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">The show was a re-run but I watched it anyway because I didn’t want to go to the bed alone and know that he wasn’t down the hall playing his online computer game.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">The phone rang. I needed to pick it up because Fernanda wasn’t home from work yet – it was maybe only 9:30 in the evening. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I didn’t want the ringing to wake Aubrey. I lifted my fae from the arm of the couch.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“Hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">It was my Aunt Mary from North Carolina. Her husband, my uncle, was the only one of my family members that could attend the funeral.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“How are you doing?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“I’m fine, I guess.” I quietly clear my throat. It’s been a couple hours since I spoke last.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I remember when my dad called me right after Rob died. A day or two later maybe. I was pacing the blackened parlor room where my happiness was stolen. The computer screen my only light in the sleeping house.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“You’re strong,” my father said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“I don’t feel strong.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">And another phone call a couple days after that. Again, in the parlor. Why did I haunt this place? A place I rarely hung out in before Rob died? Was it because this was the last place I’d seen him alive? And therefore closer to him somehow, in this room?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">This time the call was from my uncle Phil. It’s a call I remembered long after all the other words of condolences were given to me. Long after the neighbor rang our bell and handed me a musical water globe with two doves in it “for your little girl” and a white business sized envelope of cash collected for me from all the neighbors that I’d never met in the two years I lived in that house. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">After a few beats of silence over the phone line I say,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“I don’t know what to say.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">It was honest. I actually didn’t know the man but he was one of my favorite uncles and the only family member, it seemed, that tried to keep in touch with me – save my mom and grandmother.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">His answer was truthful, too. And poignantly perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“Neither do I. But that doesn’t matter. You won’t remember what I say anyway. You’ll just remember that I called.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">My heart paused, swollen with love and relief.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">So now it was his wife calling. Someone he married when I was a young teen and whom I knew even less about. I think I’d met her twice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“Are you praying?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I closed my eyes and quieted my sigh with effort. She was Catholic, too. It seemed I was surrounded in unwanted waves of Catholism, everyday holding myself apart a little from almost everyone I knew in Massachusetts and out. Not wanting to be preached to -- or converted -- in my weakened state, to a religion I felt was filled with frivolous hypocrises. But at the same time desperately wanting connection and a warm soul to lean my aching head on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“I’m trying.” I gave in and bowed to the love and peace I knew my aunt was trying to offer me. “It seems I’ve forgotten how to though.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">It did seem … relieving, to be able to spill your angst at the feet of a diety that claimed to love you with no conditions – except the hundreds the priests threw at you.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“Have you tried praying to your husband?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I was silent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“To Rob?” I asked, thinking I <i>must</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> have misunderstood.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">As far as I knew you could only pray to God, through Jesus’ name. Anything else was, well –<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“Isn’t that blasphemous?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Aunt Mary laughed. <i>Her dad was a bishop, for Christ’s sake!</i></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">“No.” I could hear the smile in her word. “If it helps, do it. It might lead you back into prayer to God. Get you used to praying again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">We said good-night and I hung up the phone, thoughtful.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I turned off the tv and sat in the dark for a few moments.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> “Rob? Can you hear me? I miss you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-14006279122519965732010-01-22T15:35:00.000-08:002010-01-22T15:43:33.284-08:00So You're A Single Mom Now<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S1o4Gf4pPFI/AAAAAAAAA50/7okJT5p9gr8/s1600-h/102-0208_IMG.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/S1o4Gf4pPFI/AAAAAAAAA50/7okJT5p9gr8/s400/102-0208_IMG.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429713985038007378" /></a><br />One of the biggest differences between young and old widows is the itty bitty kids. Young widows often have young children. My daughter was twenty-two months old when her father died, and my son was on the way.<div><br /></div><div>Grieving as a parent is a terrible, difficult thing fraught with question after question. Should I cry in front of Aubrey? How do I talk about his death with her? How do I find time to cry and grieve on my own? What happens when I'm feeling positive and in a moving-on space, and she is mourning rob and wants to talk about her sadness with me? And when my son was born, was I an adequate parent? Or did I leave him emotionally neglected by my own sadness and loneliness?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-80780494448823101162009-11-25T18:30:00.000-08:002009-11-25T18:35:12.903-08:00Happy Thanksgiving, Rob<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/Sw3ohqAzaPI/AAAAAAAAA28/1N-f1HDpiQ4/s1600/P1100025.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/Sw3ohqAzaPI/AAAAAAAAA28/1N-f1HDpiQ4/s400/P1100025.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408234392452819186" /></a>Happy Thanksgiving, Rob, wherever you are. I am thankful that you and I connected in this life and that we've many lives to meet in again. Thank you for loving me as you did. I will never forget you. I love you.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>(I just noticed that in this picture, Rob's reflection shows in the window behind him. Just his earlobe -- which I liked to flick back and forth, to tickle him.)</i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-921322471435467282009-11-03T09:46:00.000-08:002009-11-03T09:50:11.013-08:00Depression and Wallowing ... it comes with the territory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SvBtP4Z9ULI/AAAAAAAAA2k/85kxbhtY7xA/s1600-h/P8110706.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SvBtP4Z9ULI/AAAAAAAAA2k/85kxbhtY7xA/s400/P8110706.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399936072823951538" border="0" /></a><br />Grieving requires lots of soul-searching and introspection. Truly, it's a solo project. You can go to support groups and talk with friends and lean on family members, but the tough stuff -- the work that bleeds out your eyes and makes you want to throw up -- has to be done by yourself.<br /><br />So, you could say that grieving is fairly selfish in nature. Not in a bad way, you understand -- it's just something that can't be one when others are around. Usually.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-7826828053188526762009-10-27T11:16:00.000-07:002009-10-27T11:35:24.975-07:00Experiences You'd Never Wish On Anyone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/Suc8_sMmGzI/AAAAAAAAA2M/-B6En4EjyYM/s1600-h/P8110710.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/Suc8_sMmGzI/AAAAAAAAA2M/-B6En4EjyYM/s400/P8110710.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397349743320242994" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Here's a sample of one of my section abstracts for my proposal:</span><br /><br />The next section holds heart-wrenching details of nasty decisions that have to be made -- ones that require a lit cigarette in your shaky hand, though you don't light one because you've quit.<br /><br />I'm in awe of how the human brain decides to record memories. How are they filed? is it a double-entry system? How do you access them? Why can they randomly jump out at you when you least expect it?<br /><br />"Do You Remember?" skims my sub-consciousness for memories of the grave site service, and I wonder why I only remember things in slivers -- not whole memories.<br /><br />Like, I barely remember twenty-two month old Aubrey standing next to me at the grave and a soldier handing me an American flag. But I especially recall that for the rest of the year, every time she'd see one, she'd say, "Look Mommy. A flag for Daddy!" and I would tear up and hold my breath until my throat unseized.<br /><br />Making decisions is excruciating for a grieving person. <a href="http://valeriewilllman.blogspot.com/2009/09/do-you-remember.html">"The Funeral Pyre That Never Happened"</a> is the story of my decision to respect Rob's mom's wishes to bury Rob, instead of following Rob's wishes for cremation. It's the story of my decisions to not look at his body, what to bury his body in and what casket to buy.<br /><br />Another decision I make in those first days is not to view the pictures my family and friends take of the Explorer and the crash site and the marker they left there. I almost wait a year before viewing them. It takes a long time to feel ready. When I do, I expect tears, but instead, only cold analysis shows up. i contemplate the philosophy of guilt and the choices I have right now in this place -- a choice to live and to find purpose.<br /><br />I think the <span style="font-style: italic;">piece de la resistance</span> for tasks you'd never wish on anybody is in "Where's Daddy?" where I have to tell my daughter that her father is never coming home again. That it's not because he doesn't want to, it's because he can't. That he's far, far away, but that he loves her and always will.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810253950909475613.post-5643517104546781442009-10-25T11:48:00.000-07:002009-10-25T11:58:46.626-07:00RobDaddy<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSfoHD7ZUI/AAAAAAAAA1s/N_-_BpWGkCw/s1600-h/P8110717.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSfoHD7ZUI/AAAAAAAAA1s/N_-_BpWGkCw/s400/P8110717.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396613764935804226" border="0" /></a><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSfn9NYq4I/AAAAAAAAA1k/MELSZuvmN1o/s1600-h/P8110716.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSfn9NYq4I/AAAAAAAAA1k/MELSZuvmN1o/s400/P8110716.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396613762291116930" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSfnVzU6GI/AAAAAAAAA1c/aTTnsYYsx88/s1600-h/P8110715.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSfnVzU6GI/AAAAAAAAA1c/aTTnsYYsx88/s400/P8110715.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396613751712835682" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSe2EvA6vI/AAAAAAAAA1U/UFM1GwumCg4/s1600-h/P8110708.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FrCHiivjuI0/SuSe2EvA6vI/AAAAAAAAA1U/UFM1GwumCg4/s400/P8110708.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396612905317755634" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">This last photo was taken about a month before he died.<br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0