Shifting Once Again

Hello Dear Readers,

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: valeriewillman.com. Please join me there.

Blessings,

Valerie

p.s. Updates about my upcoming book will be listed on my webpage, too.

"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 Smell the Blue Sky: young, pregnant, and widowed.



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.

Thanks so much for watching!

Here I Go Again isn't just a Whitesnake song

I'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. How to let go, move on, but not.

My memoir, Smell the Blue Sky -- Young, Pregnant, and Widowed, 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, without betrayal.

My book cover is being designed at this very moment, and the interior layout and ebook conversion start next month.

Promotion starts now.

I'm flying to Massachusetts next Tuesday to drop off my kids with their Vavo (Rob's mom), and then flying straight back into Oregon for the 2013 Willamette Writers Conference. 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.

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 ... publication ... right around the corner.

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, et cetera.)

Until next time ...

Be well.

Introducing the New Me by Kim Malchuk

Introducing Kim Malchuk. My first guest submission! Keep 'em coming.

Guest Blog Submission 

Editorial Contact: Kathy Cabrera, media@fivestarpublications.com, 770.569.8221

Introducing the New Me...Like Me or Not?

By Kim Malchuk

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

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.’

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.

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. 

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.

# # #

About the Author: 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, Tasting Rain (www.tastingrainbook.com). 

Secret Lessons From Books and Grief

A cross post from Insane Parents Unite!

Strange.
Emotional spilling over.

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.

"... 'Don't worry so much, my dear," [the doctor] says reassuringly. "There's no such thing as being allergic to India.'


One night, I dream of Nana. ..."


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.

Not really expecting that it would.
But it did.

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.

What was wrong with me? Where did that come from? PMS might (ok, does) make me tender and sensitive, but there's always a catalyst. Where did this come from? I was just reading. About nothing emotional. A follow-up trip to a doctor and 'one night I dream of Nana.'

I look up, holding the tears in my eyelids like little bowls. I'm still pushing the heat out with my breath.

Why did those two unrelated sentences cause me grief?

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.

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.

Compassion!
Being taken care of.
Love.

I blink the eyelash straight and two solid fat globs of tears drain down my cheeks.
Like twins.
Separated at birth but still unknowingly doing things simultaneously, across the country.

The doctor had compassion and kindness for his patient. A tenderness.
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.
Love.

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.

Feeling ever much the victim, I wallow, and my stomach sours and my lungs harden.

I am not blowing anymore.

I am in my lover's house.
He cares for me.
Nurtures me.
Holds me.
Aches for me.
Does anything and everything for me.

Is this why I love him?
Is that a good reason to love someone? Because they love *you*?
(No. Otherwise I'd still be married to my ex.)
But somehow N's love for me and mine for him feels different. Newer. With more promise. More possibility. More passion.

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.

N. and I spoke yesterday of tradition and heritage. Ancestry. What to pass on to your children's generation. What do I want to bring? What can I bring?

Certainly this love. This love and compassion and caring that I spontaneously cried about. This delicate reminder of the importance of life and love.

And my love of books and words.
And magic.
The seasonal changes.
The Full Moon song.
And reading in bed at night.

I can bring those things to my children.

What can you bring yours?
What reminders have you found in books lately?

How are you Grieving?

Instead of asking "How are you doing?", ask "How are you grieving?"

This makes far more sense to me as a recovering griever. Whenever someone asked "How are you doing?" -- and I could even be crying when they asked -- I'd always stop mid-blubber and stare at them slack-jawed. Like I'd been slapped. HARD.

My internal responses were: "What the fuck do you think?! [insert irreverent name based on gender]", or a more generic - yet not quite vanilla - "I feel like shit. Duh."

Instead, out loud, I resorted to "Fine" or a shrug with a trailing off "Well ..." or "You know ..." Embarrassed-like.

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.

Seriously. Don't put grievers in that situation.

What you really want to know anyway is how they are grieving. Do they stare at the wall? Are they sleeping? Can they eat yet?

Ask those questions.

Guest Posts Coming Soon

I'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.)

In the near future, look for an inspiring woman named Kim coming to this blog to tell her story. She's an ordinary woman, a storyteller, a motivational coach ... and a widow. 


I look forward to welcoming Kim to these pages.

Call for Submissions

Grief and loss are ubiquitous. Unfortunately.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Let's build some community and start healing.

Audio Teaser

Grief Shadows Excerpt
read by JoJo Jensen.

The link takes you to a website page where several audio teasers are posted. Mine is the last one. Under the  heading: Memoir.

Let me know what you think.

Grief Changes Friendships

*Some of the names have been changed. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She closed her eyes and rested her hands, palms up, in her lap. Her legs were uncrossed.

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:

            
            “Don’t be fearful. I don’t look like that anymore. Don’t remember me like that.”

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.

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.

“Make your decisions out of love for the children.”

“When no one is around, I am still there with you. I’ll be with you until the end.”

“Don’t worry about finances. There are some (plenty) coming your way – you just don’t see it yet.”

I only came with one question for Rob.

“Did you choose to die?”

He answered with Sandy’s help:

            
            “Not like you think. Soften the word death, more like a doorway. My awareness had 


an agreement.”

I wiped the tears away and nodded my head. Of course. It would be that way. The way that he said.

“Rob’s telling me that you are not to blame yourself for him dying,” Sandy said. “It was part of the contract. ’We’d decided it before we were even born,’ he’s saying.”

“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.

“No,” Sandy reassured. “Remember it doesn’t have to do with you like that. You made him feel good!”

She paused again and closed her eyes.

“He says he has instructions for you,” Sandy said.

“Ok.” I sat up straighter and wondered if I should write this down.

“One was coming to see me.” She paused, listening, then laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“He’s saying: She’s stubborn, isn’t she?”

I  smiled through my tears. It did take me a long time to mount the courage to make this appointment.

“He says the stubborn part was for ‘ … letting go. Not letting me go. In fact, I’m not asking that – just letting go of your belief system.”

Then she said for him: “Once you allow the fullness of my presence into your heart, your spirit will find peace – you’ll be at peace. 

“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,” Rob said.

“What are you doing there, Rob?” I asked.

“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,” Rob said.

“He’s kissing your belly.” Sandy smiled. “He says the baby will look like you.”

“Can he hear my thoughts?” I asked Sandy. She answered for him.

“I don’t invade your thoughts but if you direct them to me I’ll “hear” them.” Rob said. “Do you hear me?”

“No. I wish I did,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You will,” Sandy promised.

“Did you do what you needed to in this life? Or at least some of it?” I asked.

“I met you. And the kids.”

I swallowed and looked down at my lap. I shook my head. Was that enough? Were we enough? How could I be enough?

           
             After a few sessions with Sandy, I started feeling more hopeful and became 


interested in my surroundings again – venturing out a bit. It was on one of those ‘ventures 


out’ that found me in Jennifer’s living room that winter afternoon. Our little ones played 


and I told Jennifer about the peace I was getting from seeing Sandy.

           She wiped her hands on a towel at the kitchen sink and walked to her mantle.  She lit 

three candles.

“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.

“Have you ever thought about contacting Rob or Beth?” I asked. Her eyes were round as she shook her head.

“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.

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.

She said, “No, thanks,” and that was pretty much it. Our friendship started slipping then.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
No blame. No right or wrong. Just was.
And that changed our friendship.

"I'm sorry for your loss"

I never know how to respond when people say this to me.

Even when it's slightly modified, like in Emma Thompson's adaptation of Sense and Sensibility when Mrs. Jenning's son-in-law says to Elinor when Marianne was sick: "I'm more sorry than words can say."

When people say that to me, my first and only thought is: Well, me too. I'm sorry he died, too. I'm devastated. Adrift.

People never know what to say to grieving ones, but grieving ones don't either.

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.

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.

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.

I didn't want to do that to her. It would've ruined her day. So I laughed instead, and waved good-bye.

Stages of Grief -- Checkoroony

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.

That was denial, part two.

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.

If those crappy stages weren’t enough, there are more. More that she didn’t talk about. Like, shock and guilt.

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.

So, denial. Ok, that happened briefly for me when the troopers came to the house. My first words were: Are you kidding? But that only lasted a few moments really.

This is great. I cross the first one off my list.

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. Check. (But remember, this wasn’t one of the original five stages. This one was thrown in for free.)

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 – check.

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.

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.

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.

 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.

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. 

Irritatingly enough, denial resurfaced for a small time.

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.

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? Maybe he didn’t fall asleep, maybe he had an aneurism, I speculated. But the autopsy didn’t show one.

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.

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.

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. Fucking check.

So, I’m done right? Checkoroony.

 Yeah. Right.

Remember that anger I was telling you about? Well, four years later after I was “done” grieving it showed up. Surprise!

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.

Whew.

The most important thing to remember after that, for me, was that it was ok to feel this anger. It was normal and right and safe, and I wasn’t a bad person for feeling it.

Double whew.

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.

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.

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.

I was driving to the mountains with my roommate, Susan, for a day of snowshoeing. We were listening to an India Arie CD in my rig and the song “Beautiful” came on. In the middle of it I burst into tears. I had no idea why. 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.

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.

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 for no apparent reason. It’s just there suddenly and then fades just as quickly. Done.

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.

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*.

*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. Camels. (And we sometimes wear clothes that once belonged to them, as well.)

*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. Camels. (And we sometimes wear clothes that once belonged to them, as well.)

Yoga, Grief and Cliches

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.

            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 two days ago, why not now? Last week the instructor told me I had the best balancing stick pose in the class, and today 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.

Now 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.

            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.

            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. Would this wretchedness never pass? 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.

            “What’s wrong, Aubrey?” I rolled over to face her and brushed back her dark bangs.

            “Where’s Daddy?”

            Quite frankly, this stumped me a little. This wasn’t a new question, but it was one I thought we’d dealt with.

            “He’s in heaven, Sweetie,” I said. Aubrey looked down at her hands picking at the blanket on my bed.

            “When’s he coming home?” she asked.

            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 this was the worst moment I’d experienced since Rob died.

            “Oh honey,” I said, pulling her into my bed and arms. “He’s not coming home.”

            Blam. My body just crumpled at the base of a brick wall.

            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.

            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?

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.

And then things would get better again.

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 just been fine yesterday.

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.

It’s better than ok, actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.

Grave Intentions

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.

I’m lying on top of Rob’s grave anyway.

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.

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.  The wind snares madly at the trees in consent.

But there are people here, planting flowers four graves down.

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?

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.

You won’t listen to me now, he teases. You’re writing and not turning your mind to me.

Do you have something of import to say?

No. Only that I’m always here for you. Forever. Through good times and bad.

The wind slows to caress my cheeks, then ruffles again in laughter.

And I think of Paul, who promises those things, too.

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 drive here, my hands are clasped around the wheel and my shoulders are tense and the teeth in my mouth ache from clenching.

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.

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.

I remember seeing other men through the years that have looked like Rob, but only one that made me look more than once.

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.

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.

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.

(GRIEF TIP #1: Always label everything even though you know there’s no way you could forget the significance of one of your treasures.)

How can I keep coming here to Massachusetts? I feel useless and dis-oriented.

To remember little tidbits I forget back home, I travel here as pilgrimage to never forget.

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.

Is that cold? Heartless?

I feel floaty and restless.

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 am a widow and lived such a horror. And the truth is, I have 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?

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.

I imagine texting Paul.

                                                                        At the grave.

                                                                        Wanna say anything to Rob?

But I already know the answer.

                                                                        Thank you.

As strange as that may seem to others, I understand this perfectly.

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.

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 thank Rob, too? Or cry because of Rob’s death -- and that it feels creepy to thank him for dying?

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.

I’ve collected a little yellow stone from beneath me that reminds me of the sidewalk chalk Joey was playing with two days ago.

(I wonder what Rob’s casket looks like now?)

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.

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.

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.

I was beginning to think I wasn’t meant 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.

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 Paul 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.

Thank you

A Blessing

“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.

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.

But strangely enough, this doesn’t bother my new husband. He understands and more importantly, he accepts.”

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.

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.

But I’m so glad he’s chosen to bring us along and then helps us with the obstacles on ours.

Podcasting This Fall 2010

I just finished listening to a webinar on podcasting and I'm excited to tell you that Grief Shadows: Young, Pregnant and Widowed will be available to you free as weekly podcasts starting this Fall.

But first I need to school myself in how to do it. :)

One Down -- Infinity To Go!

I got my first rejection to "Grief Shadows" yesterday. And I'm actually pretty excited about it.

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.'

Also, this rejection letter wasn't formulaic in the slightest -- that could get a writer down. Form letter rejections are depressing in their anonymity. So, below I am proud to post a copy of my rejection letter.

What I especially liked about it was the concrete suggestions about what I could do to make another agent say, "Yes."

Platform.

And while she said that I was doing all the right things, I still just didn't have enough of an audience yet. (Another magic blessing of a word from an agent -- proving they believe in you and your story.)

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. Forward Momentum!

~

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.

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.

Why it took me so long to write this book ...

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 ahead five years. But here I was, wanting to go back, and afraid to do it at the same time.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And then I fictionalized it. And a door opened. I wrote of someone else’s pain and mine lessened somehow. But I wanted to tell my story, so I stopped.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

So, would it be worth it to go back? Could it shatter the Now? Those questions plagued me and stunted my writing. I couldn’t even start.

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.

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 not the way things used to be but the things that would never be. 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?

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 our daughter – Paul’s and mine. Not my late husband’s. Not anymore. But how can I say that?

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.

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.

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.

My “Grief” days, or “I Miss Rob” days, aren’t overwhelming anymore -- or honestly very often anymore (a statement which at one time I would’ve been loath to say.) And despite those days, my life is rich and full.

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.

It didn’t hurt those around me to write this book. Turns out, it even brought us closer.

I hope you enjoy the book and that, somehow, it makes a difference in your life.

Namaste,

Valerie