I deserve...

I've said it again and again... being widowed is painful. In fact, it is the single most painful thing I've ever been through, and I've given birth 4 times, twice with no pain meds. It is a different kind of pain than childbirth, though there is definitely a physical component to it. The emotional pain that comes in waves at the most random times even years after Brian's death can still reduce me to instant tears. It has been 7 years since I held him in my arms as he took his last breath. It was time, he had no more fight in him, his life was no where near what he deserved. In that moment, though family was in the room, it was just us. His death was as it needed to be. I laid next to him in his bed at Hospice as he took his last breath, my eyes were squeezed shut tight because I couldn't bare to watch the love of my life leave me. When I opened my eyes his eyes were open, for the first time in 3 days his eyes were open and he was looking at my face. A single tear was on his cheek. He loved me... I loved him. Death doesn't change that, sometimes I actually think it makes it stronger. He didn't deserve to die at 43. I didn't deserve to be widowed at 41... but, what DO I deserve?

I had an incredible love. We had a life plan. All of that changed in an instant. I have had to recreate myself over and over since that day. I had to learn to be Sheryl without Brian. After 25 years I wasn't sure who that was or how to be anyone or anything but a wife and mother. Since that day I have worked hard to learn who I am as a person, as a widowed person. I know that Brian would be proud of the mother I have been and the direction I'm going with my life. Our kids are great, my business is growing, but I am missing a huge part of what is important to me. Things are good, but, I'm not completely happy. I've been in a relationship for 2 years now, but the longer we are together instead of feeling content and happy I still feel like something is missing. I feel like I am trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Don't get me wrong, I'm with someone who loves me, but the truth is he doesn't take care of me the way I need. I constantly have this feeling of "this isn't quite right, but it COULD be... IF..." There is a huge lack of physical intimacy in our relationship. Financially he has nothing, which means I am supporting him. I have a lot invested in this relationship. My heart is invested, my kids hearts are invested. Truth be told though, I keep thinking what do I DESERVE? Because I'm not getting what I need or what I deserve.

I deserve to be happy again, unquestionably happy. I deserve to have a man in my life that wants to take care of me. That may sound old fashioned, and I'm ok with that. I have been a "caretaker" my whole life. If you look at my closest relationships starting in high school my friends were always the ones that "needed" something. I've always been the one who is there for everyone. It can be tiring. I am SO ready for someone to take care of ME. Someone where I never have to question if I am in or if I'm out. Brian took care of me as much as I took care of him. I want that again. I DESERVE to have that again... I think that any widowed person deserves that chance... the chance to be happy again... to feel that sense of security that being with someone who loves you brings. I miss that. I miss being part of a relationship that just works naturally. He is out there... I KNOW he is... he has to be. My happy. My safe place. The next love of my life... I will come across him as I travel down my winding path of widowhood...

7 years... and another first...

It is a hard time of year... the "countdown" to the 7th anniversary of Brian's death has begun. My body knew it before I did. I'm tired, sad, and just not myself. As stupid as it is to say, I wish Brian had NOT died over Labor Day weekend. Not that there is a good time, and it goes without saying that I wish he hadn't died AT ALL... but he did. The beginning of school is also around Labor Day. Each school year brings excitement for what is to come and sadness for what was, all at once. It is not an easy balance. This year it brought something new, something that I am having a hard time wrapping my mind around. Something I didn't want to happen. Something I wasn't ready for. Something that has me crying non-stop... Hannah, my first born, my high school graduate, my college Freshman has moved out. I feel more broken now than I have in a long time...

I should be happy and proud that I have raised a daughter that is independent, mature, and is working hard for what she wants. I AM happy and proud, but, I am also devastated that she is gone. I literally can't stop crying. I've watched on Facebook as her friends parents are dropping their kids off at colleges hours away and I have NO idea how they are doing it. Hannah is going to school in Madison, and her apartment is no more than 20 minutes away. Still, not having her HERE is incredibly painful. More so than I would have imagined. My heart hurts in a way that I didn't expect.

Hannah was born on Feb 5, 2000. She was born on my grandpa's birthday and named after my grandma. She was my third pregnancy and first born. I had her name picked out long before she was a true thought, and I bought her nursery bedding years before she was born. For as long as I can remember I wanted nothing more than to be a wife and a mother, so Hannah was my dream come true. After she was born I would hold her for hours...
         

I never wanted to put her down, and this is a lot like that. I wasn't (am not) ready to let her go, but, this is what she wants. Hannah is mature beyond her years and has been for a long time. Losing your dad at the age of 11, after watching him die from cancer will do that to a kid. I'm IMMENSELY proud of who she is and I know that because of who she is she will be able to accomplish whatever she sets her mind to. She is like her dad that way. I always knew that Hannah would be my child to spread her wings and fly, not because she is the oldest, but because of her drive and determination. Again, she gets that from her dad.


This morning as I was texting with my best friend Jane and telling her how broken I feel she said this: "Things are changing and they are going to keep changing because that's how life is. It doesn't have to be a bad thing though. Kids grow up and have to go out on their own. I know your heart is breaking, but it is what Hannah wants. She is happy to be moving out. So... you just have to support her and try to be ok with this. And you will be in time. You just have to get used to her being gone. She's not gone forever like Brian. Hannah is still here. She's just minutes away from you. She's not in another state. You gave her the wings to fly... now you have to let her use them. It will be ok. It won't be the same, but it will be ok." True words from one widowed mother to another. I know she is right, but I can't help but wonder how this would feel if Brian were alive and well. I know it would still be hard, but I suspect it wouldn't feel like as big of a loss.

Fly my little dragonfly, go far in this big beautiful world. Just know that home is where your heart is, and YOU are my heart. You have been my constant companion on my winding path of widowhood and I made it to the sunny place in part because of you. I love you Hannah Kathryn.

The story of Tink

This car is a 1992 VW Cabriolet. Her name is Tink. It literally is my dream car, and I had wanted one since high school. In 2007 I started looking for one. Brian was doing better (his cancer at that point was no evidence of disease) and things felt like they were getting back to normal. I told him that I was looking and his response was "Your sister is getting married in Costa Rica... do you want the car or to go to her wedding?" Well, of course I picked the wedding! Fast forward several months to 2008... Brian had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, had it removed and underwent radiation... then a week later we flew to Costa Rica for my sister's wedding.

Later that summer he met a woman who had lost her husband to pancreas cancer. Her car? A VW Cabrio, the newer model of mine. He asked her if I had seen her car and she told him yes. She then said " My one regret is that I didn't buy it while my husband was still alive. He would have loved to see me drive it!" Brian came home that day and said "If you can find a car you like and we can afford it you can get one." The search began immediately!

I ended up finding my car in Michigan. We drove to Milwaukee, took the ferry over to Michigan, took the car for a test drive and brought it home. It was my 15th wedding anniversary present. This Sept I will have had Tink for 10 years. It is my most prized possession. I love it just as much now as I did then, maybe even more. I get compliments on her every time I drive her anywhere.

Our 25th anniversary is this August, and it will be my 7th without Brian, but EVERY TIME I drive my car he is there with me, joining me as I continue to wind my way through widowhood.

#longlivelove
#windingmywaythroughwidowhood

The Only One...

You know, I'm tired. Physically and mentally tired. It has been almost 6 years since Brian died. 6 years. I remember feeling like time just stopped 6 years ago... I have no idea how I made it to this point, but I did... and I'm tired.  One of the hardest thing about being widowed is instantly becoming an only parent. Not a single parent... an only parent, and it is exhausting. Having to make Every. Single. Decision... by myself. Knowing that if I screw something up there is no co-parent to help fix it. Keeping track of appointments, school schedules, weekend activities and every other coming and going of four kids is a lot to do. On a regular basis I feel like a failure as a parent because I wasn't there for this kid or didn't get something done for that kid. It happens... a LOT more than I would like to admit.

Tonight was one of those moments and it had me in internal tears, I felt like my soul was screaming for help and, right or wrong, I was angry that Brian is dead. As I sat with all four of my kids, having a discussion that I have had with them umpteen times just this summer alone, I felt that feeling of despair creep in. I just want a clean house. I'm not asking for a miracle (though I guess that is relative, if you saw my house you may think I am asking for a miracle!) I just simply want my house to not constantly look like a tornado has gone through it. The mess stresses me out more than I want to admit.  It blocks me from doing things I want to do and stops me from doing things I need to do. It creates an inactivity and anxiety within me that I can't seem to overcome. So, as I'm having this conversation AGAIN about how I need HELP to get the house clean, most of what I get back is static and bickering between them. This, I will admit sends me over the edge and my anxiety level reaches a point where I feel like I can't breathe... and again I am overcome with the fact that I am alone in this thing called parenting.  How being alone makes me feel guilty I because I can't provide the things for my kids that I want to. How I struggle financially to make ends meet and  still make sure that everyone has what they need. Guilt because I can't be everything for everyone. All of this guilt because something happened to our family that I had no control over.

This conversation led to my oldest daughter telling me how stressed out she is about going to college. How she wants OUT of our house because she can't stand being here, with us. How she feels like her grades aren't good enough to get into a good college, and even if they were we have no money for her to go to college. She brought up how we JUST had her tested for a learning disability (which she has, the same as her dad) and I STILL haven't contacted the school psychologist to help her get accommodations for the ACT test... and I think to myself how I failed her. How I should have gotten her tested sooner. How I should have already contacted the school psychologist. How SAD I am that she hates it here so much... how I screwed up and I can't fix it. I know that if Brian were alive he would have had this stuff done. He knew she was like him, he would not have let her struggle and in my grief and my aloneness I failed her... and all of this came about because I just simply asked for help to get and keep our house clean. It hurts to feel like I have not done everything I could as a parent, even though I know I have done the best I could given the circumstances.

I'm thinking that part of it is the time of year, no matter how long it has been the memories of 6 years ago creep in, and those memories are hard and painful. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one who hurts. My kids hurt too and it comes out in different ways. Today it came out in anger, fear and frustration all directed towards me (because, you know, they can't yell at their dad because he's not here!) and making me feel like my best isn't even close to good enough. It is really hard to be an only parent...

So tonight, as I wind my way through a darker part of my path of widowhood, I am still wallowing in self pity and wishing I could do more for my kids to make their life feel safer and more complete. I have to say, widowhood is NOT for sissys, and no matter how long it has been these moments of incredible self doubt and sadness creep in and sit for a while, and given that the anniversary of Brian's death is less than two weeks away I'm sure this feeling will unfortunately linger.  I used to think that my winding path of widowhood would eventually come to an end, however in the last almost 6 years I have come to realize that it will NEVER end. I will grieve Brian for as long as he is dead. Grief. It is the price we pay for love...

Cancer... Me??

November is Pancreatic Cancer Awareness month.
It is also Lung Cancer Awareness month.
It is ALSO the time of year that I get my annual mammogram.

Though the recommendation is to have a mammogram once every two years, my Doctor has them done yearly for me. Not because there is anything that is being "watched" but because she is sensitive to the fact that my husband died from Pancreatic Cancer. So, Monday I had my annual screening... and Tuesday I got a phone call saying that the radiologist wanted additional views, so an appointment was set for today (Friday). The morning didn't go great. My van is in having the rear brakes replaced, I couldn't find a ride so I had to drive my convertible. Mind you it is NOVEMBER in WISCONSIN and though the weather is unseasonably mild, it was still only in the 40's. Which means the top on my convertible, is cold... and hard... and wouldn't go up. So, I wore a winter coat, gloves and a hat and was thankful there was no wind or rain and drove to my follow up appointment... in my convertible (her name is Tink, in case you're wondering).

I get there, change into the beautiful pink kimono thing they have you wear and wait for my screening. Once in the room, the technician tells me that if needed I will have an ultrasound following the mammogram. Ok... but I'm not concerned and I'm not going to need that...

When we are done, she says that she is going to show the images to the radiologist, but she thinks he will want an ultrasound. Wait... WHAT?!? He did in fact want an ultrasound, so I'm told to get my things out of the locker they were in because I will not be coming back to this area. I do that, sit down in the waiting room, and text my best friend Jane "Talk me off of my ledge. This might not be nothing" that is the point that it hit me. Cancer. The possibility of breast cancer, the possibility of ME having breast cancer. Tears started to trickle down my cheek. Then as that thought sunk in the tears became actual crying... the technician saw me crying, sat down and asked me what was wrong. All I could get out was "my husband died of cancer" at which point the crying became uncontrollable sobs. My kids. My four beautiful kids who have already been through SO much. NO! This HAS|to be all right... for them. I'm an only parent. I'm crazy busy because I do it all alone. HOW will I be able to do this alone? Brian had me... I have... I have friends, I have family, I even have a boyfriend who loves me, but none of those people live with me. I can honestly say that in that moment I felt very, VERY alone.

I can not put into words the paralyzing fear. Because of my experience, the thought of having cancer is 1000 times worse. The anxiety, sadness, confusion and fear all rolled into a huge lump in my throat and uncontrollable sobs. I was immediately escorted into a nurses office. Her name was Lara, and she was amazing. When they were ready for my ultrasound she walked with me down there, and she stayed outside the door until it was done. The conclusion? Dense tissue that was easier to see because of my recent weight loss. Nothing suspicious. I don't have cancer. But that fear is still hanging on. I know I'm fine, but that FEELING has left me drained. I've ridden this roller coaster before and I don't EVER want to do it again. I went into that room sobbing and came out telling them how I had frozen my butt off driving Tink there and by the time I left I was laughing. Lara walked me out and hugged me goodbye. I'm still reeling, my head hurts, but I'm ok. Thankfully, I'm ok. Now, I just need to get my aforementioned boyfriend to quit smoking so that I never have to recognize November for lung cancer awareness month... oh, and so I can stay OFF of the cancer roller coaster.

This was definitely a sharp turn on my winding path of widowhood. One that I hope never to repeat!

3 - 2 - 1.....

The countdown is on. I can feel "it" coming. The memories from 5 years ago are creeping in, like a dark fog swirling around my legs trying to trip me and take me down. The problem is... it's working. I'm moody and short tempered. I cry at pretty much anything. I'm trying to hold it together, but those memories, the bad ones, are creeping in.

5 years ago was the "beginning of the end" for us. I know that a lot of people saw the end coming loooooong before we did. In fact, at one point someone very close to me said "When Brian dies..." and I corrected him and said "if"... he then said "No honey, it's when at this point". He said it as gently as he could, but even then I didn't believe it. I wasn't ready to give up on hope. I knew if I did that Brian would too, and then it really WOULD be "when".

About 5 years ago Brian fell in our room (I'm sure that in a few short days a "memory" will pop up on Facebook and remind me of the exact date, but at this point I don't remember it, which might be a good thing) he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance... and he never came home again. THAT was OUR beginning of the end. I don't know if I've ever written about that day, the day he fell, the day that is haunting me at the moment. We kept a lot of what was going on at that time very private. Brian's cancer had spread to his brain, and the brain tumors were causing problems, including the loss of the use of his left side. He had a hard time walking, so we finally got a wheelchair for him. The morning he fell he had gotten up and made his way to the bathroom. Shortly after he realized he had to go again. I went and got the wheelchair for him. I told him I would take him to the bathroom and come get him when he was done. He was mad. He was frustrated. He grabbed the arm of that wheelchair and FLUNG himself at it. He missed, and instead he hit the wall, HARD and then the floor. Two things happened at that moment. First, he had a brain bleed, second, he fractured his neck... (come to find out later that he had a tumor in his neck vertebra that had weakened the bone)... and he was in instant, horrible pain. The fear in that moment was unreal. I wasn't ready for him to be gone in an instant. I wasn't ready for him to be gone at all.

It was early morning, the kids were all home. I don't even remember who came over to watch them that day. In the hospital, once he had a room, we were told that if the brain bleed didn't stop he wouldn't make it through the night. There was nothing they could do to stop it, it either stopped on it's own or he died. The bleeding stopped... but, the decline from that moment was hard. 7 weeks. He was in the hospital for 3 weeks, improved to the point where he was transferred to a rehab facility, was there a couple of weeks... had another (worse) brain bleed... went back to the hospital... and then... Hospice. 7 weeks. I don't even know how I made it through those 7 weeks. Our kids were all over the place. I never knew where they would be or who I could ask to take them. I was never home, or so it seemed.

The memory of the day he fell is one of my hardest, most painful memories. To see his anger and frustration and then to be MAD at him (yeah, I said it!) for not being CAREFUL. For not just standing up, getting in the wheelchair and letting me help him. That day haunts me... the "what if" for that moment will forever be in my mind. Would he still be here? No. But would his final weeks have been less painful? His death deferred? Maybe... but I'll never know. That's the black fog swirling around my ankles, the memory of that day. The day that starts the countdown to the day he died... Almost 5. Years. Ago. 

Almost 5 years have gone by, yet, I find that my path through widowhood still has some twists, turns and dark forests... I am still very much winding my way through widowhood...

Pictures....

Yesterday the kids and I tromped through a tree farm to find the perfect Christmas tree. It is the first time we have done this since Brian died.

Last year, one of my my daughters said "We don't have enough pictures of Dad on our tree!" So, being the mom that I am I went out and bought an ornament to put his picture in. Here I am sifting through a drawer full of pictures... a drawer full of memories to find the perfect one. Then it hits me... AGAIN... that there will never again be a chance to take a perfect picture of him. All we have is a drawer full of pictures and the memories in our heads. How I wish I could take those memories and make them into reality.

Reality of a beautiful life. A life gone much too soon. A life that left those of us who love him with nothing more than pictures in a drawer and memories in our heads. I wish I could freeze those memories and print them so we wouldn't forget... because the truth is, memories fade. Brian is part of our "what was" and will never be a part of our "what will be". Pictures help to keep those memories alive, but it is so hard when looking for that "perfect" picture to know that we have a finite amount of them...

Christmas and the holiday season is hard. Though the weight of Brian's absence is never gone, it is especially heavy at this time of year. As our family makes new memories he is here in spirit. Yesterday as we traipsed through the tree farm looking for that perfect tree, I told the kids stories of some of the tree hunts that Brian did together. They laughed at some of them and I hope that I was able to weave a little bit more of Brian into their memories of this Christmas.

As my winding path of widowhood journeyed through the tree farm yesterday and memories of Christmases past, we also created new memories as we found the perfect tree... and on that perfect tree will be a new ornament showing our never ending love for him... long live love...