Feel Free Not to Read This. Probably Don’t. If you do, please refrain from telling me whatever you think I need to Know. M’k?

Fucking cancer
Fucking death
Fucking widowhood
Fucking life without him
Fucking heaviness
Fucking memories of you dying
Fucking bed sores
Fucking hole in the base of your spine where the tumor ate through your body
Fucking having to live without you every damn day
Fucking having to wake up and do life in the midst of fucking confusion that is just always there no matter what, for fucking years
Fucking relationships that tear apart after death
Fucking dark shadow of widowhood that scares people away even when you try to hide the shadows
Fucking nights staring at a TV show that you couldn’t even describe to someone even after watching it for an hour and another hour and another and you still couldn’t say
Fucking eyes that stare into nowhere and beyond nowhere into you know not what of nowhere
Fucking screams that get shoved down into your body because…well, who knows why?
Fucking judgment from every direction; too soon, too fast, too much, not enough, too dark, too light, too this, too that, too everything
Fucking cancer that ravaged and blew apart the body of the man I loved
Fucking tears that spill out no matter where or when
And fucking tears that don’t spill and choke you instead
Fucking energy to suit up and show up every day
And fucking judgements that it’s not enough or it’s not the right kind or it doesn’t matter just don’t be a fucking widow
Fucking widowhood that you’d tear off of you if you could and fuck that you can’t
Fucking doing every fucking thing you can and he’s still dead and always will be
Fucking skin hunger and fucking every damn thing about him being dead and gone
Fucking life fucking death fucking grief fucking breathing fucking everything without him. fucking everything

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Measureable Time, and More~

My dearest, my most beloved husband.

Chuck. Sarge. D.  My heart, my heartbeat, the oxygen in my blood, my very breath…

You were many names to me over the years.  You were many things to me, as I was to you. You were everything to me, as I was to you.

Life was daily living for us both, of course. We had our jobs, our individual friends and interests, and we had our friends in common and interests in common.

But beyond and above and alongside of, and with, we had each other.

You were my life.

What is my life without you? Without my breath? Without my heartbeat?

That madness of the souls that is Love.  That Love we shared that was a single soul inhabiting two bodies…

What to do with all of that now that you’re dead and we are forever separated?

The calendar says that you’ve been dead for 1,735 days.  I have to look on my app to see the exact days but my mind tracks the years.  Four years and nine months.

My heart? My soul? They tell me that you’ve been dead forever.  As the heart measures is the true measurement.  You were dead forever the moment you took your last breath and you will always be dead forever, even as human time apportions out minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years.

The fractured splinters of my heart shimmer as dust in the wake of who we were together, in the aftershock of your death, in the vague remembrances of who I was with you and because of you and your Love.

I try. And try. And try again. I swear to god I do. I get up every damn fucking day of this life without you and I keep my chin level as I push and muck through and absorb and am at one with and allow and let go and hold on and welcome Love and let Love in and put it out there again.

What will it take to make this life without you worth it?

I’m brave. I’m determined. I look around me and see beauty. I do everything I can. I fucking swear I do. I have to, so that our Love is honored. So that I live a life that honors yours. I live my life because you can’t live yours.

And the splintered, slivered bits of dust that are my heart after your death…they shine in the light of day and glow in the dark of night.

The stars in the inky dark of every galaxy, glittering in skies around the world, shining over my head here in the desert…they are you, I think.  You, shimmering down on me. Maybe. But they are also the particles of my heart, no longer claiming space in my chest. Those far away beacons, too distant to touch, are the dust of my heart, scattered in the unreachable points of the Universe.

My heart cries out to you, my beloved.

I will love you into forever and beyond measureable time~

 

My Shadow Selfie~

Many times, as I begin typing a blog, I have little to no idea what will spring from the keyboard.  Sometimes I swear that I have nothing to say…I’ve said everything that can be said. Which is kind of an arrogant way to think, isn’t it?
But I’ve also realized that ideas come from the most unexpected places. I can be out and about and hear a phrase from strangers conversing. Or I notice how someone is dressed on a particular day. Or how their hair falls a certain way. Words beget ideas for me, and that’s how this blog happened.
I was out with my grand-goddesses, who are 4 and 2 years old, respectively. We’re in Arizona, so we went for a walk to the park. The sun was out, they were wearing lightweight jackets, because 60* is cold to us here…as I hear all of you from everywhere else in the country groaning and wishing for that, as you freeze your patooties off in subzero temps.
Anyways…
The 4 year old was skipping along, and called my attention to her shadow, that was moving right along with her, of course.

As soon as I looked at her shadow, following along with her, I whipped out my phone and wrote the word in the notes section. I think of the most amazing ideas and then promptly forget them.
Shadows.
As widow/ers, we live with shadows. We become shadows of ourselves. Our shadows move with us. Our shadow represent the dark parts of grief, too…the parts we are often too frightened to explore. Also, society doesn’t like peering at us and seeing our shadowed selves, so they try to move us from where we are to a place that is more comfortable for them.
Shadows make us humans uncomfortable. We want to see what we expect to see. Or we want to see what we need to see, so that we don’t have to spend too much time on that one person. Hi, how you doing…and get on with your day.
Early on in my first year of grieving, my daughter said to me mom, maybe you need to let yourself be in the shadows for awhile. Maybe you need to stop fighting the shadows and just go there. Don’t worry. I know you’re there, and I won’t let you stay there. I’ll keep watch.
The most valuable, loving words I’ve heard in this widowed life.
Yes, it was frightening to contemplate falling into that darkness; it was all so unknown.
I couldn’t see in front of me. Because not only was it dark…tears also blinded my vision.
I couldn’t hear anything…except my hitching breath and broken sobs.

But, for me, it wasn’t so much about allowing myself to fall into that darkness; it was more about releasing the resistance to falling into that darkness. I was already there, honestly, and expending an inordinate amount of time refusing to acknowledge it. Because, you know, people continually tried to talk me out of it. Too uncomfortable for them to see me there. It made me unrecognizable to them, and that concerned them. Though, maybe I’m assuming that was their thinking. I never really asked.
So, I stopped resisting, and, in hindsight, I realized that when some of our senses aren’t working, others work overtime.
The darkness allowed me to simply feel. As unbearable as it was…I allowed the grief to claim me.
I felt  and heard my heartbeat, even as a meat slicer chopped every breath I took, when I placed my hand over my heart.
My heart, even shattered, became aware of the hands reaching out to me.
Allowing myself to be in shadow gave me a place to rest, inasmuch as I was able to rest to any degree.
And I knew that no matter how severe it all was, there was a person who loved me standing in the light of my shadow, keeping watch for me.
That mattered. It mattered in ways that are unexplainable even now. But she knows.
I lost my fear of the shadows, and now, these almost 5 years later, I welcome my shadow self, in all its’ glory, even though it’s dark. Dark, and yet, revealing, at one and the same time.
My shadow self is no longer an arbitrary unknown part of me that causes fear to rise up in me.
It exists just as surely as the walking, talking part of me.
I love my shadow self. I hate my shadow self too, honestly, because it was revealed to me as a result of Chuck’s death, and I’ll never be okay with that. His death, I mean. I’m tiptoe through the tulips happy for all those in our world who reach a Zen state of okayness with their loved one’s death, but that isn’t me.
The duality of loss, again. The duality of widowhood, always.
My shadow selfie, and this blog.
A blog that happened because, yesterday, I took a walk with my two grand-goddesses and she said Look, Granna! My shadow is following me!

And I recall the old song from years ago…Me and My Shadow….strolling down the avenue…

Strolling with my shadow selfie since April 21, 2013…

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Unknowing the Known…Not~

I stare into the distance of everything and nothing many times during a day’s measure,
And, as I stare, I see everything and I see nothing
I feel everything so much that I feel nothing.
Pain and grief have morphed into emptiness
Which is funny and humorous except not
Because my life is incredibly full
With family, with new friends and old
Driving new roads and old roads, literally.
Continual adventures
In all directions.
How can a life so full feel so empty?
How can it feel so heavy?
Why is it so exhausting?
How do I change it from that to something different and not as heavy or empty?
Is this just part of the package resulting from the death of a beloved?
Just as we can’t know something until we know it…
So, too, we can’t unknow something that we know into the marrow of our bones.
I guess. I suppose. I don’t know.
I would give all that I am to unknow what I most regretfully now know and will never not know…

Widow Speak~

There really is no explaining it
In words that either convey or make sense to anyone
WIDOW
The depths of the word change daily and minute by minute
Depending on the day or the minute
In the beginning, it means devastation conflagration incineration annihilation
Each of those feeling remain or don’t,
Depending on the day or the minute
It’s going to bed alone and leaving the TV or radio on low so that the hum of voices distracts you as you wake through the night and if you don’t have the distraction your mind hums with memories and the grief that no more memories will ever be made.
Grasping his pillow close and arranging your body sometimes unconsciously to the side you slept when you slept with him so that he could curl his body around you his arm curving under you his other arm draping over you his hand curled around your breast.
It’s waking each morning and wishing that you could have that unsuspecting moment that you’re waking to your old life like you hear people speak about but your body and mind are instantly aware that he’s still dead and this is another morning and you’re exhausted because your mind has been going all night long even when you slept but really didn’t sleep.
And you make the decision to get up anyways because you can’t just lay abed endlessly, right?
Go through a morning routine getting ready shower don’t cry or yes, do cry try to push away the thoughts that I just can’t do this again but you do it again anyways because what other choice is there?
Breakfast even though you really aren’t hungry but what does hunger have to do with eating its habit more than anything or eat because you aren’t hungry but you have to do something and the clock says breakfast time and you eat but you don’t taste because food doesn’t matter to you anymore.
It’s going through your day whatever your day used to mean but now doesn’t except that distractions help sometimes but not really because there underneath everything is your new pulsebeat of dead dead dead he’s gone gone gone.
Try to get home early if you’re out because there’s just something about that time of the early evening that makes missing him more powerful than all the powerful moments of the earlier part of the day.  Once you get home wherever home is now home was when I was with him wander around the kitchen the bedroom the house turn the TV on for noise eat food out of the fridge because who cares eat junk.
Go to bed because you need the day to end or don’t go to bed because you can’t bear being alone in bed so sleep on the couch somehow the back of the couch against your back helps you feel more secure.
One season follows another and the days drift and bend and each season carries its’ own cuts and bruises of remembrance and oh he would love the colors of the flowers the trees the snow the ocean that gust of wind feel that feeling in the air and he isn’t here and my soul can’t bear this beauty and I’m not ignoring the beauty but the beauty hurts because I’m seeing it feeling it being it on my own and that cuts into me again like a chain saw.
We’re supposed to be grateful we had what we had and I am and we’re complimented on being so strong and I am but also exhausted from being strong encouraged to remember and I do but what does that have to do with anything I wonder and told that look you have your kids and your grandkids and your life and other people who love you and I do and I know that but what the fuck does that have to do with anything and how on god’s green earth does any of that change anything or make up for anything most especially the fact that for god’s sake he’s dead?
What do you say when there are no words in our language to fully and really and completely tell you that I say what I need to say and do what I need to do and I’m whatever I need to be to meet this fucking real life challenge but none of it means a damn thing and I’m not pretending anything to anyone but life does fucking go on and I have to support myself and shop and do all the daily tasks that constitute living but if you really really really want to know the truth with no qualifications and no prevarications…
My heart is broken and I’m not really strong and I hate living without him and life is unbearable and I’ve run out of words and I have no energy for this and I’m really not okay but I have to be okay so I try to be okay but my soul inside this body that shows up every day even as I’m doing and talking and going through each day is just missing him as he is missing from me and it hurts and there isn’t one damn thing that doesn’t remind me of him including the very act of breathing.  And all the milestones and holidays and anniversaries and birthdays amid the everydays make me miss him even more and I want nothing more than to be held by him feel his arms around me his lips on mine feel safe again feel secure again dance with him sleep with him have wild sex with him wake with him share nothing and everything important with him live again knowing how special I am to someone in this life just have him back please please please…
Be his wife his lover again.
Not his widow.

Ghost Dancing Into the Forever of You~

I will sing you to me.
As the days and moments and years pass by,
I will sing you to me.
As I gaze up at the mighty Universe each night,
From wherever my pink trailer happens to park,
I will sing you to me.
And as my heart wanders this land,
Seeking you, not finding you
But wishing desperately to connect with you and to you,
Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere,
I will sing you to me.
The words of Love our hearts exchanged
As we lived our years and our Love story,
I will sing you to me.
Where are you, my dearest Love?
On this night when the veil lifts between me and you…
Where are you?
As my hand reaches through the veil,
As my heart bleeds for you
And I lightly touch your picture your compass your wallet your moustache comb
Seeking to feel your presence again,
I will sing you to me.
As our music drifts lightly into the night air and my feet move slowly in remembered steps and my hands lift to just the right height, where the breadth of your shoulders wait for my touch,
And I ghost dance with you under these stars in this Universe in the world you left, where I am now, without you, my dearest Love,
Through the years and the moments and the days that stretch into Forever…
Into the Forever, my dearest Love, where you exist and I don’t,
My body will move with you and, yes,
I will sing you to me, always.
Forever sing you to me into the Forever of Time…

What I Know for Certain~

But don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you owe it to your kids to remember you as happy? Life is supposed to be happy. Maybe you’re depressed. Don’t you want to be happy?
If you’re a widow/er, then you’ve heard the same questions and comments. I know you have. Or, if you’re public about your grief, as I am, you hear it from the general public. Less frequently, possibly, as the years pass. But you hear it. Such comments were more prominent somewhere in the second half of my 3rd year. Apparently, if one is still grieving in the 3rd year, bells of doubt start ringing in the minds of those around you, whispering words like depression complicated grief not moving on not getting on with it medications therapy etc…
I’m embarrassed to admit that, upon hearing these comments (and let’s be honest, it’s thinly veiled criticism because it comes across exactly as it sounds: a judgement, as if I’m doing something wrong), I initially and inevitably ended up defending myself, and trying to explain myself, even as I knew I had no reason to defend myself. But those words made me feel defensive and attacked. So, I defended.
No longer. No. Longer.
Guess what? I’m perfectly content with my legacy. If I were to die right now, this fucking minute, I’d have zero regrets. None. Nada. Zero.
And I owe my kids nothing, because they already have all the Love in the world from me.
I know exactly how my kids will remember me and I know what my kids will remember about me. Whether I die today, or tomorrow or years from now.
Our mom was THE most kickass mom ever. She and pop had a Love story for the ages. They sold everything and traveled the country together and remember when we’d call them up we’d ask them where are you now? She nursed him with so much Love through his first cancer and they kept on traveling and when the cancer came back, she did it all again, and bigger. She ensured that all of us had one on one time with him in hospice and she honored and supported us through our own grief, even as she grieved. She bought a trailer after he died and painted it and her car pink and she dressed in pink and she drove all over the entire fucking country, honoring him and their Love and connecting with people everywhere. She was a connector. She inspired people. She was colorful and crazy and she was the Love Warrior and a Fucking Warrior Goddess and she did all that while she was grieving because she loved pop so much and her life felt empty without him and she fucking did it all anyways. She left an example to all of us and to her grandkids about determination and grit and Love. She cried and she laughed and none of it meant anything and all of it meant everything and she lived when she didn’t want to live and she talked to us honestly about the impact of his death on her and she loved hard because Love was all that was left amid the ashes of her life when pop died. She was unapologetic about her grief and her Love and she lived in spite of it and with it. And we are proud of who she was and what she was because she was real and being real was all that mattered. She was a Fucking Warrior Goddess.
No. I have no qualms about the memories I’ll leave behind for my kids, or for anyone else who might remember me.
My epitaph will read Here lies a woman who lived the duality of Love and Grief, who made everything around her shimmer and sparkle with Love, with a shattered heart, and she did it all in pink. She was a Fucking Warrior Goddess.