Home

Home is a strange concept. It appears to have a different meaning to everyone.  For most of us, it's something we take for granted.  For myself, home is the place I can relax. The place I feel I belong. A soft place to land. I've spent what seems like forever, but it's actually closer to five years, looking for home. Many times I have said that I feel like a guest in my own life since it quite literally imploded. I could be in a crowd of 500 people and feel alone. I could be in a bedroom that I paid rent to be inside, still I am a guest. In my own bed, in the hotel of my own head, I did not feel at home. I could not be small enough, in my mind, to not be in someones way. To say I am, or have been, misplaced is a terrible understatement.  For lack of a better term I felt like a refugee from some war torn county that only I and Richard inhabited. My home was gone.  

Home in Tennessee no longer exists. The huge family of my memories has passed into the dust of history. They  live in my mind’s eye. My aunts are in their kitchens making something tasty and my uncles are sitting on their porches chewing the fat.  But the death of my father in August closed the book on that place for me forever. I have no urge to revisit an empty land that would only remind me that the home I knew is gone. The love and laughter. My roots are sunk deep in the bedrock of that land. It is as much a part of me as the DNA that ties me to my family. Somewhere within me is the girl who climbed trees and chased the cattle with my Daddy. Yet I am far from the girl who sat barefoot underneath that big oak tree atop the hill and traveled the world in a book. But who I am does not erode in the sands of time or the flood of tears. We on the widows walk know, not everyone who is with you when the storm begins, will be there when the sun comes out again. Most of my remaining family have fallen into this category. There was a manufactured distance put into place to remove themselves from my palatable pain. I chose not to beat my grief into a manageable form to stick into some kind of iron box and make those around me comfortable. I could not straitjacket my emotions to make myself less painful to come into contact with at any given time. I faced it head on, regardless if I was on my knees or my feet, in private or in public. You must understand that it is unseemly in the south for one to not have on her "everything is okay face."  Like the song says, "Go and hide your crazy. Start acting like a lady." I was incapable of doing so when the storm began to swirl around me. I tried to grieve with grace but I did not always succeed. I bear no ill will nor bitterness, but the need for them has lessened over time as well. The blood and bone do not call to me anymore. I can love you in the distance. I am comfortable there. I have discovered that my family are the people I choose, not necessarily the ones who share my biology. I grieved those relationships long ago. I grieved my past life and the home of my yesterdays. Most people assume that family is forever and that it always stands. I am not a proponent of the blood and bone family. Loyalty and love makes family.

I needed away from the ghost town of Charlotte. Everywhere I turned shards of my old life were there to wound me. All the years and memories flooded about me because everywhere I went there we were. Thousands of adventures and laughter haunted my mind. Traumatic memories of eleven years of a chronic illness ripped at the fabric of my belief in forever. It was as if I could smell his cologne on the wind. The embers of my life still threw off smoke that permeated everything around me. I was existing in the cemetery of the hopes and dreams of my former self. Grief swallowed me whole as I sank into depression. Once one’s eyes adjust to the darkness, even things in the shadows become clear. I spent years in the half light betwixt and between. I saw the demons faces even while I confronted my own. I moved though my journey, sometimes crawling, sometimes staggering to my feet and once in a great while I was in a dead run. But I was moving. I had an almost maniacal need to survive. I wanted to heal. But I was breathless to the pain. I needed to disappear and that is exactly what I did. I ran. I cannot say what I did was for a healthy purpose. I had to escape it all. I was not of this mindset at the time but, I understand now that things don't heal without oxygen. I ran for my sanity. I embraced becoming a refugee, faced my fears, and moved 7 hours from Charlotte.

In the Metro, I learned more about myself than anyone surrounding me. I reentered life on my own terms where no one knew my name or my history. There were no whispers or questions. There were no explanations. I had to learn to live again. Making the smallest decisions was a project that kept me awake at night. Paying my bills, buying my groceries, being to work on time, even entertaining myself became lessons that no one but me could grade. It was as if I had entered a foreign country where I did not speak the language. I could blame this one or that one for situations I found myself within, but the choices and mistakes were mine alone. That being said, I was in a very dangerous city and for all intensive purposes, I was alone. I could depend on no one. A couple of good illnesses and a hurricane bearing my very own name showed me just how alone in the world I was at that point. Could I survive it? Was I worth the effort to myself? The lioness inside me reared her head. The fight within me returned and took up the cause of not just my sanity, but my happiness. She will walk on when she is too tired and injured to move. She will not show her soft underbelly and make herself vulnerable. She will give you a steady gaze and discern if you are prey or predator.  I found my roar. My laughter and my love of life. One good friend, neigh a sister, was what I gained. If the price to have her in my life was that sojourn in hell, then cash my check. But, the sheer passive aggressive nature of the human race at large, keep that to yourself. I see no reason for such behavior, but that could be due to the fact that I have lost enough to know to conserve hate speech. Regret is a high dollar debt to the dead. I will chew my tongue off rather than to engage in something that has no positive outcome on the horizon. That is not to say that I am perfect. But as my Daddy always taught me, "Measure twice and cut once." 

I have done a lot of forgiving.  I have forgiven thoughtless people who thought they were my friends. I have forgiven heartless people who thought they were my enemies. I have forgiven hurting people who thought they were my family. I have forgiven Richard for leaving me. I have forgiven myself for surviving. I released everything that was poisoning my heart. I did not do this for anyone else. This I did to free me. A life filled with bitterness served nothing and no one. Choking the light from my life with vines of hatred only took me deeper into the dark. It was a hard fought battle. I wanted to hold a grudge. I wanted to stand up and scream about how they hurt me. I wanted to slug it out and be right, because I thought I deserved validation. I wanted to be their victim and a victim of life. But pride is a terrible thing. Smugness is a flaw. To be someone’s victim is to be a slave. To bow to their will. To submit. My arrogance would not allow me to let someone else control me. I am no one’s victim. It is better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep. I stand or fall on my say so alone.

I came to Minnesota to live in June. Yes Minnesota. I found a big viking man with dancing blue eyes and a smile that sets my heart a flutter. A hand that holds mine completely.  A common goal and an uncommon life. I would never say I will ever be completely healed. No one who survives what we have will ever be healed. Our souls are scared. But there are no ghosts in our home. Our children, mine and his, are intimately connected to our pasts. Our lives were interwoven with both of our lost spouses for many, many years. They will remain so forever. We discuss and remember. There is no insecurity or jealousy. We apply what we have learned in the long winter months of our grief. We were whole before we tried to be half of anything. Truly we are greater than the sum of our parts. We work every day to build and grow. We are considerate because we remember what is it to be taken for granted. We are humble because we know that tomorrow is promised to no one. We are gloriously in love. 

I would never say my life is perfect. Perfection is a hellish illusion we project upon the world. I will say that I am happy and I am healthy. I am healed. I have thrown off my widow's weeds and have embraced life. The stench of death and loss have left my spirit. I do not believe that to grieve is to leave your loss behind. I believe that to grieve is to leave the old you behind. To shed the person you once were and embrace whom you are at this point is the largest part of the grief process. You will carry it with you the rest of your days but only you can determine if it is a blessing or a curse. Life is change. The hardest changes to make and adjust to are the ones that are forced upon you. We always rebel when we have no choices. It is not fair to judge anyone else’s journey nor should one advise they have the only way to traverse this terrain. Whatever it takes to walk out the other side is what it takes. As for me, magnolias grow in many climates. When I got off the plane at the airport in Minneapolis, I saw one and I smiled. She is different than what I have known, but she is here. I survived what was ripped away from me and the loss of my footing. I survived the subzero temperatures of grief and the fiery temperatures of judgement, the worst of which was mine toward myself. I am blooming here in the great white north. I am home.  

Fearless

Well it's Christmas again. The Hellidays have come and I am still standing. I am not medicated and I am sober. I would hazard to say that I am clearer headed than I have been in years. Are you frightened yet?

This time of year I generally take stock of my life and look at the checklist I made for myself in my head to see how I have progressed. This year has been a stiff learning curve but for the most part I have made great strides toward sanity. Well not necessarily sanity, but some semblance of normalcy that I haven't had in almost four years. I am working. I get up every morning and walk out of the house into the public spectrum. I leave my sadness and grief on the floor of the bedroom like my discarded pajamas. I smile. I laugh. I don't feel guilty. Not everyone understands me or the way I choose to live my life and that is fine. I make no excuses. I make no explanations. I am unafraid to say "This is well and truly none of your business." I am who I am.

All of that being said, there is a sadness to me that will probably never leave. I have lost much. I have grieved hard. The other side of that coin is that I love hard. If one has never known true sadness how do you recognize true joy? I feel deeply. I love boundlessly. This will necessarily leave me open to deep pain. I have come to acknowledge that my tears will never completely dry. But they are not always tears of sadness. I cry in joy almost as easily. I am blessed to be in touch with my emotions. This however comes with a temper and a sometimes harsh, unapologetic tongue if I am defending someone I care about these days. I have no urge to defend myself. I have no need. I know who I am and what you think of me has little to no bearing as to what I will or will not accept. I do not require your approval or permission to be happy.

This year has taught me to open my eyes. I see selfishness in people. I see childishness and pettiness. I see lies and alibis. I see people who will only love me if I meet there expectations of whom they have painted me to be in their mind. I see people who would try to exploit my weaknesses or my shortcomings. I choose to turn and walk away. I will not arm you to hurt me. I am polite and courteous. But their time in my life is coming short. Unless you can support my dreams and love me where I am, I have no need of your companionship. I am done with the drama.

I am blessed with a few really good friends. Those truly close to me are a small handful of extraordinary people in my eyes. They hold my hands when they are shaking either in brokenness or in fury. They know me to be a faithful friend. They know me to be an unwavering advocate for those I love. They know I will stand with them whether it be behind, beside or between them when they need me. More than that, they support me and they support my dreams. They believe in me. They wrap their arms around me when I am in the floor of my heart to pick me up and start again. They cheer for me when I am on the ceiling. I have come to know that they believe in my heart to fight another day. They believe in my wisdom to do what is right regardless of the cost to me personally. If I can face myself in the daylight with the decisions I made the day before, I'm good. I'm real good.

The apple of my eye is Drew. He is my heart in another body. But I have relinquished my Mommy role. I am his Mom. He makes my heart soar. I am so proud of the man I raised. He is funny. He is tenacious. He is heartfelt. He is wise. He is a good man. He is a lot of his father. He is a lot of my brother. But he is all himself. I cannot take credit for who he is. I am honored to have him in my life. He allows me to be a confidant. He allows me to be his friend. I see his strength. I see his struggle. I see his heart. He is not jaded. He is not bitter. He is my true north.

I am looking forward to 2013. I see some doors closing and more swinging open wide. I have thrown open the windows of my heart. I can need people again. I can surgically remove you from my life without regret as well. My feet are firmly planted and I am reaching. I am accomplishing many things that for me are monumental. Others might see them as nothing special but if you had walked a mile in my platforms, you could see the extraordinary steps I am making everyday. This is what I want. I want a life less ordinary. I want to love with great passion. It can be for 2 weeks or for 20 more years. But I deserve it. To hold some of my heart in reserve is to be less than I should be in my eyes. I will leave it all on the table every day. I will live with abandon. To do less is to do a disservice to the people who are not here to see me fly. They loved my strong spirit. They loved my fighters heart. They loved my willingness to jump off the cliff and soar or sink. I will live my life on my terms. The Belle is back and she is fearless.

Martyrs and Saints.

Well here comes his birthday again. If one more person says something stupid about their advice or experiences regarding what I should do about it, I'm going to jail. I have heard everything from "You should release balloons in his honor!" (Doesn't that kill something innocent somewhere when they drop? You do know they don't really make it to heaven right?) to "Why not buy him a cake and celebrate?" (Well you know he was a diabetic and couldn't have a piece of cake if he were here right?) How about I do whatever in the hell it takes for me to see the sun rise the next morning? I might cry. I might work. I might drink. I might sleep. I very well might do everything I said and more. But as long as I get out of the bed the next morning, then I did what I should have to celebrate his birthday. We generally spent his birthday quietly. A card. A waffle. A present. Last year I walked outside at midnight and whispered to the sky. I cried. Because I well and truly miss him.

Strangely I find that people also tend to forget who Richard was in real life. They forget a hot temper and at times a foul mouth. They don't remember the man. They remember the myth. He was perfect and good and true. Just like a saint. Saint Richard. Never forget I loved this man. I loved him because of his faults not in-spite of them. I loved his clumsiness.I loved his silliness. I loved the fire in his belly when things were wrong or unfair. But I argued with him incessantly. We fought like we loved each other: Hard and without mercy. He laughed when I practiced my "flying phone technique" on a customer service representative and when I picked it up to continue yelling. I laughed when he was offended and lost his mind on doctors, lawyers and police officers. The man I loved had to go sit in his truck when our son had a car accident because the man who hit him was uninjured in the wreck. The man I loved was the most feared of his brothers and the smallest. The man I loved was a hard man and he loved me hard. He was mischievous. He could be malicious. Richard was many things in this life, but never, was he ever, a Saint.

The same people who have canonized my husband have determined that I am to be a Martyr.  I am a poor victim of life and I should lie down. Lie down to die. I have been through many things in this life. The key word here is through. I have survived things that could chill your blood. Sometimes they have chilled mine. But I am no ones victim. The same woman who beat the phone over the granite counter-top until it was in fifty pieces whilst on the phone with the customer service representative is the same one beating on this keyboard. (That was the same phone call by the way.) I am the same woman who made my son's teachers cry and the principal called Saint Richard to say "Don't you ever let her come here alone again." To which he replied, "I can't do a thing with her. I would advise you don't make her mad again." I was the deacon's wife that they never asked a question for fear I would give them an answer. Richard and I shared many an adventure in our marriage from dust in his eyes that got us escorted out of the grocery store by police to a near fight in Wal-Mart with a woman who kept hitting him in the foot with her cart at Thanksgiving. We also shared thousands of waffles and millions of tears. But he loved me as I am and not some fictionalized version that some would paint of me. I will not lay my life down for the cause. Well, not this one. I am no ones Martyr.

However one of those people used to tell me she had a perfect marriage. Then I got closer and listened to the love story. He was 20 years older than her. He was a gentleman and her mother was in a conniption fit because she was seeing him. He had a good job. He was good to her boys. What she forgot to tell me was that he was married at the time. She also neglected to tell me he had a gambling issue. Or that she had a drug problem. When he passed away, she was cold. Cold to the fact that her perfect marriage was over. Cold to the fact that he was gone and she was alone. Their love had grown cold. If you have a perfect marriage, please stay away from me. You are either in denial or you are an accomplished liar. Neither are welcomed in my life. My marriage was messy. It was never cold. But my sainted grandmother used to say, things don't grow without heat and rain. He loved me the same the day he closed his eyes as he did the day I met him. There was a kinetic energy between us. I was empty when he left. Real things are not perfect. Real people are not perfect.

Let me explain something ladies and gentlemen. Real love is fire. Fire that is in your bones as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. Love is commitment that holds fast when the world would tear you apart. Because in love you will work to the others weakness. Love makes you better. Not necessarily better humans, but a better version of you. To pull together in adversity. To turn on a dime to defend what you believe in and whom you love. Love does not need encouragement from outside parties. It should drive you to run faster, to work harder, to strive and to achieve. Love should be a place where you are there regardless of circumstances. Richard and I had that illusive thing. The thing that held us together. Love is not perfect. Flawed people make the best lovers. So when you think of my husband and I, I would ask that you temper you memories with some truth. With some laughter. With some anger. For just as God in heaven welcomed my beloved Richard home, he knew he was no Saint. Just as I am sure he looks at me sometimes with laughter in those beautiful green eyes and says that I am no Martyr.

Three Years and Some Change

Well here I am. Another year is gone. I am now 45. As I remarked to my friends the other day, my 45 is much different than my mother's. She was older than I when she crossed this year. She had a son who was 24 and a daughter who was 20. She was tired and unwilling to learn anything else. She was done with pursuing life. I am not her. I am hungry for life. I have an insatiable desire to grow and learn. I am far from done. But when asked if this was the 45 I saw in my mind's eye when I was 20, I had to answer truthfully. That answer is no.

At 20 I believed in happily ever after. I believed in forever. At 45, neither is even in my vocabulary anymore. It's simply a language I no longer speak. Talking to a friend the other night, I was remarking about my failures and regrets. How I wish things were different. I was then informed that I do not see what he sees. He sees a great strength inside me. To have survived both the suicide of my brother and the loss of my husband, to still be standing is nothing short of miraculous if you knew me before it all began. Those were the pillars of my life. The two of them and I were the trinity that could hold the world together. Now I stand alone to do the same work. And I am making it work.

I no longer believe in forever and certainly not the happy part. I believe that happiness is where you find it. One cannot "make me happy." That is something I must find within myself. I have more flashes of happiness than sadness these days. I smile more easily. It actually reaches my eyes now and again. But I am told my eyes still have a haunted look behind them. The hurt of the past nine years cannot be erased by time or tears. For if tears could have washed it away it would have been gone long ago. My life is as it is and I cannot change the past. I have lost much around me, and I even lost myself for a while. But the bones of me are still here. The core of me is alive and well.

Emotionally I am a bit fragile. I am horribly homesick for the south. I am looking at my sojourn in the north as if I have been deployed on a secret mission and I am counting the days until I set my feet in the warm soil of the south. Half of what I want to eat is exotic to this place and the other half tastes like mud. If I don't cook it, I probably won't eat it. The same goes for what I feed my emotional health from this situation. Most everything I hear is toxic. I don't understand self pity nor lack of ambition. I don't understand a victim mentality. Nothing was done to you. You participated in your demise. If you don't like where you are in life, do what is necessary to change it. Put some starch in your backbone. If I am not crying, don't even think of starting in front of me.

 So as I take inventory this year, this is what I can say regarding the state of the magnolia. I am stronger than I look. I am wiser than I thought. I am smarter than I guessed.When I love, I love hard, but when it is betrayed it goes cold quickly. I long for peace. I don't know where that peace might be nor how to obtain such a thing. But I need it. I need a home that is not on fire constantly. I need to rest. I am a guest in my own life. The hotel changes but I am never at home. It is up to me to find a way to make room for me. I am never comfortable. I always feel out of place. But I like me. I will give myself credit for raising an amazing child. I will give myself credit for standing up and having enough courage to literally begin again. I am functioning. No one is taking care of me. No one is feeding the fire of my ambitions. There is no sunshine of  love towards me that I might feel warm and wish to reach toward the sky. What grows in me now is mine. I need neither permission nor approval and that feels good. I have extricated myself from the bad people and the bad things. I will not dwell there ever again.

When spring comes to the magnolia, there can be snow on the ground and the sap will still start to flow. The wounds made from the pruning of the winter can ache but soon a tough skin will cover the injury and the inner strength of the tree will heal it. Just because you perceive that it is still winter does not mean that it is cold in the heart of the matter. I may look like I am still without my branches and that my blooms are long forgotten. You may believe that I may never bloom again. Rest assured I have reserved my strength. Rest assured I have planned for this day.

A Misplaced Magnolia

Well where do I begin? First I have relocated. I am now in what I believe to be called "The DC Metro Area." I will not swear to that as it is as foreign as any Eastern European Country that I can imagine. Life is strange at the moment, but you know what they say, "the more things change the more they stay the same."

Lets get this part out of the way, No I do not like this place. I am a southern female. Yelling at people in the streets and in the grocery is simply unseemly. I do not like to be called "Hun" by anyone as it is a familiarity that unless I have granted, it quite unwelcome in my eyes. Do not touch me if I do not know you personally. I am not a hugger and I do not like to be the huggee. A handshake should be quite sufficient to fulfill a greeting requirement. That being said, I am reserved but friendly. However, just because I measure my words and speak slowly does not mean that I am slow. It means that I can read. Another phrase I would ask not be used when referring to me is "country." I am southern, I am not a redneck. "Country" people are all well, fine and good. I however, am not one of those people. You can be entertained by my accent, it is advisable not to mock me. You can ask me what I said or even what it meant. But trying to imitate me is simply rude and I do tolerate rudeness well.

I have returned to work. I have gone back into the industry that is my first love. I weave fairy-tales of happily ever after. I help her pick out her most important ensemble and tell her she is the most beautiful girl in the world. I remember those dreams. I remember that hope. I remember believing in love and forever. Inevitably, the question is asked "Are you married?" At first it was difficult. I questioned myself. "Do I say the words?" "Do I say no?" "Do I ignore the question and hope she is distracted by something else shiny?" Generally I answer the question and say the words. "I am a widow." This brings a hush to the platform. A dark cloud hovers over this joyous occasion and I take her hand. I say "It's okay darlin'." I then turn to her family and make a remark to turn the conversation back to their beautiful dreams for her wondrous day.

I am quiet here. I do not care to extend myself as I am not looking for approval. I am invited to church or to holiday cookouts with a friends family. I am content with who I am and where I am in life. I am holding tight to my manners and my sanity. Mostly I hate the questions. What others consider "getting to know you" inquiry I find to be invasive. I don't want to explain anything to anyone. I answer what I want, when I want, but I won't be bullied into telling my life story. I simply want to live and let live. I just want to be me and be okay with all that requires from inside myself. Yes I sit in the bathtub and cry. I can count the days on one hand I haven't cried since I set my foot on the ground here. But showing it to the outside world is not something I will do today nor ever probably. I am homesick. But the home I remember no longer exists. I haven't been home in three and a half years. Either I live in the past or I look for home in the present.

I have good friends who do not live here. Friends who call me just to say "Hello" if they are on vacation. Friends who text me at 3am asking "Are you up?" I laugh with them. Yes sometimes I even cry with them. I sit on the stoop and talk to another good friend. They didn't know me before and they love me in the after as well as in the aftermath. They worry about me. They share with me. They include me. I am alone. I am not lonley.

Although I am far from home, I am okay. I am healing. I am learning. I cannot run from who I am nor where I have been in my life. I am not reinventing myself.  My spring has come and I am reaching for the sky. I promised you two years and some change ago that I would see spring. The cuts were deep and the winter was harsh. Beaten and battered but still I reach, still I grow, still I rise. Magnolia's grow everywhere. Even this misplaced one.

My True North

I remember the first time I saw you. I had just come back from surgery and was in my hospital room. This bundle was being passed around that I hadn't seen. Only a face over a curtain who was so mad at entering this world. They took you away as they closed me up and I yelled at the top of my lungs "I told you it was a boy!! Is he okay?" The bundle was quiet and wiggly. Then it was finally my turn. They handed you to me and I was so scared. You see, I'd never held a baby before. I looked into those eyes the first time and I was gone. This was my heart in someone else. This was my love.

Later that night they brought me you with a bottle and a paper towel. You and I did a lot of firsts together. I fed you and laid you on my chest. It was there I noticed that bead of sweat that breaks out across your nose when you are truly sleeping. About 3 am you woke me up. Pounding on my chest with your tiny fists. Trying to raise your head. You've always been in a hurry. The nurse came in and took you from me and I felt so empty without you knocking around inside me. You didn't cry but I did. When I brought you home I slept with my hand on your back in the bassinet beside the bed because I was paranoid you might die. When you went to the crib I made sure you were breathing about 100 times a night. To this day I still do it from time to time.

Your first couple of years were a whirlwind. I didn't know that sitting up at 5 months was quick. I truly didn't know that walking at 7 months was unusual. I didn't know I shouldn't wean you at a year nor potty train you by 18 months. But we were doing what came natural to us. If you could do it, you did and I stood behind you cheering. You gave me chicken pox the second time. You gave me flu that turned to pneumonia. You gave me stomach viruses that should have put me to bed when you were a wild man running through the house giggling. You gave me laughter that I could not suppress even in church. You gave your grandparents a joy you can not even today yet conceive. The first grandchild and great grandchild. You should have been spoiled rotten yet you gave things away that you shouldn't. You came home in your undershirt from daycare because a little boy liked yours. You gave toys to less fortunate kids who lived in our complex. "Mama he didn't have one" was what you said.

I remember us playing rummy on the sofa without keeping score. I remember the video games I didn't understand. I remember the laughter of you and your Uncle John when you killed him over and over again with the golden gun he couldn't find. The Halloween costumes we slaved over. The muscle suit I made and your dad spray painting your new white tennis shoes so they would match. The werewolf who looked so good because you got make up on the sleeve of the shirt and I put it all over to make it match. The science projects that your dad and you made at midnight before they were due. Finding you on the sofa on Sunday morning asleep with the remote in your hands because you had gotten up during the night.

I remember when you shaved the first time and I cried. Your laughter ringing in my ears at 15 because I could hear your Uncle John and see his hands on you. Wrestling matches that I couldn't watch so your dad did play by play. I remember you taking my breath in your tux for prom. I can see the smile on your face when you first held your drivers license and the terror in my heart when you drove away in the dark. I can see the tears in your eyes from your first broken heart. I can see your eyes when I walked into the waiting room at the hospital when your dad collapsed. I can see the heartbreak when we stood together beside his bed. I feel your hand in the small of my back when they opened those doors to the sanctuary on that day and how you held my hand during the service. How you gave me your arm when we walked that isle behind him and the world as we knew it ended and all we had was each other.

These past three years have been so hard for us. But you have been my tower. My refuge. When I could see nothing else I could see you. I see so much of your dad in you now. I see his grit. His determination. I see the boy I fell so deeply in love with that I would face hell to stand beside him. I was married to your dad when he was your age. Strangely, I see my strength. I see my quiet reserve. I still see my heart beating in your chest. I see a man before me who is doing his damnedest to do what is right when it would be so easy to do what is wrong. I see your struggle to be whom you are destined to be. I love your joy and your laughter. Your stories and your jokes. Your keen mind and sharp wit. Your wisdom and your street-smarts. I love your arms when they hold me when I cry. I love you heart that sees others first. Your sense of right and wrong. You firm beliefs even when they don't match mine. Your desire and ability to stand by your convictions. Without a doubt I can say, that the greatest accomplishment of my life, the greatest joy and my greatest honor is that you call me Mom. Thank you for being my true north.

The Walking Dead

I read something the other day that was sent to me regarding being the love of someones life. I commented on the blog and then I began to think about what was written and what I said regarding this particular situation. Basically what this blogger was expounding on was that she was married to a widower and that she would never be the love of his life because of his first wife. I sent it to my significant other (heretofore he is to be known as Wolfe and my significant other as I find the word boyfriend to be trite at my age) for him to read it. His take on the situation was the same as mine. You may not be the first but you can be the last. For my money, the last is a better seat on the ride anyway. However, what she said has very little bearing on what I am about to say.

I am not the woman that the first love of my life loved. I have walked through the hell that is widowhood and as a result I am forever changed. I am not now who I was when that fateful day dawned and I ran out the door to work like my ass was on fire. Although I inhabit the same body, my heart, my soul, my very being, the love of his life, died. It was a slow death. The woman that walked those floors. The woman who held his head when he was sick. The woman who smiled those particular smiles and laughed at those particular jokes. She no longer exists. She died as the time moved forward. Piece by piece, bit by bit, tear by tear. That's what no one gets. That is why to move forward is so slow on this widows walk. That's why it hurts so badly. Until we shed who we were, we are the walking dead. I was much a zombie as anything that George Romero ever put on a screen. I may not have been a rotting corpse on the outside, but the part of me, that was of the we, was decomposing inside me. I was feasting on the past and the memories and the "what ifs" and the "if  I'd just" that comprised my life. You can patch it up. You can gloss it over. But if you're trying to hold on to that relationship, that life, you are dragging a dead body along behind you.

I notice things about me that are different. With him, we ate Chinese. I love sushi. With him we watched a lot of television. I watch selected things. With him we spent Saturday out and about. I generally prefer to stay at home. With him we watched stupid comedies. I prefer English comedy but I like suspense and drama most of all. With him we were surrounded by family and drama. I prefer the company of my son and very little interaction with the drama filled people that inhabit my past. But those are physical things. Likes and dislikes. It goes deeper.

I was always a firebrand. I raised hell like it was my job. People feared my temper. No one was safe. I spoke without thinking often. I hated the taste of I'm sorry. If I thought you were wrong or made a mistake I would bully you into righting the wrong. I can say that now. I was a bully. But to my credit I lived in a world with the house on fire for 21 years. I got tired of always having to put out some sort of fire. First it was the struggle of a young marriage with no money and a baby. Two kids learning to coexist in a world that wanted them to fail. I had to fight. A family that thought I wasn't good enough made me strive for perfection. To beat and bang myself into a box that I could never quite fit into correctly. I was never who they needed or wanted me to be. I was never enough. Not in my eyes. Then was an illness that attacked my life like a rabid Hydra. Every time I cut off one head three more grew back. Yet I fought. I lived as a deacon's wife. I showed them my heart and they crucified me. I worked in the community. Give me your poor, your weak, your hungry kinda stuff. Still not enough.

Now I am more reserved. Ask me what I think and I will tell you but for the most part, I seldom have anything to say regarding what ever nonsense someone else is making noise about at any given time. I love people right where they are at any given time. Although my heart is not always on display, it is big and soft and cushy. I don't care if you're gay, straight, bi sexual, try sexual or asexual. Black, white, green, yellow, purple or polka-dotted. Lawyer, doctor, criminal, or Indian chief. I understand that we are all trying to do the best we can and what you're doing is well and truly none of my business. I don't have a lot of friends around me by my choice. I'm a good mom. I'm a good friend. I'm a good love. I am a bit acid tongued at times. I am opinionated. I am grown and believe it or not I am matured. I let very little anger me. I no longer have a box. I no longer have anything to prove. I am enough. I have cut the people out of my life that would not talk behind a polite smile. I learned that charity is best quiet. It's all enough.

So this version of me deserves a love of my life as well. Wolfe is very different than my late husband. He understands that there is no way to replace him and he has no urge to do so. He earned his place with patience and kindness. He was my friend first. He is still my best friend. He told me the other night that I am the woman he has looked all his life to find. Had he met me before the winter of my widowhood would he have loved me? I think not. Because I was not then who I am now. So if your question is if there is a chance for another love of your life I think the answer is yes. But the more important question is if there is life after death. I am living proof.

No Quarter

As I sit here tonight, things are shifting around me. A normal state of affairs in this three years and some change. One thing that hasn't changed is that I am afraid. I've been afraid forever it seems. 14 years. When his disease hit high gear in 1998 I became afraid. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a bit of a control freak. My control went out the window in 1998. But since he's been gone, I live in a constant state of paranoia and sheer terror from day to day. So I suppose this could be a horror story. But if you know me, you know it won't be that for very long.
About a hundred years ago, I was afraid of the dark. My brother would slip out his window, not off to do any nefarious activities, oh no, simply to scratch on my window in the dark. My parents weren't known to comfort us of our fears. Crying in the night generally produced a "Shut up and go to sleep." So a scratch in the middle of the night, around 10pm at that time of my life, would send me under the covers. Around the age of 12 or so, I decided I would meet this demon on it's own ground and lay it low. So when we walked into our favorite bookstore, I proceeded to go find the worst, supernatural, super scarey, uber horrific book I could locate. Demons called up in a court of law because some dude beat his girl friend to death with a crowbar whilst possessed. A real piece of trash. But I read a chapter every afternoon for a bit. Then I got involved and finished it all. I still love horror novels of all kinds but I fear nothing in the dark that might even think of scratching on my window. The darkness eats all things. I became more comfortable there than in the light.

When the first signs that the demon diabetes was not at bay began to appear, my life became chaotic. Would he go blind? Then his blood-pressure went off the rails. The kidneys fell in line. I became quite the scholar of the endocrine system. I cannot fight something that I don't know what it can do to me or mine. I strapped up every day frightened out of my mind. That disease leaves no stone unturned. It gives no quarter. There is no mercy. I never knew what would happen during the day when we were apart nor in the night whilst I slept. So it became a matter of keeping watch. My nerves were drawn like the strings on a finely tuned violin. I have the TMJ to prove it. But I am a fighting machine. I fought everyday for another day. But I wasn't there when the calamity befell my beloved. The cold hands snatched him from me when I wasn't looking it seemed. The fight ended without me ever throwing in the towel or conceding the race. I was left speechless and in shock when the bells rang. I began to seek sanctuary but there was none to be found. Hot tears chapped my skin in the winds. Yet there I stood. It takes more strength to bend than to be so hard one crumbles.

Then I was afraid of everything. I had panic attacks in public places. My heart pounded my ears when I closed my eyes. I was afraid to sleep. I was afraid to go outside alone. I was afraid of what people would think of what I did or didn't do at any given time. I was afraid of what they might think of what I said or didn't say to any given person. Everyone around me was talking but it was all just noise. I couldn't concentrate well enough to decipher the code of a language I didn't speak. Now to my credit I am a rather stoic person at times. I can be quiet for days. I'm a professional at making myself small and staying out of the way. In the end of that mess, I quite literally turned and walked away. I found a quiet place to hide and heal. To regrow my skin. To lick my wounds. To find the way. I sat my feet on the road and began to move. Some days I gain a little more ground than others and some days I have to be happy to stand my ground. But there is no quit in me.

Now I'm just afraid of everything else. I'm afraid to be alone. I'm afraid to be with someone else. Afraid to give my heart but afraid to hold it close. But it's a hopeful fear almost. I am standing at the precipice of a new life and it scares the hell outta me. The stress is unbearable at best. There are days when I cannot even fathom the nightfall. He says that I have a strength that amazes him when he sees me at my weakest. He understands my scars and my fears but he believes in my hopes and dreams. He was gentle. Tentative at times. He is man enough to know that I am who I am and love me anyway. He fought my fears to get to me. The least I can do is meet him half way.

So here I am afraid again. Fear is a friend that keeps me sharp. But I am tired. I am so sick of being in a constant state of terror. So I'm going to meet this demon on it's own ground and again I will defeat it on my own terms. Last time the weapon was a book. I won't need to pick up anything this time because my strength is my weapon. I believe in me even though the tale of the tape says otherwise. I'm older and wiser. I have some of the worst under my belt. I survived it all. I used to fear the things that went bump in the night, but now I am she. Fears blood will run cold on the concrete before it defeats me this round. I would never say I will never be afraid again. I'm not much on superheroes, but I do believe I am done with this shit once and for all. No quarter given and none asked.

In a Heartbeat

March 18 and two kids make a decision. A decision that will alter the course of their lives forever. Together they will face the world. Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Whomever is the strongest at the moment will take the lead.

They will laugh. Laughter that will echo through forever. They will cry. Tears that could flood the future. They will love. Hard and fast with a fierce loyalty. Together they will create a world for their son. Together they will create a life for one another. I was one of those kids. My partner in crime is gone. Far too soon.

Today is my wedding anniversary. Just because he is gone doesn't mean it's not my anniversary. As I look back over our years together, I am prone to analyze. The decision we made to face this world together. The decision to fight that monster because we went into the situation with our eyes open. The odds were not in our favor. I was 20 and he was 21. Young marriages fail. Our son was born the following year. Young marriages with children fail. They said we'd never make it. They said we would divorce in a year. We were immature. We were children. But we meant those vows. We said them with our hearts. "Until death do you part" meant something to us. For all of our faults, our mistakes, missteps, and failures, we succeeded. We made 20 years.

That day it rained. I stood in the shower and cried. I was frightened. Was I making the right decision? Could we do this with the world against us? Would love really be enough? The officiant had laryngitis. Barely a whisper for our vows. But we made them. As the years passed it became the words that bound us when it got hard. We could not let them win. No marriage is easy. None worth having.

We dug deep when it counted. When there was no money. When he was sick. When things were hard between us. When his grandfathers passed away. When my brother shot himself in our backyard and left me so broken I could not see. We held together when they said it would tear us apart. One of us could always see our way clear.

I was talking to a friend of mine earlier in the week about the weight of my anniversary bearing down on me. First you must know that he is at midlife, never married and no children. He said something that sat me back in my seat. He said "I was thinking.. if someone told me.. "Here .. you can have 24 years with this person that you love and trust.. you will have a kid.. and a wife that misses me as much as you miss him.. but I would lose her.." I would do it in a heartbeat.. I've done and seen and had alot of things.. but Never anything like that.. I wish I could find someone to hurt over like that..." So I have been mulling this over in my mind. Had I known at the beginning, that it would be this way, would I still make the vow?

I can tell you I would do it again. Every step. Every tear. Because I had the laughter. I had the love. I had the life. I have known love that knew no bounds. I have seen the genuine article. I know it exists. It's not the holy grail. I still believe in love. Would I put my heart in harms way to have it filled with what others dream about? In a heartbeat.

It's not Thursday anymore

As I look back over the past almost three years, I can see how far I have progressed down this road. I truly did not think I would survive. There were times I didn't think that I could take another step. There were mornings when I dreaded the sun like nothing I have ever known. Yet, here I stand.

I count the things that were the hardest. They were small and simple. The day after the funeral was a nightmare. Because at 10 pm that night, my heart expected to hear his truck in the driveway. It never came. The clothes in the closets. The medicine in the fridge. The nightstand with his messy odds and ends. I was in such deep shock. The hits just kept on coming. A particular phone call comes to mind. A bill that I was clearing up for him. I wasn't on the account so I had to say the words. "He died." She asked me "Oh I'm sorry. What happened?" I couldn't breathe. As I was mustering my strength, I said "I need to speak to your supervisor." That question is never okay to ask. Now I ignore them.

That was the first of the explosions that turned my world into a wasteland. That Easter, they found spots on my father in laws lungs. A year later everything I knew as my life was gone. In July he went to his son. My son and I were in shock again. That week his step father was diagnosed. As I slowly but surely found my way thru the fog of grief, my relations improved with my mother in law. She needed me to listen. To tell her the truth as she fought this monster. I found my grace in a box that I had packed away. I held her hand as best I could and this January he went to his step son. Three years. Three gone. Three times I held my son close but I couldn't say it would all be okay.

Some lessons come hard. They come so that you will do what you must, when you should, because tomorrow is promised to no one. I've learned to say "I love you" when I should not when I am sure it will be returned. I don't say it if I don't mean it. But, if I do, you will hear it often. I have learned to live without regret. I don't believe in tomorrow anymore. I believe in today. I believe in right now. I believe in my friends. I believe in my son. And I believe in love.

I am open now. Open to see what life has for me. Open to new things and new people. I have learned my strength. What I can bear and what I cannot. What I will tolerate and what I won't. What is worth fighting for and what is not worth my time. I have learned that people do actually love me. They see me and it's okay if I am not perfect. I have reached back and helped a few. I have given some wisdom and listened to some stories. I have told quite a few more they are not insane. I have learned that we all grieve. Death, divorce, it's all relative. You grieve the person, but moreover, I believe you grieve your dreams. You grieve your hopes and plans. I have also learned that if I don't work my grief it will work me. If you know me at all, that's not an option. Nothing works me. I run this.

In a long conversation, I was asked "When will it be alright?" and I answered "When it's not Thursday anymore." He collapsed on Thursday and he passed away on Friday. I counted Thursdays. I dreaded them. I held my breath at midnight and on Saturday I would let it out. I wouldn't leave the house. Then I counted 20th's. The 20th of the month ripped me apart. Another month. The calender flipped pages and I stood still. The world stopped.

I had another conversation with God. I told him how awful it was of him to take Rich when we were still young. When we had just found the door. How dare he do this to me. To rip me in half and bury the part I needed the most. I was so angry. He sat me down. He said "It could have been so much worse for him. What you see as cruelty was mercy." In my tears I said "But I didn't get to say goodbye." and he said "You will never say goodbye because he is not gone from you." Slowly I came back to the realization, I had him well over 20 years. His death was not about me. It was about what was best for him. The flash of selfishness passed. I became grateful. I have our son. The greatest gift I have ever been given. Without the decision I made so long ago, to face what would come with his diabetes, I would not have him. I made a promise. "Till death do you part." I kept my promise. I didn't know how badly it would hurt. But I kept my end of the bargain. I fulfilled my contract.

For all the bad there is good as well. I am closer to my son then ever in my life. We have withstood the worst hand in hand. I would never say it has been easy. But its been worth the struggle. I have cried a river of tears. But now sometimes they are from laughter or joy. I am no longer easily led. I don't fall for just anything. I don't bleed on command anymore. So as I look back at these three years, I can say that I am still standing. I didn't die. I didn't give up. I survived it. I made plans for next weekend. Only today did I realize the dates and I am okay with it. You know what, it's not Thursday anymore.

The Owl, The Exorcist and The Ghost of Christmas Past

As I sit here on my quiet tiny Christmas, my third as a widow, I am surprisingly not melancholy or drenched in tears. I ate a hotdog, some chips, drank a pot of coffee and am watching "Mildred Pierce." Last night, my son and his friend were here and we laughed, truly laughed over stupid things. Nothing from the past. We laughed in the here and now. It makes me smile.

Our Christmas times were always a struggle. Being the parents of a first grandchild, of families that by and large did not get along well, we were always on the road. This caused great stress and issues between my hubs and me because they were making us crazy trying to make them happy. But things happened, as they always do, so that we could find the levity in any situation. We had to be at my father in laws for Christmas Eve. We had to be with my mother in law for Christmas morning. We had to be at my parents for Christmas night. Now, that doesn't sound bad until I tell you that the first house was in West Virgina. The Second house was in Virgina. The third house was in Tennessee. We live in North Carolina. Ahhh.. now it's all coming into focus huh? My son never opened a present in my house on Christmas morning until he was 18. Go ahead, say it. "I would never have done all of that! My children have always had Christmas at home." Shut up. We were young kids. We had a kid. We made our parents happy. We went through 4 states in, if we were blessed with either Christmas eve or the day after Christmas off, in about 36 hours. I don't care who you are, that just sucks.

However, because we financially struggled, we never knew what might come out from a Christmas tree at any given house with either our names on it as givers or receivers. When Mawmaw wanted to hide she had spent more money on someone than someone else, we were the givers. When Pawpaw decided we needed something for the house that we couldn't afford Santa would deliver a package. However, sometimes this meant that we gave strange things to people we hardly knew as we only saw them once a year. Rich got his first cousin's new wife underwear one year. I bought his brother a jockstrap. Drew bought his aunt her first bra. On and on it went. Year after year. Until it became quite the game for us. Santa on the other hand showed up with washing machines, vacuum cleaners, hydraulic jacks, or pots and pans. One year he bought a transmission for my car and the next, tires for Rich's truck. Santa was very practical.

Our road trips however lacked organization. We woke one Christmas morning at Pawpaws, very hung over from a night of rummy with the family. There were 7 inches of snow on the ground. We had to go, NOW. So we packed up like the traveling pack of gypsies we were at that time of year and off we went to the next place. Now to say there was a disparity in the families would be a misnomer. Dad's side drank the holidays into oblivion. Mom's side are holy rollers. My parents are hillbillies. So hung over as we could be, we bowed our heads for Christmas dinner. They prayed so long that we dozed off. I eventually awoke to the sound of Rich's snoring and the entire dinner table howling with laughter. Every prayer from then forward started with, "Are y'all awake?"

The next year we were driving on the interstate and an owl hit the windshield of the car tearing the wipers off. I thought we had been attacked by the Taliban. We stopped at a truck-stop and Rich rigged up some tractor trailer blades to flop about so that we might be able to see something of the road. Due to the late hour when we arrived we spent the night at my parents home. I awoke at about 9 and staggered to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. One sip and I had to run outside. I was standing in 8 inches of snow reenacting scenes from "The Exorcist." Food poisoning. Frozen pipes in the house. Need I elaborate?

Two of my favorite things concerned Rich and his dad but on separate occasions. The first was an Emory & Henry ballcap that made him drop Dallas Cowboy tickets into the tornado of wrapping paper that caused a near family riot. He cried and so did I over a simple part of his past. He wore it until it fell apart. Our last Christmas we bought Pawpaw tickets to the Daytona 500. I packed them into a half eaten box of Cheezits. (a private joke between rich and him) When he opened the package and it was a box of crackers he laughed that laugh that only family knows. I was so anxious, that I had to tell him to open the box. Inside was a card that read "You've watched it on the couch 100 times, get out in the sunshine for once." He found the tickets and was so awestruck that the room went silent. We rendered him speechless.

Rich would pull out Drew's toy's and play with them. Firetrucks that made noise or video games. Then he would put them back. His green eyes would dance when they were opened. Drew thought his Daddy knew everything because he knew how everything worked. They would play deep into the night on the floor while I curled up with a new book I wanted to finish. The world was right.

I remember these things without pain. I remember them with a smile. Drew and I are making our own memories now. But now it's not about presents. We might be alone, but we know that together we are stronger. We might have hot dogs on Christmas eve with some Doritos, but we do so with a light heart. We might be forgotten by the world we used to know, but in our new reality, we are a family. We choose who we allow to be family. Family is not blood and bone. Family is laughter and tears. Family is smiles and jokes. Family is a hand on your shoulder as you watch the family you thought you knew turn their backs and walk away. Family is knowing that in the heart of another you always have a place to call home.

Tomcats, Tobacco and A Clean Plow.

I have not lived this long, nor survived what I have, to not learn a few things here and there about this world. I am the answer woman. I have a working knowledge of a lot of subjects and I tend to retain most of what I read, hear or watch. Don't ask me why, I have simply always been this way. The other thing I have retained is what my Daddy refers to as "good old fashioned horse sense." My beloved Granny instilled information in my head that comes to the forefront of my brain when dealing with different situations. My heritage is that of a resourceful people who learned at the knee of their elders and passed that knowledge on to those of us who would listen.

Some things come from being raised on a farm with lots of animals and lots of different things going wrong. For instance, a calico cat, that has more than three colors, is a female. We learned this when our cat Tom, had a litter of kittens under the bathtub. My Uncle had a belly laugh and said "Ain't no tomcat that has ever had more than three colors." I crawled under the tub and retrieved the kitties. Then Tom promptly stashed them under the stairs in the can closet and ran to the road finding a car tire at 3am. I crawled into the closet again retrieving the kitties. We raised them on a bottle. To this day, I have never seen a calico that did not fit this rule and I can raise any orphaned pet without its mommy. I have the formula in my head, if you need it, email me. I also know that doing a self medication of any cat is a bad idea. Again, it's a bad idea. Daddy and I decided to give an injection of antibiotics as advised by our large animal vet. Yes, I now know a cat is not a large animal. I have scars. It's a bad idea. I know that burnt motor oil kills the mange on dogs that don't bite, (make your own joke there please) and that the ball of fur on a cows tail will in fact come off at the worst possible time during a surgery (don't ask don't tell.) If you are from PETA, please do not email me. Horses love cold biscuits and will try to come into ones house for garden fresh corn. Chickens actually do come home to roost and a pig raised for food should be named Porkchop. A mouse can be killed with a hairbrush but won't die of fright from a hammer. A bat won't get out of your house if all the lights are on but you will break all the pictures on the wall with a broom. A blacksnake found in the bathtub at 4am will die a horrible death and maybe who brought it into the house as well. A bird will go to sleep if you cover the cage and won't wake up to fly on demand if you grab it out to toss it into the air for an Easter play. Not even for Jesus and John the Baptist.

Then there are the Mama things I have learned through the years. My first serious home remedy that I remember was when I was assaulted by a bumblebee the size of Mothra. (It was huge. I swear Granny. A MONASTER!! I was 4.) My beloved Granny grabbed a cigarette and crushed it. She took the tobacco from the paper and added it to a small amount of water. Voila! Miracle monaster bumblebee paste! She put it on the sting and within a little bit the swelling and pain were gone. I've used it 100 times in different situations. Still works. Any kind of tobacco product. If you burn yourself use vanilla extract to take the burn out. High blood pressure can be treated with vinegar and fresh garlic. (Again email me for that recipe.) Bleach kills a bug or fire ant bite. Kraut juice will kill a stomach virus. Cut a tiny notch in the middle of an ingrowing toenail and it will pull it out in a day or so. Socks stop the colic in a baby. (True story. Proven. Again email.) Visine will take the red out of a pimple. Preparation H really does shrink the bags under your eyes. Brandy on a toothache will dull the pain before you swallow it and smoke blown in an ear helps with an earache . Migraine meds with coffee and then a hot bath to make it work faster. But if Mama has a migraine, leave her the hell alone or you could suffer a near death experience.

The Farmers Almanac calendar (google it if you don't know what it is) also dictated alot of timing on things as well. Don't have teeth pulled when the signs are in the head because you will have a dry socket. However you do plant cabbage in the garden at that time. Plant potatoes when the signs are in the feet and they will be all toes. (those little growths on them sticking out all over.) Taking a baby bottle is easiest to take when the signs are in the knees. (I did this and it worked with my son.) A woman on her menstral cycle cannot enter the garden because she will kill the cucumbers and squash. (I know it happens. I can't explain it.) A close group of females cycles will also pull them together so there is generally only one week of hell per month. Allowing someone to sweep under your feet means you will never marry and if you get the front of your shirt wet while washing dishes you will marry a drunkard. A purse sitting in the floor is always empty of money and a man who is disrespectful of his mama is useless. Never give a friend anything sharp like knives or scissors as it will sever the friendship.(Lend it to them instead.) If you thank someone for a gifted houseplant it will die. A wild bird in the house means there is to be a death affecting the household but dreaming of a death means there is a baby on the way. (Very nearly lost my mind with that one. Now two nights of death in my dreams means everyone gets a pregnancy test!) You carry a girl in front when you're pregnant and a boy you carry allover.

My Appalachian heritage made me resourceful in many aspects of my life with simple common sense and remembering what I over heard as a child. I learned a lot about people and what causes certain behaviors to be displayed. Sayings that they used I remembered and I use them to this day. "A hit dog will hollar" states that the person who told your business will be the first to contact you. (Don't contact anyone when you've been betrayed. First one to contact you is the Judas.) "When you sling shit, you always get some on you" says that when you're talking trash behind someones back, you're the one who smells like garbage. If someone says to you "I'm going to clean that there boy's plow" call the police because there is going to be a fight. (A plow is actually cleaned with a hammer.) "Well bless your heart." translates into "Well aren't you stupid." (Regardless of what you think, that's what it means.) "A hard head makes a soft ass" fits someone who does the same stupid stuff and gets bit in the ass again and again. "Pot meet kettle." is used when someone is bitching about someone doing exactly what they themselves are doing. The best phrase I ever heard was "You can't save face and your ass at the same time" which means you can't have your pride and your ass when you've made a mistake. One will always pay for the other. You need to decide which is most important to you.

The Hellidays and Some Oil of Okay

With the "Helliday Season" upon us, I am quiet. This is number three since I became a widow. It doesn't hurt quite as badly but the loneliness is setting in for a long winters rest. I am alone. It would be nice to say that I am doing well but I most certainly not out of the woods yet. The day after Thanksgiving, I got a call from one of my old friends and this person said perhaps the most ignorant thing I have heard uttered from a human tongue. "You okay now though right?" What in the hell does that mean? Define "okay" for me is what I should have said, but this person did not deserve to see my pain. So I said "I'm as okay as I'm going to be this year."

This year has brought many challenges and some I have conquered and some I have not quite mastered yet. I am learning to be alone. I met my husband at quite an early age so alone is not something I have ever really done before in this life. When I am sick, there is no one to make the chicken soup or to aggravate me on the phone every time I fall asleep by calling to ask if I am feeling better. I don't have that hand to hold in the emergency room or to tell me they are going to the sofa because they don't want to be sick as well. People say "Why didn't you call me?" "Because I look like the wrath of God and don't want to see you" is what I'd like to say. Instead I mutter something polite as I rush off the phone with something about needing to sleep.

I'm learning to value my true friends. The ones who get angry if I haven't been in touch. Lately I am bad about returning calls or even text messages. I am self isolating but it's for my own sanity. I cannot solve your problems today. I cannot hear you whine about your relationship today. I cannot hear that one more person is unwell or that you don't care what someone thinks about some petty issue. I have always been the problem solver among my friends. I am the strong one who is an adult. They turn to me for answers or just a sounding board. It's not that I don't care, but that the noise in my head will not allow me to hear you.

My relationship with my son has never been on more solid ground in his life. But, this year he has seen me vulnerable. He has seen me cry in the night and asked me what was wrong. I did not give him the standard "Nothing baby" mama answer. That is probably what I am most grateful for in this entire year. I've watched my son become one helluva man. I have actually patted myself on the back and said I did a good job. I let him comfort me. I let him tell me everything would be okay and I actually believed him. We got on a human level more than a parental child level and are so much stronger for the effort. I don't have to be a tower of strength in front of him anymore. I can be scared and its okay.

Right now, more than anything I am looking for something solid. I am unteatherd from things that keep me grounded. I've always put my worth in my family. Now I am without family. I am looking for true north it seems. The star that will always lead me home. I am not okay. But the truth is I don't know what okay looks like at this point. So bear with me as I travel up and down the isles looking for this mythical thing. What is okay to you may not be okay to me. Everyone gets a custom made piece. But what is home is the question now.

A while back one of my widowed friends was tweeting from her I-Phone and the auto correct sent "Oil of Okay." We laughed about it then but it was prophetic. This time of year I need some to rub into my emotional legs that are tired from this widows walk. Some days I take 10 or 12 steps forward on these platform heels, others I can not make it a single step and I must be content to stand. But that's the point, I'm still standing.

Victims and Volunteers

I am told, that at this point in my life, I have great clarity in the way that I see things. Issues in my life are becoming more clear as I dig within myself in order to create a healthier me. I have an intimate knowledge of what has made me any unhealthy companion for myself. However, doing this work on myself has been a two edged sword as it opens my eyes to seeing mistakes others have made, are making or will be making in the future. I would rather shine the light on the things I have done with a bit of levity so that I can laugh and learn simultaneously.

As I said earlier, I have ventured a tad into the dating world. These are people I have never mentioned and there will only be thumbnails here as the names have been changed to protect the not so innocent. These appear to be archetypes that visit everyone in the journey through widowhood. If you see a man here you think you may know, you might, but that's alright. He's who you think he is.

First was a horrible mistake that took forever to extricate myself from it seems. This is the dreaded FWB. For those of you who live under a rock, this is a "friend with benefits," or as I prefer to call it, a MBP. My term means "Mistake Bearing a Penis." I kept him at arms length emotionally. I was trying to fill an emotional hole by plugging a physical one. Except this plug had a voice and personality, neither of which were compatible with my own. Getting out of that situation taught me quickly that being detached emotionally from the physicality that I craved was more damaging to me than starving for affection. Lesson number one learned. I cannot separate my heart from my body and be healthy. One needs the other to live. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I set it in motion myself and it was up to me to end it.

Second was an older man. He was 15 years my senior. We had a kinetic energy. We talked for hours. He could calm me. Married unsuccessfully three times, he was strong, wise and honorable. But we had never been in the same state never-mind the same room. He found me smart and funny. He said I was strong and honorable. Then he ripped my heart out of my chest. "I'm not what you need." That's what he said. I made excuses for him. "He is honorable and doesn't want to hurt me" was code for "He's selfish and doesn't have room for me." Second lesson learned, I had no boundaries at that time. Being your companion does not give you access to my soul. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I let him dictate the tone and pace of the relationship. My mind carried me the rest of the way.

Then there was the dreaded married man. We entertained each other on the phone. I conducted, for all intensive purposes, a daylight emotional affair. There were all day texting marathons that lasted from 8am until 7pm. I was a stress free female who always looked perfect and always said the right things in his mind. For me I could flirt and emotionally connect with someone without risking really getting hurt. Although the relationship was never physically consummated, many was the time he met my emotional needs as only a lover can. I never questioned his situation at home. But I would never say I didn't endanger it either. Third lesson learned, emotional fulfillment doesn't mean infidelity is acceptable. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I participated fully with the knowledge he was unavailable and never would be.

Forth was another older gentleman who sold me a bill of goods in many ways. All I will say about this is, I cannot do sick again. Lap band surgery, brain tumors, drug addiction, and rampant ADHD are things that should be disclosed. I did the walk of shame off a fucking airplane. Fourth lesson learned, all that glitters is neither hard nor satisfying. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I saw what I wanted to see and reality smacked me on the ass for my ignorance.

Next into the batters box was the younger man. 10 years younger is not quite cougar country but its too close for comfort for me. He and I remain fast friends. But he lives in far too high of a gear for me. His past lives in his home and I cannot, strike that, I will not compete. I am much more valuable to him on his shoulder than in his lap. Fifth lesson learned, I am 44 years old. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I saw a beautiful man and forgot why I loved being a grown woman.

The accumulation of these lessons is at hand. I am slowly building a relationship. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. This one will last me until I take my last breath. I am not lost with this person and it grows stronger everyday. I am in a relationship with myself. I need to love me. What I don't love, I need to either change or accept. That's the long and the short of the thing. In order for me to be part of something bigger, I must first be whole.

The lessons have taught me the following regarding myself. A man deserves for me to be open emotionally as well as physically. I must be present in the relationship. A man deserves for me to tell him what I need. If I don't know myself, then how is he supposed to meet my needs. A man deserves my emotional fidelity. My heart must be open in order for him to build a home. A man deserves my full disclosure. I must be honest with where I have been and who I am. The last one is the hardest. A man deserves for me to leave my past behind me. There are of course souvenirs, but one need not wear the t-shirt every fucking day.

See, the issues I saw were not theirs, but symptoms of the sickness of my self esteem. I had to treat them one at a time to cure my illness. It would be easy for me to say "They all took advantage of my grieving and were insensitive jackasses." But that is simply not true. We all come into these things with baggage and expectations. I no longer look at what Mr Soandso did wrong. The more important lesson is what drew them to me. When I am healthy, I will draw healthy to me. There are no victims here. We were all volunteers at one time or another.

Flashes in a Fog..

Some time ago, I was invited to write a guest post regarding surviving a suicide. A friend of mine who helps me with my posting from time to time, made me promise that I would publish it here. Mudgie, this one is for you.

I have just passed the eighth anniversary of that day. The day the world stopped the first time. When who I was ceased to exist. When the future I saw in my minds eye faded to black like a television screen. When I was no longer capable of believing that everything would be okay. A single shot gun shell ripped my life apart just as it tore thru my beloved brother’s chest.

Truthfully, the first 24 hours are more than foggy in my recollection. I quite simply don’t know much of what happened. I have bits and pieces of a shattered picture. I remember hearing a sound that was absolutely gut wrenching and thinking “Holy God, someone should help who ever that is.” Then I took a breath and it stopped. That howl of agony was coming from me. I couldn’t make it stop. Gradually it moved from an audible sound to my soul screaming to the heavens. There were police officers holding a letter and telling me I couldn’t touch it and they would read it to me. As they read I told my husband to call my relatives and to find my parents. Someone offered me water and a friend gave me a big cup of coffee and lit a cigarette for me.

Rich said “Your Mom is there. You have to talk to her.” I took the phone and told her to sit down. She questioned me. She was so happy. Laughing. I said “Sit down Mom. Now.” I was three hours from home with the worst news a mother can ever hear. I couldn’t find gentle words. I couldn’t form them in my mouth that would make this easier. “Mom, John shot himself in my backyard. He’s dead.”

She had a hundred questions and I had no answers. I simply hung up without another word. The police continued to read. I began to shake. They gave me drugs. Everything simply faded into noise as I searched my memory for a hint, a sign, a clue. There was nothing. I was simply empty.

The circumstances and what caused this cataclysmic event in my life at that point were really not even within my scope of thinking. What I knew was the letter to the family was type written 13 days before hand.. He wrote to me in longhand on the back of their letter that day. He could not find a way to say goodbye to me. He simply said “It is finished.” Three days later, before they closed the book on his life forever, I stood in a funeral home alone with him for the last time. I told him, “Rest now brother dear, I will take it from here.”

When I returned home, the silence was deafening. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn't eat. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t function. There was no rest. I was hollow as I said polite words and accepted condolences. The world went on like it never happened. As though he never existed. I had a husband and a son who needed me. My brother’s son needed me. All I needed was what I couldn’t have. I needed to hear John laugh. I needed to see him smile.

I was so angry with God. It was a seething, black, empty anger. How dare he take him from me. How dare he take my best friend and closest confidant. How dare he. One night as I drove home from work it began to audibly spill out of me in the car. I screamed. I yelled. I cried. I had to pull over because I almost had an accident. Then there was a lock that clicked and released in my head. My anger turned to gratitude.

People look a lifetime for an unconditional love. For a heart that will love you regardless of what you have done. It can’t divorce you or leave you. It doesn’t judge or condemn you or your choices. It supports you. Makes you secure. I had that. He and I had not even had so much as a disagreement in more than 12 years. We held an unedited conversation in writing for the last year or so of his life. We poured out the secrets of our hearts. For 35 years I knew this love. Why must I focus on the 35 years or so I will spend without him when I can remember the 35 years I had with him?

I would never tell you that I was then, or am now over the loss of my brother to a completed suicide. What I will say is that you can survive it. There will come a time when you can let the anger go. When you stop making excuses for their decision. When you can look at your loved ones realistically, When you will stop hiding the flaws that you saw in fear of disgracing their memory. The tears will not stop, but they will change as they lessen. When you might not understand the choice they made, but you will come to accept the experience it created.

Once the fog of grief has lifted, something wonderful will give you tears of a different sort. Some time after John’s death, I was sitting in the kitchen talking to my son. He laughed. I heard John. I could think of nothing but to make it happen again. I noticed his hands. John was there. The same long fingers. Later, I helped him get ready for Prom and he looked so handsome in his tux. He smiled at me. Laughing welsh eyes and there was John. I see him in his son as well. In his measured countenance. In his sense of humor. In his reasoning. In his quietness. In his caring manner. John lives on in our boys. He’s there in bits and flashes. When I looked beyond my grief, I could actually see. He has not left me.

Gorillas and Grace

Sometime ago, there was a commercial about a gorilla and a Samsonite suit case. The commercial was to illustrate the toughness of the merchandise. My sainted grandmother used it to teach me something about how we deal with things in this life. She said that our issues were in that suitcase and the gorilla would smack us around from time to time with that weapon. It's a weapon we formed. The best scenario is when that gorilla is bored of playing, that we unlock that case and pull as much as we can from the baggage to process. Handle and put away everything we can in the time we have to do it before he wants his toy back. Then the bag is lighter and the hurt is less.

As we all know, I have been dealing with some nightmare issues, quite literally. I have also been doing some intensive work on what is wrong. My friend and I have been wrestling this issue from the boxes in the attic of my mind. The first thing you have to understand is that every person in your dreams are you. Something this emotionally painful has nothing to do with outside forces but with damage inflicted upon your psyche. In my case, it is a defense mechanism that I employed to not break. My psyche did what was necessary for me to survive.

I have to go back. Back to that day. When he collapsed I went into business mode. Just as I had done a hundred times. My business was making sure my husband lived to fight another day. To make sure that my son was alright. To hold my family together at all cost. However, my business had never been to make sure that I was taking care of me. The explosion happened and I locked away the part of me that believed. That could panic. That could fall apart. My husband, my son and my husband's family were looking to me for strength. For guidance. For wisdom. They were feeding their emotional states from me. I emotionally locked her in a dark room as surely as if I had slammed a door on a house. I had to survive what was happening to me and I had to carry them with me. I held my head, my heart and my tongue when I walked that aisle on my son's arm. I hid my eyes behind dark glasses so that I could hide my shattered soul from the world. Yet she was screaming in that room. Lost and alone. Afraid.

This was the price of a private grief. I only cried alone. I lay in the darkness of my grief alone. I had no comforting hands nor hugs of condolence. When I walked into my home the day of the funeral I shut myself away. In an effort to hold his legacy together, I very nearly destroyed mine. I closed myself off because everything that touched me hurt. The strong arms that had held me together through the death of my brother, the ones that banged down the door when I had shut down emotionally, were gone. Without them, I could not break down the walls I built to protect myself.

In my dream I am asleep. A state of childlike innocence. That part of me that could not believe that he could actually die. The part that won every fight for his life. The part that thought I had forever. In truth the catastrophic event that ended his life ripped me in two pieces. A part to handle the business and the everyday survival that was necessary. A part to lie dormant and wait for me to allow her to grieve. To do so in my way. Privately. Honorably. Gracefully. But the price was very nearly my sanity. "I'm sorry baby. I didn't know." Is me admitting that I didn't know he could actually die. I didn't know.

So at the moment, I have my suitcase and the gorilla is at the gym. He gets stronger everyday. But I am unpacking the bastards bag. I am lightening the blow. At least now I understand what it is that I have to unpack. But I will do this on my terms. I understand the issues now. I clearly see what it is I have done and what I must do. I have dealt with my relationship with my son. We are closer than we have ever been in our lives. I am on speaking terms with my husband's family. I have walked away from the fakes and the drama queens. Cleaned the trash out of my friends and attracted quality people into my life.

For everyone else I have fought. My husband. My son. A family that was unappreciative and needed someone to blame. A group of friends that waited for me to fall. People who wanted me to ask for help. Now I'm in the fight of my life. Because this fight is for me. This fight is literally for the life and happiness I have earned. I have cried, bled and quite literally tried to die. This fight I cannot lose. Because it is for the future I deserve. The only person that I have not settled this debt with is myself. But I'm coming for you baby girl. It will take a hell of a lot more than some juiced up gorilla on a 'roid rage to keep me away.

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

Tears. Absolute floods of tears. Silent and wet running down my face when I least expect them. Inopportune and in senseless places. What in the hell is wrong with me? Sleep is not even a sanctuary now. I cannot escape. My psyche is kicking my ass for something. Horrid nightmares. Not those anxiety inducing ones that come every now and then. I have adjusted to those and can actually go back to sleep. The panic passes and I am okay. These are making me cry even in my sleep.

It's the same dream every time. I hear him, yelling at me to get up. It's dark in the room and all I can hear is him progressively getting more and more angry but he won't come in the room. When I drag myself from the bed, moving like I'm planted in molasses, he tells me, "You didn't pack? We have to be gone today." Suddenly I am in the kitchen of my home, packing seemingly endless dishes, glasses, pots and pans. He's behind me yelling again, "How could you wait this long?" The only words I can utter through my tears come out choked, "I'm sorry baby. I didn't know."

I wake up on a wet pillow every time. I am actually crying in my sleep. My son has heard my sobbing. He has awoken me from naps and from a dead sleep in the middle of the night. We have discussed that day at length. Gone over it minute by minute. Put all the pieces together and hashed out everything. All of it is on the table. We love each other. He says it's time for me to lean on him. He says I did everything I could do. He says I have to let it all go. That my time of strength is at an end. But if I let it go, who will remember him? Is there a time when ones strength reservoir is simply exhausted?

I have been researching what's wrong. All of the dream interpretations say that the yelling is repressed anger within me. I have never allowed myself to be angry. I've never screamed at his headstone, "How could you leave me like this?" I've never thrown things in a fit of rage at him. I have grieved privately and alone. I have kept my dignity out of respect for his memory. I have borne the scorn and whispers. I have never responded. Simply because I know the truth. Simply because it is beneath me to address such things. Simply because it is not in my character. Leaving me was not his choice. It's not something he would have ever done willingly. My son says he would never have survived losing me. He loved me with everything in his being. So whom is it exactly that I should be angry with about being alone?

According to the research I've been doing, the packing is change. There is some great change happening in my life. I need to pack up my past and put it behind me. I need to move through my life, not just knock around in the space I used to inhabit. But how do I do this in a life that is not of my own making? The life I constructed with my own two hands no longer exists. I am not who I was when that day dawned. Everything I dreamed of and planned is gone. Is this where the anger comes in? Well don't cue the violins because I'm not buying it. Wallowing in misery is over for me.

Maybe I have held my grief a little too close to my chest. My pain has and will remain private. I will not bleed on command. For as much as I have shed my Appalachian heritage, somethings remain ingrained in me. A strength. An honor. Those are the qualities I chose to keep. But evidently my psyche thinks I need to share. That I need to vent. If I won't participate in my recovery, it will drag me to hell until I do as it asks. I simply cannot wage war with myself any longer it seems. So I am working on the anger issue. I must do something constructive with it. I must not have done all of this in vain.

As much as the dream-scape I am inhabiting is only in my head. The results are very much not there. The stress is quite literally manifesting physically. I really don't know how this is going to play out in real life. I have a friend who has a degree in psychology who is helping me. We are going to sift through my feelings until we find this baseball bat of a problem that I evidently can't even see. She tells me that it's there but I just have to dig deep enough in the dusty boxes of my broken life to locate the damned thing. So I'm heading upstairs now to look through the rubble. I have on my protective goggles and my yellow playtex gloves. Maybe a flame thrower and a whip. But whatever is in my head will not beat me any longer. If I don't come down in a reasonable amount of time, call the marines. Tell me to come rescue me in my nightmares and dream-scapes.

Perspective is all that matters.

People have been classed all throughout history, those who consider themselves better than or worse because of many different factors.  Sex, race, finances and religion are classifications that are normally the measure that the uneducated or indoctrinated use. I am always very surprised when I am conversing with another wanderer in this widows world who still classes people. In my 27 months on this journey, it never ceases to amaze me that someone always needs to be more hurt than someone else to validate their grief. Death is the great equalizer.

First are the ones who, regardless of the circumstance, will always think what happened to them is worse than someone else. The ones who lost quickly tell ones who fought a long battle, "Well at least you got to say goodbye. I didn't even get that." The ones who strapped up everyday for war tell the ones who's world ended in the blink of an eye, "At least you didn't have to watch them die everyday, a piece at a time." In truth no way is better or easier than the other because the end result was the same. No one is more valid in their grief than anyone else. I have begun to actually stop answering the questions. If I want you to know what happened, I will tell you, but in my time and not on demand. There is no reason to press me for answers unless you simply have no manners. When I have to say the words "I am a widow" I try to say it without inflection or indication that I want to discuss it further. When the person presses further and says "What happened?" I simply reply, "He died." That should be enough of an answer for anyone. Somehow them prying into my life is seen as okay. It simply exhausts me. Why can we not simply say "I am so sorry for your loss. You have my deepest condolences." and leave it there? Why must one qualify their loss? Cancer, heart attacks, car accidents, HIV, suicides, old age, drug and alcohol addiction, or anything else that took your spouse is a vicious beast that ripped your life apart. Maybe you fought Godzilla and I had a nuclear explosion, nevertheless we are both on the same road. 

The second qualifier that drives me to distraction is the children. Let me explain something to you ladies and gentlemen, the fact that my son is 22 and your son is 2 makes me no less a single parent than you. My problems with the situation may be different than yours, but they are still issues addressed as a single mother. You have dance class and chicken pox. I have car insurance and job interviews. But, I still face these things alone. While you are upset that the deceased parent won't see all the home-runs, perfect pirouettes, straight A grade-cards and Christmas mornings, I am wrestling that my son's father will never see him get married, settled in a good job, hold his first grandchild, or teach him to hang a blind  in his first house. Simply because he doesn't live under my roof doesn't mean I don't worry that he is clean, well fed, safe and healthy. I know what you're doing alone, and I know it's hard, but don't look at someone else and say "At least the children are grown."  Don't say "Those children will never know that parent" and not think about the ones who remember the last seconds of their parents lives. Although the damage is different its still damage. Just because my issue is something with a different skill set, doesn't mean I don't cry myself to sleep at night, sick with worry of what tomorrow will bring. We are all single parents. Why must your parenting issues be worse than mine? The simple answer is because your perspective is inside your life and mine is from inside my life. If we stop looking to be more important or our loss more significant than the next ones, we just might be able to help one another and not be quite so alone.  Yes, I successfully raised a teenager. I've been where you are standing. I might know a little something to assist with your problem. You're closer to my son's age than I and your perspective on a situation might just shed new light for me as well. Others look at a surviving spouse without children and say "At least there are no children involved." which is a fallacy as well. They can look at you and say "You have part of your loved one living on in your child." Perspective is all that matters. 

Then there are the people who do well with support groups and the ones who can not abide them. I have heard "You need to find a good group to support you." I have also heard "Those groups are the worst thing because you cannot heal by tearing the wound open again and again." For myself, I simply don't get much out of the experience. I am somewhat self contained. Walking into a group of strangers with all those different agendas is simply not conducive to my sanity. I am a very private person. I don't rip myself open and bleed for just anyone. For many others they are real life savers. They glean insight and gain support in that arena. They flourish in that structure. I am always happy for someone who finds a place to lean. But because it doesn't work for me, doesn't mean there is something wrong with me. It simply means I don't do well with that program.

What works for you may not work for me. The one thing that holds true for all of us is that if we don't work our grief, it will work us. Lean into it and feel it all. There is no way around it. There is no way over it or under it. We must walk through it. Shoulder to shoulder. Some will hold hands and some will not. The major component is that when one does reach out, there is a hand to hold rather than a finger to point. There is an answer to be found to every question. There is also something to be said for "I don't know but lets find out together."