I have come to a point in my "journey" where I am completely at a loss and feel I have to choice but to just give up. That may sound strange and may sound like a defeating statement, but let me explain.
While I was living in Phoenix, I never watched TV. I never read the newspaper. I never read Yahoo! news. I did nothing to expose myself to anything negative. I tried my hardest to surround myself with nothing but positive energy and good news. In doing this, I think I did myself both an honor and a disservice. I focused on all of the good things in life, and allowed myself to deal only with the personal pain and trauma I had been through over the past year. I'm realizing lately, however, that by avoiding the "reality" of my outside world, I also did not allow myself the chance to learn how to cope with other tragedy. In healing myself, I sheltered myself. At the time, I'm sure it's what I needed. It was best for me to deal with my pain and loss before I faced that of the outside world.
I'm realizing now that fear of "tragedy" is becoming invasive in my everyday experiences. I have always talked about living life to the fullest, about taking risks and measuring your life in love. But what happens when you are presented with the opportunity to love, to reach out to someone, no matter what kind of situation it may be, and you are too gripped by fear to take that chance? I'm terrified to love for fear that I might lose.
Yesterday I read the newspaper for the first time in years. I started on the front page and read the entire section. In that section I read about two teenagers killed in a car accident, a man who was arrested at the site of his sons car crash for punching a police officer to try to get to his dying son, a father who cheated on his wife with a Canadian stripper, then killed his wife and kids "for her", and on the last page were the obituaries. Now, in saying that, I'm sure I could have gone on to other sections and found something good, but I was so mentally exhausted at that point I didn't want to go any further. I was in a funk all day. It really depressed me and my focus that day was on tragedy.
I think the icing on the cake was watching my favorite show tonight, Grey's Anatomy. I was super pumped, had the evening all planned with my mom. It was going to be fun. But from the moment it started, I had this knot in my stomach. I was watching fake people, on a fake show, with fake injuries and a fake story line. But to me the tragedy and the pain these characters were going through was real and too much for me to handle. I wanted to burst into tears. How weird is that? It was a TV show!
So what I am realizing now is that I have no choice but to give up. I am afraid. I am being held captive by fear and fear of tragedy. And by giving up, I mean that I have to now make a valiant effort to try to learn how to let go of that fear, and allow my faith in God to take over. God has proven to me, time and time again, that even through tragedy, He is right there beside me. He will never let me go, He will never give me more than I can handle. But again, it's easy to remember that, easy to say that, easy to type that, but takes effort and choice to live that. So that's where I am. Making an effort to go to God and "give up" my fear, and accept that He will provide protection and teach me to love without fear. No matter what is going on in the world around me.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Her loss, My loss
I made an observation the other night. An observation that I was not expecting, nor did I see coming. Something that hit me so profoundly, that it took my words away for a moment and all I could do was simply sit and watch and take it in. And then reflect.
My grandfather passed away 7 weeks to the day before my husband. He was in his eighties and lived a long, full life. He was a nuclear chemist and an accomplished musician. He and my grandmother married when he was in his thirties, she in her twenties. They lived in Oakridge Tennessee, raised three sons and one daughter, and traveled the world together. They lived a wonderful life, and always seemed happy and loving to one another. I always remember my grandfather being so affectionate towards my grandmother. They were truely in love.
On February 13, 2007 my grandmother became a widow at the age of 73. On April 3, 2007, I became a widow at the age of 26. Both of us lost our husbands. Both to cancer. We both lost our world as we knew it. We both lost the half that made us whole. Our life partners. Our soul mates. And with a 47 year age difference between us, our pain was the same, our loss was the same, but our lives going forward would be immeasurably different.
I came down stairs Friday night, getting ready for a "first date." I walked into the sun room where my grandmother was relaxing on a sofa. I asked her opinion on what jacket I should wear on my date. She was very sweet. She told me which one, in her opinion, was better. I went with her advise and sat down on the chair across from her and waited for my date to arrive.
As I was sitting there, I saw, firsthand, the biggest difference in our parallel fate. And what I saw broke my heart. She had turned on some jazz music. Ella Fitzgerald to be exact. She had closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch. Above her, on a shelf, was a picture of her and my grandfather playing music together. They looked so young, so full of life, so happy to be together. As I saw the picture and heard the music, it took even me back to those early days of their life together. I looked down and realized that as a widow her age, her future painted a very different picture than a widow my age. She looked so lonely. And at that moment, I couldn't imagine her kind of pain. I really empathized with her. For me, on days that I am really down, or really struggling with missing Michael, it's the hope that I will find love again that gets me through. Its the hope of one day having a family, making memories, building a lifetime with someone that pushes me to move on, to take steps to move forward and get past my heartache. But for her, she had love, she had a family, she had a lifetime with someone, and now all she has left are memories. I can't imagine trying to get through the day knowing that your one and only love is gone.
Her loss and my loss. Same loss, same reason, same pain...totally different future.
My grandfather passed away 7 weeks to the day before my husband. He was in his eighties and lived a long, full life. He was a nuclear chemist and an accomplished musician. He and my grandmother married when he was in his thirties, she in her twenties. They lived in Oakridge Tennessee, raised three sons and one daughter, and traveled the world together. They lived a wonderful life, and always seemed happy and loving to one another. I always remember my grandfather being so affectionate towards my grandmother. They were truely in love.
On February 13, 2007 my grandmother became a widow at the age of 73. On April 3, 2007, I became a widow at the age of 26. Both of us lost our husbands. Both to cancer. We both lost our world as we knew it. We both lost the half that made us whole. Our life partners. Our soul mates. And with a 47 year age difference between us, our pain was the same, our loss was the same, but our lives going forward would be immeasurably different.
I came down stairs Friday night, getting ready for a "first date." I walked into the sun room where my grandmother was relaxing on a sofa. I asked her opinion on what jacket I should wear on my date. She was very sweet. She told me which one, in her opinion, was better. I went with her advise and sat down on the chair across from her and waited for my date to arrive.
As I was sitting there, I saw, firsthand, the biggest difference in our parallel fate. And what I saw broke my heart. She had turned on some jazz music. Ella Fitzgerald to be exact. She had closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch. Above her, on a shelf, was a picture of her and my grandfather playing music together. They looked so young, so full of life, so happy to be together. As I saw the picture and heard the music, it took even me back to those early days of their life together. I looked down and realized that as a widow her age, her future painted a very different picture than a widow my age. She looked so lonely. And at that moment, I couldn't imagine her kind of pain. I really empathized with her. For me, on days that I am really down, or really struggling with missing Michael, it's the hope that I will find love again that gets me through. Its the hope of one day having a family, making memories, building a lifetime with someone that pushes me to move on, to take steps to move forward and get past my heartache. But for her, she had love, she had a family, she had a lifetime with someone, and now all she has left are memories. I can't imagine trying to get through the day knowing that your one and only love is gone.
Her loss and my loss. Same loss, same reason, same pain...totally different future.
Monday, April 7, 2008
One Year Ago...revised
It was a beautiful spring day and I needed to get out of the hopital room for a while. I needed to clear my head, to get fresh air, to take my mind off of what was happening in my life. I remember going to the bike path in Hilliard with my dog. It was unusually warm that day. And very windy. I remember it being very windy. I walked my dog, enjoyed the beautiful spring day we were having, and used the time alone to relax. Unwind.
For the past two and a half years I had been by my husbands side as he battled bone cancer. His was not the typical battle however, and ours was not the typical story. You see, we were twenty-five and twenty six years old. Newlyweds, just starting our life together. We had hopes and dreams. We had plans of a long future together. Plans of buying a house, of having children, of starting our own little life and building a lifetime of lasting memories together.
As I walked back into the hospital room, my mom and mother-in-law were there with my husband. His breathing was significantly louder that when I had left that morning. It was raspy and groggy. I can't describe the way it sounded. It was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. I went to my usual side of the bed where I would sit with him and hold his hand. This time I didn't let go. For the next four hours I sat on the right side of my husband, leaning over the bed holding his hand and assuring him that it was ok. Telling him how much I loved him. Through raspy breathing, he managed to say, "I love you".
Two months prior, in February of 2007, my husband began recording a CD of music he had written. You see, Michael was an amazingly talented and gifted musician that had a way with bringing the music he wrote to life. His passion for life, and his love for music, flowed through his finger tips and into the keys of his piano. Every song Michael wrote had a story behind it, and every note he played was a piece of his life. He continued writing and recording until a few days before he entered the hospital; the day after his twenty-fifth birthday.
The doctors where in and out. His vital machine was still hooked up and we were asked if we wanted it taken off. All it did was monitor his heart rate and oxygen level, and to be honest, it was a distraction. I often found myself checking numbers instead of watching my husband. I said I wanted it turned off.
I sat and watched as people came in and out of the room. All of our family was there. I have never seen so many people in one room. They were talking, praying, crying, laughing. I could hear everything going on around me, but I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't move. I couldn't leave his side. I couldn't let go of his hand. We had music playing. First his CD, then some worship music, then his CD again. We kept switching it up. I still couldn't take my eyes off him. A little after 8pm as we were listening to the worship CD, I felt the urge to put his CD on. As the first song came on, Dancing in the Sand, the song Michael had written for me, I remember his dad walking over from across the room and taking his other hand. He whispered something in Michaels ear. I think it was, "Jesus loves you", but I don't remember. All I remember is that as Dancing in the Sand began to play, Michaels breathing became quieter. I turned to my mom and I was excited. I said, "Oh, his breathing is getting easier!". But I was wrong. It wasn't getting easier. It was stopping. And as I turned back around to look at my husband, he drew in one final breath. And never exhailed.
That was the moment my world fell apart. I will never forget the feeling of such extreme excruciating sadness that overwhelmed me at that moment. Through uncontrollable sobs, that turned to wails, I kept watching him to see if he would start to breathe again. As everyone in the room gathered together to hold hands and pray, I still could not let go of my husbands lifeless hand. His father began to pray and I suddenly felt like I was going to suffocate. I was so angry that they were praying. I have no idea why, but I was angry. I had to get out. I had to let go. I ran to the bathroom. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and just uncontollably sobbed as my mom held me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't stop crying and shaking. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't throw up. All I could do was lay on the floor of the hospital room and grieve the life that had just been taken from me. His and mine.
That was one year ago today.
For the past two and a half years I had been by my husbands side as he battled bone cancer. His was not the typical battle however, and ours was not the typical story. You see, we were twenty-five and twenty six years old. Newlyweds, just starting our life together. We had hopes and dreams. We had plans of a long future together. Plans of buying a house, of having children, of starting our own little life and building a lifetime of lasting memories together.
As I walked back into the hospital room, my mom and mother-in-law were there with my husband. His breathing was significantly louder that when I had left that morning. It was raspy and groggy. I can't describe the way it sounded. It was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. I went to my usual side of the bed where I would sit with him and hold his hand. This time I didn't let go. For the next four hours I sat on the right side of my husband, leaning over the bed holding his hand and assuring him that it was ok. Telling him how much I loved him. Through raspy breathing, he managed to say, "I love you".
Two months prior, in February of 2007, my husband began recording a CD of music he had written. You see, Michael was an amazingly talented and gifted musician that had a way with bringing the music he wrote to life. His passion for life, and his love for music, flowed through his finger tips and into the keys of his piano. Every song Michael wrote had a story behind it, and every note he played was a piece of his life. He continued writing and recording until a few days before he entered the hospital; the day after his twenty-fifth birthday.
The doctors where in and out. His vital machine was still hooked up and we were asked if we wanted it taken off. All it did was monitor his heart rate and oxygen level, and to be honest, it was a distraction. I often found myself checking numbers instead of watching my husband. I said I wanted it turned off.
I sat and watched as people came in and out of the room. All of our family was there. I have never seen so many people in one room. They were talking, praying, crying, laughing. I could hear everything going on around me, but I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't move. I couldn't leave his side. I couldn't let go of his hand. We had music playing. First his CD, then some worship music, then his CD again. We kept switching it up. I still couldn't take my eyes off him. A little after 8pm as we were listening to the worship CD, I felt the urge to put his CD on. As the first song came on, Dancing in the Sand, the song Michael had written for me, I remember his dad walking over from across the room and taking his other hand. He whispered something in Michaels ear. I think it was, "Jesus loves you", but I don't remember. All I remember is that as Dancing in the Sand began to play, Michaels breathing became quieter. I turned to my mom and I was excited. I said, "Oh, his breathing is getting easier!". But I was wrong. It wasn't getting easier. It was stopping. And as I turned back around to look at my husband, he drew in one final breath. And never exhailed.
That was the moment my world fell apart. I will never forget the feeling of such extreme excruciating sadness that overwhelmed me at that moment. Through uncontrollable sobs, that turned to wails, I kept watching him to see if he would start to breathe again. As everyone in the room gathered together to hold hands and pray, I still could not let go of my husbands lifeless hand. His father began to pray and I suddenly felt like I was going to suffocate. I was so angry that they were praying. I have no idea why, but I was angry. I had to get out. I had to let go. I ran to the bathroom. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and just uncontollably sobbed as my mom held me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't stop crying and shaking. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't throw up. All I could do was lay on the floor of the hospital room and grieve the life that had just been taken from me. His and mine.
That was one year ago today.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
One Year Ago.........
I wrote this blog about a week ago, on the one year anniversary of Michaels death...Just now posting it....
It was a beautiful spring day and I needed to get out of the hopital room for a while. I needed to clear my head, to get fresh air, to take my mind off of what was happening in my life. I remember going to the bike path in Hilliard with my dog. It was unusually warm that day. And very windy. I remember it being very windy. I walked my dog, enjoyed the beautiful spring day we were having, and used the time alone to relax. Unwind.
As I walked back into the hospital room, my mom and mother-in-law were there with my husband. His breathing was significantly louder that when I had left that morning. It was raspy and groggy. I can't describe the way it sounded. It was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. I went to my usual side of the bed where I would sit with him and hold his hand. This time I didn't let go.
For the next four hours I sat on the right side of my husband, leaning over the bed holding his hand and assuring him that it was ok. Telling him how much I loved him. The doctors where in and out. His vital machine was still hooked up and we were asked if we wanted it taken off. All it did was monitor his heart rate and oxygen level, and to be honest, it was a distraction. I often found myself checking numbers vs. watching my husband. I said I wanted it turned off. I sat and watched as people came in and out of the room. All of our family was there. I have never seen so many people in one room. They were talking, praying, crying, laughing. I could hear everything going on around me, but I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't move. I couldn't leave his side. I couldn't let go of his hand.
We had music playing. First his CD, then some worship music, then his CD again. We kept switching it up. I couldn't take my eyes off him. A little after 8pm as we were listening to the worship CD again, I felt the urge to put his CD on. As the first song came on, the song Michael had written for me, I remember his dad walking over from across the room and taking his other hand. He whispered something in Michaels ear, I think it was, "Jesus loves you", but I don't remember. All I remember is that as my song began to play Michaels breathing became quieter. I turned to my mom and I was excited. I said, "Oh, his breathing is getting easier!". But I was wrong. It wasn't getting easier. It was stopping. And as I turned back around to look at my husband, he drew in one final breath. And never exhailed.
That was the moment my world fell apart. I will never forget the feeling of such extreme excruciating sadness that overwhelmed me at that moment. Through uncontrollable sobs, that turned to wails, I kept watching him to see if he would start to breathe again. As everyone in the room gathered together to hold hands and pray, I still could not let go of my husbands hand. His father began to pray and I suddenly fely like I was going to suffocate. I was so angry that they were praying. I have no idea why, but I was so angry. I had to get out. I let go of my husbands hand, and my moms, who was on my other side, and ran to the bathroom. I thought I was going to throw up. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and just uncontollably sobbed as my mom held me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't stop crying, and shaking. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't throw up. All I could do was lay on the floor of the hospital room and grieve the life that had just been taken from me. His and mine.
That was one year ago today.
It was a beautiful spring day and I needed to get out of the hopital room for a while. I needed to clear my head, to get fresh air, to take my mind off of what was happening in my life. I remember going to the bike path in Hilliard with my dog. It was unusually warm that day. And very windy. I remember it being very windy. I walked my dog, enjoyed the beautiful spring day we were having, and used the time alone to relax. Unwind.
As I walked back into the hospital room, my mom and mother-in-law were there with my husband. His breathing was significantly louder that when I had left that morning. It was raspy and groggy. I can't describe the way it sounded. It was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. I went to my usual side of the bed where I would sit with him and hold his hand. This time I didn't let go.
For the next four hours I sat on the right side of my husband, leaning over the bed holding his hand and assuring him that it was ok. Telling him how much I loved him. The doctors where in and out. His vital machine was still hooked up and we were asked if we wanted it taken off. All it did was monitor his heart rate and oxygen level, and to be honest, it was a distraction. I often found myself checking numbers vs. watching my husband. I said I wanted it turned off. I sat and watched as people came in and out of the room. All of our family was there. I have never seen so many people in one room. They were talking, praying, crying, laughing. I could hear everything going on around me, but I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't move. I couldn't leave his side. I couldn't let go of his hand.
We had music playing. First his CD, then some worship music, then his CD again. We kept switching it up. I couldn't take my eyes off him. A little after 8pm as we were listening to the worship CD again, I felt the urge to put his CD on. As the first song came on, the song Michael had written for me, I remember his dad walking over from across the room and taking his other hand. He whispered something in Michaels ear, I think it was, "Jesus loves you", but I don't remember. All I remember is that as my song began to play Michaels breathing became quieter. I turned to my mom and I was excited. I said, "Oh, his breathing is getting easier!". But I was wrong. It wasn't getting easier. It was stopping. And as I turned back around to look at my husband, he drew in one final breath. And never exhailed.
That was the moment my world fell apart. I will never forget the feeling of such extreme excruciating sadness that overwhelmed me at that moment. Through uncontrollable sobs, that turned to wails, I kept watching him to see if he would start to breathe again. As everyone in the room gathered together to hold hands and pray, I still could not let go of my husbands hand. His father began to pray and I suddenly fely like I was going to suffocate. I was so angry that they were praying. I have no idea why, but I was so angry. I had to get out. I let go of my husbands hand, and my moms, who was on my other side, and ran to the bathroom. I thought I was going to throw up. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and just uncontollably sobbed as my mom held me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't stop crying, and shaking. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't throw up. All I could do was lay on the floor of the hospital room and grieve the life that had just been taken from me. His and mine.
That was one year ago today.
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