Happy Birthday

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Today is my birthday.  And yours.

A day to start over.  A day to start a new.  While we cannot erase the actions of the past, we can use our mistakes as fodder to change our future.  We can make our "what ifs" turn into "what nows".

We can start all over again.

I know I have done a lot of things wrong in my life.  In particular, in the past three years.  Even with good intentions, I have hurt others.  I have hurt those closest to me.  And, perhaps more than anything else, I have hurt myself.  I have also been hurt.

We are not perfect, and pain is a reality of life.  Proof that we are still living....  Little by little, I am learning to accept the pain.  Respond in spite of it, rather than recoil because of it.  It may be my constant companion, but it does not have to dictate who I am.  Even if I fail, I am trying to make it all mean something...

That pain has carried me through to today.  The dawn of a new year.  The dawn of a new tomorrow.  I do not know what the future holds.  For me, for Gavin, or for anyone out there.  But I know that life is precious and tenuous.  And every dawn that we open our eyes to see is a chance to start all over again.

To create who we are, and what we want, for that very moment.  Because that moment is all we have....

Every time it snows, in the classic television special that airs this time of year, Frosty the Snowman springs to life, announcing "Happy Birthday" to all that can hear.  He is recreated - reborn - with the fresh snow.  Just as we can be reborn with the fresh new day.

And the first new day of the new year seems a perfect time to start.

Who do you want to be in this moment?  What do you want to do with this day?

Happy Birthday.

We Need A LIttle Magic

The gifts have been opened.  Turkey consumed.  And the tree lights finally turned off.  And with the day coming to a close, the house has fallen silent, and I am left alone with my thoughts.

I'm not going to play the entire day as doom and gloom.  Things really do get easier with practice, and with time.... A four-year old light in the room is enough to push away most of the shadows.  Especially on Christmas morning.  And as the day played out, it was okay.  Yes, I thought of Kurt often.  Yes, I missed him.  And yes, I wished he was here to experience what I was... To see what I saw.  Yes, I longed for my husband's hand on my lap at the dinner table, just as my sister and her partner across from me.  Yes, I longed for his Christmas hug, his Christmas wish.  I longed to hear him laugh like a little boy, smile with excitement.  I longed to watch him race my son to the top of the toboggan hill.  And I long to be climbing into be with him right now.

I think I've come to accept that a part of me will always long for those things.  Long for the days of my past.  Long for my husband.  And I'm okay with that.  I think.

But as I sit here now, reflecting on all that was - both today and in the years that have come before, I realize that Christmas... that any day, really... will never be 100% the same again.  There is a certain sparkle, a certain magic that is not brought by Santa Claus.  Not even brought by my husband.  Its brought my me.  Created because I am, or was happy.  That is the sparkle, the magic, of Christmas that is gone.  I still feel like the fifth wheel, the odd man out in a world built for two.  I am not comfortable with myself, my surroundings.  My life.  I have secrets that are bogging me down, holding me back.  I have emotions even I don't understand.  Three years later, so much of my life remains ineffable, not because I don't want to, but because I simply do not have the words...

I don't know if its possible to find that same happiness again.  Don't now if it was ever really mine to begin with.... And I think I'm just coming to terms with that...

Christmas is not about gifts.  Not about turkey.  Not about twinkling lights.  The magic is not created by the people we surround ourselves with, the traditions that we diligently follow.  Rather, it is created by the innocence in our hearts.  The belief that things really are as they should be, even for just a moment, just a day.  Created by the fact that we are happy with ourselves.  Christmas magic is really nothing more than an exaggerated sense of feeling good.

Which is why, perhaps, I feel little magic.

And so tonight, as I turn off the last light in the house and settle down for my own restless sleep, I do so with a heavy heart.  Which is nothing new.  I hold that same heart daily.

My son has had a magical, wonderful Christmas.  I don't think I can capture that again. But little by little I see the light.  And with each ray, the promise of magic exists still...

But as I said in the beginning, it wasn't all half bad today. In fact, except for these late night moments of introspection, it was pretty good.  Gavin made sure of that.  And you don't necessarily need magic or perfection to be merry...

Hoping you all had a very Merry Christmas.  And that you were able to taste, if only for a moment, a little magic.

We all need more magic in our lives.....

Cry

Image can be found here...

The pilot light on my hot water tank went out last night. The water was cold this morning. Its done this before. For whatever reason, its the one thing I cannot seem to get to work on my own. So I put out my plea for help. Then sat down to cry. A cry of epic proportions. Kurt could have fixed it. Kurt should have fixed it. In the past, Kurt did fix it. And it aches that I just can’t fix it myself. I hate – and there is no other word – the fact that I have to do this myself. Alone.

Its much like my life right now. I want to make it “better”. To feel “normal”. But I don’t even know what those words mean any more. Or how to go about finding them. Giving it time isn’t working. It seems like nothing is. Much like the hot water heater...

There’s a lot of pressure built up under my thick skin. And no way to really let it out. Yes, a few tears, a little emotion escapes from time to time. But not enough to matter. Not enough to bring lasting relief. I tell myself not to cry in public. I tell myself not to cry at work. I tell myself not to cry in front of Gavin. I tell myself not to cry, period. For three years, the constant little voice in the back of my head is telling me “Hold it together, Chrystal...”

And then the hot water heater goes.

And the water is cold.

And my thick skin is shattered.

And all it seems I can do is cry...

And So This is Christmas...

Yes, I know that by the calendar, the big day is still a week away.  But Christmas is a season, not a moment.  And as I look around my house - my world - the season is very much in full swing.  There's a stack of wrapped gifts sitting in my office corner.  There's another secret stash stowed safely away in the garage... gifts that I have managed to purchase, wrap, and hide without Gavin being any the wiser.  There's an elf sitting on our kitchen table, finishing off a candy cane as I speak.  There's two trees adorned and twinkling.  An inflatable Santa waves at us from the frond veranda.  There's cards on the counter.  The house smells like cinnamon.  Gavin has emptied the chocolate from not one but two advent calendars.  Rudolph is playing - on both the television and the radio.  And an excited little man is busy crossing days off the calendar as he anxiously awaits.

There is little doubt that Christmas has both arrived and is near...

Christmas has changed a lot for me since Kurt died.  With a four year old in the house, there are smiles and excitement, and you can't help but get swept up in it all.  But the twinkle, the sparkle of the season has gone.  As much as I try to stop myself, I wander the store shelves not only looking for the perfect gift for Gavin, but for my husband too.  Looking at row upon row of this and that, wondering what I would have put under his tree this year.  What he would have put under mine.

I miss the opportunity to wander into the mens wear section with a purpose.  To scout out electronics in search of the perfect gadget.  To hide the butter tarts so there will be some left for Santa.  To fill his stocking.  I miss the opportunity to make him smile.

And as much as we only had one Christmas as a family of three, I miss the opportunity to do it all together.  To make a shopping date night as we scout out the sought after toy.  To fight over whether the lights are being put up correctly.  To watch Rudolph on the couch long after Gavin is asleep.  To as a team lay the gifts out under the tree.  To split the milk and cookies.  To roll over and say Merry Christmas on Christmas morning.

I don't know what our Christmases of late would have been like had we all been together.  But I can still imagine them.  Dream of them.  Long for them.  I'm sure they would have been wonderful...

Which brings me back to my Christmas of today.  No longer is it about the little things that make memories for me.  Its all about the little things that make memories for Gavin.  While I go about my laundry list of things that need to be done alone, each one is done with a purpose.  To foster my little man's excitement.  To make my son smile.  Because it is now in his smile that I find my own.  In his magic that I can find any for myself.

Every year, my Christmas changes a little.  I see a little more shine back in the day, in the season.  Yes, the build up is still a lot of work.  And I have my share of melt downs and Bah-humbug moments.  Days that I want to fall asleep and wake up in January.  But I can now pause to appreciate the lights too.  I don't turn and run from the tree.  I don't cry while he sits on Santa's knee.  And I can usually find some joy in a little boy's wonder, his smile.  While I may not embrace it as I did in days past, I can't say I hate the holidays, either.  Not entirely, anyhow.  My Christmas spirit is certainly not back overflowing.  There's still probably more Grinch than Kris Kringle lurking inside.  But I know that spirit is out there somewhere.  Hidden in those sands which I wash away a little more with each passing year.  I don't know if what I feel is healing, or just acceptance.  Or just change.  But I do know it is different from last year.  And certainly different from three years past...

I understand, accept, that for Gavin this is all normal.  This is what he knows.  His holiday season consists of me and him, making traditions and memories on our own.  I cannot deny a little boy his memories of Christmas.  I know how precious mine are to me.  And so I face the day, the season, with this strange combination of happiness and sadness, anticipation of tomorrow and nostalgia for yesterday.  This paradox, this conflict has become my constant companion, my constant struggle.  But it is what it is, and it isn't all bad.

And next year may be even a little better....

I will always long for what I had.  Wonder what could have been.  But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate what I have....  And I don't have everything.  Without Kurt, I can't.  I probably never will.

But I still have a lot...

And so this is Christmas. And what have we done? Another year over. And the new one just begun...

Confessions

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There is nothing eloquent about what I write right now. No lessons. No memorable quotes that you may walk away with. Just a lot of rambling from a very confused and cluttered mind that is trying to make sense of it all.

So let me start with a confession. I screwed up. Big time. Whoever said there is no right or wrong way to grieve has never actually been on this journey - or at least not taken the same journey that I have. Because I went about it all wrong....

When Kurt died, very early on, I said that taking care of Gavin would take care of me. And I clung to that. Believed it. And threw myself into it full force. I didn't take any time to figure things out for me. Take stalk of my life. Look at what it was that I needed - really needed.

It was John Donne who said that "He who has no time to mourn has no time to mend." How right he was. How right he is. And that is the story of me. Within a span of six weeks I went from a happily married new mom on maternity leave to a full time working widowed single mother. I didn't stop, take time to figure things out. I didn't take time to feel. I surrounded myself with my son's needs, 110%. And as a result, three years later, my son is thriving. While I am not. I can honestly say I have never really grieved. I'm not even sure, at this point in the game, that I know how to.

I can cry, yes. But even that does not seem to be enough. The tears are of sadness, but not really grief. There is no cleansing attached. No emotions, really. They escape from my eyes, and then I wipe them away and keep on doing what I have always been doing. Ignore them. Much like this entire process.

Except while I have been ignoring things on the outside - keeping myself busy enough with everyone else's needs and expectations, the pressure on the inside has not just faded away. Rather, it has grown. And is now at a point where it is starting to break through - leak through - at inopportune times. I can't control it any longer. I can't suppress it. It shows itself in the anger. The impatience. The frustration. It shows itself in the flashbacks. The memories. The sometimes unrelenting thoughts. It shows itself in the anxiety. The depression. The unstoppable feeling that I would rather be dead than living. And yet I feel I can't express it either, for no one would understand the expression that would come three years after the fact. No one would have patience for it three years after the fact. And, frankly, left unattended for three years, I am rather afraid I do not have the capacity to deal with what it has morphed in to.

I so badly want to run away. To shun my current life. To shun the responsibilities and obligations that have served as a distraction for so long. To shun even Gavin. And just run far away, where no one knows me, has no expectations of me. Where I can just be. Just exist. Just be me - whomever that is.

I want to let it all out. Whatever it is. And then pick up the pieces. Whatever may be left.

I know people say you cannot run from your problems, your mistakes. But I honestly don't think I can stay much longer. I screwed up pretty big time with all of this. Even though I was doing what I thought was best, in retrospect I was wrong. And I have got to do something. But honestly, how do I fix the damage?

Or is it already too late?

I'm confessing my biggest secret, right here - right now.  Its the simple fact that I really don't know what to do.....

Feeling Lucky

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Deep down, I know I am lucky. I have a wonderful boy. A secure, well paying job. A roof over our head. Food on the table. And a little for extras on the side. When Kurt died, I was fully equipped to be able to sustain Gavin and I on my own. Yes, I know I have so much more than so many people. And I do appreciate that.

But I just don’t feel lucky. I watch my Facebook newsfeeds role by – friends of today and yesterday. Them, their spouse, and their 2.4 children in a moderate house. Trips to warm weather destinations. Family holidays. Date nights. Even just quiet evenings to themselves. All things I want so desperately as I sit on the outside, looking in. All things I long for. All things I know I would have had had things been different.

In my world, they are the lucky ones. Blissfully unaware that mortality is knocking at everyone’s door. Sleeping soundly, untortured by nightmares of the past. We lived our lives no differently. Only I fell in love with a man who was destined, by a fatal heart condition no one knew about, to die. It wasn’t even a conscious decision on my part....

Yes, I know no one’s lives are perfect. That these ideal families I see and long for have their own ghosts, their own demons, their own issues. But today, as I sit here completely exhausted and near paralyzed from my own, I would trade, burden for burden, to have my husband by my side.

Yes, deep down I know I am still lucky. Luckier than many, anyway. But they say the grass is always greener, and my lawn, in my eyes, is dead....

Like I said.  I just don't feel very lucky....

What Happened to Kurtis Wigton?

Someone keeps typing "What happened to Kurtis Wigton" into search engines, and always stumbles back to here.  So before I see it pop up too many times, and before the lump that rises in my throat each time I read that and wonder who it is that is asking gets any larger, let me answer your question for you...

This is all you need to know about what really happened to my husband...

He filled many of his dreams.  He fell in love.  He found a wife.  He had a child.

He learned to cook.  And do laundry.  And clean the toilet the right way.  I know - because I taught him.

He sang.  He played the guitar.  He found peace, solace, comfort, and amusement in music.

He stood in the ocean, and on top of mountains.  He gazed at the Grand Canyon, and gambled (and lost) in Vegas.  He kissed Mickey Mouse.

He found a job that he loved, and learned it is not what you do with yourself, but how you do it that matters.

He laughed.  He smiled.  He cried.

He loved.  Deeply.  And passionately.

He also died. Far too soon.  Long before he, and those who loved him were ready.  But of the nearly 13 000 days he graced this planet, that day is only one.  0.00007% of his time on this Earth.  And thus deserves only a footnote.

I know I concentrate too much on his death.  I'm working hard to see beyond it.  And trying not to let that define him, even if sometimes I fail.

So when you ask "What happened to Kurtis Wigton?", knowing that you are really looking for those last few moments, I ask you why does it matter?  Why should be be defined by how we leave, rather than what we do when we are here.

So what really happened to Kurtis Wigton?  What would he want you to take away from his life?

He lived.  A full, complete life, albeit a short one.  His life, my life, and your life are a mixture of good and bad.  Easy and hard.  Happy and sad.  And when he left this world, I have no doubts that he was happy.  His life was full.  And our corner of the world was a little better because he had been in it.

He changed his world.  He went from a place where he felt he had nothing, to a place where he felt he had it all.  And he did it just by putting one foot in front of the other, and keeping on keeping on.

Yes, I watched him change his world.  And in the process, he also changed mine.  He taught me more about myself and what I wanted... about love and life... in our 5 years together than any of the 27 years that came before.

That's what happened to Kurtis Wigton.  I hope you are all that lucky.  I hope it happens to us all....

Missing You

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"Every step I take, every move I make, every single day, every time I pray, I'll be missing you....
Thinkin of the day, when you went away. What a life to take, what a bond to break. I'll be missing you..."

To say I miss Kurtis is an understatement. I know of no word in the English language - or any language for that matter - that fully explains about the way I feel when I think of him, wish he were here.

I miss his smile. His laugh. His voice. I miss having someone to go to the movies with. To help pay the bills and mow the lawn. I miss the intimate moments in bed.

But more than all that, I just miss him. His physical presence. Just him being here.

I know people look at me three years out, and think the depth of my emotions is too deep. That time should have erased a little of that miss. But I don't think it ever does, for anyone. Deep down, in those private spaces we reserve only for ourselves, it is always there. And that's not a bad thing.

The heart is the only thing I know of that has infinite capacity. It has room to love one, two, or a dozen children equally, without measure. It has room to love a husband, mother, father, friend. And it is in that heart, in the spot that is reserved for Kurtis alone, that my missing him resides. It lives right next to the love, intertwined with the love. In a pocket that will never go away.

Does the missing him ever change? Does it ever get easier? Some moments I say yes. The edges soften with time. Other moments I say no. It's always cutting just as deep. It all depends on what else is in my heart at the moment. Whether there is something wrapping it, protecting it, to soften the blow.  What I do know, however, is soft or hard, close to the surface or buried deep, it is always there.  

And when I see those things that remind me of him, or see that gap in my life where he once stood, I think of him.  Of what we had, and what we should have had.  Of where and who we were.  And I long to feel all those things again.  

I miss that.

And I miss him.

Image can be found here....

Inside the Pressure Cooker

The first Christmas gift my future mother-in-law gave to me was a pressure cooker.  Kurt was excited. That's the way his mom cooked her stew.  I was terrified.  I had never used one, and all I saw was an accident waiting to happen.  I saw the lid flying off well before the stew was ready, propelled by the building pressure underneath.  The slow simmering safety of the crock pot was more familiar.  And so Kurt never did get a stew cooked the way his mom made it.  Not from me.  And that first Christmas gift still sits untouched in the back of my cupboards (sorry Mom!)...

But I feel a lot like that pressure cooker these days.  There is so much inside me, bottled up, pent up, and still building.  The day - probably the moment - that Kurt died I shut my lid tight.  I sealed in the pain, the hurt, the sadness, the guilt, along with a host of emotions I'm probably not even aware of to this day.  Closed the rest of the world off from what was hidden deep inside me, and sealed that latch tight.  It made it easier for the people around me.  And easier for me to pretend.  To cope.  Sometimes even forget.  But deep down, where the emotions lived, they were still brewing, still building.  Feeding off one another, and getting stronger.

For over three years now, I have left it like that.  Really, I'm the only one aware that anything is left inside.  But the contents of my cooker have not stopped brewing.  The pressure inside has been constantly building.  And I know I am getting to that crisis point I was so afraid would happen.  I know it is only time before my lid blows, releasing the demons that dwell deep within.  I try daily to contain them.  I don't want the world to see what lies beneath the mask I have so carefully created.  But more and more they are starting to slowly slip out - inopportune emotions, reactions at inopportune times.

Nothing - not even the strongest of devices - can contain an infinite amount of steam, amount of pressure.  Even I know that to get that stew to cook properly, you have to vent the excess to the outside world.  But I have been unable to do that.  Afraid to do that.  Because I am not sure that, once that vent is open, I can control and contain the rate at which the contents will escape.  nAnd I'm head for disaster.

Some day, in the not too distant future, I know that my fears will come true.  I know that my cooker will prove insufficient for the burdens I carry.  I know my lid will blow off, and rather than a controlled vent it will become a dangerous rush of power.  And I feel helpless to stop it.

Watch out, world.  I'm about to open myself up, and you will be able to peer inside the pressure cooker.  And when that day comes, you had better duck, because the force at which the lid explodes will be massive.  And even i have no idea, after three years of simmering, just what will emerge...

Come to Me. Or Happy Halloween.

It's Halloween. Again. The day that veil lifts, and the living and dead coexist closer than any other day of the year. Or so they say. And so I stand tonight at the window, after the candy has been given, pumpkins extinguished, costumes shed, and children are hopefully long in bed, looking out. Wondering where he is, if he can see me. If he is here at all....

I don’t love Halloween. I watch Gavin get dressed up, and share in his excitement, but deep down I am thinking back to our first one, together as a family. Gavin was three weeks old. Kurt wanted to dress him up and parade him about. I was a tired, new, first time mom. And I convinced my not so tired husband to wait a year, until he was older and could appreciate it. Kurt went along with it, and I think Gavin slept through his first Halloween, like most three week old babies do. We pulled out the plastic pumpkin from the basement because it was easier. There was always next year.

The next year, like promised, our son dressed up. He went out to a few houses, even though I turned down the candy at each. And his dad was not there to see it.

Kurt’s first Halloween as a daddy was also his last Halloween as a daddy. He never saw his son dress up. Never carved a pumpkin. Never knocked on the neighbours door yelling Trick or Treat. And as I watch our little pirate, so excited about today, I regret the fact that Kurt never got to experience it because of me. I never gave him that opportunity. I was too tired. And there were many, many more years ahead.

Or so we all thought.

I hope today that that veil really is as thin as legends say. And that there is something for you beyond this life. I hope that Kurt was able to watch his cow, his monkey, his train, his pirate as the years passed. I can’t give him what he wanted. Can’t take back what was is already done. So I can only hope in some way he is getting it now. And I hope he is smiling a smile as big as his little boy’s. And that he is here.

In the early days after Kurt’s passing, when I was less jaded about the world, less uncertain about my beliefs, I would ask Kurt to come to me, talk to me, visit me in my dreams. For well over a year, every night, before closing my eyes, those were the last words I spoke aloud. Somewhere along the line, I stopped doing that. Out loud, anyway. That’s probably about the time that I started to doubt there was anything beyond the here and now. But tonight, just in case, I will ask him again. And if the world between us really is as blurred as they say, even if I don’t necessarily believe, I still know that I hope he answers.

Come to me, answer me, prove me wrong. Let me see you one more time. Just so I know you can see us, can see him.

Happy Halloween.

Giving Thanks

I often look back on the years past and wish I had spent more time smelling the roses.  Appreciating the little things in life as well as the bigger things.  Taking notice of those things I so easily took for granted.  Because while the memories are sweet, the actual experience was sweeter.

I, like so many people I know, was too busy chasing tomorrow to stop and really appreciate all I had in today.  And then, before I knew it, today was gone...

Its not the big things that make a life worth living.  Its not actually things at all.  I can guarantee you that when Kurt died, I did not wish we had bought a larger house, faster car, or newest smart phone.  I wished that we had time together.  And even today, as I stare at his picture, I do not pine for things.  I pine for time.  Time is the one thing that, once gone, you cannot have back.  You cannot always simply go buy another minute.  Once that moment has passed, there is no guarantee anything similar will come around again.

That is why, on the Thanksgiving Day, I am most thankful for time.  Time spent with family and friends.  Time spent watching Gavin play, laugh, and grow.  Time spent in quiet contemplation now that he is asleep.

We are not remembered once we have left the earth for what we had.  Rather, we are remembered for what we did - how we spent our time.

I spent mine today watching a little boy romp through fields of corn, cuddle animals, and bounce in bouncy houses.  It was time well spent, and if I were to die tomorrow, I would not have thought it a day wasted.

And I am thankful for that.

Inside Out

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I'm bleeding from the inside out.  Its not a wound you can see.  Not a wound you can put a bandaid on.  Not a wound that will show on any x-ray, or be revealed in any blood test.  But its a wound that is very, very real.

You can mend a broken limb.  Fix a broken body.  But what is the cure for a broken heart?  A broken soul?  A broken being?

I know the world looks at me and says "Come on, its been three years..."  I know they cast their judging eyes my way, form silent opinions in their head.  I know they think I should get on with things.  That this has dragged on long enough.  And I agree with them.  I just can't seem to figure out how.

When you leave a wound untreated long enough, it gets infected.  Goes septic.  Eventually poisons the entire body.  And kills you.

That's what has happened to me.

I buried the hurt under a mountain of responsibility.  I ignored the flashbacks.  Accepted the nightmares.  I ran from the emotions faster than sprinters run the 100 meters.  I thought I left everything far behind.  I thought I was doing pretty well - at least on the outside.  I was hiding it so well even I couldn't feel it sometimes.

But my inside, where the hurt still lays, has caught up with me.  You can't run forever...

Now the foundation I have been standing on for the past three years is slowly crumbling.  I'm watching my world fall around me.  The things I clung to for safety are gone.  The people who held me up have moved on.  I have only myself to rely on.  And I'm simply too weak, too tired from running for far too long.

I don't know what to do.  Do I jump into the abyss that now surrounds me?  Or do I stay where I am hoping someone - anyone - will throw me a life raft?  Knowing that life raft will probably never come.  Do I go, or do I stay?  Do I paste a smile and ignore the impending disaster?  Or finally cry the tears - the real tears - that have lived hidden deep inside?

For three years I have stood firm in my decisions.  Confident that not feeling was simply safer than feeling.  That with time the wound would scab and heal on its own.

I think I know that is not the case.  And I know I do not possess what it takes to deal with this on my own.  But where do you go from here?  And can I accept the consequences or either direction?

Or is it really too late?

I'm still bleeding from the inside out.  But have I already bled to death deep down inside?

Your Child...

Our baby boy is four today.  The baby you helped bring into the world is no longer that infant child you last cast eyes on the day you died.  He's his own little person, his own little man, carrying your genetics but shaped mostly by his mother's hand and the world in which he lives.

I wish you could have known him.  I wish you could have heard him giggle when he gets tickled under the arm.  Or watched him sing and dance in the middle of the living room floor.  I wish you could have been taught the name of every train in Sodor, and got down on your knees to play.  Been subject to his pout, his snarl, but also his smile.  I wish you could have felt his arms around your neck.  I wish you were his best friend instead of me...

I know the boy I live with is not the same boy that would have been had you been alive to mould him.  But I wish you could have had the time to get to know each other just the same.  And I wish I had been allowed to meet that boy too - the one who would grow up with his daddy to play with, to spend time with.  I wish our child had been allowed to blossom into the child he was supposed to be.

If you are out there, I know you are proud of him.  I know you love him.  I just wish you could have felt those ways here - with him.  With us.

I want to say our son will grow up just fine.  That he will be okay without his daddy's hand to hold.  But the truth is I just don't know.  There's no way to know if things will turn out better or worse.  If things will turn out okay.  All I can do is hold our son tight enough for the both of us, trust that instinct that I hold deep within, and continue to raise him in a manner that is both right for me, and would make you proud.

We have a wonderful little boy, Kurt.  And I'm trying, despite the bumpy road we have been given, to do good - both to him, and to you.  And no matter how brief your hand held him, your influence remains.  Regardless of who raises him, he is always one half you.  There are days I look at him and marvel at the strength of genetics.  Little things he does, little ways he dos them, that do nothing but remind me of you.

I know you didn't plan for your legacy to last thins long without you, but thank you for giving me, and trusting me to keep, your legacy well.  I'll do the best I can.  Because I know he is a pretty special little man.  With a very special dad.

You have a hell of a kid, Kurt.  And he's gonna give his mom a hell of a ride.  He's the only thing in this world I have ever loved as much as I love you.

Thank you.

Labour Day

This was Kurt's self portrait four years ago - his depiction of what he was going to look like when the baby was born.

 It was four years ago today that I was induced. At about the exact time Gavin blows out his candles at his party this evening, four years ago I was admitted to hospital to begin a pretty crazy ride.

 Tomorrow I celebrate Gavin. Right now, its all about this man. The man who blew in my face to distract me when the epidural didn't work. Who cracked a joke when the Dr. said "Oh shit" as things went awry to ease the tension. Who held my hand all night, and cried bigger tears than me when his son was finally born.

 I still believe, despite the chaos in the room, the most intimate moments a couple can share are those moments when they are bringing their child into the world. I know it was for us. I treasure that day. And I miss, with all my heart, the man who shared it with me. I hold close every moment we had together. And wish, beyond all wishes, that we had been granted just one more. Gavin is the ultimate product of the best gift I have ever been blessed to receive... his love.

Thank you, Kurtis. I love you. Always

Man's Work

Image can be found here...

I mowed the lawn for probably the last time this year last night.  And as I pushed his lawnmower over his grass, I thought of him.  This was his job.  So was taking out the trash.  Changing the furnace filter.  Cleaning the builtin vac canister.  Changing the oil.  Even scrubbing the toilets was a chore left only to him.

I do them now because I have to.  Because if I didn't no one would.  But while they are part of my schedule, my routine, they are still his jobs.  Things he should be doing.  And probably always will be...

There seems to so much on my shoulders, on top of the weight of the world.

I think he got the easy way out....

The Songs He'll Never Hear. Life Goes On

Image can be found here...

Kurt became a great-uncle again yesterday. And I hope his nieces and nephews are reading this, so I can tell them how proud he was of them and how proud he would have been to see them have families of their own. Five babies have now been born into that generation. Four of those babies - some now toddlers and preschoolers themselves - Kurt never lived to see.

As we were driving home a couple of days ago, mom singing along to the radio, Gavin asked to hear "Daddy's music." When i asked what songs he meant, he said he wanted to listen to the songs that "made mommy think of daddy and cry." He was referring to the playlist taken directly from Kurt's IPod - the music Kurt loved. It made me realize how 99.9% of the songs I hear on the radio each and every day my music loving husband never lived to hear.

Every day, I am surrounded by things that were not part of our lives three years ago. New houses, new roads, new businesses, new neighbours, new friends. And as the days get darker and autumn once again replaces summer, I look to a new season Kurt will never experience. Sometimes its hard to accept that the world did not stop the day Kurt's did. That other people's lives have gone on as usual in the midst of my chaos. That there is a tomorrow, whether you are alive to see it or not. And as I sit in the finished basement that was simply concrete on the day he died, stroking a cat who is only a year old, watching a first-run television show, and composing a blog I never imagined three years ago I would be writing today, I have to accept the cold, hard truth.

My life did not stop that day, either.

There are moments which feel like it did. Moments that I wish it did. And there is no denying that it changed. Hugely changed. But life goes on.

Even in the midst of grief, and all the fallout that has happened since, my life goes on.

I age. I learn. I experience things a new. And I live. A life that is both happy and sad, often simultaneously. For both of us. For all three of us. But also just for myself...

You can't stop the world from turning. You can't stop the hands of time from ticking. And even the biggest of control freaks such as myself really has no control. So whatever it brings, you just have to hold on tight and take the ride. However long it lasts. And wherever it may lead you....

The 11th of September

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Its been a few months since the 11th has carried any real significance. The significance of the date has faded, just becoming another day on the calendar. But every so often, it rears its ugly head.

August 11th. November 11th. September 11th. Days set aside, either privately or publically, which cause me to contemplate mortality.  To remember. Days set aside which draw attention to the frailty of the human existance.

I remember much of the first September 11th after Kurt died very clearly. It was nine years after the planes hit the World Trade Centre.  It was exactly one month since he had been gone, and one of the first days I really remember in my post-funeral grief process. I remember watching the public outpouring of emotion at anniversary gatherings, the attention given to it on the media, and actually being envious of those who had lost their loved ones on that day, years ago. Thinking how their private grief had been allowed to mingle with a public grief – how they were allowed to grieve, how the world shared, welcomed, and in some ways understood the reason for their pain. It was at a time when my grief was very fresh, very raw, all consuming.  Unwelcome and/or unable to openly express it, it was already silently eating me up inside...

I look at those thousands of people very differently today. While I still wish I had a community to lean on as they often do, I no longer envy their experience, their pain. After speaking to multiple 9-11 widows, becoming friends with a handful, I have come to understand that as public as their story is, their grief remained just as private as was mine. A private pain carried out on a global stage.

Every minute of every day, someone dies. And to those who loved them, their loss is no less tragic, no less life altering, than a global tragedy that affects millions.

I admire the women I have met who have a connection to that fateful day. In the 12 years that have passed, many of them they have managed to find in the rubble the foundations to build a new life. And today, they live a happy satisfying life. They show us all that death can bring about new life. Happiness can come from despair. 

 On anniversaries such as this, we tend to concentrate on the bad that happened, the lives that were lost. But we are remiss unless we also pause to recognize those left behind, and celebrate the glory which can rise from the ashes. As a widow, it is that glory that I too seek. No amount of public outcry or memoriam will bring back any of our husbands, our loved ones. But us continuing to live is the greatest monument possible to their lives cut short.

Life is fleeting, and fickle. Time is tenuous. Nothing – our freedom, our security, our happiness, our lives – is a guarantee. Its not the good and bad experiences you have which makes you who you are. Its what you do with them.

And so I sit here today, thinking about all those who died, that day in September and in the days before and after. Thinking about the lives that were lost, and the lives that were shattered. And hoping that all of them – all of us – find our own version of peace....

"For me and my family personally, September 11 was a reminder that life is fleeting, impermanent, and uncertain. Therefore, we must make use of every moment and nurture it with affection, tenderness, beauty, creativity, and laughter." -Deepak Chopra

Image can be found here...

Identity Crisis

It was early on in this journey that I posted something along the lines of "Who Am I".  A wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend, a widow.  The list went on.  Recently I've been asking myself the same question, but with a very different answer.

The above are all titles, roles I play.  But they are not me.

So who am I?  Honestly, I don't know.

I am 36 years old, and have no idea who I am.

I know who I used to be, years ago.  But then I met Kurt.  And the me became we.  Our lives so completely intertwined that we were not two distinct, separate people, but rather a completely new identity together.  Then half of that identity died.  The pieces of us lay scattered, like the broken dreams at my feet.  I've avoided those pieces for a long time, stepping over them, dancing around them.  Its time I sort through them.

In order to find out who I am, I have to face that person I was.  Look at the pieces that are left, and determine which pieces really are me, which are him, and which are us.  Which pieces can exist independently.  Which pieces I want to nurture.  And which pieces I have to leave behind.

The things that used to bring me joy now bring me pain.  The things I used to take for granted are now front and centre.  My strengths have become my weaknesses.  I am not who I thought I was.  I cannot be that person again...

I feel like a child, looking in the mirror asking themselves what they want to be when they grow up.  Except I AM grown up.  I have people who depend on me.  And the consequences of that question seem much more dire.

Inscribed by the ancient Greeks is the phrase "Know Thyself."  I don't.  But I know I need to find myself.  Because until I know who I am, I cannot know exactly what I need.  And if I don't know what I need, its pretty difficult to move on....

Perspective Taking - The Long and Short End of the Stick

Who drew the shorter stick?????

There are days like today, when I’m feeling tired or sick, when Gavin ins being especially cranky, when I am simply stretched too thin and on my last straw.  Those are the days that I look at Kurt and think I drew the short stick in this deal.  He got the easy way out.  The better way out.  

Kurt didn’t have to live this misery.  He didn’t have to take the last dollar and decide whether it should go pay the bills, or buy the milk (okay – its not that bad, but feels like it sometimes).  He didn’t have to tend to a pestering toddler when all he wanted to do was sleep.  He didn’t have to work through the hurt, confusion, anger, loneliness, and pain.  He never had a flashback or anxiety attack.  He didn’t have to grieve, raise a child, and work full time simultaneously.  He died happy.  He died fulfilled.  His life was on track.  He got the better way out...

And then I sneak in and watch our son sleep.   Or play with him.  Or do like I did yesterday, and lay on the grass with his head in my lap counting the things we see float across the sky.  I think to the first day of school that is yet to come.  Birthdays, graduations, weddings, and so many days in between.  I grasp at those times when I hear my son say I love you.  Those moments when he looks at me and tells me I am his best friend and he won’t let anything happen to me...

And then I look at myself, and try to concentrate on the good times.  The times that have brought out the smiles.  Travels, experiences, joys – both life’s big and more simple of pleasures.

I’m sure Kurt would have given anything to be here today to experience them.  I’m sure Kurt wished he could have experienced them.  Even if it meant living through the pain.

Maybe his way out wasn’t better.  Easier, perhaps, but not better.  There’s a lot that has happened in the past three years that I really feel lucky to have experienced, even if it was without him.

So maybe this life of pain, in the end, is the better option....  Maybe it is worth experiencing.

Its all in the way you look at things, I guess...

Moving On... Or When to Take a Bath

I was asked again today whether I was really ready.  Ready to move on.  Ready to let ago.  After three years, that's still not an easy question to answer.  Of course I am.  Who wouldn't be?

But then again, am I?

Where I am is not a pleasant place.  But it is a familiar place.  I know every nightmare.  I know every sound.  Every hurt.  Every heartache.  Every pain.  I don't always know what will bring it on, but I know where I will end up.  It's not a good place.  But it's... comfortable.  Letting go, moving on, means heading somewhere different.  And different is scary.  What if its really more of the same?  What if its worse?  What if pain really does beget pain?  What if I forget?  What if I don't forget?

I know I need to move on.  For me.  I know that staying where I am is wearing me out, little by little.  Killing me from the inside a little more every day - even when it doesn't seem there is anything left in me to die.  I know that if I stay where I am, someday it will kill me on the outside too.  I know I will eventually give in to the demons inside my head, reminding me that Kurt has it so much better where he is now, inviting me - almost cajoling me - to join him.  I know I cannot live like this forever.  That it is only a matter of days, weeks, months.  Only a matter of time.  Moving on is my only other option.  Something I must do, ready or not.  The stakes are simply that great.

If only that made it easier....

I've gone to great lengths to try to move on.  I've tried therapies conventional and outside the box - far outside my norm.  I traveled hundreds of miles alone chasing hope, which I found but feel as though I must have left it there.  I've faced my fears.  But on a brave face.  Tried faking it until I made it.  I've taken many steps forward.  And yet as I sit here today, I feel that I always end up right back where I started in the end...

There's still not much light in my tunnel.  In fact, to be perfectly honest, I think my tunnel is starting to cave in....

I spend a lot of time these days looking in the mirror and asking myself what it is I want.  What my goals are.  In therapy, but also in life.  As a mother, daughter, employee, employer, friend.  As me.  And really, it all comes down to one thing.  I don't want to hurt any more.  I want to feel "better".

Whatever better really means.....

I don't want to change everything about me.  There are some things right now I consider a blessing.  Some good that has come from all the bad.

I don't want to forget the importance of a minute, or the value of living it.

I don't want to stop living for today, rather than waiting for tomorrow.

I don't want to say I love you less.

I don't want to take the people in my life for granted, knowing that they may not be here again.

I don't want to forget the pain.

But I want to move beyond it.  Or at least move with it.  Let it help me, rather than hold me down.

I want to be able to drive over a bridge, and not wonder if the guardrail would support me if I chose to veer into the water.  Approach a train and not think for a instant what would happen if my brakes failed, or if I chose not to stop.

I want to be able to approach a closed door and not panic that someone is dead on the other side.

I want to see Kurt alive, remember what I loved about his life, not hate about his death.

I want to appreciate what I have, rather than pine for what I am missing.

I want to be able to dance in the rain - literally and figuratively - not caring how others may see that.

I want to be able to do the things that remind me of him, and us - like eat a plate of roast beef, watch a movie, or walk the dog - with a smile instead of a tear.

I want to think of what was good and feel good.  Smile and laugh a little more.  And really mean it.

I want running water to be just that - running water.  Not an omen of more.

I want to shower without ear plugs.  Get into the shower without running my hand over "the" spot and remembering.

I want to be able to run my bathroom fan long enough to actually get the humidity out of the bathroom after a shower.

And I want to be able to take a bath.  Just me, a tub full of water, and maybe a rubber duck.

That's all I really want.  A simple bath.  Its the one thing that, once accomplished, will signal to me that I really have moved on.

It shouldn't really be that hard, right.....

Image can be found here...

Reality Check

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“Nothing ever becomes real 'til it is experienced.”  ~ John Keats

I sat for a half hour watching Gavin play with a little boy about his age at the playground today... And the little boy's dad. And I couldn't help but start thinking how hard it must be for Gavin to see other boys with their daddies when his is not here. And then I had to stop myself.

Gavin does not remember his dad. He does not know what it was - or is - like to have a man in the house. It is probably not that hard for him, because its just the way it is.

The truth is, it's really only hard on me.

His reality does not include a Kurt sized hole sitting beside him, following him . The head of his kitchen table has always been empty. The left side of mommy's bed has always been his to sleep in. His reality, as much as I hate to admit it, is that daddy is a picture, not a person. It's mom he looks for when things go wrong. Mom he seeks out when he has a question. Mom he calls for when he wants to kick the soccer ball, or play with trains.

That's the way it has always been. Its normal. It's right.

I am his only reality.

His reality does not include terror at the sound of running water, or flashbacks in the bathroom. His reality does not include lonely Saturday nights wishing there was someone else to hold. Cold winter nights in a king-sized bed alone. A constant longing. A constant ache.

His reality does not include man to man talks with his father. Baseball games. Fishing trips. Or even a dad to teach him how to stand up when he pees.

It never did. And you cannot miss what you never knew. Long for it, perhaps. Wonder about it. But you cannot miss it.

And so I doubt he really misses his dad, even when the rest of the kids around him are interacting with their fathers. After all, he has his mom. He has always had his mom. That is his reality.

And in that reality, his mom is enough.

I have to be careful not to project my reality on him. To pass to him any of my pain. I do not want his reality to include mommy's tears, mommy's sadness, mommy's anxiety, mommy's loneliness. Mommy's life.

I cannot shield him from all the harsh realities of life. Already, his reality includes death. It includes sadness. I can't take that away.

But his reality is probably not as bad as I project it to be. And so I sit for hours in a splash park today, allowing the sound of running water to take me back to times and places better forgotten, just so his reality can be a little more normal. A little more fun.

I wouldn't wish my reality on anyone. Especially him.

And he deserves it.

The Climb

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There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waitin' on the other side
It's the climb

I’m falling back into a depression. I can feel it. Its been slowly building for the past couple of weeks. I had hoped it was the fallout from what had been a rough anniversary. But its not going away. Not letting up. And its getting worse quickly.

I know the signs. I’ve been here before. Mornings seem to come even that much sooner. I don’t have the will to get out of bed, even when the second alarms starts squealing. I walk into the office and feel completely overwhelmed, without even opening my email or looking at my to-do list. The weight of the world seems ten times heavier. Life is simply unappealing. I run on autopilot, doing things because they “have” to be done, not because I want to or really care. And, regardless of what I do or say or try, I just can’t get it... him... then... or now out of my mind.

It seems this past three years has been nothing but a climb. I reach a point on my mountain where I can pause, breath, enjoy the view, and with the next step I hit a cliff, or a rough patch, and find myself free falling far below. I never know how far I will fall, how long, how low. But I know that its a painful arrival back on solid ground. And when I get there, I have little choice but to look up, lick my wounds, and start all over again.

I never seem to get anywhere. Always seem to end up where I started. But I have little choice but to keep climbing.

I’m tired of this journey. The nets that used to catch me seem to have grown weaker with each successive fall. The things that helped before seem to do little now. I sincerely believe that one day this fall will kill me. I will hit rock bottom and be unable to get up again. My strength is not infinite, and I live in both fear and anticipation of that day.

From where I am today, it can’t come soon enough....

I can almost see it.
That dream I'm dreaming, but
There's a voice inside my head saying
You'll never reach it
Every step I'm takin'
Every move I make
Feels lost with no direction,
My faith is shakin'
But I, I gotta keep tryin'
Gotta keep my head held high.....

All I can say is that if I do somehow reach the top, it had better be a damn good view.....

Let It Be

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I saw Paul McCartney last night in concert.  It was probably one of the best concerts I have ever seen.  I was glad I was there.  And as I sat there, through the entire three hour performance, I had one thing front and centre on my mind. 

Kurt would have loved this.  I wish he was here.  With me.

Surrounded by 40 000 people, most of whom were having a good time, I was shedding tears – silent and discreet.  That’s not to say I was not enjoying myself.  Its just to say that the Kurt-sized hole that lives within my heart seemed twice as large, twice as obvious.  And I could not get him off my mind. 

And, surrounded by huge masses, I felt completely alone.

I’m getting used to living with that monkey on my back.  With that hole that follows me, sits beside me constantly.  The reminders, even in the good times, that the times would be better with him to share it with me.

I can be happy and sad at the same time.  Enjoying the present while pining for something different, yearning for the past.  Kurt was a big man.  He cast a presence, he could not hide in a crowd.  So I suppose I should not be surprised that I feel his absence as much as I did his presence.  Sometimes still I feel them both at the same time....

I’m getting used to the silent tears as well.  There was a time when I would hold them back, push them in.  Now, in appropriate settings (aka when I feel safe and usually when I think no one is watching) I just let them come.  Sometimes they come when I don’t even really feel sad.  I just don’t feel happy either.  Or, more accurately, I just don’t feel whole.

I’ve learned it takes too much energy to fight the feelings, fight the emotions.  It’s too hard to ignore what is missing in my life.  So day by day, I am learning to accept that this is part of my reality.  I don’t know if it makes it easier, but it makes it bearable.

And it can’t be changed anyway.

Just as Sir Paul said, some things you just have to let be.....