The Songs He'll Never Hear. Life Goes On

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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

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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.....

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