Widow fallout? SOS fallout?

I pretty much live my life without much reference to having been widowed. I have a “new normal”, complete with husband and family, and life is good. When I occasionally get slammed by an emotional response that seems out of proportion with the precipitating event, I wonder whether I have hidden layers of under-resolved trauma from having been widowed by a suicide-like event.

Willis’s death was not classified a suicide (nor an accident) by the coroner, but he was very suicidal in the months leading up to his death, and he was particularly suicidal on the morning of his death. My take is generally that he was very ambivalent. He was reported to have been pacing back and forth on the bridge near where he was killed- I imagine that he considered throwing himself off the bridge onto the highway below, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, for which I am very grateful. There are also reports that he was hitch-hiking on the highway below- it is easy to imagine him turning his back to the traffic that was not stopping for him and drifting into the path of that big truck. It is also possible that he stepped deliberately in front of the truck, which did its best to avoid him.

He was struck from behind, which makes me prefer the inadvertent scenario, but the effect is the same- he is dead, my children don’t have their dad, and I am left with questions and repercussions about why someone would appear to prefer death to living with me and the kids. This is, of course, an over-simplification. Suicide and mental illness is not really a choice, and the pain that Willis was experiencing was profound and unbearable. He certainly believed we would be better off without him, and I ache for him that he believed that was so.

I have spent hours in therapy, addressing all sorts of issues arising from being widowed and surviving the de facto suicide of a spouse. Like I say, mostly this is a part of my history, and not really a part of my present.

But...

Rob and his boys went to Vancouver this weekend to visit Rob’s sister. The boys haven’t seen Trish in a couple years, and it was time for them to make a road trip, as a family, as in times past. Me and my kids weren’t invited along. This is appropriate- logistically and for the emotional well-being of Rob and his boys. My head knows this. My heart and psyche have been aching, crying, raging, writhing about this. I hate the feeling of being rejected and excluded. The boys are 10 and 12- of course they want to have some time without their new family, and with their dad all to themselves.

We will go to Vancouver next weekend to visit with Hannah, Willis’s other daughter, and her mother. Rob is cherishing the idea of time alone at home. He is reveling in it, and why not? He was a half-time dad before we came along, and a bachelor the other half of the time. Much as he began to get lonely after 4 years of this, and much as he loves us all, it can be taxing to a fifty-year-old to be suddenly raising a 4-year-old daughter full-time. He is an introvert, and needs some quiet time alone to recharge. Sam is an extremely active, extroverted boy- much as Rob loves Sam, he finds him taxing sometimes (as do I). Of course Rob relishes the prospect of some time to himself. My head understands this and delights in the chance to offer this to Rob. My heart and psyche cry with feelings of rejection and loneliness that Rob can hardly wait for us to be gone.

After several anguished and stormy conversations with Rob about how painful I was finding the prospect of these two weekends, and how bewildered he was at my response, that references to Willis began to seep into my consciousness. Rob and I had not come back to equilibrium after one such conversation, and he was heading of in my car to pick up the babysitter. I told him not to crash the car, and added, in an angst-filled voice, for him not to take that as me condoning him crashing or harming himself. On the morning of Willis’s death, as we were preparing lunches for the kids, he told me how he couldn’t stop thinking of “it” (suicide), and how he couldn’t stop thinking of driving into something. My response? “Just don’t use my car to do it.” I will probably wish forever that I had added that I really didn’t want him to harm himself either, but it is doubtful that he would have heard it anyway.

After that comment, Rob came back to finish the conversation. In further discussion, we agreed that the emotionality of my responses was likely to be about my experiencing echoes of the ultimate rejection of suicide, and the terror of not knowing whether I would have a husband at the end of the day. The whole damn thing hurts. I may never forgive Rob if he doesn’t outlive me, and the separation of these two weekends and my upcoming conference in Florida is a terrifying prospect. This relationship better last a damn long time, because I don’t want to prove that I have the moxie to outlive another husband.

Lunar Eclipse

I owe thanks to another blogger, Rachd, for the reminder on her blog about tonight's lunar eclipse. Rachel was in the unfortunate position of being unable to see the eclipse due to bad weather. We, on the other hand, had gorgeous weather and a gorgeous view from our house on the hill. It was quite magical to be able to dim the lights in the dining room and watch the eclipse during our supper. Rob even took the time to call his boys at their mother’s house to get them to have a look, too. It was a marvelous moment of family togetherness and wonder at the beauty in the world. I am so grateful to Rachd for the reminder, and for her inspirational approach to grief, which parallels my own. I hold her in awe for how she is managing in the face of her devastating loss. .



I took some pictures of the eclipse, but since my camera doesn’t have a particularly long zoom, you’ll have to use your imagination

Ain’t Sheep Sweet?

We’ve been listening to the Beatles Anthology (this is from Willis’s collection- one small way to keep in contact with him) in the car , me and the kids, during our commute. When we gave a ride home to a friend recently, she exclaimed, “You let your kids listen to the Beatles? That’s so cool!” I replied that it’s not a matter of letting them listen- they insist.

Sam asks for his favourites by number; Syd likes hers by name. Recently, Sydney asked me if sheep were sweet, just like in the song. After a little detective work, I understood her to be referring to Ain’t She Sweet?.

A discussion of sheep and their sweetness ensued, and I mentioned that my friend Michelle at Boulderneigh , as well as Nancy and Lauren , all absolutely believe in the sweetness of sheep.

Michelle herself is no slouch in the sweetness department. She recently embarked upon a Pay It Forward campaign, as have many bloggers. I tentatively suggested that I might participate, but since my artsy skills are minimal, I was hesitant to agree to pledge to send anyone anything. Brushing this aside, Michelle went ahead and took an order from me, in terms of my favourite and least favourite colours. I wasn’t sure what might ensue, but as of yesterday, I found out.

Michelle’s package arrived in the mail yesterday. She had knit a hat and scarf in green and sunshine colours, as requested. They are fabulous and adorable, and they’re mine, in spite of my kids’ instant desire for them.
She also sent a note, written with beautiful colour and penmanship, expressing truly lovely sentiments. Thanks, Michelle.

Now that I have received my PIF offering, I really must get into gear to determine what I have to offer, and how to get it out “there”. Here’s where I’m leaning- a number of my friends from the WidowRoad are having a particularly hard time, lately. I’d like to send them a little care package that includes the things I do do well. I’m going to see if I can get street addresses for these ladies, but in the event that I can’t get them, perhaps I could get some volunteers who would be interested in joining in the PIF fun.

Back to Sydney, and the Beatles for a moment- the kid is an absolute riot, as well as being damn cute and a PITA. She was requesting another Beatles song recently- the bunny love song. Huh? Turns out, she was referring to Can’t Buy Me Love... I’m not sure I don’t like her names better...

Dancing with Rabbits

We had so much fun today. The sun was shining and it fell like Spring was around the corner. We took 8 of our pets into the back yard for some sun, air and grass. In fact, only two of our pets did not get to enjoy the opportunity, but they wouldn’t have enjoyed feeling like fish out of water...

Here are some of the pictures I took of us having fun.






Sam, "dancing" with Snowball and Chase.







Chase is our newest family member.







Isn't Sparkles beautiful? She thinks so!






















Snowball relished the opportunity to dig.










Syd, with blankets.










Pentax, who just turned 16. He’s my soulmate. (Don’t tell Rob.)









Claudia, looking inscrutable. She’ll be 16 in a couple of months, and her whiskers are white now.










Salt’n’Pepper- he’d run amok if he was loose.








Snowball and Teddy.










Sparkles and Teddy enjoy an inter-species moment.








Sometimes Jet looks less goofy, but not often...











The kids were making animal "nests" in the alcove by the rocks.










Oliver, one of my step-sons.











Looking east at Mt. Baker, across the strait. We enjoy this view from our sun room/guest room and living room (whenever it stops raining).












We went inside when this Bald Eagle showed up overhead.

And in the balance...

Syd’s daycare has a late pick-up policy, which includes fines, and after 5 lates in 6 months, immediate expulsion from daycare. We are at 4 lates, and are actively seeking another daycare. This has been a pretty big downer for the last two days since we got our “probationary’ notice- lots of tears and angst on my part, and lots of feeling shamed and blamed- score one for the dark side.

Rob and I have been together for a year. This is our “anniversary” weekend. We had each arranged 3 days off, and I had vague ideas of a low-key celebration of this life-altering event. Rob, it turns out, had no such vagueness. He arranged for our babysitter to come over, his boys to be at their mother’s and for us to go to the world-class Sooke Harbour House resort, overnight, without children. The man is a wonder and a blessing, and we agree that we have reaped a well-deserved reward from life in finding each other- score one for the bright side.

After our exquisite supper at the resort, we were deciding whether to use the oceanside hot tub, the fireplace or that big, inviting bed first when my cell phone rang. There was Sam, in tears, barely discernible through a fading cell signal. The kids were both still up, missing mum, filled with over-tired, late-night anguish about mum being away (is it because I’m a widowed parent that I imagine they fear that I won’t return?). I did what I could to be reassuring over the phone, and suggested that they could sleep in my bed while I was gone for the night. Let’s hope that that suggestion doesn’t backfire... The phone call was disconcerting, which would seem to be another point for the dark side.

As I write this, though, I am relaxed from the hot tub, at peace from the sound of the surf outside, full from a delicious meal, warmed by a crackling fire and snuggled with a man who loves me (in spite of my forays into the dark side), and who wants to spend the rest of his days celebrating life with me. The balance looks pretty healthy from here.

Birthday Girl

Today was my Sydney’s 4th birthday. We had a party for her, and 3 of her friends from daycare came. Unbelievably, we failed to have a camera between the adults, although cell phones did eventually make an appearance. Four 4-year-old girls make for an interesting “party”. There were plenty of tears, including Sydney’s and those of the girl sitting beside her while we were singing happy birthday; it was classic. I am so thrilled to have Sydney in my life. She is funny, bright, feisty, independent, cute… There is, however, nothing like the birthday of a child whose parent has died to make one contemplative.

There is a bittersweet-ness now to my girl’s birthday. There is a pensive tone to her birth story, now that her daddy is not here to share in the reliving and recounting of that day.

Syd was born with lungfuls of crud. She had a peaceful and happy home-birth, but couldn’t breathe properly, and continued to get worse as she lay with us. The midwives tried suction and kept her on oxygen, but after a couple of hours, gently guided me to the decision that she needed to be hospitalized. We went by ambulance. I recall shifting around on the bench in the back of the ambulance uncomfortably; they gave me a cushion to sit on, but it was challenging to go from pushing out a kid to sitting on a bench within a couple of hours. Sam insisted on coming in the ambulance with us. He was terrified about letting go of his new baby sister- it was very sweet and touching, and the ambulance attendants were very gentle and sweet with us.

The week that Sydney spent in the hospital was awful. I was terrified of losing her, but my job was to keep it together- falling apart comes after the crisis is past in my world. Besides, I had Sam to attend to from my hospital bed, and a husband who went into hypomania from the stress of a severely ill child. His other daughter, Hannah, was also hospitalized immediately after her birth, and at 18 months or so, was diagnosed with juvenile arthritis, which has never really gone into remission. It was an extraordinarily stress-full time.

The nurses in the intensive care neo-natal ward were awful, with very few exceptions. The attitude seemed to be “I love the babies; it’s the parents I can do without”. I had carried that kid inside me for 9 months, and being separated from her after her birth, and being told when I could be with her and what I could and couldn’t do with her, including holding her and nursing her, without sympathy for my angst and terror was one of the more awful experiences of my life. That said, I had a wonderful art therapist who helped me immensely through the post-partum depression, which was largely thought to have been precipitated by her near-death episode. The same art therapist was invaluable when Hannah moved to Vancouver, I got enraged, Willis got sick, and after he died. Yeah Linda!

Today, on her birthday, my aim was to be grateful for and joyful with my girl, especially as I am lately reading a heart-wrenching blog by a mother who lost her 5-year-old girl last summer. I try to be grateful that I got to share Sydney’s birth and the first years of her life with her daddy, as my friend Annie did not get to do with her Will. For the most part, I succeed in being grateful for the blessings in my life, but today, I also lament the loss of my husband and my little girl’s daddy.

Willis was a super daddy (all widows say that….). He was patient and playful and responsible and responsive. In many ways, he was a better parent than I. He would almost never lose his temper or raise his voice, and he had seemingly boundless energy. He adored both his girls, and his stepson, and I can only imagine how they will continue to miss him through the years.

Willis would have been in there like a goofy overgrown kid at the birthday party today, camera in hand, pushing past everyone else for an in-your-face shot that would have captured the moment perfectly. I miss that. I miss the genius of Willis. I miss the smell of him, and his overly loud laugh. What will the kids miss about him? Will having a loving step-dad present for the milestones in their lives fill in some of the gaps for Sydney and Sam? Willis was a step-dad to Sam, but Sam referred to him as dad. I’m not sure what their loss will look like over the years, and I hope that I can scrapbook with them a bit to help them remember when they need to remember.

Sydney talked about having the policeman bring Willis to her house for her birthday and put him on the couch for her birthday. Sigh. We talked a bit about his ashes, and how we could put the ashes on the couch if she wanted, but that dad couldn’t be brought back by a policeman to be with us again. Sigh. (I’m grateful she didn’t actually need us to follow through on this idea, because Willis’s ashes are still packed. I know they are in one of the boxes in the living room, but I’m not sure which box. The living room boxes will get unpacked when we get our new bookcases next week.)

Sydney’s birthday is almost the last of Rob’s and my “firsts” together. We have been together nearly a year, and what a year it has been. It has been interesting, and joy-filled, and tearful, by turns. In this last year, I “got” a new guy, a new family, and new house, and new car. We have a new rabbit, new furniture, new beginnings. I’m looking forward to this next year. I’m looking forward to these new things becoming old things. I’m on a roll here, in the last year, and I’d like the positives of the last year to be the ongoing theme in my life. I don’t really make resolutions, but a year full of joy and familiarity and not too much change would be a super thing.

Affirmation?

The internet is an amazing, wonderful place. Or maybe a thing. Since it doesn’t actually have a location, per se, I guess it can’t actually be a place, can it?

But,

What I wanted to say was that I have been spending more and more time (1) reading blogs, and (2) exploring FaceBook. It’s actually getting scary. My kids are starting to act out or act up to get my attention whenever I look in the direction of the computer, but that seems to be a price I’m willing to pay (sorry, kids!) to get in some reading time.

We widders seem to have a curious inability to read for long periods of time; I haven’t been able to manage a whole novel since Willis died. Other stuff, the lovely short snippets from an intelligent woman’s blog, are ideal for engaging my mind and imagination (sorry kids!).

I’ve been following the exploits of the shepherding and fibre arts community- I love hearing about a lifestyle I covet (farming), without being remotely disciplined enough (or practical enough) to make such a lifestyle work. I also have issues around working hard, too, and I’m pretty sure that farming is hard work…

All this voyeurism of other peoples’ lives leaves me wondering what I AM good at, or maybe just what I AM. I’m not a writer, except in an absent-minded kind of way. The other things I dabble in, like sewing, or animals, or painting, or computers, or reading, or photography are all things that these women I’ve been reading or bumping into on-line delve into with passion and discipline and ability, and I just don’t measure up. Not that I need to (measure up, that is), you understand: I’m just about grown-up enough to avoid believing that my self-worth is reliant on my ability to be as good as, or better than, someone at something…

**********

Naw, it’s for sure: I do NOT measure my self-worth by comparing myself to others- afterall, there will always be greater and lesser folks than myself. I know, “fer sher”, that although I avoid dishes and housework, and embrace procrastination and tardiness, I AM good with MY kids, MY animals, MY Rob, MY grief, MY work. The one thing I have locked up, that I do better than anybody else does, is be me.