How I reclaimed who I was after the loss of my husband.

For nine years Craig made up such an enormous part of my life, it became impossible to imagine one without him. I was his beautiful wife, the funny girl with a million stories about work, the listening ear at the end of the day, his cooking buddy, and junk food enabler. We finished each other’s sentences and called each other first when trapped on a crowded train in the dead of winter. We were each other’s best friend and looked forward to dates at the grocery store and weekends of sifting through comics and old books at the flea market. We sang at the top of our lungs in the car together and made ourselves laugh so hard we often had to stop for me to run in somewhere to pee.

We became everything to each other. And for those nine years, the me I saw was the me reflected back through my husband’s eyes. I knew I was funny because I always made him laugh. I knew I could be sweet because I was his sweetheart. I was smart because I was the first person he came to for advice. I was beautiful because I always caught him looking.

The day he died, I stopped knowing who I was.

No longer did I have a mirror walking around, reflecting back to me who I thought I was. I didn’t have anyone to laugh at my jokes, not that I had many at the time. Gone were the days of my husband greeting me at the door, snuggling up to me for movies, and curling against me at night. The lack of physical contact left me bereft – I’d never felt less attractive, less beautiful. Of course incessant sobbing that left mascara tracks down my face and a constantly running nose didn’t help.

Along with the physical shock to my body – that wonderfully included constant nausea, sweat-inducing anxiety, and frequent chest pains that left me doubled-over gasping for air – my mind decided to call it quits. While I had previously taken pride in my work, always studying up and reading to be one step ahead of very question, every task, I had suddenly inherited the attention span of a goldfish with a memory to match. A co-worker would tell me something and 20 minutes later I’d have to ask them all over again what they had said. Then again in another hour. And at least twice more by lunch. I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, and the years and years of facts I had accumulated for my work trickled out of my mind like a leaky tap.

I suddenly became as incapable and feeble as everyone around me seemed to think I was. I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the lawn mower. I couldn’t change a simple light fixture. I couldn’t seem to remember that my car keys didn’t fit in the house door. I bumped into every pointy surface, spilled all things spillable, and couldn’t put a shirt on the right way to save my life.

Everywhere I went people gave me a wide berth and while I knew, logically, it was merely out of discomfort, I began feeling more and more like a social pariah, as though my grief was the worst kind of infectious disease. I’d walk into rooms and instantly the conversation would stop. Or the whispering would begin.

It’s no wonder I was lost.

Gone were the days of the smart me, the funny me, the clever me, the me who could take on the world. At best I was broken. At worst, I didn’t exist at all.

The hardest part in this was trying to articulate what was happening to me. That I had lost my identity – everything I thought I was. Everything I knew myself to be. It wasn’t until the day I caught myself whooping with delight over de-clogging my own bathtub drain for the first time that I realized what needed to be done.

I needed to take back me.

I started small. I learned how to hang my own pictures in the house. I forced myself to shovel my own walk. I reminded myself to put on both earrings before leaving the house. I even shaved my legs. Both of them. On the same day.

With those small tasks underway, I began stretching further. I forced myself out of the house to meet new people. I tried new things. I played pool. I tried rollerblading. I swam with dolphins and went speed boating. I sweated through yoga and even entered a photography contest. I made my first cheesecake from scratch. I wanted to push myself out of my comfort zone, inch by painful inch.

Soon I began tackling the bigger things on my life list. I travelled, visiting places I’d never gone to but always secretly yearned for. I changed my wardrobe. I cut my hair. I bought sexy bras.

Then I took the biggest leap yet – I finally summoned the courage to leave my career and go back to school, starting all over. It wasn’t easy. That first semester was one of the hardest things I’d done and every day I dragged myself to class, feeling beyond uncomfortable over the obvious age gap between me and the other students. My attention span and memory were still not what they once were (and likely never will be) but I hunkered down and forced myself ahead.

Every new challenge became a new victory.

Getting my first A, finding a new job, surviving my personal trainer at the gym.

And slowly, slowly I began to find me again.

Turns out with a little bit of make-up and the right pair of heels I could still be beautiful. While I’ll certainly never pass for athletic, I could finally do a full hour of weights and sprints without fainting. While it means working at bit harder, I still get my straight A’s and even won a scholarship. Now I’m on the dean’s list. And after amassing a new set of great stories, it turns out I can still be pretty funny. Even if I’m only making me laugh.

The nice side effect of all this is that I’m starting to love not only my life again, but trying new things as well. I can’t wait to start fencing lessons and plan on giving snowboarding a try this winter. I am volunteering as a grief group facilitator in town and have recently taken up hot yoga.

Given my lack of athletic prowess, it’s not surprising that the latter actually makes me cry more.

But I’m getting to know me all over again.  And you know what?  I kind of like it. It’s good to be me again.

Our thanks to guest author Emily Clark for sharing her story here with us.  You can read more of Emily’s journey through young widowhood on her blog.

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Providence blinked facing the sun

Where are we left to carry on

“Until the Day is Done”, by R.E.M

Providence Blinked

According to Dictionary .com, Providence is defined as, among other things, the foreseeing care and guidance of nature over the creatures of the earth. Until May of 2002, I would have accepted that definition without reservation. I felt protected and maybe even immune from the tragedy that affected other individuals in society.  Arrogance didn’t drive this perception; I just never allowed my mind to go to the deep, dark places where others already had been.   However, providence did blink (mightily, I might add) and the foundation of my stable, safe world turned into a meaningless pile of rubble.  In May of 2002, my daughter Jeannine was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of cancer.  On March 1,2003, Jeannine died at the age of 18 at home, under the care of Hospice.  Providence not only blinked, but it had abandoned me.   I questioned how I would ever carry on without my daughter.

The emotional pain that I experienced after Jeannine’s death was unlike any pain that I had experienced before in my life.  Children are not supposed to die before their parents, and in my world that was never an option that I even remotely entertained.   The first two-and-one –half years after Jeannine’s death was all about survival, a day and sometimes a minute at a time.  With the support of others, I blindly put one foot in front of the other, hoping that I would someday thrive rather than survive in the aftermath of the worst experience of my life.   Eventually, I was able to make the decision to thrive; to find meaning as a result of my struggle with Jeannine’s death.

In 2006, I taught a course at Utica College related specifically to challenges that parents face after the death of their children.  I developed the framework for this course during my survival mode with the support of faculty.  In retrospect, this was the first conscious decision that I made to make Jeannine’s life and death significant, while simultaneously making my life meaningful.  On the first night of class, I told Jeannine’s story; my students embraced not only her story, but also me in the process.  Today, many of my students are a source of inspiration, love and support.  Developing this course also allowed me to become familiar with a framework that I believe can help individuals who have experienced all kinds of traumatic losses learn to find joy and meaning again.

Posttraumatic Growth

During my research for textbooks, I discovered: Facilitating Posttraumatic Growth: A Clinician’s Guide, by Lawrence G. Calhoun and Richard G. Tedeschi. They define posttraumatic growth very simply as: positive change that an individual experiences as a result of the struggle with a traumatic event. The framework that they provide is an empowering one for individuals who have experienced catastrophic loss.  It also provides the individual who has experienced trauma with hope for a better present and future.  The following represents the domains identified by Tedeschi and Calhoun, under which posttraumatic growth occurs.  I will offer observations from my own journey as to how posttraumatic growth has occurred for me in each of those domains.

Changed Sense of Relationships With Others

Growth has occurred for me on a variety of levels since Jeannine’s death.  First, the relationship with my wife Cheri has become stronger than ever.  There were however, serious challenges after Jeannine died. The intense physical and emotional fatigue that we experienced in early grief made it virtually impossible for us to be supportive of each other.  Our grieving styles were also different as well as Cheri openly dealt with her emotions while  I distracted myself from mine.  Our marriage could have very easily ended in divorce after Jeannine died because of these challenges.  However, Cheri and I have always had open communication, mutual respect, love and trust in our relationship.  We relied on the foundation that we had built to understand how we grieved and what we could do to support each other in our journeys.  Our marriage has not only become stronger, but our friendship with each other has grown in leaps and bounds as well.

In addition, today the significance of the relationships I have with others is measured not by the number of contacts that I have, but the strength of connection that I experience when we do connect.  I have also been more tolerant of individuals who do not understand the unique challenges presented by the death of a child.  In early grief, I used their lack of empathy to feed the pain and anger I experienced.   Today, I am at peace with the fact that many people lack empathy with my experience and I choose not to hold individuals accountable because they can’t identify with challenges they haven’t experienced themselves.  I focus my energy on gratitude for the presence of those in my life who have unconditionally supported my journey.

Changed Sense of Self: More Vulnerable, Yet Stronger

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places”- Ernest Hemingway

After Jeannine’s death, my world was no longer safe, orderly and predictable.  I knew now that if one of my children died, that another or both of Jeannine’s two surviving brothers could die as well.  To say that I was feeling extremely vulnerable would have been an understatement; I was a broken man.  My faith, trust in a greater good, hopes for the future and values were shattered beyond recognition.   However, I chose to turn over the vulnerable and broken parts of myself to other parents who understood my pain.  Journaling, as well as reading about other parents who experienced the death of a child and understanding how they navigated the journey was also of great comfort to me.  Making a conscious commitment to healing has allowed me to become stronger at “my broken places.”

Changed Philosophy of Life

In the aftermath of Jeannine’s death, I have developed a greater appreciation for life.  Life turned on a dime for me over ten years ago, and I know that it can again.  I try to savor the experiences and people who are part of my present moments as much as possible.  I know that death can summon me at anytime; I use that knowledge to live a better life where I can be of service to others.  I also view the passage of time differently.  I used to think that time heals all wounds, but today I believe otherwise.   I will never be totally healed as a result of my struggle with Jeannine’s death, nor will my world ever return to the way it was when Jeannine was alive.   Today, the passage of time has and will continue to redefine who I am as a person, and how I view the world around me.  The person who I am today is in many ways wiser, more empathic and more resilient than the person I was before Jeannine’s death.  I will always be a work in progress.

My spiritual philosophy has also changed. I have learned that relationships continue with our loved ones after they die.  Jeannine has graced me with signs of her presence in a variety of ways since her death.  In the process I have developed a relationship with her that is pure and based on unconditional love.  The relationship that we share has not only given me greater comfort but has allowed me to develop greater clarity as it relates to my life purpose.  In the beginning of this article I alluded to the fact that providence abandoned me because Jeannine died.  Today providence has embraced me because Jeannine lives on in me and through me.

There will always be some degree of sadness in my life because Jeannine is no longer a part of my physical world, but I have discovered the joy of living again, as well.  I also know that her death will promote my continued growth… as long as I continue to embrace it.

David J. Roberts, LMSW, CASAC, became a parent who experienced the death of a child, after his daughter Jeannine died of cancer on 3/1/03 at the age of 18. He is a retired addiction professional and is also an adjunct professor in the psychology and psychology-child life departments at Utica College, Utica, New York.  You can read more of his work here.

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How being an intellectual helped – and sometimes hindered – my grief.

Numerous studies have been done over the years that look at the ways that people grieve. A number of theories about the styles or patterns of grief have evolved from this research. Perhaps one of the best theories I have heard over the years contrasts emotional and analytical grieving.

Emotional grievers are probably the people we stereotypically imagine – loud outbursts of emotions and tears, heavily dependent on those around them, weeping on the shoulders of friends and strangers alike, fully immersed in the emotion of grief whether they are in public or at home.

Analytical grievers, on the other hand, are the people who often get a bad rap when it comes to their grief. These are the grievers who often experience their emotions when they are alone – they save the crying, weeping, and wailing for when they are alone. For me this usually meant breaking down in the car on the way to or from work or, when I just couldn’t take it anymore, in my office at work (thank goodness I didn’t work in a cubicle).

Because analytical grievers don’t often display much emotion in public, people around them often think they aren’t grieving “correctly” or at all. I remember a family member telling me 9 months after my husband had died that he didn’t think I was all that heartbroken because he hadn’t seen me ever cry. The truth was, I cried all the time. For hours and hours, every day. I just did it when I was by myself and didn’t have to worry about what others might think or how uncomfortable I might make them feel. It wasn’t until much later on in my grief journey that I realized that letting go and crying in public from time to time might actually have made me feel better. It would have saved me hours of agony trying to hold in my emotions as they built up and built up until I burst.

We analytical grievers also spend a great deal of time and our grief energy on trying to figure things out and get things done. For some this could mean hours poring over medical researching online, filling out forms, reading every book on grief possible, planning a funeral, or taking up every ounce of busy work available. While my family sat around scratching their heads in confusion, I insisted on going over every detail of my husband’s vehicle accident, over and over. I read the coroner’s report, witness testimony, and practically interrogated the first officers on scene until even they couldn’t take it anymore. I insisted on seeing what was left of my husband’s wrecked vehicle, despite all advice to the contrary. I immersed myself in book after book, seeking out literature that might hold the key to saving me from the mess I was in. For me this was all a part of trying to understand the how and the why of what had happened. I needed information. I needed answers.

Sadly, these answers never came. With every new detail I acquired, I felt as if I understood less and less. All the facts in the world couldn’t take away the simple truth: that my husband was gone and never coming back. Over time, my obsession of analyzing his passing became a distraction from my grieving. Rather than facing the truth and finding healing, I was distracting myself from the pain. Well…as much as one could anyway.

Eventually I began to realize that I would always be left with a multitude of unanswerable questions, and let myself drift into an ocean of pain and emotion. While I never lost that tendency towards trying to “intellectualize” my grief, I began to appreciate and embrace my emotional side as well. There was a delicate balance between trying to understand and just letting myself feel.

So if you or someone you know is grieving, I urge you to take a moment to consider your own grief style as well as theirs. Instead of questioning the way they express themselves, try to remember that there is no right way to grieve. For some, our comfort is in being alone and keeping busy. For others, healing comes from crying on the shoulder of a friend (or stranger). Whatever the case, I urge you to embrace your grieving style and respect the grieving style of those around you.

Our thanks to guest author Emily Clark for sharing her story here with us.  You can read more of Emily’s journey through young widowhood on her blog.

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As soon as the funeral was over, however, all bets were off.

I went from daily showers to one every other day. Then every third day. Then… well, you get the idea. Doing laundry meant looking at my husband’s clothes lying on the laundry room floor. So I just didn’t do the laundry. Problem solved.

The very thought of food made me nauseous and I couldn’t bear the idea of cooking a meal for just me. Besides, groceries required leaving the house and interacting with other humans. Most days I opted for cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When the milk ran out, dry cereal tasted just fine. One day when I inadvertently knocked an entire box off the counter, scattering cheerios cross the kitchen floor, I crumpled into a sobbing pile on top of them. I spent over a week with them crunching under foot before I swept them up.

I refused to wash the sheets, sick over the thought of washing my husband’s smell out of his pillowcase or blanket. In fact, I refused to even lie on his side of the bed for months, desperate to preserve the indent where he slept as long as I possibly could.

Not having to go to work for a couple weeks made it easy to avoid leaving the house (except to dash out to the mailbox) and a trip to the gym seemed downright ludicrous. My days were filled with endless grief work – crying, filling out paperwork, returning phone calls, and crying some more.

I knew I wasn’t taking care of myself and I didn’t care.

Eventually I had to return to work and things like brushing my teeth resumed out of necessity (and what little spark of vanity I had left). However it wasn’t until I joined a local grief group that I began to understand the importance of self-care. That being gentle with myself, and making sure I was physically okay,  actually made me feel better.

So I began to explore ways that I could take care of myself. Outside of the obvious hygiene care like showering and washing the dishes, I found a perfect avenue for working out my thoughts. I began slipping on headphones and pounding the pavement, taking longer and longer walks every evening when I came home from work. This helped me physically vent my frustration and gave me some much-needed quiet time where I could be alone. Often these walks turned into silent conversations between me and my husband that lasted for hours. When the walking wasn’t enough for me anymore, I began seeing a personal trainer, rollerblading, and eventually took up hot yoga.

With an increase in my activity level, I was also forced to smarten up about how I was eating and how much water I was drinking. While my love for cooking had taken a bit of a downturn, I found throwing together a salad was so little work, it was almost like not cooking at all. Of course I still enjoyed cereal for dinner from time to time. I think even my husband would have understood.

I also began seeking outlets for my grief. I started writing and playing music again. I took up my clarinet again and even sourced out a new saxophone that I could play to my heart’s content. While I played I imagined my husband sitting across from me, eyes closed, enjoying the music as much as I was.

I got serious about improving my sleep situation and visited my doctor to get some medication to help me out. Instead of lying awake anxiously thinking about my husband’s accident, I could drift off to sleep with the hopes of dreaming about him instead.

As time went on, the more I took care of myself, the more manageable I found my grief. If I was rested and content, the grief somehow didn’t feel so big. It gave me the strength I needed to tackle my grief each day and create lasting changes in my life. Eventually my itch to change things inspired me to try out new adventures as often as I could – I travelled to places I had never been, made new friends, and even took up archery.

Now self-care has almost become second nature to me. I’m always looking for new ways to improve my mental and physical health – whether it be through mediation, a massage, or just curling up with a good book. I’ve had to learn to make myself my own priority and, as a result, have found a better way of living with my grief.

Our thanks to guest author Emily Clark for sharing her story here with us.  You can read more of Emily’s journey through young widowhood on her blog.

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It’s important to remember we are not the only ones who have lived through and survived such a loss. We have many loss survivors who have gone before us and they have blazed a trail of survivorship and healing for us. So, with that in mind, we take a look at some ways to get and stay grounded and centered during grief:

1.  Don’t isolate. Isolating magnifies our sense of pain. This does not mean putting yourself with anybody you can find. A sense of discernment is required, which can be challenging. We need to put ourselves in the presence of people who care and understand, and who aren’t going to try to rewrite history for us or tell us how we are supposed to be feeling.

2.  Ask for help.  While it sometimes isn’t easy, it is most certainly much harder to get through grief and loss alone. Asking for help, and getting it, is perhaps the strongest indicator that a person will be okay. Grief support groups, therapist who specializes in grief and loss, and private, small therapy groups can be a huge benefit.

3.  Do only what you can do. Maybe you don’t want to go to that office Christmas party. Don’t! You are the best judge of how much you can handle. If the holidays are overwhelming you, create your own celebration at home with a close friend. During overwhelming times, less is more. Make sure to get lots of rest and sleep, eat healthy food and give yourself lots of time-outs!

4.  Watch out for the mood altering substances. After a loss, it can be very tempting to overdo it with alcohol, cigarettes, food, work, shopping — any compulsive activity prevents you from feeling your feelings. The addictions are merely symptoms for what’s going on underneath: not wanting to feel the pain of the loss. This is where a therapist becomes crucial in guiding you through your grief.

5. Steer clear of the critical people. Believe it or not, there will be some people out there who will tell you to “just get over it” and other insensitive comments intended to help you see that your loved one’s death was merciful, or that it is good that they are no longer in pain, etc.  Please remember these people are ignorant, uneducated and foolish. It is not your job during this tender time to reform them. Avoid them.

Above all, be good to yourself. And remember, grief is a lifelong journey with many ups and downs.  Hopefully with time and support will come healing.  Give yourself room to feel whatever you’re feeling and know that there is no “normal” way to grieve – every single situation is different.  It’s time to start cutting yourself a break and learning to love yourself. Right now!

Catherine Greenleaf is a suicide loss survivor, and author of the highly acclaimed book, Healing The Hurt Spirit: Daily Affirmations For People Who Have Lost a Loved One to Suicide. She is a spiritual counselor and a member of the Association for Death Education and Counseling. She travels nationwide to speak to suicide loss survivors about how to persevere after suicide loss. You can read more of her work on her blog, or follow her on twitter.

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Who is she? She is a friend that I met when I first moved to London almost 8 years ago. She was friends with me before tragedy hit. She was friends with the old me, the “me” before. She moved away a month before my son died. In fact, she delayed her departure so she could attend my baby shower. That was the last time she saw me until a few weeks ago.

Who was she telling her stories to? She was sharing this information with some of my new friends. Friends who didn’t know the “me” before. As she was walking down memory lane, sharing stories about fun times and crazy moments I could see looks of wonder on the faces of my newer friends. I could tell that they didn’t recognize the “me” that was being described in the stories. In a way, neither did I. That person seems so far away now.

It’s been just over 2 and a half years since my precious baby boy died. A lot has happened since then. I have come out of the fog of early grief and despair. I have gone on to have my rainbow baby and know the joy of parenting a living child. I have slowly and deliberately carved out a new life for myself, a new normal.

I am no longer frozen in time. I no longer count each day without him. I no longer cry for hours every day. I suppose it’s fair to say that I have moved on with life. I have moved forward to a place where there is still some sadness, but there is also much joy.

But I am forever changed. You can’t go through something as devastating and soul destroying as losing a child and come out the other side the same person. It’s just not possible. Moments like this create permanent marks in our lives. There will never be a time when I go back to being that person. There will always be “The Me Before,” and “The Me After.”

I don’t think too much about the person I was before my son died and was born. I guess that’s because it’s been such a tough road to get to the person I am today. I’m still in the trenches trying to find my way to a happier place. So I rarely look back anymore.
But this week I caught a glimpse of the “me” before when I listened to her stories. And I really missed the woman I used to be. They way she talked about me made me remember just how full of life I was. How idealistic  and positive I was, even in the midst of an almost 8 year battle with infertility. I had a joy for life that I haven’t been able to recapture just yet.

It was quite an interesting evening. Sitting with a mix of old friends and new friends. Friends I knew on either side of the tragedy that was my son’s death. Two very different sides of the same person. I could see that my new friends did not entirely recognize the woman she was describing. The “me” before threw a lot of parties and cooked up a storm, the “me” after has much fewer parties and hardly ever cooks for her friends. The old me would never turn down a chance to socialize while the new me sometimes does.

It got me a bit nostalgic about the past. I know I can’t change anything. There will be no magical transformation back to that fun loving, much less complicated person. But maybe I could try and bring a bit of the fun back. Not just for them, but for me. There was a time when I loved having people over. There was a time when I loved cooking for friends. Perhaps I need to try and recapture that feeling.

Perhaps it’s time for me to invite some friends over for a BBQ sometime soon.

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For All of US Who Remember Mary

In remembering we try to

put together

what has fallen

apart. We think

back to what we could have, might have,

should have done and

weep. Our nights fill

with if only

as guilt and anger poke and creep

about the room

fusing with a

sadness beyond words.

Ah yes, familiar feelings for many of us, I suspect. Such feelings poke their way into our consciousness. Some would see them “negative;” I choose to see them as reminders of why the person was so woven into my life and how I might better care for those living. It doesn’t change the current “sadness beyond words,” but I know it is part of my/our grief journey and that expressing it in a poem, a letter or confiding in a friend is a part of healing. Joan says it better than I have here in another poem I received the same week as the one above.

Wordless Ways

There are questions words can’t answer

which are still worth

pondering. They

can nudge and shake

us toward awakening, open

resisting minds

and stubborn hearts,

and point to a

wordless path of deep compassion

for ourselves and

all others, those

here and those gone.

The fruits of loss can be “deep compassion for ourselves and all others” –a gift only those who have been there can share in the unique way a painful experience provides. At Comfort Zone Camp for children and youth who have lost a parent, sibling or primary care giver I have had the privilege of experiencing children, youth and volunteers share this gift of compassion out of their own grief experience and in doing so begin to heal them. I should share with you that Joan’s grandchildren attended one of these camps after the death of their father in an accident. I did not know this until I responded to one of her poems. It’s a small world as they say.

I hope these poems speak to you as they have spoken to me and I wish you compassion for yourself and for all others who grieve with you.

You can receive Joan’s poems at aholdingplace.com

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Except maybe, if you’re like me, and this time of year is also the time someone you love died.  Or for that matter, if this time of year just reminds you how much you miss someone who has died, no matter when that death happened.

My mom died on February 13^th, 2007. Valentine’s Day Eve.  I was never the type to expect a dozen red roses anyway, but since Mom died there has been a dark grey cloud over this cotton-candy pink holiday. In recent years, I’ve just let Valentine’s Day slip by me like any other day. My husband knows that a card is more than enough now, and that pretty much covers our celebration of the day. He is keenly aware that any sense of romance I might be feeling is far outweighed by the lingering memory of Moms’ death.

I was planning (or rather not planning) for Valentine’s Day to come and go as usual this year. And then, as it often does, my mom’s memory came knocking softly at my heart. Mom loved holidays, loved the idea of spreading cheer and love and chocolate any time it was remotely reasonable to do so. Much as I wanted to pretend that Valentine’s Day was just another day, and that the majority of the country was just drunk on the fumes of freshly printed Hallmark cards, I felt something different this year. I felt challenged to reclaim this day.

I decided that I wanted to do something that was fun, fairly easy, and likely to bring joy to others. I also decided that I wanted it to be something that still felt somewhat “normal” for me, since the idea of celebrating Valentine’s Day at all was already a pretty big deviation from my routine. It’s all about baby steps with me and my grief.

I remembered sitting at the kitchen table as a kid, carefully folding and tearing the strips of Valentine’s Day cards Mom let me pick out from the store. She would always ask me who I wanted to give one to, even though she knew we bought enough for everyone in my class. Looking back, I realize this was her undercover Mom way of finding out who my BFF of the week was, and which boy I had a crush on. Smooth, Mom, very smooth.

I don’t have a roomful of classmates anymore, but I do love the idea of everyone getting a card, no matter how cool or fun or popular they might feel.  I love the idea of people having a random moment in their day when they feel valued, cared for, and loved.  I thought of things I loved about Mom, things I had told her, and some I had not. I thought of how happy it would make anyone to hear things that someone loved about them. And just like that, I had my plan.

I bought a box of children’s Valentine’s Day cards that came with tiny little envelopes. I chose ones with little bears wearing funny outfits, because Mom would have loved the silliness of them. I sat at my desk and carefully tore the strips of cards apart. I could almost feel Mom at my shoulder.

I wrote tiny messages to my mom on the cards. They weren’t anything spectacular, just simple little messages of love: Your smile makes my heart sing. I love the way your hair catches the sun. Thank you for being an example of kindness. You are loved. I sealed them into the envelopes, and wrote the same thing on the outside of each: If you found this, it is for you.

I stuffed the cards into my bag, and left the house. With no particular plan, I took a little tour of my city, leaving cards along the way.  I tucked a card under the windshield wiper of a beat up car. I slipped one into a sneaker on display in a store. I left one on the counter at a coffee shop, and one stuck between two sodas in a drink cooler. With each one, I thought of Mom, of the many things I loved and missed about her. I thought of the joy she would have felt in knowing that my love for her was bringing a little happiness into the lives of others.  I thought of the strength I felt in making a choice to lean into, rather than away from, my feelings of grief that surround this holiday.

My grief was telling me to ignore Valentine’s Day. My mom’s memory was telling me to find a way to celebrate that felt real and right in my heart. I won’t pretend that hiding children’s cards in random spots for strangers to find is going to be the right way for you to celebrate your loved one’s memory. I will say that you sometimes need to try something different when the thing you’ve been doing is just not bringing you any sense of happiness or peace.

I couldn’t have guessed that a two dollar box of cartoon bear cards could help me to feel that Valentine’s Day might be worth celebrating after all.  I sent my love for Mom out into the universe, and that simple act helped me to feel filled with love myself. It’s an amazing thing to start with grief and sadness and finish with love and peace. Who knows, I may even ask my husband for a box of chocolates this year.

What ways will you celebrate your loved one this Valentine’s Day?

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It’s been over two years now, and if there is one thing I have learned, it’s that there is real beauty in the written word. When those silent prayers to our loved ones aren’t enough, putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboards) can be a soothing balm for the soul.

I often write to my husband. Sometimes these letters are long, poetic, as perfectly constructed as a term paper for school. Other times they are hastily written notes I jot down in anger or frustration or sheer wonder on the back of a napkin or sticky note. I have nowhere to send them, so I keep them. They are concrete and solid, and in a world turned upside down where so very little makes sense to me, they are reassuringly real. Somewhere in the back of my mind it feels like I am saving up these letters for him. Should he ever descend from the heavens to read them, he’ll be well caught up on everything he has missed.

What do I put in these letters?

Well, whatever I want.

I write them as though we are talking, as though he is in the room. It is like having our home-from-work conversations in the kitchen where I’d prattle on about my day and he’d listen, bemused, nodding at all the right spots and laughing when he thought it was safe to do so.

I encourage all grievers to get out pen and paper and write to their missing loved one. To tell them the things you want to say, pour your heart out, and share those jokes that only the two of you will understand. Burn them, save them, publish them to your blog – whatever feels right.

I’ll leave you with a sample of one of my own to get you started:

Hey dear, it’s just me again.

I don’t know how to reach you. Still. I hope you get my messages anyhow.

I still need to talk to you every day. It’s been so long and still, still I want to tell you about my day. Remember when you’d pick me up from work? We’d have to time it just right so you wouldn’t get a ticket for parking illegally and so I wouldn’t have to wait more than 10 seconds because I was always dressed inappropriately for the weather. I’m always too hot, or too cold. 13 years in this city and I still haven’t figured out the right clothing-to-weather ratio.

Or in the mornings, over coffee. You hated mornings. I didn’t. But you’d sit there, wrapped in blankets like an overstuffed cocoon, just sipping your coffee patiently while I yammered on. I miss our mornings. I drink tea now. I don’t like coffee anymore. It’s too much like us. And I surf the web while I drink. Sometimes I turn the tv on so it feels like someone is there. But sometimes I just like to feel alone.

I miss our talks.

Even though it was mostly me talking and you pretty much just listened. You always were a good listener. Did I ever tell you I loved that about you? I hope so.

I wish we could talk just one more time.

Just one more.

I have so much to ask.

This time, I think I’d be the one mostly listening.

Our thanks to guest author Emily Clark for sharing her story here with us.  You can read more of Emily’s journey through young widowhood on her blog.

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Just below the surface of a broken heart lies raw emotions that are dormant…waiting to come alive.

Many things can stir those emotions and bring them up to the surface. For my kids, it was the amazing bereavement camp – Comfort Zone Camp – they attended this past weekend that seemed to stir up a lot of different emotions. Not for them I might add, but for myself and the rest of my family as well. Grief can be an ugly thing to have to face. There is no way to sugar coat it. What my kids feel is real and raw. I can’t fix it, take it, get rid of it, or carry it for them. That in itself can be very hard for me as a parent.

We don’t want our kids to hurt. I don’t want my kids to be without their daddy. But they are. He isn’t coming back. It is not like a movie. We can’t hit the rewind button. We can only go forward from here. Learning how to do that is a process. Grief is a journey. What I am about to share in this post may be hard for some to read. It is hard for me to write. It is even harder to live. But I have always believed that God is using our story for something bigger than ourselves. I only hope that it only encourages others on their own unique journey of grief.

It seems that camp stirred up a lot of different things for each of us. For my son, Ryan, it stirred up more of his anger. He has been the angriest since his dad’s death. Totally understandable! But I want to help him learn how to overcome the anger so that it doesn’t overcome him. I don’t want him to grow up to be an angry man, husband, and father. Anger is like a cancer that can slowly eat away at you. I don’t have all the answers, but I am trying to learn how to help him on this journey.

I am angry too. I am angry that my husband Erik died so young. I am angry that my kids have to grow up without their father. I am angry that Erik is no longer on this earth. He was such a good man; a good friend, a good worker, a good husband, a good father. When I see how his death has hurt my kids, I am angry! But I must learn how to not let my anger rule over me. It takes time. It doesn’t go away with the snap of a finger. One thing I have discovered is that grief is never-ending. It will never go away. It will always be there in some form in our lives. It is a hole that can never be filled.

That brings me to my next point:”The Hole.”  It’s the empty space that remains where Erik used to be. Valerie, my young daughter, is the one who came up with this picture. She is wise beyond her years and never ceases to amaze me. God continues to use her in my life to help me on my journey. No matter what it is we are doing in this life, Erik will never again physically be there to be a part of it. That reality breaks my heart. Allow me to share from my Facebook page:

Wrote this song and/or poem as I ponder something Valerie said to me recently. When talking about her new life, now that her precious daddy is gone, she talked about there being sad in everything. And then she said that there was a hole in everything without him. In her words,” We can go to Canobie Lake Park, but Daddy isn’t there to have fun with us, and we can laugh, but he isn’t here to laugh with us.” Those words just about shattered my heart. I hate that my kids must endure this pain the rest of their lives. The pain I feel in my heart for them is so overwhelming. Grief is a journey that is full of ups and downs and bumps and bruises. It doesn’t get easier; you just learn how to live with it (if that’s possible). I never thought this would happen to my family.

There’s a hole in my heart

It’s been here since you went away

Nothing seems to be able to fill it up

Just have to learn to live with it every day

We can laugh

But you won’t be there to laugh with us

We can play

But you won’t be there to join us

We can cry

But you won’t be there to hold us

We can learn

But you won’t be there to teach us

We can live

But you won’t be there to see us

There’s a hole in everything

Nothing’s as it used to be

There’s still a me but there’s no you

How can I ever make it through?

There’s a hole in everything I do

The truth is, the hole will never go away. At games, graduations, weddings, funerals, amusement parks, birthday parties, football games, movies, whatever.  Erik will NEVER be there to experience it with us! He won’t be in any of the photographs. He won’t walk Valerie down the aisle or hold her in his arms for their dance. How do you get through that? I am not sure. I don’t have all the answers. We will face those milestones as they come. We will face them together and with support from God, friends, and family.  That is all we can do.

The days following camp have been hard on my son, Dan, as well. Last night he just couldn’t stop crying. My heart aches for him. He is so sweet and caring. His heart is so tender. He has been having a rough streak in baseball and it has really taken a toll on him. He has also been struggling with school. Academically he is doing so amazingly well.  But the garbage and filth that surrounds him there is really bothering him. All the swearing from kids and kids teasing him for just being Dan really upsets me. You see in 7th grade I guess it isn’t “cool” to be nice to girls or to autistic kids. I am so proud of who Daniel is! I am proud that he is nice to everyone. I hate that other kids try to make him feel bad about the wonderful person he is.  Add grief to that, and it’s a tricky path to walk.

I am sad for “The Hole” that still remains. It is in my heart and in my life as well. I have never stopped missing or loving Erik. I never will. There will always be a hole in my life without him. This is my journey on learning how to live with that, and how to help my kids as they learn how to live through their own grief.

I will be honest and say that it has been a rough road for my kids. They have had so much change in such a short amount of time. So much is different now. I know that they miss their old lives. I know that they miss their dad every moment of every day, even when they aren’t saying it out loud. They will always miss him, and I will never try to tell them to stop missing him.

Now we are faced with learning how to deal with what is in front of us. This new life is not one we chose, but it is the life we have to live now.  It has not been an easy journey. I am thankful that Comfort Zone Camp was able to give the kids (and me) permission to feel these emotions so that we can embrace them and learn how to deal with them.  I am glad that we now know we can grieve and grow as a family, and find new ways to heal.

Samantha Sage is a proud mom and wife, as well as a widow. She writes about her journey following the death of her first husband on her blog.

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