tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60693436730511977462024-03-14T00:12:37.218-04:00I'm no HeroThere is no lonelier man in death, except the suicide, than that man who has lived many years with a good wife and then outlived her. If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.
~Ernest HemingwayAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-46523685302164087372015-07-29T06:00:00.000-04:002015-07-29T06:00:00.332-04:00Luck and Hard Work<div>
I'm in a fiery mood today. It's one of those attitudes that had served me well through the years, and ensured that I continue to move forward, always, in life. I never really know what sparks it. It could be general testosterone, or the nice weather, or even the thought of seeing Sarah next week. Regardless, it's a feeling that I generally welcome. It's not anger or rage...it's determination, acceptance, and drive. <br />
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When I am in this state, I can tend to get preachy, egotistical, and frankly, raw. In this sense, perhaps there exists a chance that I can spark this same feeling in someone else, and help them move forward, even if only for a day. I don't feel like "relating" today. I feel like simply stating, in detail, what's on my mind, and allowing others to interpret it as they see fit. </div>
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Megan is dead. I've accepted that she is not coming back, and for the rest of my life, I will never hear her voice or see her face. I'm not going to mope about it. I don't feel sorry for myself, and I don't want anybody else feeling sorry for me. Life is tough. Work hard, and you might get the chance to make it a little easier, but ultimately, you, and everyone you know is going to die someday. </div>
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That quote is only slightly off. I don't see looking back at Megan as "wasting time". I am simply choosing to remember the good things we had, and not wasting my time looking back at the bad things like hospital stays. <br />
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It will not consume me. What is the purpose in that? It doesn't mean I loved Megan any less, and the first person to insinuate that will probably end up having a bad day. I loved that woman with a fire that could never be extinguished. It still burns; it's just that I'm the only one left to provide the fuel. I don't just love someone because it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. I can, and do love both Megan and Sarah. Sarah gets it, and there's not so much as a batted eye if I express to her that I really miss Megan. </div>
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So you know what I'm going to do, now that Megan is dead? </div>
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I'm going to continue to make Megan proud that she married me. That is truly the way to honor and remember someone you love. You think she wants to see me curled up on the floor, or moping around, bitching about how tough life is without her? No. That is not who she married. She married a man that took care of her and loved her unconditionally for 12 years. A Marine, and a man that loved her and our daughter to the ends of the earth. One that was constantly working to improve himself to earn even more of her love, because even though I already had it, I would never rest on my laurels and be content with what I had. I AM going to love Sarah; not only in the way she deserves, but also in the way Megan deserved and received. In that sense, I have even more love to give. </div>
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Just the same, just about every single person reading these words right now needs to have a similar attitude. The person you lost does not want to see you suffering. They want to see you determined to enjoy life, and to be a better person than you were even with them. If someone can give me a valid reason to just resolve to be alone for the rest of their lives (after accepting their loss, of course), I'm all ears. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-50901907446887856542015-07-24T06:00:00.000-04:002015-07-24T06:00:00.862-04:00Silver Linings Playbook<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve noted a shift in my overall attitude since Megan’s death. I was somewhat of a pessimist in years past; always finding the bad news in any nugget of information that may have come my way. Perhaps it was the shock of losing my wife that finally changed my outlook in everyday life. I now take events or news with a different eye, one where I step back, and try to find the silver lining in anything. It has made me a happier person overall, and it serves to suppress the stress of living in a way I had never thought possible. While at first, this philosophy was a conscious effort, I’ve found that it has become habit, to where I no longer need to force myself to find a silver lining. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For instance...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my garage, there are three cars, one of which is my Mustang. I’ve had it for 15 years now, since I was 19 years old. I had it before I had even met Megan, and she would watch me spend countless hours, in the dead of winter, pulling parts off and replacing them. We went to car shows, parades, and made untold amounts of new friends doing so. We drove it on our honeymoon. It irks me every day to walk past it, and know that it isn’t running. It needs a new fuel pump, and probably some other items replaced. It has sat, motionless, for two years now, and after having so many memories with it, I just don’t have the motivation to crawl under it and replace the broken fuel pump. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But at least it’s paid for and in good shape. It doesn't cost me anything to sit there, and for a few hundred dollars, I could, in a pinch, have it running again. I own a car, a pretty nice one at that, and one that has actual sentimental value. Not everyone can say that.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My job? Well, that’s what it is...a job. I go in every day, sit at my desk, and wait for vague phone calls to come in about printers being out of paper or computers that won’t turn on. My coworkers aren’t very sociable, and many of them are just generally unhappy. It’s mindless work, that I’ve done for years. There isn’t any real creativity or critical thought that goes into it any longer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But it pays well, and it’s very stable. I don't have to worry about losing my job or paying the bills. There generally aren't any surprises. I'm good at my work, and I generally feel appreciated. Someday, I'm going to leave the IT field, and do something, and this job can function as the springboard to do just that.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sarah and I live 1400 miles apart. We have to live separate lives, that don’t always go as mutually planned. There are events, family obligations, anxious moments, and good times that we don’t get to share any more than via Skype or text. Even when we plan to spend time together, often a wrench is thrown in where one or both of us has another commitment that we need to be a part of at that time. We’re both widows, and sometimes, we just need one another to be there, physically, in a bad moment, and it’s impossible to do so.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But at least we understand and love each other, and we know that we will close the distance and have a wonderful future together. Shelby adores her, and we still get to see each other at least once a month. She's healthy (which I am HUGELY thankful for), driven, and independent. The distance only serves to reinforce those traits.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shelby has lost her mother. She is stuck with dear old dad here. While I do my best to feed, clothe, entertain, and love her, there are just some braids that I don’t know how to do, and I’m not exactly experienced with the nail polish. She has to go through the rest of her life without having her mother, the woman that doted so ferociously on her for 7 years of her youth. Never again will she snuggle in bed on a cold winter night with Megan.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But at least she’s incredibly smart, happy, accepting, and well-adjusted, with no signs of any trauma in her past. She's made the honor roll, and is considered gifted in both math and reading. I haven't seen her cry in months. She happily remembers the good times with Megan. Vacations, events, weird things I did, and even making artwork for her while she was in the hospital. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Megan is gone. She doesn’t get to be here with us to see the Mustang run again, or me finally get out of the rat race and do something I love, or to be happy for Sarah and I, or to see Shelby become the powerful, fierce woman that we all know she will be. There will never come a time when she walks through the door of our home and has the dogs greet her with tails flying like they used to. No more memories of taking Shelby to the amusement park or having a nice date with me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her birthday is Friday, July 24th. She never got to see this one, her 34th. A few days later, we’ll be travelling to Myrtle Beach to spread her ashes. She’ll never go back there either. On August 6th, it would have been our 10th wedding anniversary. A full decade. Having that one extra digit on how long we had been married was so significant that we were going to renew our vows. We didn’t make it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But at least she isn’t sick. At least she isn’t describing her daily respiration as “like breathing through a straw”. At least the tattoo she had on her arm, the one that said “until my last breath” was honest. No more stays in the hospital for weeks or months at a time, and no more waking up and literally coughing up bits of lung for 30 minutes. She never has to worry about if her lungs are going to reject at any time.If I could have given those gifts to her for her birthday or anniversary, I would have. In a sense, her death has actually lowered my stress over certain things. Because I am choosing to recognize the amount of stress we were under for over a decade together, and acknowledging that those particular stressors are no longer present.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At least she loved, and was loved, until the day she died, and beyond. She has left one hell of a legacy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I didn't try to find the silver lining in any stress in my life, I would be a much more cynical and introverted person. I would still be wallowing in sadness and loneliness, feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I've chosen to be thankful for what I do have, instead of worrying about what I don't. While I identify as a widower in title, I will always strive to make that title a badge of honor in a weird way. It's what Megan would have wanted most for this birthday...to see her husband and daughter happy, healthy, and continuing on our journey, regardless of if she was here to witness it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Happy birthday Megan. I love you. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;">Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;"> </span><a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" target="_blank">http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog</a></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-55394537320743783202015-07-23T09:20:00.001-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.666-04:00Lack of Updates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know it has been far too long, and far too infrequent that I've updated my ramblings on here. Many, many things have happened, developed, and changed in the last few months. It's prudent that I cover where my journey has taken me recently.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am still writing for <a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog">Widow's Voice</a> every other Tuesday. I've been cross posting that writing here, but even that is only sporadic. If you follow those posts, you will note the significant reason that this blog hasn't been updated nearly enough. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To summarize, I met <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SevenShootingStars">Sarah</a> at Camp Widow back in February, and we formed an instantaneous connection. We've talked every single day since then, and we've fallen in love. She lives in Texas, 1400 miles away, but we've had the luxury of 3 different trips together so far, with more planned, roughly monthly right now. Being that she's a widow as well, we get each other. We know that Megan, and her Drew will always be loved and a huge part of our hearts, and there isn't any jealousy or weirdness when one of us simply misses our persons. It has truly been wonderful, and we're looking forward to a wonderful future together. (Shelby also ADORES her, and will be meeting her for the first time in person in a few short weeks)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Outside of Sarah, I'm still on the hamster wheel here at work. It's stable, and it's "quieted down" somewhat over the past few months, but ultimately, I still see this job as a springboard to bigger, better, more desirable things. I'll stay here for as long as I need to, because it's a good job, but someday, I'll be leaving IT.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm sincerely going to work on updating here more often. It could be weekly, maybe monthly, but it's something I need to focus on. I have quite a few topics circling my head: Megan's birthday, Our anniversary, Sarah and Shelby's meeting, the next Camp Widow, etc. All of that will happen before September's over. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, in a nutshell, I'm apologizing to myself for the lack of writing. I'm making a commitment to write more, as even though I'm am in a happier place right now, journaling and writing in general is still therapeutic and fun. I just need to force it sometimes and realize that not everything I write needs to come from a bad day or stress. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-61350913515961203142015-07-08T08:43:00.002-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.686-04:00Hey Bud<div dir="ltr" style="box-sizing: border-box;">
<em><span style="color: #50575b; font-family: Open Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border-width: initial; height: auto; line-height: 21px; max-width: calc(100% - 40px);"><img alt="IMG_2192.jpg" src="https://d3n8a8pro7vhmx.cloudfront.net/soaringspirits/pages/2162/attachments/original/1436184057/IMG_2192.jpg?1436184057" style="border: none; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; height: auto; margin: 20px; max-width: calc(100% - 40px); vertical-align: middle;" /></span></span></em><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">I am in a very unique situation, not only being a widower, but in love with a widow. The silver lining to this is that it allows me to see things from two perspectives. I’ve decided that since Sarah hasn’t yet traveled to my home, I would write this week from the perspective of dating a widow. Things like meeting in-laws, friends, and seeing pictures of late partners can be a scary thought for anyone. </span><br /><br /><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Perhaps my loss has tempered those anxious moments, but regardless, I would hope that any person that is dating someone who has suffered loss can feel the same comfort and respect that I experienced a few weeks ago, as well as return that reverence to those around them.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I’ve written a letter to Drew, Sarah’s late fiance about this. He deserves to have a word from me from this side.</span></i><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey bud,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />A few weeks ago, I came down there to Texas to see Sarah. I know you (and Megan) have been keeping an eye on things over the past months. You guys have watched us get to know each other and fall in love. You’ve watched us have fun together in Kentucky, and Virginia, where I met your mom. Through endless phone, skype, and text conversations, late into the night, I can’t help but feel like you were there, maybe not guiding anything, but watching. I’m pretty sure you’re happy.<br /><br />So at that time, it got a little more interesting I guess, for both Sarah and I, as well as yourself. I was on your home turf. I walked off of the plane in Austin, and your fiance was waiting there for me with a kiss and a smile. <br /><br />I’m not going to say that it wasn’t thought provoking. We hopped in your truck, and drove the hour or so to the ranch. I’d seen the inside before, in pictures and though Skype, but there you were, staring me in the face from the wall when we walked through the door. This was it. I was now truly in your space. <br /><br />Oddly, it wasn’t difficult, or awkward. I didn’t feel as if I was trespassing on your memory or not supposed to be there. Chalk some of that up to the similarities we shared in personality I guess. It felt like I was simply part of what has always been there. It was already getting late, so Sarah and I hit the rack that night, and I let my mind wander with thoughts of what the next morning would be like, waking up and having your family see me walking around the kitchen.<br /><br />I’m happy to say your family welcomed me as warmly as Sarah has. Hell, your mom came out in the morning, when we were getting our coffee, and gave me a hug. Your sister shook my hand and smiled, and they went off into town for their day.<br /><br />But I guess you saw all this already.<br /><br />Then, and for the entire weekend, I had this indescribable feeling that I was not taking your place, but serving your purpose. I’m my own man. I know it, Sarah knows it, and your friends and family know it. I went to lunch with your mom and sister, and it felt as if I was simply visiting for the 100th time. We didn’t make concrete plans for anything, other than camping that weekend, and as it turns out, after a nice night of dinner, finally meeting your stepfather (who is such a great guy to talk to), and an impromptu date with Sarah, I drove your truck home.<br /><br /><img height="320" src="https://d3n8a8pro7vhmx.cloudfront.net/soaringspirits/pages/2162/attachments/original/1436184076/IMG_2098.jpg?1436184076" width="240" /><br /><br />I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t incredibly meaningful to me. I have a truck myself, and I know how much it means to have someone else drive it. Its this odd sentimentality about our vehicles that guys like us have. To be driving your truck was surreal. It felt natural, and out of place at the same time. I didn’t really comment on it to Sarah at the moment, but she knew anyway. I might as well have been wearing your clothes. <br /><br />Then came <a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/bringing_new_love_home">the reason I was actually down there that particular week</a>...Drewfest. I specifically was there to be a part of the celebration of you that occurs every year since that dumbass accident. I respect you, totally, and fully, without even knowing you. You had to have been a hell of a person to not only have Sarah’s love, but to have the love of the friends I was about to meet. I see the same thing with Megan. She was small in frame, but she had a hell of a presence to everyone that knew her. I can’t imagine what kind of influence you two have wherever you are now. <br /><br />I can’t state more strongly that I again felt like I was there all along. We didn’t sit there and talk about you, or the fact that everyone was meeting me for the first time, after hearing about me for months. We had a fun, enjoyable weekend as a group of friends, and not once did anyone get emotional or did I feel like I was a “new” person, to be watched with a critical eye. We sat around a campfire, that I set up, and shot the shit for hours. We didn’t forget about you. In fact, we remembered you more fully as a person, and not someone who was obviously missing.<br /><br />After another day of tubing and campfire talk, Sarah and I went back to the ranch. Did you see what happened next? I fired up the grill, and we cooked fajitas for your family. I hope I made you proud with my grilling skills, because the whole time I was just pondering how cool it would have been to have you and Megan sitting there on the patio with us, sipping a beer and talking about how good the chicken smelled. <br /><br />That’s the thing. Through all of this, I wished you were there. Having you there in the flesh would only have enhanced the weekend. I can sense that we would have been fast friends, probably to the ultimate annoyance of Sarah and Megan, but then again, they would have been allied as well. All of us would have made a hell of a group. There are times when it feels like Megan and yourself would have made a good couple, and honestly, I hope that you two are indeed together, because I know she’s in good hands.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/the_fields_of_tomorrow">As Sarah wrote,</a> I visited your grave the next day. Of course it was solemn, but it wasn’t just because I felt bad for Sarah. Somehow, I miss you too. Maybe not as intensely as I miss Megan, obviously, but I still wished that I didn’t have to not know you in the flesh. I was visiting the final resting place of a friend.<br /><br />Someday, you and I are gonna sit down and talk about all of this over a good beer. Truthfully, I hope that someday is a long time from now for both Sarah and I’s sake. I’ll take care of things here, and love Sarah like she deserves to be loved, as long as you agree to watch over Megan and take her for some helicopter rides where she’s NOT going to the hospital...she’d love that.<br /><br />Wherever Sarah and I end up, your picture will be hanging on our wall right beside Megan’s, and I’ll be proud to have it there. <br /><br />Later man,<br /><br />Mike</span><div>
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<i>Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at</i> <a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog" target="_blank">http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-56922548659654809612015-05-26T08:51:00.003-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.678-04:00Tailor Made<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UphbuPvcvi0/VbD0cL6BW1I/AAAAAAABcq4/uPlU3vEoq34/s1600/IMG_20150523_114439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UphbuPvcvi0/VbD0cL6BW1I/AAAAAAABcq4/uPlU3vEoq34/s400/IMG_20150523_114439.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, as I sit down to write with tired eyes, I must admit that although I miss Megan as much now as before, it has shifted over these past few months from an intense grief at the thought of her death to more of a longing for her to be present to witness where life has taken me since that time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have just returned from an extended weekend in Kentucky with an amazing woman named Sarah, who also happens to be the same Sarah the writes here on Widow's Voice every Sunday. We met at Camp Widow East in February, completely by chance and/or fate, depending on your beliefs. Neither of us had any intention of finding someone new at that time, but here we are. Three months after meeting, Sarah and I are a couple. Not a day has passed since February 5th that we have not talked, and this past weekend, we were finally able to close the 1400 miles of distance, and bring our lives into the same physical space for a few days. It was wonderful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It's an odd thing, not only being a widower, but being with a widow. Both Megan and Drew are eternally present in our lives and hearts, but now, after endless hours on the phone or Skype, I can almost feel Drew as a friend of mine. It's as if I know him personally, and there are even moments where I mourn his loss. There is no jealousy when Sarah speaks of him. In fact, I love that she gets that wide eyed, contented joy when describing an event or memory with him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, there is always the thought that had Drew or Megan not died, neither of us would have met the other, but there is also the thought that had they not existed, it would have also prevented us from meeting. The two of them made Sarah and I who we are. I am thankful for Drew's love towards Sarah, and her love for him, because she would not be the same person without him. I took Sarah to a restaurant on the Ohio river immediately after picking her up at the airport called "Drew's", simply because of the name.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just as I feel a connection with Drew, I can feel the same connection between Sarah and Megan. There is no competition between them. They are not the same person, and although there is a multitude of similarities, there are just as many differences. Megan would love her and her attitude (primarily because they both make fun of me). That's how I knew that Sarah was not a "band-aid" or a "rebound". I have not once looked at her and thought "well, Megan did it this way, and that means Sarah's way is wrong"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although I am filled with happiness about Sarah, I am struggling to find a poignant, teachable moment. I can't suggest that any widow or widower who is ready to date go out and find another widow, because not only are there good people outside of our "club" that could be just as compassionate and understanding, but there also remains the fact that I wasn't ready to date. Fate happened. She sat down at that table at Camp Widow, and we clicked. I had no choice in the matter, and now we've fallen for each other. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess that the smartest thing I did was keep my eyes, and my heart open. Just as I knew that I wasn't ready to go looking for someone else, I also knew that I shouldn't prevent a good thing from happening. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope that Sarah and I's relationship can give some hope to other widows and widowers, and inspire people to realize that although we may have lost the loves of our lives, that when they were lost, we were given a new life, and a chance to have a new love. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at</i> <a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog" target="_blank">http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog</a></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-64309250756828134082015-05-12T13:20:00.002-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.693-04:00The First Mother's Day<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Two days ago, I experienced my first Mother's Day without Megan. Had you asked me back in January how I would have handled it, I would have expressed sheer terror at the prospect. At that time, just two months since losing her, all I could imagine was that I would be an emotional train wreck, and would probably have just called my mother and mother-in-law to wish them a happy day, and stayed holed up in my house.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That isn't what occurred, however. Yesterday was "OK", for lack of a better term.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our tradition for the past few years had been for Shelby and I to wake up early, go downstairs, make a mess of the kitchen preparing bacon, eggs, pancakes, and coffee, and bring it to Megan in bed, along with a card and a small gift. Shelby would turn some cartoons on and we'd sit and talk, all three of us, until Megan was ready to get out of bed. It was a simple acknowledgment of how special she was, and that we would do anything for her. We would clean up the kitchen and get our day started, where we would be visiting our parents and probably going out to dinner in the evening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I woke up Sunday at that same early time that I always do, fully aware that it was Mother's Day, and painfully acknowledging the fact that for the first time in eight years, Megan wasn't there to cook breakfast for. The dogs, having woke me up, were fed and let outside, and I went back to bed. The bacon stayed in the freezer, and the coffee pot sat there cold.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sunday was, well, just Sunday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a few hours, I roused and went downstairs to find Shelby watching some cartoons, and the dogs, as per usual, passed out on the couch beside her. I asked if she was hungry, she responded with a yes, and asked if we could cook. This suggestion seemed completely foreign to me for some reason. I think that I may have forgotten in that moment that cooking breakfast wasn't just for special occasions, and I casually suggested we just go to McDonald's. Even Shelby was somewhat miffed at this, as it is very rare that we eat McDonald's period, let alone on a Sunday morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We returned home, greasy, bagged food in hand, and sat out on the deck to have breakfast. I began to think about what Mother's Day would or should be in the future. I don't want random Egg McMuffins at 10:00 AM to be our new tradition. This was one of those times where it would just be nice to shoot a text to Megan and say "What do you think we should do?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt incredibly "single" at that moment. This started as neither a depressing nor contented feeling. It was just present, acting as a catalyst to my thoughts. I'm a single parent. Within the four walls of our home, Mother's day has lost it's happy connotations. Now, it only sharpens the focus on Megan's death. It serves as a reminder that Shelby will never make breakfast in bed for her own mother, ever again. At just 8 years old, Shelby is celebrating Mother's Day by sitting on a deck and eating fast food with her dad. This is not what I had in mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This brought me to thinking about the woman I am now dating. Shelby adores her. She has no children of her own, but I know she is an incredible mother nonetheless, and she understands (and sympathizes with) how confusing this journey is for not only me, but also for Shelby. I am indescribably lucky to have someone that I can at least bounce things off of, and not have it seen as "baggage". Undeniably, the thought crossed my mind that she may be celebrating Mother's day with us in the future.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I sat and let all of these thoughts manifest, Shelby began playing with the dogs and laughing. It was one of her deep belly laughs, the one you hear when you know she doesn't have a care in the world. It was then that I knew that it will be Shelby that dictates how we celebrate her mother. If it means cooking breakfast, and eating it ourselves, then so be it. If it means eating fast food, then we'll do that. She is old enough now that she can make her own judgments, and I will support her in whatever she wants to do, just as I did Megan. Mother's day will now be Shelby's day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I may make suggestions to her, but ultimately, I still have my mother to celebrate. Only Shelby truly understands what it's like to have lost hers. Perhaps in this case, she should be my guide.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at</i> <a href="http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog" target="_blank">http://www.soaringspirits.org/blog</a></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-18018181816491505442015-05-03T10:58:00.000-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.598-04:00Their Own ChambersI'm learning how to love a new person right now, and even though I love her deeply, she is not the person I spent 12 years of my life with. There are different mannerisms, needs, and habits that I have to learn how to fit into. This is not to say that it's a bad thing; just that it's a learning experience just like so much of life is.<br />
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I spent a lot of time recently, thinking about how different I am now than when I was 22. I had all of the patience in the world then, because I felt I had my whole life ahead of me. I'm now 34. I have a stable, well-paying career. I have an 8 year old daughter. I'd been married, for almost a decade. There are many times when I look at those facts, and think that my whole life has pretty much been fulfilled.<br />
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Marriage, or any relationship really, is not a rose garden or fairy tale. I refuse to put Megan and I's relationship on a pedestal and not acknowledge that it took a lot of work sometimes. We had "rough patches", just as any couple will do, and we worked it out and started over with fresh perspectives and goals. We loved each other, and we were able to weather these storms. <br />
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There was a process to this. Megan would pull back and become quiet. I would generally perceive an issue or stress of some sort, and do my best to analyze and resolve the dilemma, oftentimes having to pry it out of her. Before she began the process of rejection, we had begun "dating" again as an agreed upon solution to a funk we had been in as a couple. Things were going well. We had talked everything over, and I was happy with the direction we were going. While it certainly wasn't easy mentally, to have had the stress in the first place, it was nice to have a common goal and solution to work on. Ultimately though, she died before we could hit an equilibrium where it wasn't just work, and it haunts me to have never fully resolved that phase.<br />
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So now, I am starting over with a completely new woman. I knew Megan's process and mannerisms. I knew how to "play her game" and work with her. This is something I have to learn again though. I have to learn that when my new woman gets quiet or needs time to herself, that it's NOT because she is mad or has an issue with me or us. That is the hardest thing for me to grasp right now, because it was Megan's "tell". Something was ALWAYS wrong when she got quiet. That's not the case with the new woman. I love her deeply and truly, and I need to disassociate the love I had for Megan from the love I have for her. This is not to say I should forget or love Megan less; that will never happen, but I need to see them as living in two different, albeit equally sized, chambers of my heart. <br />
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I guess what I'm taking away from all of this is that I need to sometimes reset my own perspectives. While there may be similar mannerisms or behaviors, they can be, and likely are for very different reasons. The way I live my new life, while greatly influenced by Megan and the life I had with her, cannot be BASED solely on her. It's not fair to myself, or my new love to compare what I <b>had</b> with what I <b>have</b>. <br />
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I am learning that I need to archive the chamber of my heart that Megan lives in. I need to always use it as reference material, and sometimes take the lessons I learned with her and move them to the new chamber. The key is to make sure that Megan is not the only author in the library moving forward. <br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-85816715963092405612015-04-30T07:59:00.002-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.734-04:00Weeping Willows<br />
Hey babe,<br />
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Do you remember this place? Do you remember how much Shelby loves coming here? It was the first place that Shelby and I ever took a hike, and it's the final place, a year ago, that you and I took a walk. I can still remember Shelby running around, picking up last year’s acorns, the few remaining ones left alone by the squirrels at least. I remember holding your hand and just walking, letting her be fascinated by nature, as she always was, and still is. We strolled...slowly. You had already been in rejection for a few months, but you weren't sick enough yet that you couldn't shuffle along. <br />
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We could smell the dogwood trees blooming, and I remember you commenting on how they smelled so much better than any perfume that anyone had ever worn around you, and how, for a change, a potent scent didn't make you cough.<br />
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I remember being terrified at the time that this would be the last walk we would ever take together. Turns out, my fear would become reality in November..<br />
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God, how many times we came here, and walked the different paths through the various gardens, but we always ended up here, at the “Weeping Collection”. <br />
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You loved weeping willows. They were your favorite tree, and every time we would pass one on a drive, you would always comment on how much you loved them. I always wished that we lived somewhere where I could have planted one for you. They need more space, and our little white house with the white picket fence on a ⅛ acre city lot in Akron just would not suffice. I wish we had gotten even just a year or two more...long enough we could have moved, and I could have planted that willow for you on the little mini-farm I always wanted to live out the rest of my days on. I knew you weren't going to be around forever, but I had at least hoped for the chance to get you out of the city. <br />
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We would have renewed our vows on our 10th anniversary, this coming August, right here under this weeping willow in the gazebo. I had decided upon it on our walk, but I never got the chance to tell you.<br />
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So, I came back here today to write this to you. I had to come in the spring, just to remember that walk, and all the sights, sounds, and smells. Honestly, what I needed most was to sit and mourn you for awhile. I haven’t mourned the loss of you for some time because frankly, I've been happy. I needed to sit here and talk to you, honestly, deeply, and frankly, in a place that was one of the last that you and I shared before sitting quietly among industrial tile floors, a ventilator pumping away, and IV poles for six months, and I needed to do it alone, at least this first time. <br />
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I’m sorry babe. I’m sorry that I didn't move fast enough in life to plant that willow for you, or to renew our vows under the little gazebo covered in wisteria. If I knew then what I know now, we would have done it that very day. There was no sense in waiting for a specific date, because honestly, the vows I took, and wanted to renew, meant the world to me no matter when they were stated. I guess there is no sense in renewing them now, as now that death has done us part, they can never be broken. I am morbidly proud of that fact. <br />
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Unfortunately, we can only know what we know now. I know now that you were preparing me, for 12 years, to be the man I am today. I know now that, other than still being alive and healthy, you wouldn't have it any other way for Shelby or I. I know now that I am supposed to continue my life as if you were still here with us, but with someone else that is just as special as you were, and that I can love just as much as I loved you. <br />
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I know now that every spring, I should come here, walk, talk to you, mourn you, and thank you for being who you were, and who you continue to reveal yourself to be. I know now that the same thanks should have been given to you while you were alive. I know now that those who deserve thanks and love should get it then and there, when I’m feeling it, and not on some arbitrary “special occasion”, because there aren't any guarantees that the special occasion will occur.<br />
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You taught me all of this, Megan. You've taught me that I can love even more than I ever thought possible, and that my love for you will continue to grow right alongside my new love. You've brought me to where I am today, and you'll continue to take me where I'm going. In that sense, we're still holding hands, walking together, and I know you'll be there by my side the rest of my life. Shelby? She's running just ahead, taking in everything on her own terms, but always under both of our watchful eyes.<br />
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Thank you.<br />
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Take care babe, I love you.<br />
Mike<br />
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<i>Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at <a href="http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/">http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/</a></i>
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Shelby needs to have an example of what a caring, devoted man, father, and husband should be. She is a mere 8 years old, but I believe most readers here will understand when I state that, well, I might not be here by the time she's 18. It's a cold, hard truth that should never be swept under the rug or glossed over, and I can unfortunately speak from experience.<br />
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She needs standards, before she even sniffs at being interested in boys. I can only hope that I've been, and will continue to be an example to her.<br />
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She needed to see that a man can allow and encourage her to be independent, but to always support her in a time of need.<br />
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She needed to see that a man will sacrifice his own happiness, not in love, obviously, but in general for his wife's well-being.<br />
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She needed to see that a man will hold his wife's hair for 1.5 hours, every morning for a decade, as she has her routine coughing fits, and that it is <b>never</b> seen as normal to him.<br />
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She needed to see that a man will be calm and collected and able to make informed, quick decisions when faced with his wife coughing up pints of blood.<br />
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She needed to see that a man will carry his wife to bed when she can't walk up the stairs, and that it is always effortless.<br />
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She needed to see that a man will bathe his 33 year old wife as she cries, because she can no longer do it herself.<br />
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She needed to see that no amount of sickness, frustration, or trauma will ever make a man walk away from a woman he truly loves.<br />
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She needed to see that 12 years is not nearly enough time for a man to give all of his love to his wife.<br />
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She needed to see that a man can be strong most of the time, but it's OK for them to cry when their goddamn wife dies.<br />
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She needs to see that a man<b> will </b>fulfill his vows, in sickness and in health, until death does him part from his wife.<br />
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<b>She needed to see what true love is, and she needs to see it again.</b><br />
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She needs to see that though a new woman may be now part of his life, a man can and will still love his wife, and the mother of his beautiful daughter just as much.<br />
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She needs to see that a man in this situation will make smart decisions about bringing a new woman into his daughter's life. Decisions not based on loneliness.<br />
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She needs to see that a child is always the priority for a man, but he is able to balance that with someone new that he truly loves.<br />
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She needs to see what it's like for two smart, experienced adults to meet and fall for each other in a healthy way.<br />
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She needs to see that a man can only expand his heart with love for another person, rather than replace space that someone else previously held.<br />
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She needs to see that a man should have his own drive and determination, but that the women in his life will always factor into that.<br />
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She needs to see that a man can lose his wife, but still have the confidence to move forward and keep living life without fear.<br />
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She needs to see that a man will always honor, cherish, and respect a woman's past, and know that it is what makes her who she is.<br />
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She needs to see that a man will <b>always</b> tell his worst truth, rather than his best lie.<br />
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She needs to see that lightning can indeed strike twice.<br />
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Shelby needed to see me love and take care of Megan for those years. As much as it pains me to say this, Megan becoming sicker and dying was another learning experience for her. She learned that although her dad bent over backwards, he didn't break, and would walk to the end of the earth for the woman he loves. He didn't shut down or stop taking care of his one remaining piece of his wife. She deserves to be honored, respected, loved, and taken care of by a man just as much as I honored, respected, and loved Megan.<br />
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As I'm writing this, I'm realizing that Megan also set a standard for Shelby, upon which she can judge all women. She has briefly met this new woman, just through a video call, and she has fully approved. She has even made the statement that she is "magnificent", and she can't wait to do things with her. To have Shelby not only approve, but to encourage me to love the new woman means the world to me, because Shelby is the closest I will ever come to having Megan's approval.<br />
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Shelby knows I deserve a woman that loves me just as much as her mother did. She knows that whatever woman comes into my life will need to be strong, driven, smart, and ultimately, will need to accept that Megan is and always will be a part of our lives. She knows that no woman could ever <b>replace</b> Megan, and that a new one should only <b>compliment </b>her.<br />
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She knows that this new woman fills out all of those check-boxes.<br />
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No matter what anyone else's opinion is on new love, there is only one person's that matters to me, and that is Shelby's.<br />
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I need to ensure that as I move forward with this new woman that the example I set with Megan continues on. Megan is no longer here to advise Shelby on these matters, so all I can do is lead by example.<br />
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I am setting the standard by which Shelby will judge all men.<br />
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<i>Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at</i> <a href="http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-82656838041580798602015-04-05T20:12:00.002-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.729-04:00Where do you Want to be in Five Years?I hate this question in job interviews, not only because it's cliche, but also because it's a bullshit question. First of all, if I'm interviewing for a position, I obviously don't work there yet, do I, dipshit? How the hell am I supposed to know where I want to be in five years in relation to your company? I might hate the place two days after I start. "Well sir, I would like to be running the company, with 10 weeks paid vacation, a corner office, and a liquor cabinet near my desk like Don Draper, only I'm never wearing a suit"<br />
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It's so dishonest. Really, if we're strictly talking about where I wanted to be in five years in relation to the company I'm interviewing for, it would basically be that I want to still be working here, and not wanting to rip my hair out every single day. I want a decent amount of vacation time, a salary I think is fair, and to not feel like the entire company's business rests on my shoulders when someone's printer goes down, let alone when I want to take a half day.<br />
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Let me talk about where I want to be in five years in general, from this very point in time. I've done a ton of reflecting on this, and it hasn't only been since Megan died. We had talked about it for a few years, albeit not too seriously, but she knew that deep in my heart, it's what I really wanted, not just for me, but for us. <br />
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A little background is in order. I'm an IT systems engineer by trade. I make a very good salary. I get paid vacation, sick days, and at my current employer, a private office. I have good health insurance, no job security issues, and generally, the day to day tasks I'm faced with are very easily handled. I've been doing this for 17 years now.<br />
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I don't want it anymore. It is NOT interesting or challenging or in any way enjoyable. Its a goddamned paycheck is what it is. For what? So I can have three cars and eat steak instead of hot dogs? Yes, I have another person to feed, clothe, and shelter with Shelby. You know what? She likes hot dogs and reading books. She's just fine being entertained by an old smartphone with no service plan and wathcing netflix on the shattered screen. <br />
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We (including Megan) are not materialistic. I worked so we had health insurance to keep Megan alive as long as she did. She knew I was miserable, but it was a reality that I needed to pursue this career to keep her healthy. I have the money, so I buy shit, simple as that. <br />
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So where would I like to be in five years? Someplace else, geographically, mentally, and financially. I'll keep working in IT as long as I need to in order to reach that goal. I'll pay off whatever debt we have, ensure we're stable, sell some things, and start a new life for both of us, on my own terms. I'm older and wiser now than when I was 17 and shipping off to boot camp. I can decipher the things I need versus the things I simply want. <br />
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What I <b>need</b> is for Shelby to be smart, happy, well adjusted, and ready to be her own woman and make her own decisions when she grows up. I have no doubt she will achieve that goal I've set for her in whatever way her amazing little brain and heart decides. I'm going to make sure that little girl grows up to rule the goddamned world.<br />
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What I <b>want</b> is for that to occur, but to finally be doing what I really desire, which is wandering the wilds. There are ways to do this, and even to still monetize it. Something I've always wanted is to be a wilderness guide. <a href="http://www.nols.edu/" target="_blank">NOLS</a> offers these courses, allowing me to become certified to do just that. In five years, if I play my cards right, I could be wandering the Rockies or Appalachians, taking people with me, and teaching them all about the wonders of these places and how to appreciate them. Yes, I already have the background experience. I'm self taught. Now I have the means to make it official by taking a course. Yes, it sounds all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but hell, I do this stuff for free now. <br />
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Talk about a life change. Honestly, I've been keeping up with the Jonses for so long, over half of my life, that I don't even know exactly how to roadmap something like this. What I do know, is that when I was 8 or 9 years old, I would pour over trail guides and maps of wherever we would be taking a family vacation, and I would plan the entire day out and know the ins-and-outs of every single trail or overlook we would be passing. I could tell you exactly what species of maple tree you were looking at, even in winter. I could forage for ramps, berries, watercress, and any other multitude of edible plant. (I still make dendelion salds from the weeds in my front yard from time to time) I've wanted to guide people into the woods for that long. I could pack my bags in about 15 minutes, drive to Dolly Sods in West Virginia, and get someone to any single point in that federal wilderness without so much as a glance at a map. I <b>want</b> to do that for people. <br />
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I want to be a modern day Mors Kochanski, John Muir, Ansel Adams, and Henry David Thoreau all rolled into one. I want to be the person, as an adult, that can shepherd a group of unassuming "city folk" into the back of beyond, and show them why these places are so special. I want to make sure that that 8 year old me, pouring over trail guides, learning how to use a compass, reading books upon books about the wilderness and how to survive and thrive in it is brought out in people of any age. I want to write about it for those that aren't there, in those spaces, and make them <b>want </b>be there with simple words.<br />
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I don't care about money, fame, or fortune. I really don't. I care about Shelby. We don't need a little house with a white picket fence, two dogs, three cars, and cable TV to be healthy, smart, and happy. She already has that same love for nature and learning about it that I did when I was 8 years old. She grabs a map at every trailhead we go to. She reads books about wildflowers, insects, trees, and mountains. She can sit, starry-eyed, and just flip through a photo book of the Grand Canyon or Yosemite, and can tell you all about the various landmarks at a glance, without ever having been there. She is my doppelganger. <br />
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So, where do I want to be in five years? I want to be shepherding people like Shelby, regardless of their age, over the river and through the woods to what could be their own calling or love. If people pay me to do that, all the better. I think I've finally come to the realization though, that through all this time, it's the one "job" that no one would ever have to pay me to do.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-65663987984817407622015-04-02T08:41:00.000-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.705-04:00Expect the Unexpected<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Every other Tuesday, I am a featured writer for Widow's Voice, located at <a href="http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/</a>. This was posted on Tuesday, March 31st. </i></div>
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Megan had not only given me permission to "move on" again once she was gone, she had outright demanded it, years before she died. She refused to take my heart with her, leaving a hole in me that could never be filled. This is why, in the deepest pit of my soul, I believe she has brought someone new into my life in the best way possible: <b>unexpectedly</b>.<br />
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By random occurrence, I have met a new woman. I wasn't out looking for a date, or even looking at women as something desirable or needed, when she just happened to sit down next to me at a bar where I was hanging out with some mutual friends. I was completely numb at the time, with no desire to interact with anyone, so I was just gritting my teeth and trying to act "normal" by making small talk.<br />
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Then she sat down. Damn.<br />
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We exchanged a few cordial "get to know the basics" questions, and immediately became fast friends. Although completely platonic, I was blindsided by a connection that I had never expected to occur. Suddenly, I was transported back to December 10th, 2002, when I walked into a Kay-Bee toy store, met Megan, and <b>unexpectedly</b>,<b> </b>my whole journey began over a cash register, pudding cups, and Van Wilder in her mother's basement.<br />
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Since that time, this new woman and I have talked every day, sometimes for hours on end. The connection we found at that bar has only grown, without any signs of slowing. I am again faced with a question that is confusing to me, albeit in a newly pleasant way, and that is "<b>what would Megan think?</b>"<br />
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Our relationship has matured, and we have committed to each other. She gets me, my story, and understands it all, just as I get her, and her story. We know for a fact that Megan is a part of this relationship, and we BOTH cherish her and wish she was here. A better person could not have found me. She has encouraged me to love Megan even more, and I do.<br />
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I am truly and deeply happy, for the first time in well over a year. Though Megan died only four short months ago, she was "dying" long before that, so my happiness was put on hold when it began, and obliterated when she died. She knew this. It's why we had the final "talk" in June, when she was admitted for her last 6 month stay.<br />
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I am truly sympathetic to all widows that did not have this "luxury" of knowing their dead partner's wishes before they died. Though incredibly hard to swallow at the time, Megan said these exact words to me as she lay dying in a hospital bed in Cleveland:<br />
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<b>"Don't you dare sit around by yourself if I die. You need someone else. Now go get me some broccoli and cheese soup downstairs"</b><br />
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That was Megan. Frank, to the point, then shifting gears into bossing me around. She was a goddamned master of living in the moment, influencing the future, and always being right. That is why I don't feel guilty in the slightest about being happy with a wonderful woman other than my wife. It is a powerful reality of my heart, and my mind. Of course, I am still a logical, cynical person at my core, and I know that opening myself up to this could result in a crash of epic proportions. I am still completely terrified of that happening, because it's been over a decade since I took this kind of risk.<br />
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I still reflect upon the absence of Megan every day, but there has been somewhat of a shift in that perspective. I've gone past the "acceptance" stage of losing her. She's dead. No sugar coating it. What I pine for the most about her is our friendship. It isn't the affection, her sharp wit, her motherly instincts, and her uncanny ability to be strong in the face of death. It is her friendship that I miss right now. I want her to appear, when I am with this new woman, smile, give me a high five, and say "about damn time, idiot, she's magnificent"<br />
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How strange is that? To know that I am falling for another woman, and to want my dead wife to be not only pleased about it but present to witness what is happening? Honestly, given some of the signs I've seen since meeting this new woman, I'm positive that it was Megan that made sure I was sitting at that bar, and that there was a seat left open beside me. She expected it, she wanted it, and she made it happen.<br />
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I love Megan even more for bringing someone new into my life at just the right, <b>unexpected</b> time, and that is key. 12 years ago, Megan and I crashed into each other like a freight train, and though I'm now left without her in the physical world, she continues to surprise me in whatever ethereal world she exists in now. I am still putting blind faith into everything about her, and expecting the unexpected.<br />
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There is so much more for me to say about all of this. For now, I am content in the belief that Megan has my back, and she's going to make sure I'm happy. I just wish she was here to share it with. I miss my best friend and partner-in-crime, poking fun at me, but also being happy for me.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-32349765996447584002015-03-27T14:56:00.001-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.618-04:00Year Without a SummerOhio in this time of year is a cruel joke. Personally, I truthfully enjoy the snow, cold, blanket of white, and silence that winter brings. It's something I begin missing every year around November, when the leaves have fallen, and the Autumn color palette of reds, oranges, and yellows have turned to brown death. Winter comes along every year here, sealing the earth, and wiping it clean every spring.<div>
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But in March, we only get glimpses of the impending rebirth. There will be a day of mid sixty degree weather, with the sun shining and the windows down, and then winter returns, just as it's doing today, as I write this.</div>
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Megan's rejection process followed much the same schedule. Last winter, we were ready to start a new year of life and sunny days together with Shelby, but by spring, the cruel joke had started. What we originally believed to just be a minor setback, the 30 degree snowy day following the hopeful, sunny day we had before, turned out to be a permanent winter. </div>
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We had a year without a summer. There were no spring flowers, no long lazy days sitting out on the deck, no happy, relaxing talks on a road trip. It was just winter. It was winter until October, when we got the fall colors that were the last hope of her getting a transplant.</div>
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November came, and the colors started to fade. Leaf by leaf, certain aspects of her health, mind, and heart started to fall to the ground.</div>
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On November 19th, the last leaf fell, and I was plunged back into winter. </div>
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Winter remained as scheduled here in Ohio. When I just sat, frozen and sealed inside my mind after losing that last little leaf. There were a few indian summers, like we always have, when I returned to Crossfit, for instance, and realized that even for a few hours a day, I could have warm sunny weather in my mind. </div>
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But it wasn't enough to convince me that spring would eventually return. I would still have to deal with returning home to the cold. </div>
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But I found a place where spring could finally begin. I had to go travel south, to Florida, where it's continual spring and summer. As soon as I arrived, I caught a glimpse of that first daffodil, cracking through the frozen surface of the forest floor at the end of winter. I could hope for what summer would be like again. I stared at that daffodil for a moment, and realized that it symbolized a new round of seasons. I could finally have a "next summer". </div>
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Megan always loved daffodils, for the same reasons. They were always the first indicator that the long, cold, crappy winter (that she NEVER enjoyed) was almost over. </div>
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Although it may be cold, snowy, and generally crappy here in Ohio as I write this, I'm pretty sure it's a nice warm late spring day for me. Summer is right around the corner, and I don't think I'm going to be missing winter for a long time. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-82378346479472012872015-03-19T10:43:00.001-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.725-04:004 Months TimeToday is 4 months since Megan died. On one hand, its seems like it was so recently when I look at it from a purely intellectual perspective. On the other hand, most of the time anymore it feels like years.<br />
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I feel a lot of that perception is based on the fact that financially, physically, and emotionally, Shelby and I are doing pretty well. I'm off of the anti-depressant (that only lasted a month, and I was fed up with it), Shelby is getting straight A's and is a very happy little kid, and we're both in very good health. To the outside world, no one even knows that anything ever happened. Not because we hide it, hell, I am VERY open about what happened, but because we aren't sulking around like our world has ended. I can't explain why it didn't take at least a year or two to get to this point, but why in the holy hell would I try to deny it?<br />
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I was actually asked at the gym the other day, after participating in a "painting" fundraiser, what my wife thought about my artwork that I had created.<br />
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Most people at the gym know the entire story. They knew Megan as well. I distinctly remember one of the guys doing the "inhale scream" when he heard this woman ask about what my wife thought about it. He was bracing for me to flip out, and his eyes were as big as saucers.</div>
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There was none of that. I actually laughed. Maybe it's my morbid humor, but I snorted, and said "Oh you didn't know? She passed away (I still hate that term, but polite society demands it) back in November" and pointed to my memorial tattoo. The look on her face was priceless. It's so odd when people you are less familiar with, but still friendly to realize that you are a widower and suddenly want to over-sympathize as if we were at her funeral mass, and not in a cool, loud, crowded Crossfit gym poking fun at each other for cracking ribs attempting muscle-ups. </div>
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I didn't launch into the entire back-story, and I didn't get in a funk in any way. I've actually started referring people to this blog if they are truly interested. Not because it pains me to talk about...it doesn't, but because I wanted to get her out of the funk she had just fallen into unexpectedly. <br />
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So really, because we aren't displaying any outward signs of grief, the world isn't treating us as if we're grieving, and it's causing us to move through even further. There's something to be said for that. Of course it was horrible in that first month or two to try to act like I was in a good mood, but for the most part, I stuck with it. I was so sick of people asking how I was doing that I basically convinced them that there was no need to ask. Once they stopped asking (and I met with other widows in Tampa for a weekend), I actually no longer had to try to act content...it just happened.<br />
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The fact of the matter is, I'm NOT classically grieving right now. I'm NOT mourning right now. I really, really miss Megan. I always will, and I think about her every day, but it doesn't consume me. I feel like her death has accelerated time, rather than stopped it. She truly is still around, and I know it. Hell, I'm back to having conversations with her in my head and dreams, and all we can seemingly talk about is how proud we are of Shelby and how happy she is for me. At this point, I have to recant a portion of my statement in my <a href="http://im-no-hero.blogspot.com/2015/02/im-not-made-of-stone.html">original post</a> on here, where I said that "if she was guiding me, she's doing a really shitty job". I now think she was giving me time to work through things on my own, until she resurfaced and started putting her foot down and making sure I was in the right place at the right time to bring amazing new things into Shelby and I's life. <br />
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Has it really only been 4 months? Has it really been over a year since she started the process of rejection? I simply don't feel like it "just happened", but I tend to think those around me do. Maybe they don't have the luxury of getting to see and talk to her and realize that she wants us all to be happy, and now she's doing her damnedest to facilitate it.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-3471020387148595492015-03-17T09:03:00.001-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.622-04:00A Place of Existence For years, I have wandered outside. When I was very young, on through my teenage years, I would often times find myself on my Aunt's cattle farm, traipsing around the back lots, playing in the creeks, or just generally exploring the land and finding interesting spots to spend time with my brother and cousins. We were always outside. We camped, fished, shot at old oil cans, roamed, watched birds or squirrels, built little shelters or dammed the creeks with a shovel and time, stared at the stars, and generally didn't have a care in the world. I was a kid...that's the way it should be.<br />
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The farm is no longer in the family, but now, I have my own place. It's a place that Megan never knew about, nor did Shelby. It's a place I can go to to just "exist", and be that kid again, playing in the creek, listening to birds, or staring at a beech tree in winter, with its white leaves just barely clinging on while they flutter through the cold winter wind. I found it one day maybe 7 years ago by glancing at a topographic map, looking for a sea of green and picking an interesting looking spot. This little glade at the outlet of a small spring caught my eye, and I decided to explore.<br />
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It amazes me that I forgot about this place until last weekend. Megan has been dead almost 4 months, she was in the hospital for 6 months before that, and had been diagnosed with rejection in early February. That was the last time I visited my place...February 16th, 2014. I read my journal entry from that day, and it might as well have been written the day she was going to die. The terrifying feeling that I was going to be on my own had already crept in, and it was just as suffocating then as it was later on in November.<br />
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I packed my backpack, hopped in the truck, and decided that it was time to exist. It's an odd thing for me sometimes to want to write something down, but predetermine that whatever I write is going to be more honest, raw, and meaningful if I wait and disappear into my place. After a few miles of plodding through that late-winter crusty, creaky snow, I had finally returned to my place of existence.<br />
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I set my little stove up to make some coffee with snowmelt, assembled my mini chair, grabbed my journal, and started writing in my own little Walden that I had constructed.<br />
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There is something about being outside in an isolated spot in the woods that clears my head and fills it with thoughts at the same time. I put pen to waterproof paper for awhile, every so often adding a little bit more snow to my pot until there was enough water in it to have a nice cup of coffee. Once it was ready, I took a break and "existed" for awhile.<br />
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That's when it hit me. Here I was, in a place that I had always come alone, but always had someone to return home to once I cleared my head. Only now, I knew I would be returning to an empty house, and I was happy. Not happy about having an empty home, obviously, but happy that I could still come to this place. Happy because I was that skinny, nerdy little kid again, outside, building things out of sticks and snow and imagination, and not having a care in the world. Happy because I was outside. </div>
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Happy because after years of walking with Megan, I still had somewhere where I had NO memories with her, and the only footprints leading to it were mine.<br />
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I stayed for about 3 hours total, but I really didn't want to leave. I could have continued happily existing for what felt like years. Finally, a small snippet of my own instruction manual for dealing with losing Megan wiggled its way into my head, oddly, from a comedy special that I had seen on Netflix. I feel anyone dealing with any kind of stress, not just the loss of a partner, would find this advice useful:<br />
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Go outside. Remain.<br />
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<i>Every other Tuesday, I write for Widow's Voice, the blog of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. This post was originally published at that location. Widow's Voice can be found at</i> <a href="http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-5607635473128190482015-03-11T08:47:00.002-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.675-04:00FacepalmWhen your spouse/ partner dies, the world sees it generally fit to give you a little bit of time to process that information. It's never enough time, of course, but at least a token three days bereavement leave is granted, because you know, three days is PLENTY of time to heal right up. Hell, I was ready to go unicorn riding with Ronald McDonald in Madagascar by day 4! Thanks, world, for giving me SO much time to find inner peace!<br />
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Honestly though, I have to find humor in all of the bullshit tasks you have to go through after the fact. From paperwork, to calling banks, to verifying it was Megan's body in her casket before they cremated her (really? that's a law now? I don't even want to know why, but I unfortunately think I do know why) It really is my "coping" mechanism, and it's served me well for years. </div>
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On March 5th, I had an appointment at the Social Security office to set up Shelby's survivor's benefits. (Quick back story, Megan was on disability, and when she died, Shelby became entitled to receive a portion of her benefits until she is 18.) This turned out to be an exercise in ineptitude.</div>
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First, I called to set up the appointment back in January. They had no openings until March. Really? You're telling me this will take only 45 minutes, but I have to wait until March to sit down and answer a few questions and show a few documents to you? Alright, at least I'm penciled in.</div>
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So I show up about 20 minutes early to the federal building, because I'm a responsible adult, and I'm not late to appointments. Of course, this being a federal building, I have to go through the x-rays and body wanding, and tell them what I was there for so they can be sure I'm not there to attack the place. It's a good system they have, but it's a weel known fact that terrorists are incapable of lying about their true intentions. Since the SS office didn't open until 9:00 AM, I was told to go wait in the main lobby on the big cold granite bench with all of the other responsible adults. <br />
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That's when I learned that there's a "system" to this. About 4 or 5 people were there early, waiting with me and getting the stinkeye from security like we were a huge inconvenience. At about 5 until 9:00, a wave of people came flooding into the lobby, somehow breezed past the secret service wannabes, and hopped right on the elevator to go up to the dingy little social security office. Turns out that it's MUCH more efficient to be almost late. Paul Blart informed the rest of us punctual dumbasses on the stone monolith that we were free to go upstairs after the first load of 10 people crammed in and rode up. <br />
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Now, this being 'murica, of course there was a "check-in" kiosk as soon as you walked in, and of course the damn thing wasn't working, and of course there was no sign of anyone that could even POSSIBLY work there anywhere within a two mile radius. It was only 8:57 AM you see. They open at 9:00. <br />
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Picture a scene of what is now 17 people, waiting patiently in a somehow organized line behind this kiosk (seriously, I don't even know how some of these people could stand up...I almost got drunk from the fumes), and stretching back to the elevator doors. The man at the front of the line (we shall call him "Dunkin") is feverishly tapping on the screen of this kiosk, because he somehow knows that if he hits it hard enough multiple times it will suddenly come to life and bend to his will. The woman behind him (eh, let's call her "Sniffles") is watching over his shoulder....probably taking notes so she knows how to operate the damn thing the next time she's there. I swear she should could have given Dunkin a hickey as close as she was.<br />
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Finally, at 9:00 AM, the Kiosk magically comes to life, because, you see, it gets paid hourly wages, and it'll be damned if it works one second before it's on the clock. Dunkin finds that his finger mashing has worked to awaken the infernal machine, and promptly forgets the last 4 of his social security number. Sniffles is getting impatient while he flounders around for his wallet (his back pocket was pretty well out of reach for his t-rex arms), and asks if she can go ahead and put her info in so she can get her ticket (that's right, you get tickets here, like the worlds worst amusement park). "One second" is the response. It is now 9:04, it is approaching 20 people waiting, and not a single person has checked in yet. <br />
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Dunkin realizes that Ohio driver's licenses don't put the social security number on there any more, so he finally decides to let sniffles in front of him while he calls...someone. Sniffles remembers the last 4 of her SSN, but her appointment isn't until 10:00, and there's no way to change it from the magical kiosk. Evidently, she thought she was at an airline check-in, and could change her seat right there...man, Sniffles is pissed.<br />
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After 5 more comedic performances, I walk up to the kiosk, put my last 4 in, a ticket spits out, and I wait for an appointment that was supposed to start 15 minutes ago. I'm finally called into the back.<br />
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I take a seat in front of "Diane" and pull out all of my paperwork...Shelby's birth certificate, Megan's social security card, our marriage license, etc. Diane starts asking boilerplate questions about my income, if Megan worked, my military service, if Shelby had disabilities, and the like. She never makes eye contact with me, as she's too busy doing the one finger shuffle across her keyboard. Take a look at your keyboard, and try to figure out why it would take 15 seconds to type the name "Welker". <br />
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These questions go on for at least 25 minutes, and finally, she says we're done, and she just has to go grab the paperwork off of the printer and have me sign it. Ok. "Not bad" I think, "I'll be out of here before 10:00, when Sniffles out in the waiting room can come back for her appointment"<br />
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She returns with a stack of paper, and asks me to review it for accuracy and sign off on it. Here is what I have now determined about my life...it's probably news to you, because it sure was to me:<br />
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<li>I was born in February 2007</li>
<li>Shelby, my 8 year old daughter, was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps in 2002 </li>
<li> Megan lived in Canton, and I lived in Akron</li>
<li>We were married in 1981, magically, 26 years before I was born (Megan was a cradle robber)</li>
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After pointing out that I am not an 8 year old to Diane, she gets flustered, and spends another 15 minutes trying to determine where her life went so wrong. Three more trips to the printer, and we finally have a coherent document that doesn't somehow bend the space-time continuum. </div>
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I sign off on the application, and then I'm informed of the "benefits". Shelby will be getting a direct deposit of a portion of Megan's disability until she graduates high school. Well, at least she'll have some extra savings by that point. </div>
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Then the best news of the day! I am entitled to a "survivor's" benefit! Only I'm not. Because I have a good paying job, my wife was apparently worthless to the gubmint. If only I made less or was unemployed, then I could get the whole $250 that Megan was worth. That's right, after years of paying into social security, Megan was worth $250. I'm not saying I SHOULD be entitled any benefits, but if you're going to dole out government cheese based on someone losing their goddamned WIFE, at least make it a little more than a token $250.</div>
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At this point, we're 5 minutes from being done, and "Schteve" comes over to Diane's desk and tells her to vacate, because he has an appointment at 10. Really? There are literally 3 other empty desks within my field of view. This sets off an argument between them about how it's not anyone's desk, and they need to share. The dad in me almost stepped in and told them to play nice or I would be turning this car around. Schteve relents and finds another desk.</div>
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Finally, this whole clusterfuck is over with, and I get the hell out of the office, with 9 copies of the paperwork in hand, because they are not allowed to keep or toss the incorrect applications themselves, because they have identifying personal information on them (I would LOVE to see someone try to steal my identity using this information)</div>
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I'm actually in a good mood as I walk out, not only because it's finally over, and one more task was accomplished, but also because I realize that the Federal government is helping the make-a-wish foundation give Diane her special day that she always dreamed about.</div>
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This being downtown Akron, I had to pay for parking. There aren't any attendants in this lot though. There is one "pay station" on the 3rd floor of the garage that you pop your ticket into, pay your fee, and it spits the ticket back out and you're on your way.</div>
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Hey, only $2! Damn, I only have a twenty. "Oh well," I think, "it gives change."</div>
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Yeah, the whole $18 change was in the form of Sacajawea Golden dollars. It felt like I had just won the jackpot at the worlds most "value-oriented" Casino! Clink after clink after clink! I half expected an employee to come running out and tell me I had just won a 1995 Buick Skylark along with my now 3 pounds of gold doubloons. </div>
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Thing is, for some people, this would just be a shitty, shitty day, and cause endless amounts of frustration and possibly even trigger some anxiety. My response is almost always the opposite...I have to laugh at this kind of stuff, and I immediately want to share it and laugh some more. I look at these "follow-on" tasks with an outsider's eye (generally, I try to channel Megan, because she would be laughing her ass off) and treat them as just another thing I have to do.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-49200464904173944592015-03-09T12:04:00.000-04:002015-07-23T10:10:25.658-04:00Life Lesson From NintendoThere has been a few times in life where I've hit the reset or pause buttons. You know, the one that the old Nintendo sitting on your shelf collecting dust has? You would be happily playing a game, getting further and further along, and suddenly, you would have to go to school, or a friend would come over to play outside (and I still firmly believe that being outside with friends is better than any video game), or your parents would realize that you hadn't cleaned your room and yell at you to get the hell off of the Nintendo and do as you're told...<br />
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Press the pause button.<br />
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It was the rudimentary "save" function. You couldn't turn the system off, and the if the power went out, your game was reset yet again, but most of the time, it worked out ok. You could think of nothing else but going back to your little electronic world once you were ripped out of it, but you had to have confidence that it would still be there, waiting for you to pick right back up where you left off if you just stepped back and took care of your responsibilities first. Logic and odds dictated that the smart thing to do was to simply press pause, and revisit it later.<br />
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But there was always a worse scenario. Again, you would be happily playing a game, almost to completion, slaying enemies or toadstools or winning the final race, and the game would freeze. You had one and only option at that point.<br />
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Hit the reset button.<br />
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Old video game systems never had a true "save" function. No matter how much progress you had made, it was all lost the minute the game froze, the power went out, or you ran out of lives. The only way to earn back the progress you had made was to hit the reset button and start all over.<br />
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But it was different than the first time you played the game. You had experience. You knew where those enemies were hiding, where you needed to jump, and where you needed to slow down and figure out a puzzle, because you had done it all before. It was frustrating to have to go through it all again when you felt so accomplished the first time, but the end goal was still the same, to progress further and ultimately, beat the game. You might not have remembered everything from the first run through, but you damn sure had it a little easier. There was never a question of putting the controller down and walking away...the game was there, and it must be won.<br />
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I knew all of this when I was 8 years old. It now amazes me that at 34, it took me this long to realize that Megan's death has shown me the same thing as Mario and Luigi did all those years ago. I was happily playing the game of life until her first transplant, in 2011, where we had to hit the pause button while she healed from the surgery, and all we could think about was picking it right back up and progressing further. We were in the final boss battle in 2014, where we hit the pause button yet again in order to take care of responsibilities, but there was a glitch in the system, the game froze, and she ran out of lives. Game over.<br />
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My only choice was to hit the reset button. I have the experience of going through the game the first time and I'm able to remember how it's played, but there are always things that I don't recall because it was such a long and epic game.<br />
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Weird thing is, I've found a secret level that I've never seen before prior to this run-through. It's shiny and new and interesting and most of the time, fun to play, but it's difficult, because I don't know all of the ins and outs and where the enemies and special jumps and hidden spots are. I know how to use the controller in this game in general, I'm very experienced with it, but not necessarily in this level. I've already had to hit the pause button just to keep my composure and not want to toss the controller at the TV. I have to have confidence that the power's not going to go out, but I can't help but worry that the game will freeze while I do other things and take care of responsibilities, and I'll have to start all over yet again. This secret level is almost an entirely new game for me, and I can't stop thinking about sitting back down and playing it. Even with the difficulty and unknowns, it's one of the most interesting parts of the entire game...i just wish there was a strategy guide for it, because I'm flyin pretty fuckin blind right now. <br />
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So, it's paused while I search for my own guidebook, when hopefully, I can come back, sit down, and just enjoy playing it without ever having to press the reset button.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-65104619961191600962015-03-03T08:21:00.001-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.701-04:00"Until my Dying Day..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
"...until my last breath." My wife Megan and I had those words tattooed onto our forearms on February 8th, 2014. It was my suggestion, and she was completely taken aback by it. Not because she wasn't sold on the idea of a little ink (she had sixteen tattoos already), but because I suggested it and came up with the whole plan. I only had two tattoos at the time, so it wasn't my "thing", and she found it one of the most romantic gestures I had ever made. Yeah, we were weird like that. </div>
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Megan and her younger brother were born with Cystic Fibrosis. I won't get into the details of it, but in summary, the symptoms are effectively like having permanent pneumonia. Look it up if you're interested, but prepare to be depressed at what some people have to go through just to live. Her brother Jason only made it to age 19. I was at his bedside with Megan in 2005 when he passed. I was 24 years old. That is the very moment that I knew that I would be seeing this scene play out again, probably before I turned 40 years old, but it would be my wife lying in that bed. Four days after her brother died, Megan and I were married, in the same church where Jason's funeral was to be conducted the next day.</div>
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Talk about sobering. She was sick before I even met her in 2002, just after being honorably discharged from the Marine Corps. She was sick when I proposed to her, at the hospital, no less, in 2004. She was sick when we married, and she was sick in 2007, when our daughter Shelby was born. She was sick until 2011, when she received a double lung transplant, and we finally got three healthy years where we maximized every moment we had, not worrying about when her time would come, but knowing in the back of our minds that it <b>would</b> come entirely too early. She wasn't sick again until January 2014, when the "pop" was felt when we were at Crossfit together. That "pop" was the first sign of those recycled lungs beginning to be rejected by her immune system.</div>
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On November 19th, 2014, at age 33, Megan took her last breath. I held her hand and watched as her heart rate went from 90 beats per minute to 3, then zero. The tattoo, after spending less than a year on her body, had just taken on its true meaning. </div>
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So here I am, writing about my dead wife on the internet. At age 34, with an eight year old daughter, I'm a widower. I was <b>gifted</b> 12 years with an amazing woman. My perspective is somewhat unique, because after the initial shock of losing her, I came to the realization that I don't feel "cheated" like many other widow(er)s justifiably do. I made a deal with the devil, because I loved Megan "in sickness and in health, until death do us part. There wasn't any fine print on that contract. It was all there in big capital letters: IF YOU MARRY HER, SHE WILL BE DEAD BEFORE YOU'RE 40. </div>
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I simply refuse to let something that I knew and accepted would happen someday destroy my life. It's not <b>too bad. </b>It's <b>too soon. </b>Of course, I wanted more time with her, and would have sacrificed anything to grow old with her and never have to be here, where I am, right now. She would have never let me do that though. She was guiding me long before she died, and she's still doing it now. I can't help but think that she actually lived, and gave her life, for Shelby and I, and I am eternally grateful.<b> </b> </div>
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Did her death change my life? Obviously, but it did <b>not</b> destroy me. I still get mood swings or bad days like everyone else, full of rage and hate and pain and fear of self, but generally those days are followed by ambition and an intense need to scream out that I will not let life take me down. Those bad days are the ones that let me know that I'm human, so I wipe the snot off of my face, get the hell off of the couch, and get shit done. Feeling sorry for myself accomplishes nothing. When that switch flips from suffering to determination, it is simply not possible to feel more powerful. </div>
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All of my strength and love and fire went into Megan, involuntarily, for 12 years, and now that she's gone, I've got one hell of a surplus outside of Shelby. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with it all, but I've got a pretty good idea that it shouldn't be left to collect dust. The odd part, and the part I've still got to figure out, is that I don't get to just decide where that all of that fire gets applied. She's somewhere, still stoking and handing out those flames to whomever she sees fit, and I have no choice in the matter but to awkwardly accept it.</div>
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Her smart-ass personality (and her brother's) will find it hilarious to watch me flounder around, but I know she only wants what right for Shelby and I. I'm falling down life's staircase, and she's at the top, laughing her ass off at my misfortune as always, but still helping me crawl back up by bringing people and events into my life that even I don't understand yet.</div>
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Breathe easy babe.</div>
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<i>This was written for the Widow's Voice blog, located at <a href="http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/">http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com/</a> as my introductory post. Hence the "rehash" of things. </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-73035015963337755462015-02-26T11:08:00.003-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.718-04:00Trigger Songs: Slipknot - Goodbye<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's amazing how a random song popping up in my playlist can strike at me. I put so much weight into the lyrics and meanings of songs. Some can be triggers for grief, some can be triggers for happiness, some for anger, and some can be triggers for me to want to help and or explain myself to others. </span> </i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><i>I like writing about my "trigger" songs once in awhile.</i> </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;">Maybe we can all recognize a moment of silence</span></span></i></div>
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<i><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;">Maybe we can finally agree on the same point of view</span></span></i></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;">A long time ago we believed and we were united</span></span></i></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;">So the last thing on Earth I am ready to do is say goodbye</span></span></i></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This should be easy enough. Good song, deep meaning to me, and even if you don't like Slipknot, you have to simply read a portion of the lyrics to see why. Let me break down what it means to me, and you can draw your own opinions. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've had my moment of silence. It was those very early days, when all I wanted to do was crawl into a dark place and mourn in the cold hollow shell of my own mind. Let's all agree that while we need to mourn, and we need to have bad days or moments, that really, in the grand scheme of things, it's not mourning or grief that moves us forward. Those two things are simply reminders of where we are in the process, and when they rear their ugly heads, they remind us that life itself is a test, and the grades are handed out during the test, not after.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Megan and I believed in each other. We believed that a shitty fucking disease would not stop us from being "normal". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So no, I'm not ready to say goodbye to Megan. Fuck, I never will be, and I refuse to do so. I accept that she is no longer here in the physical sense, but why the hell would I say "goodbye" as if everything she helped me to become is null and void at this point? Goodbye is not the same as "see you later".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The song continues. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>A long time ago we discovered that nothing could stop us</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>This hasn't torn us apart, so nothing ever will</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>How can we know where we are if the sun is behind us?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>But this moment will show us the rest of our lives</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>No one is going to save us this time</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>No one can know what we're feeling.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.4399995803833px;"><i>So don't even try</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">This is continuance of life. It's not "moving on" or "getting over it", it's "continuance". I don't still feel "married", but I damn sure still feel "united", and whether or not I'm united or married to someone else in the future, I will still continue being united to Megan as well. Life does not stop for those left behind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">What is the indicator of where you are in life when your better half is no longer here? As I said above, those moments of grief or mourning serve as such. Those moments show you that you're fucking human, and you're allowed to be sad that a person who loved you unconditionally is dead. You're allowed to regress and have those days where the world keeps spinning for everyone else, but stops for you. Those moments are what shows me the next step in life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">You have to paddle your own canoe. It's tough love, but it's fucking true. No one is going to be your savior and just make you forget what you had in the past. If it is that easy to forget, then I would wonder what you truly had. You can never be "saved" from the fact that you lost someone, unless science somehow figures out a way to stop the loss by reanimating corpses AND souls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Taking advice from others can be helpful, but they are not you. Be as open and honest as you want to be about everything with everyone, respect the opinions and observations of those who've been in your shoes, but for Christ's sake, live your life on your terms. Take little pieces of it, but don't even try to live someone else's grief or process exactly as they do because it seems "better" or "faster".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Because you'll fail. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-3970841460308472682015-02-23T21:13:00.000-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.630-04:00Live WireFinally! I have successfully been <a href="http://im-no-hero.blogspot.com/2015/02/adrenalize.html">adrenalized</a>. As of this weekend, I am officially off of the <a href="http://im-no-hero.blogspot.com/2015/02/i-miss-misery_94.html">Prozac</a>. I went to <a href="http://im-no-hero.blogspot.com/2015/02/magic-shoes.html">Crossfit</a> tonight, and got to flip these bad boys around.<br />
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The combination of the prozac wearing off, and one of my favorite things to do at the gym has got my adrenaline flowing so much that I am just plain giddy. Here's the thing, I'm thinking about Megan a ton right now, but in such a happy, happy fucking way. When we were doing this together, and I would get in this state, we would have such a fun night when we got home. All of us, as a family. Shelby and I would roughhouse, Megan would play with the dogs like a little kid making baby talk with them, we'd have music blaring, and grill some steaks and just have a knock down, drag out damn fun party. It wasn't planned, it wasn't talked about, it just happened. After Shelby was in bed, well, more fun usually started that shall remain unsaid, but completely understood by everyone. <br />
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It is SO weird right now to feel this way. To wish Megan was here to enjoy all this with us (yes, we have the music going, we're playing with the dogs, roughhousing, and I gobbled up a damn fine ribeye) but also not NEEDING her here to have fun. It's exactly what I needed right now, but I still don't understand why it's not a sad moment for me in the least. <br />
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If it wasn't Monday night, I would be frantically calling people trying to get them here or to go out, not because I'm lonely, but because I'm in rare form and I want to share that with people. If they can't get together, oh well, I'm still having fun. This isn't me. It really isn't. It's a better person. A silly, immature, giddy, but fun person. Shelby loves it when I'm this way, because I'm the best playmate she could have. I'm drunk on adrenaline, but not aggressive or angry. I'm ready to conquer the world, slay the beast, and save the princess. I feel like I could take care of (in more ways than one) multiple Megans right now without so much as breaking a sweat. <br />
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I'm happy. Happy because for a few hours or days or however long it takes for the euphoria to wear off, I'm not just thinking about the fact that Megan isn't here, but about the fact that she WAS here, and got to experience these feelings with us. These are the times now when I can start to see that really, she probably IS here, grinning from ear to goddamned cute little ear right along with us. <br />
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If I could bottle this stuff and sell it, I would be a millionaire. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-48583733780322495922015-02-22T11:49:00.000-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.654-04:00Mr. MomIt's fucking hard being a mom. Really. Fucking. Hard. I tended to take it for granted, regrettably, for 7 years. Megan sapped a lot of her own strength to make Shelby what she is today. I've gained a new found respect for all that she and other mothers do for their children.<br />
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Make no mistake, I would die for Shelby, and not in the figurative way that it sounds like. I would literally take my own life if it meant keeping her healthy and happy. There was only one other person that deserved that, and well, I couldn't save her, no matter how much I tried.<br />
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With that said, Shelby is sick today. It's hard for me to be overly concerned about it when she just says "My stomach feels weird" and wants to lie down. I mean, she looks pitiful, but god knows I've seen much, much worse than an upset stomach.<br />
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Then she runs to the bathroom and heaves for 5 minutes. Switch. Flipped.<br />
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I suddenly know what it felt like for Megan on days Shelby stayed home from school because of this. It's fucking terrifying to see your "baby" being so miserable. I watched Megan herself do this exact same thing, daily, for 30 minutes as soon as she woke up and started her coughing routine. I held her hair and got her water to sip and did everything I could to make her feel better, but it was different. Megan was an adult, and she had been in this routine for long before I met her, so it wasn't a shock. It's uncommon for Shelby to be sick, so when it happens, as it does with all kids, it's a much bigger deal, and my mind starts racing with all the terminal diagnoses it could be, when really, she's just got an upset stomach. <br />
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Intellectually, I know what to do. I go right back to the routine I had with Megan with the hair holding, water, and comfort. What I don't have, or at least haven't developed yet, is the motherly instinct of what to tell her to make her feel better. Mommy had been there, done that, and always came out of the morning shittyness with a smile. She was able to make Shelby smile just the same when she was sick.<br />
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That's just the beginning. There are so many other things that we did the "traditional" way. I was the breadwinner, protector, wilderness guide, nightly and weekend entertainment provider, disciplinarian, and driver. Megan was a housewife. She did so many more things than cooking, cleaning, getting Shelby to school, kissing boo-boos, throwing birthday parties, dealing with my dumb ass, and generally being the nucleus of the family. Therein lies the problem. She did so much that I have no clue what all she did. The fact that she did it while she herself was sick is one hell of a goddamned testament.<br />
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Now I have to take on that role, and ladies, let me tell you, you deserve a metric shit ton of respect. I had to learn how to braid hair, RSVP to birthday parties, plan play dates, cook a dinner that she'll actually eat (she's not big on brussels sprouts, but at least she likes steak), and kiss boo-boos rather than telling her to "walk it off". I have so much more to learn. There's no way that Shelby is not going to be awesome, a tomboy, and drive all the boys nuts, given the circumstances, but dear lord, am I terrified of those teenage years.<br />
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Back to holding hair after her nap.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-78962417717213841802015-02-19T15:27:00.000-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.721-04:00I Miss the MiserySo back in January, I was having a rough time with everything. Who the hell wouldn't? I didn't know what I was supposed to be feeling like though. Monday through Saturday morning was honestly pretty OK, just a few moments here and there. I had work to distract me, and the gym in the evenings.<br />
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Once Saturday afternoon rolled around though, it was epic. I was just in a shitty, shitty mood, peppered with bouts of crying. Aren't weekends supposed to be fun? Isn't it sad that I would rather be at work than at home? I would just be driving back from the grocery store or something that otherwise should be non-triggering, and it would be instant. I had to actually pull over less than 100 feet from my house one evening because I couldn't see.<br />
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When it hit me at the gym, which has served as my only sanctuary from the grief, it was the final straw. I was able to recognize that I needed some professional help. I contacted the psychiatrist that helped Megan when she was hospitalized. He went private practice soon after her death, so I had the perfect person to already know my background and situation.<br />
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We set up an appointment and I met him about a week later. We talked through some things, and ultimately, he prescribed me prozac.<br />
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Fuck. Prozac? I need a fucking pill? How are some magic beans going to help me?<br />
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I've never taken any "mind altering" substances (well, since high school at least), and I damn sure was skeptical about taking this one. Who am I to argue with a professional though? <br />
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So I filled my prescription, and started at 10mg/ day, half of the "minimum therapeutic dose", as he requested. By the third day, I didn't really feel any different. However, on day four, something changed. I was in a general decent mood, but I couldn't get excited or worked up about anything. After a few more days of this, the mood swings had stopped completely, but the intensity and enthusiasm for anything had also stopped. Holy shit, I was falling back into the fog. The same one I was in the day she died. I didn't give a shit about anyone or anything.<br />
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I actually missed the misery.<br />
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I went through the motions of getting Shelby ready for school, going to work, going to the gym, and coming home to do it all over again the next day. On Saturday and Sunday, I stared at mindless TV for hours. Eventually, I stared at pictures of Megan, and read old letters she had wrote, in a shameless attempt at making myself cry. I couldn't fucking do it. I was just "existing", and it was worse.<br />
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After going to Tampa though, something changed again. I had a biblical flood of emotions come out, primarily after I got home. Ahhh yes, the "Camp Crash" A switch was flipped back on for me down there after being with people who get it. I'm back to writing these notes (and now even sharing them with others). I'm already functioning better at work. I woke up this morning, and the first thing I thought about was Megan, and I had a little weep. I'm fighting off the drug, and I feel like I'm winning.<br />
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You know what though? I like it better than being numb. Having heavy feelings means that my brain is working properly. In order to build muscles, you have to tear them down and let them rebuild themselves. The brain is the same way. Taking prozac, at least for me, is not allowing my mind to tear itself down properly.<br />
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For now, I'm still taking it until my follow up on Saturday. I don't want to just stop taking medications, because after 12 years of watching 18 or more pills a day go into my wife, I know that just quitting something when it's not on a doctor's advice can make things worse. I had a follow up with him on the Monday before Tampa, and I told him all this. I had no depression, anxiety, or sadness, but I also had no enthusiasm, drive, or desires.<br />
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I think I'm really going to push to be taken off of it. I can't go to Camp Widow every other weekend to be snapped out of the fog, and I can feel it starting to return again. In my case, I can still function as a father and human being even with the mood swings, so I'll just deal with them as they come. I made some good friends recently that get what I'm going through, so if a particularly bad one rolls in, i have someone to vent to that isn't going to be scared off.<br />
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I'm not saying that Prozac and other anti-depressants are a bad thing. They can really, really help people get through tough times or chronic depression. In my case though, I need some depression just as much as I need enthusiasm for life, and Prozac has killed both things off.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-4649070535521586692015-02-15T19:59:00.001-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.642-04:00Camp WidowIt has now been one week since I returned from Camp Widow in Tampa. I wanted to sleep on this awhile before giving my impressions about it, specifically what it meant to me.<br />
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When I first registered for it, it was a little over one month since losing Megan. It was an impulsive thing at the time, because I didn't have anyone else to really talk to about it, other than friends that have Cystic Fibrosis themselves. None of them had lost spouses, but at least they got me a little bit, because they too have been surrounded by sickness and death their whole lives. </div>
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That initial excitement and impatience began to wane over the next month, and began turning into anxiety, then apathy. I really didn't even give a shit about going. I figured that I would simply be a fly on the wall there, and if I did interact, I would be so rough around the edges that I would scare people off from talking to me more. I sincerely thought it would end up being a weekend of sitting around and watching widows cry on each other's shoulder while I sat against the wall like the lonely kid at the high school dance because I couldn't squeeze a tear out (fuck prozac, by the way). On the other side of the coin, I thought that the fact that I was relatively young, male, and dealt with such a long term illness would disqualify me demographically from participating in much discussion.</div>
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I was really, really wrong.</div>
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Yes, of course there was crying, everyone there has lost someone that they had romantic love with, a few multiple times. That's pretty fucking rough to listen to whether you're a widow(er) or not. Yes, there were many times when I felt that my story wouldn't hold a candle to some of the pain and suffering that others have had to endure. No, no one was scared off by me or intimidated by my age, gender, demeanor, or reactions to their stories. </div>
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Within an hour of sitting down at the meet and greet on Thursday evening, I had connected with multiple people, and I began to feel at ease about the whole thing. There were a few that I instantly bonded with, to the point of feeling like I had shared a womb with them. It was a surreal, strangely comfortable, and overwhelming feeling that I haven't experienced in 12 years.</div>
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Friday started the workshops and the actual "Camp". I also ended up being called by my work, ruining most of the morning. In the "Long Term Illness" workshop, I listened to so many people talk about their dealing with losing their spouse to cancer, and I felt that I actually had it easy, because Megan's illness was present from day 1, and when I met her, I already knew about it. I remained quiet through that workshop, not really ready to open up in a more structured environment where 45 people were focused on just me and my story. I signed up to becoming a young widower. I loved her unconditionally, it didn't necessarily matter to me that she was going to die young. That's incredibly hard to explain. Of course, I didn't WANT Megan to die, it just didn't keep me from loving her.<br />
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All in all, what was most valuable to me was the socialization outside of the structured workshops. I definitely picked up some tips and perspectives in the other discussions, but just freely talking with people and hearing their stories outside of a rigid subject to me, was far more valuable. I did however open up in the "Caveman" workshop on Saturday, as it was much smaller and more intimate than most of the others, for obvious reasons. It felt good to not only get a few things out about me, but to also lend some perspective to some of the other men at Camp about my journey thus far.<br />
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Kelley Lynn's bonanza, "My Husband is not a Rainbow" started in the late afternoon on Saturday. My god, Kelley is a girl after my own heart. Cursing, yelling, high-energy anger and sarcasm and morbidity. She took all the pain and suffering, and turned it into something you can enjoy with a deep, real belly laugh. Somehow at the end, I got roped into going up and singing morbid Christmas song parodies by a few of my new friends. I still don't know how I ended up wearing a foam Christmas tree on my head, but damned if I didn't end up enjoying it.<br />
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What I didn't expect, after all of this, was immediately wanting to go back. I didn't expect to miss people so much. It's part of learning who the new me is. I only ever needed Megan for well over a decade. She "got me" when she was alive, and I think that is why I was so sad to leave, because I finally found other people that get me, and actually enjoyed my company. I definitely had a crash when I got home. Actually, it started on the plane. I expected it, and in a sick way, welcomed it. It let me know that I could still feel, and that the fog was lifting. It let me know that I am still human, and that I can miss something other than Megan. It took me a few days of reflection to see it, but Camp Widow actually helped me realize that there is more to life than being a widower. See if you can figure that one out.<br />
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One would think that a gathering specifically focused on those of us that have lost a partner would be a somber and depressing weekend. I can confidently say that it is totally the opposite, and I will be going back. Honestly, I wouldn't be sharing any of my writing if it wasn't for Camp Widow. I can now say that although I might have seemed like a black sheep upon arriving in Tampa, that I left feeling like part of a new family...one that I never wanted to be in, but also one that I can't imagine not being a part of now.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-36392133193795371642015-02-14T03:27:00.000-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.626-04:003:00 AMI'm not only awake, I'm aware. I'm aware that I am alone. The distractions and tasks that keep me alive and get me through the day have disappeared. I fall asleep easily. I can't stay asleep. This is an almost nightly occurrence. It's my witching hour, and the only things I can see are the imps and demons that haunt me and remind me of what my life has become. <br />
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There is nothing that jolts me awake. No phone ringing, dog barking, or light flashing through the window. I just wake up. I lie there, wishing I could go back to sleep. Wishing I could just have a fucking dream about Megan, because it's the only way I can speak with her. I lie awake for at least an hour, trying desperately to clear my head, and not think about things. I try to daydream myself back to sleep by imagining being in the mountains, which is the only place I feel comfortable sleeping alone. When she was alive, I thought more about Megan when I was in those cold, wet mountains than when I was any other place. <br />
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I still sleep on one side of the bed. I haven't gotten used to having an entire queen sized mattress to myself. It feels wrong. I slept on a twin mattress until I was 22, and when I met Megan, I had only had a full sized bed for about 3 months. Prior to June 2014, I had only had room to stretch out at night for 3 months of my life. I don't need to stretch out. I need to be cramped. <br />
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At this moment, when I've again been awakened at my witching hour, it is now that I need Megan next to me, more than any other time. I don't need to wake her up, I just need to know she's there, and that she wants to be there, and she wants to help me fight off those demons. I know Shelby would if she could, but it's too much for a 7 year old. Megan was my dragon slayer.<br />
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When the rejection started, I needed it so much that I physically carried Megan up our stairs to our bedroom every night for 3 months, before she had to live in the hospital. She cried often about me needing to do that, but once she was calmed, she appreciated it immensely and was glad we could still sleep next to each other. <br />
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I figured this time, when I woke up, maybe I should write about it. Maybe getting this out is another step in the process of becoming as normal as I can be. I'm sitting here, bleary-eyed, staring at a computer screen and tapping away, but my mind is racing with this thought... <br />
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I want somebody to carry ME to bed and tell me it will be okay.<br />
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Happy Valentine's day babe, wherever you are. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-64584110286698817642015-02-12T09:09:00.000-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.697-04:00Starting Grief Early<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PREFACE: I wrote this to Megan on August 2nd, 2014, her 54th day in the hospital. It was over 3 months before her death. This could almost have been sent yesterday, because the sentiment, especially the last paragraph, is the same. I think it makes a great statement on what someone dealing with a long term illness of their spouse might be going through. I started the grief process 6 months before she died, only I never expected to have to continue it. </span><br />
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<i>Babe,</i><br />
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<i>I know that you've been feeling better lately, even though you're exceptionally tired, and somewhat loopy sometimes, given the marinol. It sounds like you've gotten less anxious and more accepting that we're in this for the long haul, and it may be awhile before the call. </i><br />
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<i>The longer you are up there, waiting, the more I realize that I can't live without you. We are a team babe, and the past month and a half, I feel like I'm getting closer and closer to insanity. If it wasn't for Shelby, I would have already lost it. </i><br />
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<i>I want nothing more than to have you home, healthy, and happy. I wish we could just get this over with. I was only half joking when I said we will just move to Wyoming or somewhere when you're home. I believe that my lack of motivation to do anything is because you aren't there with us. Even this morning, when Shelby and I went for our hike, it just wasn't the same without you at least home when we got back, let alone going with us. This is the longest you've ever been admitted since we've been together. It wouldn't have been easy 4 years ago, when it was a regular occurrence, and it's definitely not any easier now. </i><br />
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<i>I miss you. I miss doing things and going places with you. I miss just sitting and watching TV. Each day, I only miss you more. I know you'll get through it, but I'm having trouble believing that I will. It's harder for me to know what you're feeling about everything, because you can't really open up about it with all the drugs pumping through you. I don't know if you're mad, anxious, happy, or just plain tired. </i><br />
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<i>I love you.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069343673051197746.post-25673721801379259052015-02-11T12:00:00.000-05:002015-07-23T10:10:25.611-04:00Magic Shoes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DSxBqIgbkVg/VNtQHqPT-DI/AAAAAAABSe0/dyploqOaVz4/s1600/20150211_073619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DSxBqIgbkVg/VNtQHqPT-DI/AAAAAAABSe0/dyploqOaVz4/s1600/20150211_073619.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These are my magic shoes. They've been there for me to put on for well over a year. When they were first purchased, they were able to magically bring me closer to Megan, because she had magic shoes too. Putting our magic shoes on together was the final <u>good</u> memory we shared. We were wearing these shoes when she felt the "pop", that was the first sign of her lungs rejecting. She was wearing her magic shoes when her body was reduced to ash. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, through the pain, these shoes can magically transform me in a different way. I can don these pieces of rubber and nylon, and turn into a different person. For one hour, my magic shoes let me feel like a kid again, like I never experienced all of the sickness and struggling and love and dedication and fucking death. The part of my brain that remembers death exists is shut down, and replaced with focus and energy. It is the only time my body and mind are separated. These shoes deconstruct me, and reassemble me into a better person. They perform the opposite function as before. I am distanced from Megan while I wear them, and it brings relief. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm careful not to abuse or overuse them. They mean too much to me; so much more than simple coverings for my feet. They are always hand carried into the only setting that they work in, and they are removed when the magic has ran out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Luckily though, their effect lasts for a few days, until my mind powers back on and I'm plunged back into remembering that there really isn't any permanent cure for life, except death. That's when I know that I need to put my magic shoes back on and recharge them. See, they are powered by my body. The longer they sit collecting dust, the more their batteries run dry. The first time I put them on again, after 8 months of hell, my body had to work so hard to juice them up that I vomited twice and hovered on passing out. By the end of that cycle though, I knew that my magic shoes were still working to transform, protect, and improve me in so many ways.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14738883896714349228noreply@blogger.com2