myjourneysinsight

HOW CAN I BELIEVE?

Posted on January 7, 2013 by Judy

I love illustrating butterflies and this is an assortment I’ve named “Fantasy Butterflies”

I share here an instrumental of a very special song, which can be heard by clicking the blue link below:

My post title comes from the lyrics to my song “More Than You Know.” The full line is, “How can I believe when the warmth of you did leave?” It actually refers to my ability to go on living after seeing my five-year-old son dead. That image haunted me for years; picturing his open eyes and blackened lips. His body was ice cold and I held onto him and didn’t want to let go!

Not too long ago, I wrote about Relinda. She is a grieving widow and her writing has moved me very much. More about her and her unsparing words are on my post entitled: YOU HAVE NO HOPE.

Today, another widow left a comment on Relinda’s blog:

Dear Relinda,

I have been reading through your blog, so much of what you’ve said could have come from my hand. My husband left our life one year, four months and four days ago, but I’m not keeping track.

This particular blog about the “vacation” really struck me more than the others. This life I find myself in isn’t comfortable, it has no warmth, no appeal, it isn’t mine and I want to go back home. But home isn’t there anymore, it’s an empty lot – the house is gone and only the memories of it remain.  Like you I am so tired of all the bullshit lines we feed ourselves – truth be told the only way any of this could get better, would be if I had a time machine and went back to when my life was mine. I hope someday that maybe those of us that just exist will feel a little life once again.

Karen

–

I want to share Relinda’s post and then I want to respond. Relinda’s post title is a link back to her blog.

–

Vacationing in Hell

This is the longest vacation I have ever experienced. It began the day the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. It continues years later. I always thought of vacationing as an escape from the monotonous realities of everyday life. Vacationing in hell is much different. It is a place where you accept the realities and disappointments that come with living, embrace them wholeheartedly and recognize that it is a vacation from which you will never return home until the day you die. Welcome to hell.

Astonishingly, my house looks the same if you overlook the absence of laughter and the immaculate kitchen. That is the first thing you notice upon arrival to hell—the silence. It is so loud that when I enter a room, I can hear my heart pounding inside my head. Ironic that silence is actually the loudest noise in the universe. Sometimes I can hear echoes of laughter from my real life. It is very faint. There was so much laughter in this place before that I suppose it is inevitable that some imprint seeps through the walls.

There are not fires and brimstone as depicted in sermons. There are the usual disappointments, but new ones surface each day. Disappointments such as realizing you will never again know the simple joy of sharing a banana split with your best friend in the world. Disappointments such as knowing that you will never again experience the fun of dancing in the rain with someone you love. Disappointments such as knowing that every trip you make will be alone. Knowing that any accomplishment you reach will never be celebrated is one of the harshest disappointments.

I want to return from my vacation in hell, but it was a one-way ticket. “Life is what we make it.” If I had fucking known that, I would have molded it differently. I would still be whole. I would not have buried you. I would not dread waking each morning.

“Time heals all wounds.” Bullshit. Some wounds cannot be healed, especially while you are vacationing in hell. “Prayer fixes everything,” really? Because it did not work so well for me. I think we pull cute little quotes such as these out of our asses while under the illusion that they make people feel better. They do not.

So, here I am, sending you a postcard from hell. The weather is lovely this time of year. All I really want is to go home though. I want a ticket home. Perhaps there is some type of lottery in which one can win a ticket home. If only someone would send me home. I cannot get there myself. This vacation blows.

©Relinda R.

–

Dear Karen and Relinda,

You will not hear me say, “Time heals.” I have said that hearts can heal and it happens unconsciously. Even joy is possible, because that happened for me.

That is not the same thing as expecting that time will heal us. I do believe that time lends some anesthesia to the gut-wrenching pain, but for those who succumb to their grief it is too late. Grief certainly wrecks lives and destroys a person’s health over time.

Healing from grief is torturous hard work. Many people don’t believe they will heal and I was one of those people. Healing isn’t about fixing anything so that it goes back to how it was. Those scars are forever. And nothing heals when it festers either. In my fourth year of bereavement I wrote: How can my heart ever heal when it continues to bleed? The answer was that it couldn’t!

Take your postcard from Hell, Relinda and put it somewhere. It will be a postcard to remind you of the place where you never want to go back to. Your own words unconsciously gave your post a perfect title. You see; a vacation is a place to visit. One does not associate a vacation with living somewhere.

That is true. You are not really living.

You cannot go home either. There is no home for you to go back to.

That is the sad nature of grief. We grieve for the person we lost that we loved. Then we grieve for our former life and the innocent, naïve person we were before grief slaughtered our existence.

Therefore, your post title was a perfect description of where you are right now.

I do not know about your personal grief or anyone else’s. I share my optimism because with grief there is so little. We live in a world where grieving is supposed to quickly end; we’re told to just “get on with our life.” Amazingly, there is a belief that after one year a person should be “over it.” Those platitudes such as “time heals,” usually aren’t coming from someone who has suffered a loss of a magnitude such as yours.

It has been three years for you. I can share what I’ve observed through my connections with many bereaved people. I’m talking about people who seriously wanted to die.

The second through fifth years are quite horrible. I don’t usually like to go to a place of honesty about how many years I suffered with grief. But I still remember when another bereaved mother told me that it took seven years for her to live without extreme agony.

That was absolutely true for me, as well.

I think the reason the second year and those that follow are so hard is that the reality has truly begun to sink in. The first year is all about coping with the horror. By now though, it has become apparent that the horror is permanent and goes on forever. That is quite impossible to grasp.

–

How do you cope with the hell? You just do the best you can, and the two words I often used to help myself were: hang on. Surrounding yourself with people who understand is important. Expressing your pain is also helpful and you do that very well.

I am sorry for the horror you are living with. I am sorry for anyone entering this vacation in hell.

I am waiting for you to write the post with the title “Moving into my new home.” You get to leave the horror and move to a place that is quite different from where you began. I do hear some hopefulness with your words, “I want a ticket home.”

Your ticket will come. One day, it will arrive. Of course, many people succumb to grief. But you write with such clarity, so I see you as someone who will make it. You’re never going back but you are going to somewhere that won’t be hell.

–

Trust me.

–

Recently, I wrote about a widower named Joe. Part 1 is on my post:

I’LL LIVE WITHIN MY BROKEN HEART.

JOE’S GRIEF JOURNAL – PART 2

I begin Part 2 with Joe’s reply to another widow’s message on an Internet grief form. His words are in brown:

I miss my husband’s company, his big frame, his hairy belly I would love to touch and the warmth his body put off in the bed; the kisses on the forehead as he headed to bed. Mostly, I miss the feeling of comfort when I could snuggle up to his back and feel safe.

I miss that big bushy beard and the way it felt between my fingers. The hugs that I thought would never end but improve even more as we got older. I miss his snoring. I also miss his rough cut up scarred hands so big yet so gentle.

January 12, 2011 Joe wrote:

I understand that longing. I don’t want to sound salacious, but sometimes I just miss my wife’s body, the feel of her and the physical closeness. I feel terribly touch deprived since she died. It hurts as bad as my heart some days.

April 7, 2011

I’ve lost my lifetime mate. I have been altered on a cellular level. I have a cancer that can’t be seen. It’s still there, however. It is just as real as the kind that one can see under a microscope. It’s the daily leaching of my heart energy, the daily uphill struggle to take the next step, the daily difficulty of functioning with the burden of being in a totally foreign condition where I’ve never been before: alone.

I am not in denial, I don’t believe in pretending to have a positive attitude. I believe in being honest with myself. That’s not easy all the time. I look forward to a time of feeling something other than sadness and loneliness and depression.

April 30, 2011

My doctor told me yesterday that I am living in a fantasy world, just because I said that I want my wife back. I know that I have to go on and live a new life without her. I just am not ready to do so.

People who haven’t been married and truly bonded just don’t understand that the feeling really is like a part of me has died, too. While some may say that’s not a healthy way to feel, all I can say is that it’s real for me.  I want to feel better, to feel peace again. I have periods of time when I seem to be doing pretty well. Then, out of nowhere something triggers me and I can barely function.   

I will never feel the old “normal” again and that tears me out of the frame some days.

June 13, 2011

I’ve been feeling a soft kind of sadness somewhere between my chest and throat. When I finally inquired of it, it is about thinking that if I had paid more attention to my wife’s symptoms I might have intervened months before she got so sick that she had a heart attack.

It’s a kind of self-flagellation thinking. It’s a part of the way I wish something were different even if I have to blame myself for how things turned out.

This is another teary phase that will last a few days and then pass. I’m not concerned. I’ve become accustomed to the ache in my sternum.

June 13, 2011

Dear Joe,

Your writing always touches me. Only a week ago you offered comfort to someone else on the forum who was suffering. I have often felt that by helping others with their grief, I have helped myself, too. Perhaps you didn’t even realize that as you offered comfort.

Your awareness and honesty as you write about your grief is very moving. Even though you might feel what you have said is self-flagellation, you are just processing whatever wishes you have about changing the outcome of your wife’s tragic death. I used to feel that way when my son died after heart surgery. I had to make a lot of decisions about which type of heart valve to use and even wondered if a different surgeon could have changed the outcome.

Expressing all of your feelings is helpful to heal. I love that you understand that with your last sentence knowing your tears would pass.

There’s only one thing I want to tell you, though. Don’t believe that you will always be accustomed to the ache in your sternum. I want you to know that someday the ache will fade, not completely, but enough to find joy in life again. Your expression of feeling through writing and love for your wife will heal you and others someday, too. I am certain of that.

Keep writing.

Judy

June 16, 2011

I’ve been saying my heart is broken for two and a half years.

Monday morning it quit on me. I had a heart attack. I was flown to a hospital and got a stent inserted in the offending artery. Doctors think I’ll be able to return to full activity in a few weeks. Man, that attack really hurt.

While my physical heart seems to be healing my metaphorical heart remains broken. I’m not stuck in grief all day as I once was, but I still drive into a hole in the world with regularity in which her absence is the essence of my whole experience.

I don’t think that will ever change. I chase her in my dreams, but she remains just out of reach. I miss her in this world but there are no changing facts. She’s dead.

One good thing came from my heart attack. During the helicopter ride, I was able to let go and allow myself to die. I always thought I would release myself to death given the chance but a part of my mind doubted I had the courage to do that. At least now I know I have the balls to die. I know I can release this life if given the chance.

–

Lime green fantasy Butterfly

Although this post is long, I want to share Joe’s story about how he met his wife, Beth. It is very moving and adds a lot to his words about grief:

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I turned fourteen in July of 1959. Fourteen was when puberty was just hitting its full stride in me, unlike today when kids seem to grow up so fast.   It was coat weather already in early October. The day was sunny, but winter was a breath away.

–

I was playing basketball with my friends.   We were all interested in girls and the topic of that mysterious gender dominated the conversation. None of us knew too much, weren’t experienced with girls beyond fumbling exploration, and didn’t have a clue about emotions. Although we knew there was a connection between our gonads and the opposite sex, we weren’t sure what the real deal was.

–

  I had kissed a girl once. She lived next door and I kissed her as she was taking out the garbage. I didn’t feel anything and wondered what the big deal was. I had touched the pubescent bumps on the chest of a girl named Becky, too. But that experience left me flat as well. Like I said, the opposite sex was a mystery.   Late that afternoon, I was with my friends when we all went to Eighth Street where this new girl lived.   It was dusk when we arrived at Beth’s house. My friend boldly knocked on the door and a girl came out on the stoop; a girl like none I’d ever seen before. She had black hair, dark horn rimmed glasses, a red sweater and charcoal slacks over penny loafers. I still remember feeling like I was going to swoon.

–

Beth was a member of the Student Council, part of the Latin Club, active in our schools social calendar and a straight A student. He said everyone liked her, even the teachers. Seeing her, knowing she was what we referred to back then as a “good girl”, and knowing I was a cigarette smoking, school skipping, just skating by grade wise half-assed punk I couldn’t imagine there was anything reciprocal possible from this vision I was seeing. I just stared, dumb struck by her beauty and the sound of her voice.

–

She smiled easily, laughed quickly and was smart and articulate; just the kind of girl who was way out of my league.   I don’t know how long we stood there. Time seemed totally irrelevant. I was transfixed and at the same time broken-hearted. I was totally smitten by a girl way out of my reach. For the first time I sensed that the connection between my maleness and the female of the species was visceral and real. My heart ached with unnamed emotions and my pulse raced from an overload of hormones. I wanted to leap with joy and cry in agony because I felt like I was completely in love with the perfect girl who was absolutely and forever unattainable.

–

  When the talking was over, Beth had gone inside to her parents beckoning. I walked home, stopped at a small corner store and bought a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, a spice pie and some Orange Crush soda. Between my hormones and the sugar and nicotine I was higher than a kite all the way to my house.   I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw that girl, the face and the clothes and the sound of her…I didn’t know what it all meant, but I knew I felt stuff inside of me that was entirely different from anything I’d ever felt before. I was swirling with confusion and hope and despair.

–

The next day I went to school and as I stood at my locker, one of my friends came up to me.   ”You son-of-a-bitch,” he swore at me.   I was flummoxed. “What the hell did I do?” I asked, not understanding why my friend was angry with me.   He sighed. “Beth has your initials pinned to her sweater,” he said.

–

I almost fainted. I suddenly knew what “weak in the knees” meant.   ”No she doesn’t,” I answered him disbelievingly. I thought he was pulling some kind of cruel joke, making fun of me because he could see that I was totally taken with the new girl.    “You better believe it,” he said and as soon as I had my books he led me down the hall to where Beth stood at her locker. When she turned to smile at me I could see “JB” in brass letters pinned to her chest.

–

  I think I may have lost consciousness for a moment. I don’t remember what happened next. All I know is what began in 1959 continued to 2008. We were bonded in a relationship that took us from pubescence to old age. That was the day it all began for us. I can still picture her on the steps of her house and I can still see what she wore. I can still remember the intensity of that moment, the moment when the mystery of the opposite sex deepened and my life really began in earnest. I loved her then beyond my ability to describe. I miss her today in a way I have no words to express.

–

And, I still have the brass initials that she wore and kept in her jewelry box all of these years.

–

April 4, 2012

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It’s been over three years now and I am beginning to feel a sense of healing. When I remember my wife now the memory is warmer, filled with a sense of love that the pain overshadowed for a long time.

–

  I am fully in support of each person taking as long as it takes…not to be bullied into compromising their grief and feelings of despair. I am here to say that even if years pass, so too, eventually, does the terrible feelings of loss.

–

I will never be the same person I was before my wife died, but I’m becoming okay with that. I am more than ever convinced that by feeling everything that arises in me I will eventually see that energy move and change into something else. Despair becomes melancholy, suicidal thoughts become manageable sadness, and loneliness becomes a strange contentedness with my own company.

–

May 23, 2012

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My wife has been gone for three and one half years.

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I am no longer suffering the way I was. Sure, I miss her still, think about her, but I’m no longer driven by my sadness.   Additionally, I had another piece to my agenda. I promised myself that no matter how lonely I got I would not bring someone into my life just to fill the empty space.

–

Honestly, that was as hard as following my feelings into their darkness.   I think I have held to my integrity, kept my promise to myself, and I have remained alone. Until a few weeks ago, that is. I met someone in quite innocent circumstances and to my surprise I actually felt something toward her. Confused, excited and acting like an adolescent, I approached her and confessed what I was feeling. She’s been a part of my life for a short while now and I like her presence a lot.

–

I’m glad I waited. Even if this new relationship falls apart I can still learn a lot about my ability to feel love again…I’ve no guilt about loving again.   I am the last person who thought I’d have any happiness in a relationship again. I didn’t believe the people who encouraged me.

–

I thought I was the poster boy for grief and being alone for the rest of my life.   I might still end up alone, but I’m aware I’m capable of feeling good stuff again. Thank you all who have been here with me during these last three years. It’s been a bitch, but maybe my life has turned a corner.

–

I hope someone will find encouragement in this writing.

–

© 2013 by Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I’LL LIVE WITHIN MY BROKEN HEART

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Judy

While searching for an illustration of a heart I came across this book cover I created for Avon Books many years ago.

While searching for a heart I came across this book cover I painted for Avon Books many years ago.

I love this quotation:

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” Norman Cousins

–

I have discovered that I am drawn to grief. It’s as if grief is a flame that dances and beckons me.

I wish I could extinguish the monster. As I grow closer to the heat, my scars begin to throb. But the memory of love needn’t cause a burn.

I feel compelled to taunt that flame – because I know it cannot burn forever!

I announce this loudly to anyone who will listen. Eventually the fire will flicker out with a wisp of white smoke. There will be cold ashes left behind. But instead of a burning flame, the memories bring comfort now – never to be extinguished.

I continue to move through the darkness searching for other flames to taunt.

I have written before that everyone handles his or her own grief differently. Now, I want to share my own personal beliefs about grief:

It is not recoverable; one adjusts to it.

Healing is possible, and maintaining hope of it can provide sustenance. But the process of healing is unconscious and happens despite certainty that grief is endless.

Many, many people succumb to their grief.

Grieving is hard work and consumes one’s existence.

Although it is rare, it is possible to find joy again. But finding it is a conscious effort and requires giving oneself permission to be happy.

A year after Jason died, I wrote to him as a therapy exercise. There were a few profound sentences I wrote that were prophetic.

My words from 19 years ago are as true at this moment as the day I wrote them.

“He will never be forgotten, even when the grief pains diminish. I will keep his memory alive. Because of him, I will never be the same – in that way he’s a part of me and has exposed me to a life unknown. Jason, I still love you.–

My new friend, Relinda wrote several new posts. (The blue post titles are links to her blog)

Here is an excerpt from Another New Year’s Eve:

“As I end my third year alone, the thoughts that prevail in my mind—I will never feel those perfect lips upon my own again. I will never feel those strong arms around me again. I will never know love again. Every step I take and every little thing I do—I remember him. And just when I catch myself smiling, I remember that he is gone. He is gone and he is not coming back.”

–

Relinda also wrote another post called Broken Vases and Broken Hearts:

“Sometimes, in life, there are shattered pieces scattered across the earth that are destined to remain broken. That is as true for vases as it is for hearts. Regardless of how much glue one uses to try to put all the pieces back together, it just will not hold. The scars are there forever. The fractures will always be visible. Once broken, it will remain broken.

People will inquire what happened to the beautiful vase . . .

It leaped from the table to its sudden death, but it lives on scarred and missing that one important piece. I could not save the thing, as hard as I tried. And now it continues to live on, a wretched hull of something that once exuded warmth and love, while transcending eternity. Without that piece, it is ugly, empty, broken… and worthless.

That is how it is for vases, as well as hearts.”

–

I was thinking a lot about Relinda. I am sensitive to all forms of grief. As a bereaved mother, I embraced living by bearing subsequent children while grieving. For a widow or widower, finding love again might seem impossible.

–

But then I remembered Joe. Joe’s writing (on an Internet grief forum) always brought me to tears – just as Relinda had.

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I decided to write to him.

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On December 31, 2012, Judy wrote:

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Hi Joe,

–

You haven’t written on the grief forum for some time. How are you doing? I won’t go to that place that time has healed, but I am hoping it has gotten easier for you.

–

I continue to write about grief and I thought of you because I have been corresponding with a widow who is bereft. Her writing is very poignant – just as yours was.

–

She believes she will grieve forever. I would love to hear your thoughts about this. You are such an excellent writer.

–

Judy

–

On Dec. 31, 2012, Joe wrote:

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Judy, after three years I kind of just gave up. That’s when life took a turn and I met someone. Life has changed and I find I can love.

Joe’s Grief Journal – Part 1

Jan. 2, 2011

Hello. My name is Joe. I’m new to the group and want to let you all know why I’m here. I lost my wife on November 14, 2008. We met when we were fourteen years old and she was sixty-three when she died. She was the core of my life and I have felt adrift since she died. It’s always there, the sadness and emptiness, the space once filled that stands empty. There’s a hole in my heart that I doubt will ever heal.

Jan. 8, 2011

I have admitted to friends that I shouldn’t have had a driver’s license the first three months after my wife died. I’d start driving and end up someplace with no memory of getting there. One day in the bank I was looking for a notary to do something for me. Someone innocently asked me, “How are you doing?” I went to my knees crying and all the people around me scattered like quail. The ones who rode the elevator down with me probably couldn’t wait to get free as I was hanging on the handrail and weeping uncontrollably.

Feb. 5, 2011

While I don’t see my wife…I see the space she occupied everywhere I turn. Even now that two years have passed I still see her space at the porch rail, in front of the sink, in our bed, in her chair, beside me while walking, in the passenger seat of my truck where I would lay my hand on her thigh.

Feb. 8, 2011

I don’t trust that the rest of the world will understand. Half of my existence is gone. No matter that over two years have passed I’m not over losing her. How do I explain to the world that I am broken and have no hope of being whole again? All I can do at this point is cry. That’s the most genuine thing I can do even if I do it in privacy now.

March 2, 2011

I am in a really dark place. My mind is shrieking, “I can’t do this alone, this living business. I can’t take care of the house and the car and the dog and the bills and my feelings all by myself. I can’t do this without the comfort of another human voice, the warmth of another human’s touch, the counsel of another human’s wisdom. I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”  

The feeling that accompanies this is terror. I am living in terror and some shame for feeling so weak and desperate.   I have no skills for living alone. I have never been alone before. I feel truly broken in half and totally incompetent in these circumstances.

March 8, 2011

I woke up tearful this morning. I’ve been tearful all day. It took me a while to realize a dream I had was impacting me.

In my dream, she was looking at me the way she did. Her gaze didn’t reflect that I was bald, getting wrinkles, losing vitality and becoming soft in the middle. She gazed at me like I was the most loveable man in the world. I’m crying now just remembering that look…and hoping she saw the same look coming from me.

March 20, 2011

Even my kids don’t know how bad I continue to feel. They don’t know about the anxiety, the sick to my stomach feeling when I know I’m coming home to an empty house. They don’t know how empty life feels, how often I wish mine was over, how pointless this all seems with her.   

After more than two years, I still wake to that feeling of being alone, still have only a moment before the memory that she is gone comes crashing into my mind and I feel my heart sink.   

They don’t know how hard it is to just keep going. They have moved on. They still have mates and children in the house and a life that is worth living.

I have no idea how to tell them that I do not.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

I decided to reply to Relinda in regards to her post about broken vases and broken hearts:

Relinda, I love metaphors, too. You are comparing a broken vase to a broken heart. Such sadness in those words!

A vase does shatter and is almost meant to be breakable. But a vase is man-made unlike a human heart. Humans with all their technology cannot glue a vase back together like new.

But god created humans. Hearts do stop beating and some bleed. But the difference is that flesh has the capability of healing unlike a shard of porcelain.

How wondrous healing is. It is miraculous and it happens without conscious effort. Of course, the wound does leave scars – but the pain diminishes. Your heart is still bleeding and cannot heal at this moment.

You have a beautiful heart; it is far from worthless!

–

My son died in the fall. Dead leaves always made me sad.

My son died in the fall. Dead leaves carry my son’s memory.

I always held onto hope that my grief pains would diminish. Thankfully, they did. I would never be the same either.

Posted in Grief Stories | Tagged acoustic guitar, Art and Illustration, autumn leaves, broken heart, child's death, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, Friendship, grief, grief and optimism, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, healing a broken heart, healing from grief, hopeful and optimistic, hopelessness, inspiration, loss, loss of a husband, loss of a spouse, loss of a wife, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, maintaining hope, Music, optimism, original songs, performing, singing, songwriting, unresolved grief, widow, widower | 2 Comments

YOU HAVE NO HOPE

Posted on December 30, 2012 by Judy

My post title is from a lyric line in my song “Hang On.”

My post title is taken from the lyrics of my song “Hang On.”

Recently, I wrote about a new direction in my life. I began reading other blogs.

Suddenly, I felt far less alone. There were so many wonderful words and I found myself reaching out to other writers. As a result, I also had a new audience of readers with whom to share my story.

I was particularly touched by a searing post, written by a grieving widow. I often reach out to other bereaved parents because I am one. It was interesting for me to be so affected by the grief from this widow.

I had never read anything more desolate before.

The post was named: My Mystical Quandary.

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The blog’s title was: Doyle’s Widow / searching for a way home. (Please note that all of the blue post-titles are links back to the author’s blog.)

Reading her despairing words, compelled me to comment. But what could I possibly say? I was going through a divorce and certainly could not imagine a widow’s pain. I never considered myself a grief counselor.

But I deeply believed in healing and felt compelled to share my optimism.

And so it was that a month ago, that I wrote my comment and an exchange with Doyle’s widow began. Her name was Relinda.

Our correspondence inspired me very much and actually allowed me to clarify many of my own feelings about healing. After writing my first comment to her, I expanded upon the metaphor of grief being like a wildfire on my next blog post.

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Here are excerpts from our first exchange. Her words are in brown and mine are in blue.

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Dear Relinda,

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As you pour out your pain, which you express beautifully – one day you will discover joy again. It is not your destiny to suffer. I pray for some hope to gently whisper something into your ear. Listen carefully, because it will come. Grief can cause total devastation, but like after a fire burns – growth and life are possible again.

–

I will agree with you in that I believe that is true for most; however, I do think my destiny is to grieve forever. Thanks for your thoughts, Judy.

–

I continued commenting to Relinda about my optimism related to healing. No matter what I wrote, she politely thanked me and then reaffirmed that she would never stop grieving.

On her story “A Mystical Quandary” she wrote that without her husband’s encouragement, she had little desire to write. She also felt no one wanted to read her sad writing and she was a fraud for hiding her grief.

After two weeks, I went back to leave her another comment. I wanted to encourage her to write.

I also knew that holidays are awful when grieving, and I was especially sad for her.

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This watercolor painting of mine portrays isolation

This watercolor painting of mine feels like isolation.

I wrote her this message:

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Relinda, do not hide your grief. Keep writing. I will continue to read whatever you write. I am waiting for more. Holidays are very hard when you are grieving. I want you to know that I am envious of you. I never experienced the love that you lost. I’m 53 and wonder if I’ll ever experience it. I don’t expect to because I feel condemned to being alone. It’s my choice with divorce now and that leads me to a different form of grief. I support you, Relinda. Please write more.

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Thank you, Judy. I appreciate your support. I will write more soon. The holidays are especially difficult for me because I buried my love two days prior to Christmas Eve. Today is the three-year anniversary of his death. I believe that you will find that kind of love, Judy. It is there when you stop looking. Thank you for your encouragement.

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Although you are certain about your grief lasting, trust me, you are wrong. Open your heart to the possibility of healing. Even if you do not believe it, you will find signs of feeling better. Your encouragement to me is the same. I find it unlikely that I will find that kind of love, and you said I would when I stop looking.I am so sorry for the pain on this 3rd anniversary! I believe you will soon reach a turning point. I am going to tell you that when you stop telling yourself that you will grieve forever, you might actually start to see signs of healing. Healing does not mean you love him less. A sign of a good relationship is the ability to love again. But start with yourself. You are beautiful and worthy. You will help many people with your insight. Keep writing about it and on this sad anniversary I am thinking of you.

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Thanks, Judy. I appreciate your optimism. I don’t tell myself that I will grieve forever, my heart tells me. For some, the love of your life comes along once, he and I shared that kind of relationship. Thank you again and you are in my thoughts as well.

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I envy you for experiencing that kind of love. A broken heart definitely speaks – in my deep grief I wrote many things that I feel differently about now. I have thought of you throughout the holidays and hope you will write a new post soon. You have eager new readers! Do not hold back. You are absolutely entitled to your feelings and I am expressing my optimism because I never had any for many years.

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I am glad that you have optimism now. It is hard to live without optimism. Thank you for thinking of me and for reading my blog, Judy.

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This story continues. I did not know Relinda. I only knew her grief was endless and that was all.

Last night, I saw she had a new post on her blog. It was named The Promise. It held a lot of information for me about her. She began her post by sharing a very moving graduation speech. She wrote:

It was during semester finals time that my husband fell ill and my instructors were so kind and worked with me to ensure that I did not drop out. Before he died, Doyle wanted me to tell those instructors what wonderful people they are—I am doing that now. He made me promise that I would finish college.

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After I read more, I was crying. I hardly could leave a rational comment, but I quickly typed a message to her. For some reason, many feelings began to erupt within me.

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Relinda, this is so beautiful that I am crying!

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I am touched that you found it beautiful, Judy; however, please don’t cry. You deserve to smile.

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Her words touched an even deeper nerve in me. More tears began to flow and were unstoppable. I gasped as my feelings became clear to me:

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I am crying because I wish I had experienced that kind of love and I am not optimistic about ever having it in my lifetime. You are my inspiration for being able to fulfill Doyle’s promise while crawling with your overwhelming grief. I wish I could smile more, but I am mourning many decades of settling for an empty relationship. I do deserve to smile and will keep trying.

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My heart goes out to you, my friend. I sincerely hope that love finds you because it is obvious that you have a big heart. Look at your reflection and say, “I deserve to be loved the way that I love.”

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Relinda, perhaps we are alike after all! I cannot imagine myself ever finding that kind of love just as you cannot imagine your grief diminishing. For me, the ultimate love is to find the strength to smile and go on despite grief. I seek to feel complete and find my joy within myself. I am blessed that my music does that for me.

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I think you are well on your way to finding the love you deserve. Music is a gift indeed.

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Thank you, Relinda.  I would love to share some of my music with you. I am not confident about my singing, but do feel my songs are touching. If you send me an address, I can mail you a CD.  No worries if you are too busy for this either! I would just love feedback if you felt inclined.

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I would be honored to hear your music, Judy, and more than happy to provide feedback. Your comments mean so much to me. I appreciate the support and kind thoughts you send my way.

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Poetry I wrote before I was married at the age of twenty.

These are two verses from my song “Alone.”

I was completely touched that she would listen to my music. Then I saw she had written a new post again.

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It seemed that she had a lot more to say on the topic of optimism and grief.

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widow

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Her post was named Killing Optimism.

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Every word was searing and the amputation of her soul was complete. It made me realize how foolish grief comparisons were between the loss of a child versus a soul mate. Clearly her amputated soul was nothing I would ever want to measure.

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Below is an excerpt:

“To live without hope is to cease to live. Hell is hopelessness. It is no accident that above the entrance to Dante’s hell is the inscription: “Leave behind all hope, you who enter here.”  — Jürgen Moltmann

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An image from Relinda’s blog

It seems that optimism surrounds me. As much as I try to avoid it—it just keeps calling to me. I despise this time of the year. I despise welcoming some new year that offers so little to me.

Grief killed Hope long ago. Hope is no longer pulling at the drawstrings of my mind. I wished upon all the falling stars I could find and I pretended all that one can, prior to completely breaking with reality.

Oh, it was a mighty battle when Hope and Grief tangled. Hope had resorted to hiding among the corners of my mind, just prolonging the inevitable. When Grief found him cowering, he struck a mighty blow, but Hope stood strong and fought to the end. I watched as the two battled like worthy knights battling for the love of a woman. I watched as Grief dealt the deathblow that would silence Hope forever. I cried. Hope was the only chance at renewal. Hope is dead.

How solemn it is to live without Hope. I think knowing him for 44 years makes his absence more devastating. I was an optimist. I always had Hope, even when Hope wanted to go away.

I see the way people look at me now, or rather do not notice me. I suppose that when I had Hope it just did not matter. I was once loved. I was once adored. When you are loved, you perceive a reflection of the person your lover sees. When love goes away and Grief murders Hope, you see an accurate reflection of yourself. When I gaze into a mirror, I see an image so haggard it makes me gasp in disbelief. When Hope is dead, you see only reality. There are no rose-tinted glasses or dreams blocking the accurate view. There is only reality. Reality is lonely.

I found Optimism hiding with all the Others and I asked what it is they are so frightened of and Optimism said they did not want to live in hell anymore.

A photo taken from my wedding video from 1981

Posted in Grief Stories | Tagged child's death, death, death of a spouse, divorce, divorce after a long marriage, divorce and grief, Friendship, gray divorce, grief, grief and optimism, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, healing from grief, hope, hopelessness, inspiration, loss, loss of a husband, loss of a spouse, loss of a wife, love, maintaining hope, optimism, relationships, sadness, separation, separation and divorce, widow, widower, writing | 4 Comments

MEMORIES I TREASURE

Posted on December 21, 2012 by Judy

My post title is a lyric line from my most recent song “Music Saved Me.”

I do have a strong attachment to memories. My memories might involve “objects,” but those objects only serve as a way to remind me of memories filled with special people whom I’ve loved. Some of those memories are sad.

Currently, I’d like to think that I am creating happier memories. There are many “firsts” in my life, as I am now living on my own at the age of 53 for the first time in my life.

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A picture from when I was 17.

I understand why exciting things in my life can cause me to feel sadness. For decades, I relied upon my parents to cheer me on. Sadly, I didn’t share much with my husband.

Somehow, simply knowing that I can write freely has allowed me to dispel much of that sadness. Finding the courage to change my life, gave me the clarity to know that I was alone for far longer than I realized.

Not being able to express myself was far lonelier than anything else.

Now I can share my insights by writing. But my true expression has been through my music. I am joyful and dancing along to exquisite new songs arrangements that I work on weekly.

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This image is from a video of one of my performances at Kulak’s Woodshed. Sometimes the video has images that overlap, and I can see myself playing in the refection.

Recently, I told a good friend that my music has allowed me to “keep my sanity.” Later on, it dawned on me that those were not the best choice of words.

Even though I’ve written that “music saved me,” the fact is that I survived the death of my child without any music to help me. I wasn’t insane then, just sad. I see a far more positive way of looking at what my music does for me.

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My beautiful music inspires me and gives me tremendous appreciation for life.

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After I wrote of my memories related to my old Previa, I read a post on another blog that really spoke to me. I share an excerpt below. The author is D.D. Wood and her blog always carries such insightful words and beautiful photography (the image above, for example). D.D. is also an established singer/songwriter who has performed in various Disney films. Her blog can be found by clicking this link: Daily Divorce Meditations

“When I first went through my divorce, my feelings and my memories were so intense that they often hindered my progress in the present.

I spent so much time examining what had happened in my past, turning over each and every memory to see if it held the answer to what went wrong, that I wasn’t living in the moment.

I found myself unable to recover from my pain because I was constantly reliving it.”

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MEMORIES OF MY 1993 TOYOTA PREVIA

I created a rendition of my old Previa going to heaven, which begins my post.

I ended up giving my car to my former housekeeper, Rosa who worked with our family for 23 years. Certainly, I was happy if she was able to get a little extra money at the junkyard for it. She was over this evening and I was able to show her my “dead minivan going to heaven” image. Then she told me something interesting.

She told me she gave the minivan to a neighbor with a large family who planned to fix it. It turned out that it would actually benefit two families. The husband’s sister had cancer. His wife’s sister was recently diagnosed with cancer also. The van would help them transport all of their children during this crisis. I was touched hearing this and imagined I might see my old car on the road someday; something I didn’t expect!

Now, I want to share some memories about the very first new car I ever owned. The excitement about my 1993 Previa lasted only a few months. The Northridge earthquake came along and my car became dented in many places because so many items in the garage fell on it.

I took that as a sign to get over keeping it like new. It was the perfect “mommy van” and later on “elder van.” It survived two major accidents and worked great for all the years I needed it to. The first accident happened when my daughter was a toddler. Five years later when my youngest son was born, my husband had an accident due to his fatigue.

Both times the car could be repaired.

On family vacations, our mini-van was packed and there was no end to fighting between our three children. There never was a pleasant car ride. I am traumatized remembering my husband’s booming voice yelling at them, as well as my own shrill pleas for them to stop fighting.

My children continued to grow. When they were older, I was buying huge amounts of household items and food every few days at Costco. My minivan was very useful for that.

But I had no pride in my vehicle. It attracted shopping cart dents. Eventually, none of the seatbelts retracted well and my husband would curse trying to put one on. I gave up trying to clean it. I even made a note of how long I could go between car washes. My last car wash was two years ago.

When my parents became infirm, the back area that once stored strollers was excellent for wheelchairs. In the beginning, a wheelchair was very heavy for me to lift. Later on, I learned how to easily fold it up and heave it into the trunk area.

My Previa had 215,000 miles on it. Only a year ago, I endangered my life when the drive shaft almost broke apart while I was driving on the freeway. I knew I deserved a newer car, but didn’t care. My car got me around.

I was slightly ashamed at how dirty my van was and decided the end was coming. I began to curse at it when the seatbelt continuously got caught as I closed the door.

My Previa didn’t even have a decent radio, so I listened to my iPod while driving with ear buds. I knew that wasn’t a good idea and I might even get a ticket.

I dreamt of listening to my music through speakers someday.

The beginning:

It was a summer evening and my parents came over for dinner. I was so excited to show them my new car. It was the first new car I had ever owned in my life.

I was able to buy it with cash, because that year my art career provided a good income.

I went to meet my parents outside. My mother gushed over my new car. She was enthusiastic while my father was quiet. He stayed outside with me and she went inside to see her grandchildren.

I recounted to my dad how the car salesman would not give me the price I wanted, so I went home. Two days later, the manager of the dealership agreed to my price and the car was delivered to my doorstep with the papers to sign.

Suddenly, my father started sobbing uncontrollably. I hadn’t expected this. I said, “Dad, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I was shocked.

He caught his breath and said hoarsely, “I am crying because I am so very proud of my daughter.”

Then I began crying!

When I wrote this, I cried again remembering how wonderful it was that my father loved me so much.

A picture from a family vacation. My brother, Norm is on the right.

A few months later:

It had been ten years since I had last seen my friend, Cheryl. She lived far away and was in town for a brief visit. We had been so close in college, and now this was our first visit after ten years. We had finally reconciled, and didn’t discuss our rift.

A long time ago, we were single woman and now we were mothers. Cheryl’s two young children played in the backyard. I held my infant daughter in my lap and my 3-year-old son sat next to me.

It was a lovely afternoon. We sipped iced tea and reminisced in-between tending to our children. It had been a little over a year since Jason had died. I was very sad and overweight. Rather than avoid bringing up grief, Cheryl asked me if I could show her pictures of Jason. She said, “Judy, he was so beautiful,” I cried and was very touched.

When it was time to go, I followed her outside to say goodbye. I had just gotten my new Previa and when she saw it in my driveway she said, “Oh my God, Judy, we wanted a Previa, but couldn’t afford it. You know, it’s the perfect family car, the absolute best! You are so lucky!”

I beamed at Cheryl. She always knew how to make me feel great. I hugged her tightly; I had missed her over those ten years. I also knew that it might be many years before I’d see her again.

I miss my good friend, Cheryl, who died from breast cancer in 2009.

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Not sure if this was the illustration in my anecdote below or not. But it was one of dozens that were commissioned through my San Francisco agent, Barb Hauser.

2 years later:

My illustration was due the following morning in San Francisco. My agent wanted to give me as much time as possible and agreed to pick the artwork up at the airport. I simply had to drive half an hour to a local airport and send it as a parcel on a flight. It wasn’t cheap, but the client had agreed to pay for it. I felt exhilarated to be able to pull off such a challenging assignment so quickly.

My eyes were bleary and when I finished my painting at 2 a.m. Fortunately, there was a 7 a.m. flight and my agent would be able to pick it up and still get it to the client in the morning. It made sense for me to drive to the airport and be done with it.

But at 3 a.m. when I arrived at the airport, it was closed. I didn’t know this airport wasn’t open all night.

I curled up in the trunk area of my Previa and was thankful for the room. I slept a few hours until the airport opened, so I could put my artwork on that flight.

After that, I always kept a pillow and blanket in my car.

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3 years later:

My daughter was in preschool and I was on my way to pick her up. As I exited the freeway, I saw a car careening toward me through a red light. I couldn’t stop in time. I braked as the other car clipped the front of my car. My head lightly bumped the side window, but I didn’t feel any pain.

I could see the other lady was bleeding and her windshield was shattered. I sprinted out of my car to the nearest house across the street. I banged on the door, and shouted that there was an accident nearby. How wonderful it would have been if I owned a cellphone then!

I ran back to my car and a moment later there were sirens. The paramedics immobilized me with a large brace upon my neck. They told me that I should not have moved at all after the accident. But all I could think of was how my daughter was waiting to be picked up and I wasn’t there.

At the ER, I begged a nurse to bring me a phone so I could call the preschool. Finally, I was able to call, and was relieved to know that another mother would bring my daughter home. The preschool receptionist was concerned about me, but I reassured her that I was fine and the hospital would release me soon.

At that moment, I had to put the phone down because a doctor came to examine me. I was taken out for x-rays and when I came back into the room, a nurse told me my husband had called. It turned out that the preschool had called him. He did not know if I was injured and had frantically searched to find out which hospital I was in. I picked up the phone and my husband’s voice was angry when he asked me why I hadn’t called him right away.

An hour or so later he arrived to pick me up. I tried to explain how I only had time to call 911. After that, I was so worried about our daughter being picked up that I hadn’t had time to make any other calls. My words did not ring true for him and his eyes were filled with disappointment.

The ER said I was fine and I was allowed to go home after four hours. I went to bed exhausted.

I could not let go of how disappointed my husband was with me. I told myself that his reaction was because he was so worried. But I had such an ominous feeling.

I also missed my parents who were out of town on a cruise that week. They were the ones I really wanted to call; my husband was right. As I was dozing off, I heard him shrug his shoulders and ask me to give him a back rub.

I felt such a stabbing pain in my heart, and I pushed it back down.

I just knew my husband would never forgive me for not calling him immediately. And at that moment, I knew I would never forgive him either. It was the beginning of my heart growing cold.

I wished instead that he had offered to give me a back rub.

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I named my photo “No Longer Lovebirds.”The bird on the left looks angry and the bird on the right has her head somewhere else.

I named my photo “No Longer Lovebirds.”
The bird on the left looks angry and the bird on the right looks withdrawn.

Eighteen years later:

It was outing day for my 87-year-old father. He always looked forward to coming to my house so he could “putter” around. I arrived at his nursing home to pick him up and pushed his wheelchair to my car. Even with a scarf and blanket, he still shivered. He gripped his catheter and hose in a shopping bag, which he thought cleverly concealed it.

A nurse urged me to wear gloves when handling his bag because my father had rampant infections, but I never did. When we reached my minivan, my father slowly stood up from his wheelchair. I gently lifted his leg into my car while he gripped the door handle. He moaned loudly and then grunted, “I need you to move my other leg over now.”

It was always the same routine. I moved his other leg over. Then I reached around to put on his seatbelt. His voice was gruff when he said, “You don’t need to bother with a seatbelt.”

I ignored him. He was like my child now. I actually enjoyed reaching across his body to snap him in securely. I felt like I was a “good mommy,” even though he flinched when I touched him. I still remember his soft flannel shirt and skinny body under it.

After that, I felt confident as I put his wheelchair in the trunk. The car ride to my home was interminable because he cried out loudly with every bump I went over. During the rest of the drive he softly moaned.

I could not stand to hear his suffering and cried tears inside while I drove. I felt so helpless when he cried.

I decided I was just not a good enough driver.

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“Getting Up Off the Ground”

It was Sunday morning and the sky was gray. I drove in the misty rain half an hour to attend my first voice lesson with a new teacher.

Her name was Kimberly. A year earlier, I had heard her sing at an event for a good friend of mine. When I heard Kimberly’s voice, I was envious and wished I could sing that way. When the moment was right, I introduced myself and told her what a beautiful voice she had. Later on, I found out that Kimberly taught voice lessons and I wrote her last name down on a piece of paper.

My first vocal coach, Peaches Chrenko moved away two months ago. Peaches had worked with me for over two years and I sure missed our joyful lessons.

Last week, I decided it was time for me to sing again. Just like with George, the day came when I was ready and I remembered in my drawer there was a piece of paper with Kimberly’s last name on it. I searched her up on the Internet and contacted her. I was amazed when she emailed me back and said that she remembered me.

On Sunday our lesson went beautifully. I brought my guitar and played one of my favorite songs for her called “Alabaster Seashell.” She understood exactly what I wanted.

I just knew Kimberly was special. There was a paper list taped on the wall above her keyboard. It was a list of vocal reminders. I asked her if they were written specifically for me and she smiled and said they weren’t.

Her technique was exactly what I needed. I drove home singing. Life was definitely improving.

It was all about giving myself permission to be happy.

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My two older brothers, Howard and Norman

“My second new car”

I came home from my lesson and twenty minutes later I drove to meet my brother, Norm and sister-in-law, Jo at a Honda dealership.

My brother said he’d help me when I leased my first car. The entire process took five hours. It was exhausting and I kept looking at Norm and Jo with intense gratitude.

They had given up their Sunday just to be there for me.

At one point, the negotiations were getting frustrating. Hidden costs kept popping up, and Norm questioned each one. The fact that Norm was a CPA became easily apparent to the salesman because Norm understood every ploy.

Finally, we all had had enough. It turned out that the car I was negotiating for wasn’t even available in the color I wanted. They had another Civic in that color, but it had a more expensive accessory, a spoiler, which I didn’t care about.

It was time to go.

I picked up my purse. We were all tired. I told my brother there was no hurry. It had been 19 years since I’d had a new car and I could wait a little longer. But just as we began to step outside, the salesman came running after us. He said they would give us a better offer on the Civic with the spoiler.

Two hours later, I was driving home my new Honda Civic.

I felt so blessed that I had so much love from both my two brothers.

With Norm and Jo’s help, I returned the car I had borrowed from my middle brother, Howard. Howard’s generosity allowed me to take my time while shopping for a new car.

It was still drizzling as I drove home. I was overcome by the overpowering odor of my brand new car. In the darkness, it maneuvered so easily.

I pretended I was piloting a rocket ship through space. As the drizzle became a steady rain, I was pleased that I figured out how to turn on the windshield wipers.

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I decided the rain held my father’s happy tears from above.

My childhood artwork that my father saved was especially meaningful.

I love the childhood artwork that my father saved.

My parents would have been so proud of my brothers for helping me. Sadly, my dad died this past May and my mother has severe dementia.

Humor Moments:

I received an email from my old boyfriend, Dr. Sam congratulating me on my new car. We reconnected when he found my blog and left a comment (#137 YOU’RE NOT THE ONE) Sam and I love puns very much. His words are in brown.

On Dec 19, 2012, Dr. Sam wrote:

Hi Judy!…Mazel Tov on the car…use it in good health!

Thanks, Sam – It’s new and that’s so cool for me. I’m really enjoying it. I’m actually writing a farewell story about my Previa at the moment. Hope you’re well.

A farewell story? How about a car-toon?

I love that pun! It would be a car-tune if I wrote a song! Thanks, Sam.

You are right…so make it an auto-biography!

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Your puns are driving me crazy!

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I thought that I had the last word, but I was wrong. I received an email from my good friend, Carol. Carol and Sam were together many years ago and I reconnected with Carol at the same time as Sam.

Her message was:

On Dec 20, 2012, Carol wrote:

Keeping up with these puns isn’t just tiring, it’s exhausting!

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© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.