"I keep telling myself that the ongoing grief is a testament to how loved he is.
You are not abnormal. Grief is an ebb and flow. A cycle of acceptance and disbelief that never ends."
I could tell you that someone wise wrote that. That it is the thought of someone I look up to. That is partially true. I wrote it. And when it comes to the topic of grief, I am wiser now than I was 3 years ago, that's for sure. Some days I think my sheer survival is to be commended - the fact that I have maintained a level of normalcy for our kids and I have helped to build a life they are enjoying and thriving in.
It still surprises me the amount of understanding that is lacking for those experiencing grief. The judgement that lingers. The firm ideas that people who have never tread this path hold so tightly. The looks, oh, the looks.....
Sometimes people don't understand that I still grieve Tim. Maybe their timeline for my grief has passed. Maybe they think that my love for Jason has somehow erased my love for Tim. Sometimes I hear people get frustrated with others who still express their grief with tears. They judge how the other person grieves - they think it should be scheduled or secluded. I still cry. Even in public. I know a lot of people still cry about missing Tim. They wish they could call him and they cry because they can't. They think of the fun times they had together and the realization that those times can't happen again brings them to tears. They remember him as a child, and growing into a young man and an adult and the reality that they will never see him as an old man has their eyes brimming with tears. Me, I think about all of those things, and I think about all that he is missing. I think about how much we loved each other and the unfairness that he is not here to experience his 3 beautiful children growing up, that we don't get to fulfill all those dreams - it makes me cry. I'm crying as I type this, actually.
It's true, I believe our tears and our memories show how loved - how missed he is. It is a testament to our love, to the love that so many people gave him in his lifetime.
This week we will celebrate what would have been Tim's 46th birthday. A trigger. A milestone. A reason to celebrate that he lived. A reason to mourn that he died. It's complicated, and even the other widows in my life know that I can't explain it and even though they identify on some level, they can't fully understand it.
So, please, don't judge me for being stoic. For sobbing uncontrollably on my way to school. For being lost in thought when you want to tell me what a hard week you've had. For being stand-offish or needy. For not wanting to meet for lunch or begging you to come over for dinner. Maybe I need my space or maybe I need to be held like a child. Either way, my reactions are normal.
Grief doesn't go away. I likened it once to alcoholism. Just because you aren't drinking right now doesn't mean you are not an alcoholic. Just because I am living life, loving and raising my children doesn't mean I don't grieve Tim. Grief is a never-ending cycle. There is no cure. There is no end. It is an ebb and flow, and those closest to me know my triggers and understand what I need when I'm having one of those days. The rest of the world is free to be oblivious. It is okay. I kind of prefer it that way.
What is not okay is to pass judgement on someone because their grief does not meet your standards. That is hurtful, and frankly oppressive.
Showing posts with label stupid effing cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stupid effing cancer. Show all posts
Grief is a Testament
Accepted
"The past can not be changed, forgotten, edited or erased. It can only be accepted."
I'm not sure whose quote that is, but it seems to ring very true when it comes to coping with grief.
I don't think I ever really did the denial thing. I mean, I suppose there is a chance that am in denial about my denial, but I never thought that Tim was coming back. I definitely kept thinks just as they were for a very long time as if I was waiting for him to come back, but my logical mind knew that couldn't happen. Hell, it has been over 2 years and I still have his cell phones, keys and the change from his pockets sitting there on the nightstand. That's not because I think he is coming home to use his old Blackberry - it's because it somehow brings me comfort to see that stuff there. (Plus, I'm pretty sure if he did come back, Brittany and I would quickly convert him to an iphone guy.)
Did you ever read those "Which Way" books as a kid? From the first one I read in 3rd grade, I thought life was just like those books - you come to a point, you make a choice, that choice leads you down an entirely different path than if you had picked the other thing.
Meeting Tim in the first place was a total fluke. I was going to stay home that night instead of going out. Had I arrived any earlier, he would have been with another woman and I wouldn't have given him a second look. Had I arrived later, he would have been gone - a missed meeting that would have sent both of our lives down another path.
There some of those "which way points" that I wished I could have gone back and changed. Most of them had to do with Doctors, tests, knowing sooner. I was still willing to accept that cancer would be part of Tim's journey, part of our journey together, I just wasn't willing to accept it taking him away from me.
Early on in our relationship, we read a book together called the Book of Questions. It is a book that gets you talking about all kinds of subjects and I would recommend it to any couple to spark discussion. Question 19 reads, "You have the chance to meet someone with whom you can have the most satisfying love imaginable - the stuff of dreams. Sadly, you know that in six months the person will die. Knowing the pain that would follow, would you still want to meet the person and fall in love?"
We both said we would want to meet that person. I guess that is the hopeless romantic coming out in us both. We just felt that we were such a good fit and so intended to be together. The happiness of the moment could outshine the impending pain. It is strange to think that we discussed such a thing completely not knowing what the future would hold. We had no idea that Tim had cancer growing inside him from before we even met.
I know I can not change or edit any part of our journey. I would never want to forget or erase any of it - even the horrible, painful parts at the end - because it is our story and everything about our story is special to me.
I accept our story. Not because I wouldn't rewrite the ending if I could, but because I have no choice. Acceptance is what gives me permission to continue living.
I'm not sure whose quote that is, but it seems to ring very true when it comes to coping with grief.
I don't think I ever really did the denial thing. I mean, I suppose there is a chance that am in denial about my denial, but I never thought that Tim was coming back. I definitely kept thinks just as they were for a very long time as if I was waiting for him to come back, but my logical mind knew that couldn't happen. Hell, it has been over 2 years and I still have his cell phones, keys and the change from his pockets sitting there on the nightstand. That's not because I think he is coming home to use his old Blackberry - it's because it somehow brings me comfort to see that stuff there. (Plus, I'm pretty sure if he did come back, Brittany and I would quickly convert him to an iphone guy.)
Did you ever read those "Which Way" books as a kid? From the first one I read in 3rd grade, I thought life was just like those books - you come to a point, you make a choice, that choice leads you down an entirely different path than if you had picked the other thing.
Meeting Tim in the first place was a total fluke. I was going to stay home that night instead of going out. Had I arrived any earlier, he would have been with another woman and I wouldn't have given him a second look. Had I arrived later, he would have been gone - a missed meeting that would have sent both of our lives down another path.
There some of those "which way points" that I wished I could have gone back and changed. Most of them had to do with Doctors, tests, knowing sooner. I was still willing to accept that cancer would be part of Tim's journey, part of our journey together, I just wasn't willing to accept it taking him away from me.
Early on in our relationship, we read a book together called the Book of Questions. It is a book that gets you talking about all kinds of subjects and I would recommend it to any couple to spark discussion. Question 19 reads, "You have the chance to meet someone with whom you can have the most satisfying love imaginable - the stuff of dreams. Sadly, you know that in six months the person will die. Knowing the pain that would follow, would you still want to meet the person and fall in love?"
We both said we would want to meet that person. I guess that is the hopeless romantic coming out in us both. We just felt that we were such a good fit and so intended to be together. The happiness of the moment could outshine the impending pain. It is strange to think that we discussed such a thing completely not knowing what the future would hold. We had no idea that Tim had cancer growing inside him from before we even met.
I know I can not change or edit any part of our journey. I would never want to forget or erase any of it - even the horrible, painful parts at the end - because it is our story and everything about our story is special to me.
I accept our story. Not because I wouldn't rewrite the ending if I could, but because I have no choice. Acceptance is what gives me permission to continue living.
Brave
Yesterday I drove the kids 2 hours north to visit Tim's mom & dad at their house. I haven't done many solo car rides in the last 2 years - for one it is hard with the 2 kids. Also, the music in the car can sometimes trigger emotions in me.
On this trip, I borrowed a car that gets better gas mileage than mine. I had no way to hook up my ipod. That meant no "safe" playlists. Radio stations all faded the farther we got from home. The one that remained was a "top 40" type station that I wouldn't normally listen to, but it was better than the deafening silence with A&A dozed off in the back.
I heard a song twice on that ride. The chorus says, "I want to see you be brave." I didn't hear any of the other lyrics.
Brave.
That brought back a flood of memories in a quick flash that left me with tear stained cheeks.
Although I think that battling cancer brought out the absolute best in Tim, I never, ever want to see anyone else I love "be brave". I don't want them to need to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That last week is a blur. There are parts that stand out, but the lack of sleep, the stressful pregnancy, Tim's nausea and vomiting.... it is a blurred mess.
One of his best friends since childhood had gotten into the habit of coming to see him every day. I liked that, because there were others of his friends who didn't come - couldn't come - didn't want to come. Having him visit with Tim made me happy.
Until one day that last week.
He always asked me about Tim's blood counts and asked for very specific information. At some point that week it occurred to me why he was asking. His wife is an oncological nurse. Then it hit me why he was here every day. Because they thought Tim was dying.
This occurred to me in the middle of the day as I sat in the den working on the computer and as Tim sat on the couch watching a movie and waiting to throw up. I sat in the den and cried and cried until I could cry no more. I felt the weight of a thousand elephants on my chest. I felt like my head was going to explode. I was just sick.
I slipped quietly into our bedroom and washed my face, put in some eye drops and put on a little makeup so Tim wouldn't know I'd been crying.
I needed to be close to him. I came out into the living room to sit so close to him I was almost on top of him. Immediately he asked me what was wrong. I could never fool him - he read me like a book.
"I'm scared, " I admitted as he gathered me even closer to hold me. "Aren't you ever scared?"
In the voice of a man so weak that he chose his words carefully as not to exhaust himself, Tim said, "I'm not sacred. I'm brave."
I can hear him speaking those words in my mind at will. It is both haunting and comforting. It rips my heart out and it makes me so, so proud.
Tim was braver than I could ever be, braver than anyone I have ever known. He was brave enough for all of us and used his energy to love and protect those he cared about. He fought to the very end to educate men about prostate cancer so that no man would have to go through what he did.
That is true bravery. Bravery that I hope the young girl singing that song knows nothing about. Bravery like I hope to never experience or witness again.
On this trip, I borrowed a car that gets better gas mileage than mine. I had no way to hook up my ipod. That meant no "safe" playlists. Radio stations all faded the farther we got from home. The one that remained was a "top 40" type station that I wouldn't normally listen to, but it was better than the deafening silence with A&A dozed off in the back.
I heard a song twice on that ride. The chorus says, "I want to see you be brave." I didn't hear any of the other lyrics.
Brave.
That brought back a flood of memories in a quick flash that left me with tear stained cheeks.
Although I think that battling cancer brought out the absolute best in Tim, I never, ever want to see anyone else I love "be brave". I don't want them to need to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That last week is a blur. There are parts that stand out, but the lack of sleep, the stressful pregnancy, Tim's nausea and vomiting.... it is a blurred mess.
One of his best friends since childhood had gotten into the habit of coming to see him every day. I liked that, because there were others of his friends who didn't come - couldn't come - didn't want to come. Having him visit with Tim made me happy.
Until one day that last week.
He always asked me about Tim's blood counts and asked for very specific information. At some point that week it occurred to me why he was asking. His wife is an oncological nurse. Then it hit me why he was here every day. Because they thought Tim was dying.
This occurred to me in the middle of the day as I sat in the den working on the computer and as Tim sat on the couch watching a movie and waiting to throw up. I sat in the den and cried and cried until I could cry no more. I felt the weight of a thousand elephants on my chest. I felt like my head was going to explode. I was just sick.
I slipped quietly into our bedroom and washed my face, put in some eye drops and put on a little makeup so Tim wouldn't know I'd been crying.
I needed to be close to him. I came out into the living room to sit so close to him I was almost on top of him. Immediately he asked me what was wrong. I could never fool him - he read me like a book.
"I'm scared, " I admitted as he gathered me even closer to hold me. "Aren't you ever scared?"
In the voice of a man so weak that he chose his words carefully as not to exhaust himself, Tim said, "I'm not sacred. I'm brave."
I can hear him speaking those words in my mind at will. It is both haunting and comforting. It rips my heart out and it makes me so, so proud.
Tim was braver than I could ever be, braver than anyone I have ever known. He was brave enough for all of us and used his energy to love and protect those he cared about. He fought to the very end to educate men about prostate cancer so that no man would have to go through what he did.
That is true bravery. Bravery that I hope the young girl singing that song knows nothing about. Bravery like I hope to never experience or witness again.
August
Oh, August. Here we are again. You know I hate you. You fill me with dread and cause memories of all of the "lasts" to come flooding back with your heat and your monsoons and your long, golden sunsets. It is as if I am just waiting for you to pass, but I would never wish away time because I know how precious it is.
Truth be told, I even hated that the expiration date on my debit card was this month. I hated having to write it. I hated that my husband expired before my debit card. I hate when people use the word "expired" when referring to a person.
I wonder will there ever be a day when August doesn't fill me with dread? With the 27th of any month come and go unnoticed instead of it marking another month passed since I have seen him, kissed him, held him, talked to him?
A&A are 18 months old right now. Every accomplishment they have had, every step they have taken, every sight they have seen he has not been here to hold their hands through it. To them, Daddy is a photograph. They couldn't identify him across a room by how he walks or his laugh. They don't know what it feels like to be comforted by their Daddy when they get hurt. I still remember what it feels like to be comforted by my dad and I am 33. They will never get that.
At least I still have the memories. I remember our kisses like they happened yesterday - the first kiss and the last kiss. Last week I came out of a meeting and as I was walking to my car, I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone to call him. I guess that is just how my mind works. 5 years of telling him everything, of having a best friend who was also my perfect partner - part of me will never be able to let him go.
Now I just have to make it through another August without cracking.
Truth be told, I even hated that the expiration date on my debit card was this month. I hated having to write it. I hated that my husband expired before my debit card. I hate when people use the word "expired" when referring to a person.
I wonder will there ever be a day when August doesn't fill me with dread? With the 27th of any month come and go unnoticed instead of it marking another month passed since I have seen him, kissed him, held him, talked to him?
A&A are 18 months old right now. Every accomplishment they have had, every step they have taken, every sight they have seen he has not been here to hold their hands through it. To them, Daddy is a photograph. They couldn't identify him across a room by how he walks or his laugh. They don't know what it feels like to be comforted by their Daddy when they get hurt. I still remember what it feels like to be comforted by my dad and I am 33. They will never get that.
At least I still have the memories. I remember our kisses like they happened yesterday - the first kiss and the last kiss. Last week I came out of a meeting and as I was walking to my car, I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone to call him. I guess that is just how my mind works. 5 years of telling him everything, of having a best friend who was also my perfect partner - part of me will never be able to let him go.
Now I just have to make it through another August without cracking.
It's Gonna Be Packed
"It's gonna be paaacked."
I heard those words weekly from Tim. It's what he would say to make sure we got to the movies early enough for his liking. If it were not, in fact, "packed", I would give him a little bit of a hard time. Something along the lines of, "Well, I am glad we got here in time so that these other 7 people didn't take all the good seats!" And we would laugh as we watched the same ads 3 or 4 times.
Before we started dating, I hadn't seen a movie in the theater in a couple years. Before that it had been a few years. I just wasn't much into it.
On our first date, I learned that he was very into movies. We had gone to dinner and were finally leaving the restaurant after about 3 hours of talking. I really didn't want to go home and I saw there was a theater right there, so I asked if he would like to see a movie. He was thrilled. Thrilled enough to see a movie he'd already seen at least once.
He taught me a lot about movies starting with that first date:
- Get your tickets at the machine because it is quicker.
- Always bring your Harkins cups and popcorn shirt.
- Never wear the shirt. Leave it in the shrink wrap and put it in your purse or pocket.
- Get 4 napkins per person - 2 for your buttery fingers and 2 for your cup. Unless it's a sad movie, then grab some extras.
- Fold the napkins for your cup to make a square. Put it around the bottom of your cup to keep it from sweating on you.
- Sit on the end in case you have to get up and go to the bathroom.
- Eat your Goobers by sucking off all the chocolate first.
- Dump your cup on the way out of the theater. Rinse it out in the bathroom.
- Popcorn gets eaten first. Candy can not be opened until the movie begins.
For a while after Tim died, the smell of popcorn had me in tears and nearly in a panic attack. Silly, right? It's just popcorn. But it wasn't something that I smelled a lot before he came into my life - it was a smell I associated with just him, like his cologne.
I forced myself into seeing a movie a few months after he was gone. Then another one a few months later. It wasn't until recently that I realized how much I really missed going to the movies. Yes, I missed holding Tim's arm as I sat there, but now just being there didn't make me sad, it made me happy that I'd had him to show me the ropes, and that someday I will be able to show A&A how it's done.
I heard those words weekly from Tim. It's what he would say to make sure we got to the movies early enough for his liking. If it were not, in fact, "packed", I would give him a little bit of a hard time. Something along the lines of, "Well, I am glad we got here in time so that these other 7 people didn't take all the good seats!" And we would laugh as we watched the same ads 3 or 4 times.
Before we started dating, I hadn't seen a movie in the theater in a couple years. Before that it had been a few years. I just wasn't much into it.
On our first date, I learned that he was very into movies. We had gone to dinner and were finally leaving the restaurant after about 3 hours of talking. I really didn't want to go home and I saw there was a theater right there, so I asked if he would like to see a movie. He was thrilled. Thrilled enough to see a movie he'd already seen at least once.
He taught me a lot about movies starting with that first date:
- Get your tickets at the machine because it is quicker.
- Always bring your Harkins cups and popcorn shirt.
- Never wear the shirt. Leave it in the shrink wrap and put it in your purse or pocket.
- Get 4 napkins per person - 2 for your buttery fingers and 2 for your cup. Unless it's a sad movie, then grab some extras.
- Fold the napkins for your cup to make a square. Put it around the bottom of your cup to keep it from sweating on you.
- Sit on the end in case you have to get up and go to the bathroom.
- Eat your Goobers by sucking off all the chocolate first.
- Dump your cup on the way out of the theater. Rinse it out in the bathroom.
- Popcorn gets eaten first. Candy can not be opened until the movie begins.
For a while after Tim died, the smell of popcorn had me in tears and nearly in a panic attack. Silly, right? It's just popcorn. But it wasn't something that I smelled a lot before he came into my life - it was a smell I associated with just him, like his cologne.
I forced myself into seeing a movie a few months after he was gone. Then another one a few months later. It wasn't until recently that I realized how much I really missed going to the movies. Yes, I missed holding Tim's arm as I sat there, but now just being there didn't make me sad, it made me happy that I'd had him to show me the ropes, and that someday I will be able to show A&A how it's done.
Once Upon A Time: Amazing
Once upon a time, in a land that now feels like a dream, I had the most amazing husband. He knew everything about me and he still loved me. He saw my short temper, he knew what combination of events could make me become emotional. He loved to watch cry movies with me. He respected my friendships. He loved my cats - even the one who hates everyone but me.
The love that we had was unparalleled. He got my twisted humor, he made me laugh, he took pictures with me, he acted serious and silly with me. He knew what to say to get me out of a funk. He was socially ideal, fitting into any social situation he was required to fit into. He thought I was great at everything I did and had no issue telling his friends and fellow officers as much. He was truly at a loss for words when I got dressed up. He would tell me, "Wow..... You look great - you always look great." When we went out, he would say, "Let's go make people jealous". It wan't because he was full of himself, he just believed we were that good together.
I was blessed.
Not many women get to feel that appreciated, that loved.
Because he knew me so well, he always knew what I needed and what I needed to hear. He said the most perfect things to me at the most perfect moments. He never judged me or made me feel like I wasn't good enough. He never made me feel like I was lacking in any way. He did things to make my life better, easier, so that we could spend more time together doing everything or nothing at all.
That is something that most men have not mastered, but Tim, he made me feel good about myself when others had made me feed bad about myself. He was one of those people that just made people around him feel good.
In my grief group, I learned that many widows idealize their husbands after they die. That never happened to me because I idealized my husband in life. I would often tell Tim that he was perfect. He would reply, "I'm not perfect - I'm just perfect for you."
I guess everyone has flaws. His only flaw was that he picked at his toenails. Really. That was it.
I like to think that I have not used my experience with Tim to set expectations, but I do know that above all else he showed me how he thought I deserved to be treated.
The love that we had was unparalleled. He got my twisted humor, he made me laugh, he took pictures with me, he acted serious and silly with me. He knew what to say to get me out of a funk. He was socially ideal, fitting into any social situation he was required to fit into. He thought I was great at everything I did and had no issue telling his friends and fellow officers as much. He was truly at a loss for words when I got dressed up. He would tell me, "Wow..... You look great - you always look great." When we went out, he would say, "Let's go make people jealous". It wan't because he was full of himself, he just believed we were that good together.
I was blessed.
Not many women get to feel that appreciated, that loved.
Because he knew me so well, he always knew what I needed and what I needed to hear. He said the most perfect things to me at the most perfect moments. He never judged me or made me feel like I wasn't good enough. He never made me feel like I was lacking in any way. He did things to make my life better, easier, so that we could spend more time together doing everything or nothing at all.
That is something that most men have not mastered, but Tim, he made me feel good about myself when others had made me feed bad about myself. He was one of those people that just made people around him feel good.
In my grief group, I learned that many widows idealize their husbands after they die. That never happened to me because I idealized my husband in life. I would often tell Tim that he was perfect. He would reply, "I'm not perfect - I'm just perfect for you."
I guess everyone has flaws. His only flaw was that he picked at his toenails. Really. That was it.
I like to think that I have not used my experience with Tim to set expectations, but I do know that above all else he showed me how he thought I deserved to be treated.
Single Mom
When I was pregnant, I wanted to take a child-birth class before I had the babies. I looked into it. It was the first time I had to deal with being a "single mom".
I didn't want to go sit in a class full of mommies and daddies happily expecting their little bundles of joy, looking into each other's eyes twinkling with excitement and hope for the future. In fact for many months, couples made me very uncomfortable. Even couples I love very much.
Instead I was offered to go to the single mom's child-birthing class.
But I didn't fit in there either.
Instead I skipped it all together and counted on my mom and my friend Shannon to get me through labor. They did fine, I made it through, and after 26 hours I ended up with a c-section anyway, so it really didn't matter.
The point is: I am not a "single parent". I mean, I am, but I am widowed, which is different. Drastically different.
I know that there are a million scenarios when it comes to parenting, and some of what I am about to say might not be entirely fair, but I'm going to say it anyway.
In a typical divorced, single parent set-up there are a few things that happen:
You, your husband or both of you made a decision to end your marriage.
You fought over possessions and debt. You got the couch, he got the TV, you split the AmEx bill.
A "parenting time" plan was set in place, as was child support and alimony where applicable.
You argue with your former spouse about pick-up and drop-off times, general parenting decisions and even money matters. You think he/she is a jerk.
You realize that it's hard being a single parent when there is nobody to pick up the slack around the house or with the kids.
You struggle with guilt and end up getting relaxed on rules and maybe even trying to be the "favorite" parent by letting your kids get away with more then your former spouse.
When people tell me they know how hard it is to be a single parent, the little voice inside my head wants to scream. The only person who knows what it is like for me is another widowed parent.
I didn't make a decision to end my marriage - my husband was stollen from his family against his will.
I got everything. That means I got to keep the bed we used to sleep in, the couch we used to snuggle on and the dinner table we used to sit around. I also got the AmEx bill.
When Divorced Dad is coming by Wednesdays and every other weekend to take the kids, you may not like every decision he makes, but you are getting a break. You can have cereal for dinner, go out with your friends, work on a project - whatever you want. You are getting some time.
I get time one of 2 ways - either I ask a favor of a friend or family member or I pay a babysitter. And they are making $10-14 and hour these days. Ouch. I shell out for a break once a week for 4 hours. And I earned those 4 hours. The other 164 hours a week, I am on-duty.
I can't tell you what I would give to be divorced from Tim. I saw how he was as a dad and as an ex-husband and it was pretty admirable. He got along with his ex-wife and was still able to be a phenomenal Dad to his daughter. I would love the opportunity to be divorced from him for the simple fact that it would mean A&A could still have him, even if I couldn't.
Yes, it is hard being a single parent. I get that. You know what sucks even worse? Not having an ex to complain about.
I didn't want to go sit in a class full of mommies and daddies happily expecting their little bundles of joy, looking into each other's eyes twinkling with excitement and hope for the future. In fact for many months, couples made me very uncomfortable. Even couples I love very much.
Instead I was offered to go to the single mom's child-birthing class.
But I didn't fit in there either.
Instead I skipped it all together and counted on my mom and my friend Shannon to get me through labor. They did fine, I made it through, and after 26 hours I ended up with a c-section anyway, so it really didn't matter.
The point is: I am not a "single parent". I mean, I am, but I am widowed, which is different. Drastically different.
I know that there are a million scenarios when it comes to parenting, and some of what I am about to say might not be entirely fair, but I'm going to say it anyway.
In a typical divorced, single parent set-up there are a few things that happen:
You, your husband or both of you made a decision to end your marriage.
You fought over possessions and debt. You got the couch, he got the TV, you split the AmEx bill.
A "parenting time" plan was set in place, as was child support and alimony where applicable.
You argue with your former spouse about pick-up and drop-off times, general parenting decisions and even money matters. You think he/she is a jerk.
You realize that it's hard being a single parent when there is nobody to pick up the slack around the house or with the kids.
You struggle with guilt and end up getting relaxed on rules and maybe even trying to be the "favorite" parent by letting your kids get away with more then your former spouse.
When people tell me they know how hard it is to be a single parent, the little voice inside my head wants to scream. The only person who knows what it is like for me is another widowed parent.
I didn't make a decision to end my marriage - my husband was stollen from his family against his will.
I got everything. That means I got to keep the bed we used to sleep in, the couch we used to snuggle on and the dinner table we used to sit around. I also got the AmEx bill.
When Divorced Dad is coming by Wednesdays and every other weekend to take the kids, you may not like every decision he makes, but you are getting a break. You can have cereal for dinner, go out with your friends, work on a project - whatever you want. You are getting some time.
I get time one of 2 ways - either I ask a favor of a friend or family member or I pay a babysitter. And they are making $10-14 and hour these days. Ouch. I shell out for a break once a week for 4 hours. And I earned those 4 hours. The other 164 hours a week, I am on-duty.
I can't tell you what I would give to be divorced from Tim. I saw how he was as a dad and as an ex-husband and it was pretty admirable. He got along with his ex-wife and was still able to be a phenomenal Dad to his daughter. I would love the opportunity to be divorced from him for the simple fact that it would mean A&A could still have him, even if I couldn't.
Yes, it is hard being a single parent. I get that. You know what sucks even worse? Not having an ex to complain about.
F#@% Cancer: A rant rated PG-13 for language
I know a lot of people don't like "the F word". Yea, it can be pretty harsh, but to me it is the quickest, easiest one syllable way for me to express my feelings for Cancer. I shouldn't even capitalize that word because it doesn't deserve it.
It seems like almost daily now I am reminded of the hate that brews inside me for that disease. It is a malfunction on a cellular level, but a malfunction that changes everything. Everything.
You don't realize how bombarded we are with cancer until it touches your life. "Touches" may be the wrong word. It's not like a touch. It's more like a wrecking ball swinging through your life.
Today I read that Zach Sobeich has died. He was 18. He wrote this song that went viral on YouTube. A bunch of celebrities even made a video for him to his song. I have spent hours reading his CaringBridge journal and let me tell you, he was an inspirational and strong young man. I bet right about now his family and his girlfriend are thinking, "F#@% cancer".
The phone rings. I answer it. Someone on the other line works for a cancer charity I have never heard of and wants me to make a "donation to benefit cancer victims". I find myself lecturing the guy on how cancer patients do not like to be called "victims". Yea, I already gave the largest donation in the world to cancer - my husband. F#@% cancer.
Breast cancer seems to be running rampant. My own family members and friends have fought this battle. I marvel at their grace and bravery. Every month I am feeling myself up in the most un-romantic way because I am scared. Young women are making choices, seeking treatment and being bullied by insurance companies. A girl I went to high school with was recently diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. I am 33. That would make her 32. She has a young daughter. What is going on??? F#@% cancer.
A high-profile celebrity just had an elective double mastectomy and she is garnering both praise and intense criticism in the press. True, few of us will ever have the monetary ability to afford such a decision, but few of us have been in her position, so should we be judgmental? I don't know her, her situation or her fears, but I think that was her way of saying "F#@% cancer" and I support her strength in doing so.
My dad has a best friend he's known since his early 20's. He is strong and health conscious. He has a wife and college-aged kids. He and his family were incredibly supportive of Tim and me while he was battling cancer. He has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Although he always knew the words to write to make us feel better, I have no idea what to say. All that keeps going through my head is, "No! This is not fair!!" And of course, 'F#@% cancer'.
I need to channel this anger. Usually I am very good about finding ways to do that, but it's been a month since I worked a charity event for cancer. I haven't spoken in front of a group in months. Last year I went to Washington DC to participate in a conference on prostate cancer. The logistics of that are just too much with 2 toddlers, and I'm not sure I will make it this year. I guess I am just frustrated and wish there were more I could do.
It seems like almost daily now I am reminded of the hate that brews inside me for that disease. It is a malfunction on a cellular level, but a malfunction that changes everything. Everything.
You don't realize how bombarded we are with cancer until it touches your life. "Touches" may be the wrong word. It's not like a touch. It's more like a wrecking ball swinging through your life.
Today I read that Zach Sobeich has died. He was 18. He wrote this song that went viral on YouTube. A bunch of celebrities even made a video for him to his song. I have spent hours reading his CaringBridge journal and let me tell you, he was an inspirational and strong young man. I bet right about now his family and his girlfriend are thinking, "F#@% cancer".
The phone rings. I answer it. Someone on the other line works for a cancer charity I have never heard of and wants me to make a "donation to benefit cancer victims". I find myself lecturing the guy on how cancer patients do not like to be called "victims". Yea, I already gave the largest donation in the world to cancer - my husband. F#@% cancer.
Breast cancer seems to be running rampant. My own family members and friends have fought this battle. I marvel at their grace and bravery. Every month I am feeling myself up in the most un-romantic way because I am scared. Young women are making choices, seeking treatment and being bullied by insurance companies. A girl I went to high school with was recently diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. I am 33. That would make her 32. She has a young daughter. What is going on??? F#@% cancer.
A high-profile celebrity just had an elective double mastectomy and she is garnering both praise and intense criticism in the press. True, few of us will ever have the monetary ability to afford such a decision, but few of us have been in her position, so should we be judgmental? I don't know her, her situation or her fears, but I think that was her way of saying "F#@% cancer" and I support her strength in doing so.
My dad has a best friend he's known since his early 20's. He is strong and health conscious. He has a wife and college-aged kids. He and his family were incredibly supportive of Tim and me while he was battling cancer. He has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Although he always knew the words to write to make us feel better, I have no idea what to say. All that keeps going through my head is, "No! This is not fair!!" And of course, 'F#@% cancer'.
I need to channel this anger. Usually I am very good about finding ways to do that, but it's been a month since I worked a charity event for cancer. I haven't spoken in front of a group in months. Last year I went to Washington DC to participate in a conference on prostate cancer. The logistics of that are just too much with 2 toddlers, and I'm not sure I will make it this year. I guess I am just frustrated and wish there were more I could do.
Time
I can't tell you how many times I have heard the phrase, "Time heals all wounds". While that may be true for physical wounds, it is not true for me in my grief.
I think of my grief as a box. It is made of very heavy metal. It looks a lot like Tim's urn. The edges of it are extremely sharp- like razor blades. Everywhere I go, the box is tumbling alongside nearby. I can not escape it. Sometimes I think I am free of it, if only for a few hours. Then it comes out of nowhere and cuts me open with it's razor edges, reopening wounds that I thought had healed, creating new ones, and leaving me a mess. It takes awhile to feel like I am stable.
As time goes on, the box is always there.
Silently tumbling beside me, behind me.... never far away.
Over time, the edges are less sharp, and I learn to expect it to come out and hurt me. I know what can trigger it and I either avoid or brace myself for it. Sometimes I even spend so much time anticipating the pain it is going to cause me that the anticipation is worse than the hurt it actually inflicts.
As the edges begin to dull, the cuts are less frequent, less deep. Instead it is like blunt force trauma. Being punched in the gut and the air knocked out of me. Being hit in the head and having a headache for a day or two. Having my heart being stomped on and spending days being embarrassingly emotionally vulnerable.
I think that no matter where life leads me, there will always be this box following me around. Anyone who knows me or dares to love me will have to deal with the effects it has on me. It is like my own shadow - part of me. A stark contract to the bounce in my step and happy time when Tim was here beside me.
I think that those who chose not to face their grief head-on are denying themselves something important. Placing their grief in it's own rightful box and burying it so deep within themselves that even they aren't sure it exists. They feel that "time" has healed them, when in fact there has been no healing, only refusal to face the devastating reality that, well, life isn't fair. At all.
Time, for me, doesn't heal. The pain, it changes. I learn to expect it, I learn the best ways to deal with it, but grief is an ongoing process. One that will likely last my lifetime. My love for Tim and my grief over losing him are part of the fabric of my being, and neither time, nor space, nor separation will change that.
I think of my grief as a box. It is made of very heavy metal. It looks a lot like Tim's urn. The edges of it are extremely sharp- like razor blades. Everywhere I go, the box is tumbling alongside nearby. I can not escape it. Sometimes I think I am free of it, if only for a few hours. Then it comes out of nowhere and cuts me open with it's razor edges, reopening wounds that I thought had healed, creating new ones, and leaving me a mess. It takes awhile to feel like I am stable.
As time goes on, the box is always there.
Silently tumbling beside me, behind me.... never far away.
Over time, the edges are less sharp, and I learn to expect it to come out and hurt me. I know what can trigger it and I either avoid or brace myself for it. Sometimes I even spend so much time anticipating the pain it is going to cause me that the anticipation is worse than the hurt it actually inflicts.
As the edges begin to dull, the cuts are less frequent, less deep. Instead it is like blunt force trauma. Being punched in the gut and the air knocked out of me. Being hit in the head and having a headache for a day or two. Having my heart being stomped on and spending days being embarrassingly emotionally vulnerable.
I think that no matter where life leads me, there will always be this box following me around. Anyone who knows me or dares to love me will have to deal with the effects it has on me. It is like my own shadow - part of me. A stark contract to the bounce in my step and happy time when Tim was here beside me.
I think that those who chose not to face their grief head-on are denying themselves something important. Placing their grief in it's own rightful box and burying it so deep within themselves that even they aren't sure it exists. They feel that "time" has healed them, when in fact there has been no healing, only refusal to face the devastating reality that, well, life isn't fair. At all.
Time, for me, doesn't heal. The pain, it changes. I learn to expect it, I learn the best ways to deal with it, but grief is an ongoing process. One that will likely last my lifetime. My love for Tim and my grief over losing him are part of the fabric of my being, and neither time, nor space, nor separation will change that.
Happy 4th
In Tempe, every cop works the 4th of July. That's just how it is. Nobody questions it, but many wish they didn't have to be there. For good reason, too. The rest of us are uncomfortable in the heat, but we aren't standing in direct sun for 10 hours wearing layers of dark clothing, a bullet proof vest and pounds upon pounds of equipment.
Last year, Tim didn't work the 4th. He wasn't feeling well, but we got to spend dinner with my family. We got to be home with Kai to make sure he was okay with the fireworks. One more "last" that we didn't know would be our last. Two years ago, I was able to be at Tempe Town Lake sitting right next to where Tim was posted, watching fireworks "together".
All day today, I thought about all Tim's friends working and how happy I was that it was beautiful and overcast for them. A little blessing on a day they would surely rather be at home with their own families than out there making sure the rest of us are safe.
I thought about how we looked forward to the kids getting bigger and me taking them to the Tempe fireworks in a wagon so we could sit near Tim and "ooh" and "aah" together. How we would have been able to talk about how pretty it was the next day over breakfast. How he would have talked to whomever he was working with that night about our family.
I never took Tim's goodness for granted, but I took life for granted. I assumed there would be another day, another year, another memory, another opportunity. Love your husband. Kiss your kids. Every day you are making memories and none of us know what the future holds. Make each day count. Don't complain.
Last year, Tim didn't work the 4th. He wasn't feeling well, but we got to spend dinner with my family. We got to be home with Kai to make sure he was okay with the fireworks. One more "last" that we didn't know would be our last. Two years ago, I was able to be at Tempe Town Lake sitting right next to where Tim was posted, watching fireworks "together".
All day today, I thought about all Tim's friends working and how happy I was that it was beautiful and overcast for them. A little blessing on a day they would surely rather be at home with their own families than out there making sure the rest of us are safe.
I thought about how we looked forward to the kids getting bigger and me taking them to the Tempe fireworks in a wagon so we could sit near Tim and "ooh" and "aah" together. How we would have been able to talk about how pretty it was the next day over breakfast. How he would have talked to whomever he was working with that night about our family.
I never took Tim's goodness for granted, but I took life for granted. I assumed there would be another day, another year, another memory, another opportunity. Love your husband. Kiss your kids. Every day you are making memories and none of us know what the future holds. Make each day count. Don't complain.
Who Your True Friends Are
"When times are tough, you find out who your true friends are." We have all heard that phrase. Often overused and sometimes told to us as children when we are have had a falling out with a friend.
A variation of this is brought up at nearly every meeting of my "Grief Group". People frequently mention that they are surprised about the people who have been there for them... and who has not. I understand this statement because I am walking that path.
I am not surprised about the close friends and family that have been here for me since Tim passed. I'm not "surprised", I am proud. Proud of them for being such a tremendous support and also proud of Tim & me for choosing such amazing friends to have in our lives. Something we had in common was intense loyalty - both of us have many friends we have had since childhood and early adulthood - we make our friendships a priority, and in return, when needed, our friends are there for us. Many of his friends have been there for me: a person they love only by association.
I remain (pleasantly) surprised when I get a call or an email from someone Tim worked with or knew casually just to check in and see how we are doing. It makes me happy to know that someone who wasn't super close to him would care enough and take the time to let me know that he is still on their mind. That they think about me and Brittany and the babies. That Tim has not faded from their memory.
Those he worked with closely (his "Squad") still invite me to parties and call and come to see the babies or meet me for lunch. They were his work family and I know that his absence leaves an empty place in the Department and in their hearts. They miss him, they grieve and they have constant reminders of him just like we all do.
I have fleeting memories of a conversation with one of Tim's friends - someone he knew his whole life. We were standing in our kitchen and I was crying. I told him I was afraid - one of the only times I have admitted that to anyone other than Tim. I shared with him that I was afraid of being alone. Not in the sense of not being married or being in the house by myself, but of being truly alone: when everyone else moves on with their lives and all of a sudden it's just me. Forever. He said something to the effect of, "The people who matter will still be here".
He was absolutely right. The people who care are still here. Even some who I was not close with before, I find myself closer to now. Apparently tragedy can sometimes help to grow friendships. And the others? Que sera, sera. I'm left with pleasant memories of when we were friends. And, yes, a vague feeling of disappointment that our friendship was not "true" enough to weather the "tough times". But I'm a big girl and I am fortunate to have the best people I could ask for in my life.
A variation of this is brought up at nearly every meeting of my "Grief Group". People frequently mention that they are surprised about the people who have been there for them... and who has not. I understand this statement because I am walking that path.
I am not surprised about the close friends and family that have been here for me since Tim passed. I'm not "surprised", I am proud. Proud of them for being such a tremendous support and also proud of Tim & me for choosing such amazing friends to have in our lives. Something we had in common was intense loyalty - both of us have many friends we have had since childhood and early adulthood - we make our friendships a priority, and in return, when needed, our friends are there for us. Many of his friends have been there for me: a person they love only by association.
I remain (pleasantly) surprised when I get a call or an email from someone Tim worked with or knew casually just to check in and see how we are doing. It makes me happy to know that someone who wasn't super close to him would care enough and take the time to let me know that he is still on their mind. That they think about me and Brittany and the babies. That Tim has not faded from their memory.
Those he worked with closely (his "Squad") still invite me to parties and call and come to see the babies or meet me for lunch. They were his work family and I know that his absence leaves an empty place in the Department and in their hearts. They miss him, they grieve and they have constant reminders of him just like we all do.
I have fleeting memories of a conversation with one of Tim's friends - someone he knew his whole life. We were standing in our kitchen and I was crying. I told him I was afraid - one of the only times I have admitted that to anyone other than Tim. I shared with him that I was afraid of being alone. Not in the sense of not being married or being in the house by myself, but of being truly alone: when everyone else moves on with their lives and all of a sudden it's just me. Forever. He said something to the effect of, "The people who matter will still be here".
He was absolutely right. The people who care are still here. Even some who I was not close with before, I find myself closer to now. Apparently tragedy can sometimes help to grow friendships. And the others? Que sera, sera. I'm left with pleasant memories of when we were friends. And, yes, a vague feeling of disappointment that our friendship was not "true" enough to weather the "tough times". But I'm a big girl and I am fortunate to have the best people I could ask for in my life.
Planned Grief
I don't believe in planned grief. I have spent the last 8 1/2 months avoiding lists of the "grief stages" not because I am avoiding grief but because I want to feel things organically. I am a list maker - a checklist kind of girl. I never wanted to see my feelings as some sort of a checklist to get through, and I was afraid that if I saw a list of stages I would force myself through them and come out on the other side still as broken as I began.
Instead, I spent months not really dealing with my feelings because I was afraid I would harm our babies as they grew and developed inside me. Then I spent weeks adjusting to having 2 little humans in my care. People told me I was strong. Only a few knew who really weak and vulnerable I was actually feeling. Finally, after several melt-downs, I decided to seek out a grief group.
I am surprised how much talking to other people who have lost their spouses has helped me. Hearing their stories, often similar to ours, has helped me to see that I am not alone in what I am feeling. Talking about the things that play over and over in my mind has helped to send those visions, questions and fears to the back of my mind instead of having them ever-present and interrupting my daily thoughts. I expected to hate a group setting like that, but I was wrong.
There is still a shelf full of self-help books on our bookshelf that I may never crack open. I may never be able to hear certain songs without crying and I may never be able to hear a man walking fast in leather flip flops without my heart skipping a beat. I know there will never be a day when I am "over it" - I think one never forgets true love and one never forgets a loss so intense - but maybe I am learning to live with the sadness I feel. Maybe one day the sun will shine on me and I will laugh and actually feel happiness.
I don't feel happy right now. I still struggle with the day-to-day, but I can now imagine a time when I might enjoy life again.
Instead, I spent months not really dealing with my feelings because I was afraid I would harm our babies as they grew and developed inside me. Then I spent weeks adjusting to having 2 little humans in my care. People told me I was strong. Only a few knew who really weak and vulnerable I was actually feeling. Finally, after several melt-downs, I decided to seek out a grief group.
I am surprised how much talking to other people who have lost their spouses has helped me. Hearing their stories, often similar to ours, has helped me to see that I am not alone in what I am feeling. Talking about the things that play over and over in my mind has helped to send those visions, questions and fears to the back of my mind instead of having them ever-present and interrupting my daily thoughts. I expected to hate a group setting like that, but I was wrong.
There is still a shelf full of self-help books on our bookshelf that I may never crack open. I may never be able to hear certain songs without crying and I may never be able to hear a man walking fast in leather flip flops without my heart skipping a beat. I know there will never be a day when I am "over it" - I think one never forgets true love and one never forgets a loss so intense - but maybe I am learning to live with the sadness I feel. Maybe one day the sun will shine on me and I will laugh and actually feel happiness.
I don't feel happy right now. I still struggle with the day-to-day, but I can now imagine a time when I might enjoy life again.
Happy Anniversary, Babe.
Today marks 2 years since the day I got to marry my best friend. There was so much joy and anticipation leading up to our wedding day, a day that had been in the making since a few short months after we met. I remember sitting on the beach in Laguna looking at the moon and talking.... the conversation had shifted from "if we get married" to "when we get married". That moment seems a lifetime ago.
Our wedding day was a blur of friends, family and the excitement of finally getting to call this incredible man my husband. After that day, he liked to greet me by saying, "Hello, Wife!". He was proud of me in a way that nobody had ever been before. To him I always looked great and told anyone who would listen that I was good at everything. The feeling was mutual.
I know I am one of the lucky few who are fortunate to meet the right person at the right time. Lucky to fall deeply, madly in love. Lucky to have a true partner who always stood beside me, willing to take on the world. Lucky to have the kind of communication and share-everything policy that many relationships lack. The only thing we were missing was the one thing we didn't know we were missing.... time.
Last year for our anniversary, Tim surprised me with a trip to Vegas to see Phantom of the Opera. He had been talking for years about wanting to take me to see it. He was all about wanting to show me the world and everything in it that I hadn't seen. He had a running list of all the places he wanted to travel together, all the movies he wanted me to watch and all the concerts he wanted to take me to.
Today I took the kids to meet Brittany for lunch. Although I can't be with him today, I see so much in Brittany that reminds me of Tim and it makes me smile. Afterward, I loaded up the babies and drove to the cemetery. This year, I got Tim the gift no wife ever wants to give her husband: a headstone.
Our wedding day was a blur of friends, family and the excitement of finally getting to call this incredible man my husband. After that day, he liked to greet me by saying, "Hello, Wife!". He was proud of me in a way that nobody had ever been before. To him I always looked great and told anyone who would listen that I was good at everything. The feeling was mutual.
I know I am one of the lucky few who are fortunate to meet the right person at the right time. Lucky to fall deeply, madly in love. Lucky to have a true partner who always stood beside me, willing to take on the world. Lucky to have the kind of communication and share-everything policy that many relationships lack. The only thing we were missing was the one thing we didn't know we were missing.... time.
Last year for our anniversary, Tim surprised me with a trip to Vegas to see Phantom of the Opera. He had been talking for years about wanting to take me to see it. He was all about wanting to show me the world and everything in it that I hadn't seen. He had a running list of all the places he wanted to travel together, all the movies he wanted me to watch and all the concerts he wanted to take me to.
Today I took the kids to meet Brittany for lunch. Although I can't be with him today, I see so much in Brittany that reminds me of Tim and it makes me smile. Afterward, I loaded up the babies and drove to the cemetery. This year, I got Tim the gift no wife ever wants to give her husband: a headstone.
Obsessing? Me?
Now that I have a firm date in my mind about when the babies will arrive, some things are happening.
I am assembling, organizing, cleaning and obsessing over things that don't need to be obsessed over. Like whether my camera is good enough to photograph them. If there is too much dust on the baseboards. Whether it is crazy to shave Kaiser so he doesn't shed near them. (Yea, he wasn't wild about that idea either....)
I am going over and over the mental list of the things to remember at the hospital. Take the baby CPR class they offer. Learn to swaddle because when I've tried, the doll I used looked like a baggy burrito. Make sure Mom gets photos of their first bath. Do you think I could teach her to run video on the camera? Probably not, she still stumbles through checking the voicemail on her blackberry. Pictures, lots of pictures. Don't forget all the tips and tricks I learned about breast feeding. Which lactation consultant was it I was supposed to avoid?
Months back, people started suggesting that I take a Lamaze class or some other kind of birth class. I couldn't. I just couldn't go there with all the other moms and dads and pretend everything was okay. I was told there are special classes for single moms and their coaches and I wanted to scream, "I'M NOT SINGLE!!!" So, here I am, 3 days from the Big Day and I have no idea how to have a baby other than what I have read in books and watched on cable. I keep assuring myself that I'll have Mom there and she knows things. And my wonderful friend Shannon will be there and she knows even more things. This should be a comfort to me, and in most moments it is.
In the other moments it isn't and I get frustrated and sad and I feel jipped because my best cheerleader and the one person who knows how to handle all of my million moods doesn't get to talk me through this. Instead, I have to do what I'm growing more accustomed to doing: I have to 'just know' what he would say and know that he is there watching and looking out for me, even if nobody can see him.
Every real-feeling contraction has me thinking this could be it and I'll be out of time to get done all the tings I need to get done. ("Need" is relative here.)
I should go clean the fridge because I don't want our kids coming into a house with old mustard in the fridge.....
I am assembling, organizing, cleaning and obsessing over things that don't need to be obsessed over. Like whether my camera is good enough to photograph them. If there is too much dust on the baseboards. Whether it is crazy to shave Kaiser so he doesn't shed near them. (Yea, he wasn't wild about that idea either....)
I am going over and over the mental list of the things to remember at the hospital. Take the baby CPR class they offer. Learn to swaddle because when I've tried, the doll I used looked like a baggy burrito. Make sure Mom gets photos of their first bath. Do you think I could teach her to run video on the camera? Probably not, she still stumbles through checking the voicemail on her blackberry. Pictures, lots of pictures. Don't forget all the tips and tricks I learned about breast feeding. Which lactation consultant was it I was supposed to avoid?
Months back, people started suggesting that I take a Lamaze class or some other kind of birth class. I couldn't. I just couldn't go there with all the other moms and dads and pretend everything was okay. I was told there are special classes for single moms and their coaches and I wanted to scream, "I'M NOT SINGLE!!!" So, here I am, 3 days from the Big Day and I have no idea how to have a baby other than what I have read in books and watched on cable. I keep assuring myself that I'll have Mom there and she knows things. And my wonderful friend Shannon will be there and she knows even more things. This should be a comfort to me, and in most moments it is.
In the other moments it isn't and I get frustrated and sad and I feel jipped because my best cheerleader and the one person who knows how to handle all of my million moods doesn't get to talk me through this. Instead, I have to do what I'm growing more accustomed to doing: I have to 'just know' what he would say and know that he is there watching and looking out for me, even if nobody can see him.
Every real-feeling contraction has me thinking this could be it and I'll be out of time to get done all the tings I need to get done. ("Need" is relative here.)
I should go clean the fridge because I don't want our kids coming into a house with old mustard in the fridge.....
Discussing Maternity Photographs (Part 2)
One horrible aspect of losing the love of your life is not just the loss itself, it is also the loss of all that you thought would be - all those future dreams you dreamed together. All the things you talked about and planned and daydreamed of are snatched away from you along with the already unbearable emptiness of laying in bed alone, driving in the car alone and talking to your spouse who can never respond with words. You are left with a lot of "what could have been" and "we were supposed to". It hurts. Some days it is sheer misery.
Shortly after Tim passed, I was contacted by one of the great photographers who worked on our engagement pictures. She made an incredibly kind offer to me: she offered to take some maternity photos of me or some newborn photos of the babies once they arrive.
I thought about her offer and replied that I would love some pictures of the babies. I just couldn't wrap my mind around maternity photos without Tim. I had spent too much time envisioning how our maternity pictures would look, and I knew they couldn't be anything like I wanted without him. Pictures of the babies, however, would always be beautiful, and our loss would not be so blatant in them.
Many weeks passed when I heard again from our photographer friend. She wanted to talk to me about something: Maternity Pictures. I explained to her why I was so apprehensive. In turn, she shared with me, too. She shared a piece of her life about losing her dad too soon, what an incredible man he was and how, in the months following his death, her mom had some photos taken that helped her heal in a small way. She brought ideas to the table about how we could use some of Tim's things to symbolically include him in the pictures, so that he would be there and I would not be alone.
Many thanks to Stephanie from StepOnMe Photography. I would never have done this without your encouragement. It meant a lot to me, to our family, and I know it will be so special for the kids when they are older. I am so glad she was able to capture these images. There were also a lot of fun images and laughter, despite the somberness of some moments.
Shortly after Tim passed, I was contacted by one of the great photographers who worked on our engagement pictures. She made an incredibly kind offer to me: she offered to take some maternity photos of me or some newborn photos of the babies once they arrive.
I thought about her offer and replied that I would love some pictures of the babies. I just couldn't wrap my mind around maternity photos without Tim. I had spent too much time envisioning how our maternity pictures would look, and I knew they couldn't be anything like I wanted without him. Pictures of the babies, however, would always be beautiful, and our loss would not be so blatant in them.
Many weeks passed when I heard again from our photographer friend. She wanted to talk to me about something: Maternity Pictures. I explained to her why I was so apprehensive. In turn, she shared with me, too. She shared a piece of her life about losing her dad too soon, what an incredible man he was and how, in the months following his death, her mom had some photos taken that helped her heal in a small way. She brought ideas to the table about how we could use some of Tim's things to symbolically include him in the pictures, so that he would be there and I would not be alone.
Many thanks to Stephanie from StepOnMe Photography. I would never have done this without your encouragement. It meant a lot to me, to our family, and I know it will be so special for the kids when they are older. I am so glad she was able to capture these images. There were also a lot of fun images and laughter, despite the somberness of some moments.
POP Walk 2011
I told you about the upcoming POP Walk that happened back in September, but I never re-visited the topic to tell you about it. It just hurt too much at the time. It was too hard.
Today one of our local news channels (Channel 12, EVB Live with Tram Mai) recapped Tim's story in a segment they called the 12 most memorable moments of 2011. Tim was #2. I wish I could tell you what was #1, but the tears were running down my face by then.
It was so hard for me to see the footage of Tim feeling so sick, but it also served as a reminder to me of how proud I will always be of him for how he fought, how he lived and how he chose to make it his personal mission to see that no other man should go through what he did with Prostate Cancer. My husband: my hero.
POP played a big part in allowing Tim, me, and the rest of our family to get involved with their cause. This year the walk was only a couple of weeks after Tim passed. The walk was renamed the "Tim Barber Walk for POP". The signature yellow shirts our team had worn every year became the official walk shirts. Tim had spoken there every year since his diagnosis, and I was asked to speak on his behalf, which I did.
This is what I had to say:
"I see a lot of familiar faces out there, but none as familiar as the handsome guy on each of your shirts, my husband Tim.
Recently, nearly every news outlet in town ran stories on Tim. When they reported to their readers and viewers that Tim had passed away last month, most of them said that he “lost his battle with Prostate Cancer”. Today, I’m here to tell you a bit about Tim and to share the story of his battle.
One of the words that I think best describes Tim is “passionate”. Tim was passionate about a lot in life: about his family, his police work, his art, in his marriage to me. He was the guy you wanted on your team and one of those rare people that made everyone around him feel good and special. Over the last couple of years, Tim got passionate about something else: Prostate Cancer and spreading the word about early detection.
In 2009, Tim was a 40 year old man determined to be in the best shape of his life. He worked out at the gym and rode his bike to work 7 miles each way. In the years leading up to that time, Tim’s complaints to his general practitioner about frequent urination were brushed aside. An unusual urinary tract infection was written off. It wasn’t until a combination of an inguinal hernia and a good friend of mine being diagnosed with PCa led him to insist on having his PSA run that we learned his PSA was elevated. It came back at a 17.5. A round of antibiotics later it was a 20.2. Finally, a biopsy showed wide spread PCa outside the prostate and on June 29, 2009, Tim was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer with a Gleason score of 10, the highest it can be. On July 1, 2009 we met with his Urologist, a 40 year veteran, who sat across the table from us with tears in his eyes and said he had lost sleep the night before knowing he was going to have to talk to us. He explained that Tim had been dealt a very bad hand and they would need to use every available treatment option to treat his cancer.
For a man dealt such a bad hand, Tim played it like Aces. In the car on the way home from that appointment, he told me, “I’m going to affect lives with this”. Truer words were never spoken.
In the coming months, Tim underwent a DiVinci prostatectomy that removed his prostate, lymph nodes and 1/3 of his bladder, 6 rounds of chemo therapy that lasted 4 months and 40 daily radiation treatments as well as continuous hormone therapy. During his treatments, he never let cancer get the best of him. We made a decision not to allow cancer to change the plans we had for the beautiful life in front of us. His positive attitude was the essence of his being, even causing those who knew him best to call him “Mr. Optimistic”.
Tim wanted nothing more than to be here with his family and friends and to talk to you today about his story and about early detection. You see, Tim should never have had to go through the things he did. Had his PSA been run early, there would have been many treatment options available to him. He wanted to make sure that no other man has to go through what he did, and I am here to convey that message to you.
If something isn’t right with your body, go to the doctor. If your doctor doesn’t listen and act on your concerns, go to another doctor who will. Insist on early PSA testing, even if you are “too young”, insist that your concerns be heard.
Now, let’s go back and talk again about those news outlets and their choice of words in reporting that Tim “lost his battle”. To me, losing is to give up hope, and I can tell you that Tim never gave up hope. Today, Tim’s hope is alive in the sea of yellow shirts I see in front of me. Those men who have appointments to have your PSA checked in that mobile unit this morning are maintaining that hope. His family, his friends, his daughter and these unborn twins carry on his legacy of hope. You who will go home this afternoon and express to your dad, son, brother, husband, boyfriend or friend the importance of getting that PSA test done? You are maintaining that hope.
I believe Tim is here with us today as he is with those he loves every day, and I also believe that as long as his message is alive, we can say that Tim Barber did not lose, but in fact WON his battle with Prostate Cancer."
I think that the most important thing that we can do is to make sure that Tim's message lives on. I am committed to ensuring that his story is being told, that his voice is being heard through me, through POP, through members of his family and through the media.
I got to make a lot of vows to Tim when we got married. Continuing his mission is another vow that I make to him, today, with you all as my witnesses.
Today one of our local news channels (Channel 12, EVB Live with Tram Mai) recapped Tim's story in a segment they called the 12 most memorable moments of 2011. Tim was #2. I wish I could tell you what was #1, but the tears were running down my face by then.
It was so hard for me to see the footage of Tim feeling so sick, but it also served as a reminder to me of how proud I will always be of him for how he fought, how he lived and how he chose to make it his personal mission to see that no other man should go through what he did with Prostate Cancer. My husband: my hero.
POP played a big part in allowing Tim, me, and the rest of our family to get involved with their cause. This year the walk was only a couple of weeks after Tim passed. The walk was renamed the "Tim Barber Walk for POP". The signature yellow shirts our team had worn every year became the official walk shirts. Tim had spoken there every year since his diagnosis, and I was asked to speak on his behalf, which I did.
This is what I had to say:
"I see a lot of familiar faces out there, but none as familiar as the handsome guy on each of your shirts, my husband Tim.
Recently, nearly every news outlet in town ran stories on Tim. When they reported to their readers and viewers that Tim had passed away last month, most of them said that he “lost his battle with Prostate Cancer”. Today, I’m here to tell you a bit about Tim and to share the story of his battle.
One of the words that I think best describes Tim is “passionate”. Tim was passionate about a lot in life: about his family, his police work, his art, in his marriage to me. He was the guy you wanted on your team and one of those rare people that made everyone around him feel good and special. Over the last couple of years, Tim got passionate about something else: Prostate Cancer and spreading the word about early detection.
In 2009, Tim was a 40 year old man determined to be in the best shape of his life. He worked out at the gym and rode his bike to work 7 miles each way. In the years leading up to that time, Tim’s complaints to his general practitioner about frequent urination were brushed aside. An unusual urinary tract infection was written off. It wasn’t until a combination of an inguinal hernia and a good friend of mine being diagnosed with PCa led him to insist on having his PSA run that we learned his PSA was elevated. It came back at a 17.5. A round of antibiotics later it was a 20.2. Finally, a biopsy showed wide spread PCa outside the prostate and on June 29, 2009, Tim was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer with a Gleason score of 10, the highest it can be. On July 1, 2009 we met with his Urologist, a 40 year veteran, who sat across the table from us with tears in his eyes and said he had lost sleep the night before knowing he was going to have to talk to us. He explained that Tim had been dealt a very bad hand and they would need to use every available treatment option to treat his cancer.
For a man dealt such a bad hand, Tim played it like Aces. In the car on the way home from that appointment, he told me, “I’m going to affect lives with this”. Truer words were never spoken.
In the coming months, Tim underwent a DiVinci prostatectomy that removed his prostate, lymph nodes and 1/3 of his bladder, 6 rounds of chemo therapy that lasted 4 months and 40 daily radiation treatments as well as continuous hormone therapy. During his treatments, he never let cancer get the best of him. We made a decision not to allow cancer to change the plans we had for the beautiful life in front of us. His positive attitude was the essence of his being, even causing those who knew him best to call him “Mr. Optimistic”.
Tim wanted nothing more than to be here with his family and friends and to talk to you today about his story and about early detection. You see, Tim should never have had to go through the things he did. Had his PSA been run early, there would have been many treatment options available to him. He wanted to make sure that no other man has to go through what he did, and I am here to convey that message to you.
If something isn’t right with your body, go to the doctor. If your doctor doesn’t listen and act on your concerns, go to another doctor who will. Insist on early PSA testing, even if you are “too young”, insist that your concerns be heard.
Now, let’s go back and talk again about those news outlets and their choice of words in reporting that Tim “lost his battle”. To me, losing is to give up hope, and I can tell you that Tim never gave up hope. Today, Tim’s hope is alive in the sea of yellow shirts I see in front of me. Those men who have appointments to have your PSA checked in that mobile unit this morning are maintaining that hope. His family, his friends, his daughter and these unborn twins carry on his legacy of hope. You who will go home this afternoon and express to your dad, son, brother, husband, boyfriend or friend the importance of getting that PSA test done? You are maintaining that hope.
I believe Tim is here with us today as he is with those he loves every day, and I also believe that as long as his message is alive, we can say that Tim Barber did not lose, but in fact WON his battle with Prostate Cancer."
I think that the most important thing that we can do is to make sure that Tim's message lives on. I am committed to ensuring that his story is being told, that his voice is being heard through me, through POP, through members of his family and through the media.
I got to make a lot of vows to Tim when we got married. Continuing his mission is another vow that I make to him, today, with you all as my witnesses.
All I Want For Christmas
I've never been much into presents and that whole side of Christmas. I much more enjoy getting together with family and friends and preparing a big, glorious meal to piling un-needed gifts into the car and going home at the end of the day. I like the decorating part. All the old, symbolic ornaments telling the story of my life as I hang them on the tree. I don't like cheesy Christmas music, but I love Silent Night and I love Mannheim Steamroller.
My ornaments start the year I was born - my mom gave me all my ornaments that she collected and documented over the years, so there's everything from "baby's first Christmas" to a picture from Tim's and my wedding somehow painted onto porcelain. Tim's ornaments are different. Mostly the round ball kind from Target. Maybe just a sign of being a guy, maybe a sign of starting over one too many times and leaving things behind. Last year his mom gave us a special ornament from his childhood. A little handmade ice skate with a paperclip as the blade - from when Tim played ice hockey as a kid. I looked forward to it having a prominent place on our tree this year. Looked forward to continuing to add a special new ornament every year transforming the tree into yet another symbol of our beautiful life together.
I just can't do it. Can't get the tree down, can't open up all the little boxes and hang up all the pretty ornaments. Can't know that I'm wiping off Tim's fingerprints as I touch every decoration. Can't look at the sparkling lights and remember how happy we were last year - how Tim and Brittany and I laughed so hard we cried while we decorated. The contrast is too much for me to handle. God, we were so nieve. I was anyway. I thought we had lots of time. I want to be back in that moment so badly.
My Dad helped me put up some lights on the outside of the house. The ultimate symbolism for how I feel this season: keeping up appearances on the outside as to make everyone else comfortable, but shattered and devastated on the inside. I put some pine cones in a bowl on the table and threw some red pillows on the couch. That's all I can manage.
I'm trying to fill the emptiness by helping my ladies volunteer group collect gifts for a family we have adopted. By sending police themed lego sets to the children's hospital. It's probably good that I'm pregnant or I would probably be drinking a lot in a feeble attempt to drown my sadness. Not the healthiest coping mechanism.
As for Christmas music, you can try to avoid it. You can never turn to that station that plays all Christmas tunes all the time all season (since when? Halloween?). The thing is that all stations will sneak one in from time to time. And every store is piping them in overhead. I've been trying to tune them out even more than I usually do because there are some you expect to hurt like the Christmas Shoes one, but even the cutesy ones hurt so much. I've been reduced to sobs twice by "All I Want For Christmas Is You".
I feel like Scrooge, but I just want this holiday season to be over. I just want Christmas to pass so I can hold my little babies in my arms and be strong for them.
My ornaments start the year I was born - my mom gave me all my ornaments that she collected and documented over the years, so there's everything from "baby's first Christmas" to a picture from Tim's and my wedding somehow painted onto porcelain. Tim's ornaments are different. Mostly the round ball kind from Target. Maybe just a sign of being a guy, maybe a sign of starting over one too many times and leaving things behind. Last year his mom gave us a special ornament from his childhood. A little handmade ice skate with a paperclip as the blade - from when Tim played ice hockey as a kid. I looked forward to it having a prominent place on our tree this year. Looked forward to continuing to add a special new ornament every year transforming the tree into yet another symbol of our beautiful life together.
I just can't do it. Can't get the tree down, can't open up all the little boxes and hang up all the pretty ornaments. Can't know that I'm wiping off Tim's fingerprints as I touch every decoration. Can't look at the sparkling lights and remember how happy we were last year - how Tim and Brittany and I laughed so hard we cried while we decorated. The contrast is too much for me to handle. God, we were so nieve. I was anyway. I thought we had lots of time. I want to be back in that moment so badly.
My Dad helped me put up some lights on the outside of the house. The ultimate symbolism for how I feel this season: keeping up appearances on the outside as to make everyone else comfortable, but shattered and devastated on the inside. I put some pine cones in a bowl on the table and threw some red pillows on the couch. That's all I can manage.
I'm trying to fill the emptiness by helping my ladies volunteer group collect gifts for a family we have adopted. By sending police themed lego sets to the children's hospital. It's probably good that I'm pregnant or I would probably be drinking a lot in a feeble attempt to drown my sadness. Not the healthiest coping mechanism.
As for Christmas music, you can try to avoid it. You can never turn to that station that plays all Christmas tunes all the time all season (since when? Halloween?). The thing is that all stations will sneak one in from time to time. And every store is piping them in overhead. I've been trying to tune them out even more than I usually do because there are some you expect to hurt like the Christmas Shoes one, but even the cutesy ones hurt so much. I've been reduced to sobs twice by "All I Want For Christmas Is You".
I feel like Scrooge, but I just want this holiday season to be over. I just want Christmas to pass so I can hold my little babies in my arms and be strong for them.
Thankful 2011
Every year since I've been online, I have posted my thanks at Thanksgiving. Being grateful and expressing thanks is something that I believe strongly in and that I hope to instill in our children. All too often we tend to take things for granted and I think it is important to slow down and really think about how blessed we are.
This year I have watched a lot of people post something they are thankful for each day for the month of November.
Thankfulness has been really difficult for me this year for the first time in my life. Instead of being grateful, I just want to cry and scream "Fu*k you, cancer - give me my husband back!!!!" Yes, I can still smile. I have even genuinely laughed a few times, but life is less enjoyable, less colorful, less vibrant and seems less worthwhile without him. I lack motivation, focus, purpose, joy or even contentment.
From the day we met, I loved being "Tim & Autumn" and I may never adjust to being "just Autumn".
All that being said, I have thought long and hard about things I am thankful for. There are still many - some very bitter sweet, some too personal to share - and I will share only a few. This year I am thankful:
- That I have the greatest husband I've ever met and that he is the father of our babies, who I know will be better because he is a part of them. For every kiss, every long talk, every hope and dream we shared, every night falling asleep holding hands. Even knowing the heartache I am experiencing now, I would not trade a single day with Tim. He remains always and forever the love of my life.
- For my family, Tim's family and our incredible friends who have been like a net there to catch me when I fall. I know they would say it's "just what we do", but the list of people who have gone above and beyond in their support is long, and I am grateful.
- For the Department - Tim's brothers (and sisters) in blue who have held our family with the greatest love, care, honor and kindness. I know that they miss Tim every day like we do, and I know that they will make sure that we are always members of the Tempe family.
- That the babies and I will get to stay in the house Tim & I wanted to raise them in and that I know he is here with me every day sitting beside me and guiding me. For all the happy memories in the house and that I don't have to leave them behind.
- For a healthy pregnancy, the joy of feeling our babies moving around inside me, and the excitement I feel to meet them and kiss their sweet faces. This is not how I imagined pregnancy would be - I imagined Tim and I laying in bed together watching my tummy shift - but I know Anson & Ayla's well-being has forced me to deal with losing Tim in a healthy way.
- For Tim's medical team. Although this did not turn out the way we expected or hoped, I know his Drs fought for him, respected him and cared for him. Their staffs were our friends we saw every day who did so much for Tim, me and our family. The nursing staff of Scottsdale Shea C-3 are angels who helped him fight and when it was time, helped him rest. I am forever grateful.
- For the community that I know and those I don't know who have helped me in so many ways - their words of comfort, prayers, donations and assistance are what has gotten me through this far. I have a long road ahead, but I think of how blessed we have been every day.
This year I have watched a lot of people post something they are thankful for each day for the month of November.
Thankfulness has been really difficult for me this year for the first time in my life. Instead of being grateful, I just want to cry and scream "Fu*k you, cancer - give me my husband back!!!!" Yes, I can still smile. I have even genuinely laughed a few times, but life is less enjoyable, less colorful, less vibrant and seems less worthwhile without him. I lack motivation, focus, purpose, joy or even contentment.
From the day we met, I loved being "Tim & Autumn" and I may never adjust to being "just Autumn".
All that being said, I have thought long and hard about things I am thankful for. There are still many - some very bitter sweet, some too personal to share - and I will share only a few. This year I am thankful:
- That I have the greatest husband I've ever met and that he is the father of our babies, who I know will be better because he is a part of them. For every kiss, every long talk, every hope and dream we shared, every night falling asleep holding hands. Even knowing the heartache I am experiencing now, I would not trade a single day with Tim. He remains always and forever the love of my life.
- For my family, Tim's family and our incredible friends who have been like a net there to catch me when I fall. I know they would say it's "just what we do", but the list of people who have gone above and beyond in their support is long, and I am grateful.
- For the Department - Tim's brothers (and sisters) in blue who have held our family with the greatest love, care, honor and kindness. I know that they miss Tim every day like we do, and I know that they will make sure that we are always members of the Tempe family.
- That the babies and I will get to stay in the house Tim & I wanted to raise them in and that I know he is here with me every day sitting beside me and guiding me. For all the happy memories in the house and that I don't have to leave them behind.
- For a healthy pregnancy, the joy of feeling our babies moving around inside me, and the excitement I feel to meet them and kiss their sweet faces. This is not how I imagined pregnancy would be - I imagined Tim and I laying in bed together watching my tummy shift - but I know Anson & Ayla's well-being has forced me to deal with losing Tim in a healthy way.
- For Tim's medical team. Although this did not turn out the way we expected or hoped, I know his Drs fought for him, respected him and cared for him. Their staffs were our friends we saw every day who did so much for Tim, me and our family. The nursing staff of Scottsdale Shea C-3 are angels who helped him fight and when it was time, helped him rest. I am forever grateful.
- For the community that I know and those I don't know who have helped me in so many ways - their words of comfort, prayers, donations and assistance are what has gotten me through this far. I have a long road ahead, but I think of how blessed we have been every day.
Feels Like Home
When Tim and I first met, there was this song that made me think of him. It basically talks about not knowing what love is until you meet this person. Not realizing what you have been living without until this person comes into your life and wanting to hold onto this love forever.
That's what I felt with Tim every day. He brought a sparkle into my eyes that wasn't there since I was a child. With him, every day was an adventure, everything was more vibrant and beautiful. It was a constant competition of doing nice things for each other. Every day was a rainbow.
Tonight I turned on Pandora and listened to music while I made my Grandma's special rolls for Thanksgiving tomorrow. We are going to Tim's parent's house just like last year and all the years before. But it will be so different. So empty, so quiet. Tim won't be there to whisper something funny to me or secretly hold my hand under the table. As I stood there making all these rolls tonight, I was thinking about last year and Tim sitting there chatting with me as I rolled them up - commenting on how good they smelled, asking if he could eat an ugly one. It was our first holiday in our new house and he was so proud that I finally had a kitchen where I could cook like I wanted to.
I'm happy to be driving up north with Brittany in the morning. Happy that I'll be surrounded not just by my family, but Tim's family - those who are feeling the same loss and emptiness that I am. I hope we will laugh, I know we will cry.
These are the lyrics to the song "Feels Like Home" by Chantal Kreviazuk:
That's what I felt with Tim every day. He brought a sparkle into my eyes that wasn't there since I was a child. With him, every day was an adventure, everything was more vibrant and beautiful. It was a constant competition of doing nice things for each other. Every day was a rainbow.
Tonight I turned on Pandora and listened to music while I made my Grandma's special rolls for Thanksgiving tomorrow. We are going to Tim's parent's house just like last year and all the years before. But it will be so different. So empty, so quiet. Tim won't be there to whisper something funny to me or secretly hold my hand under the table. As I stood there making all these rolls tonight, I was thinking about last year and Tim sitting there chatting with me as I rolled them up - commenting on how good they smelled, asking if he could eat an ugly one. It was our first holiday in our new house and he was so proud that I finally had a kitchen where I could cook like I wanted to.
I'm happy to be driving up north with Brittany in the morning. Happy that I'll be surrounded not just by my family, but Tim's family - those who are feeling the same loss and emptiness that I am. I hope we will laugh, I know we will cry.
These are the lyrics to the song "Feels Like Home" by Chantal Kreviazuk:
Something in your eyes
Makes me want to lose myself
Makes me want to lose myself
In your arms
There's something in your voice
Makes my heart beat fast
Hope this feeling lasts
The rest of my life
If you knew how lonely my life has been
And how long I've felt so low
If you knew how I wanted someone to come along
And change my life the way you've done
Chorus: Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm all the way back where
I come from
Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm all the way back where I belong
A window breaks down a long dark street
And a siren wails in the night
But I'm alright 'cause I have you here with me
And I can almost see through the dark there's light
If you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
If you knew how happy you are making me
I've never thought I'd love anyone so much
Chorus
Feels like I'm all the way back where I belong.
Makes me want to lose myself
Makes me want to lose myself
In your arms
There's something in your voice
Makes my heart beat fast
Hope this feeling lasts
The rest of my life
If you knew how lonely my life has been
And how long I've felt so low
If you knew how I wanted someone to come along
And change my life the way you've done
Chorus: Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm all the way back where
I come from
Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm all the way back where I belong
A window breaks down a long dark street
And a siren wails in the night
But I'm alright 'cause I have you here with me
And I can almost see through the dark there's light
If you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
If you knew how happy you are making me
I've never thought I'd love anyone so much
Chorus
Feels like I'm all the way back where I belong.
Happen For A Reason (Part 2)
Tim never wanted me to meet with this guy because he was afraid of what I would say or do. I acknowledge that I can have a hot temper at times, but I know that Tim is proud of me for how I handled this situation. I did not yell, raise my voice, swear or choke this man. I just talked. Tim's story flowed effortlessly from my mouth and I felt like I got to say what I needed to say. Most importantly,. I think he heard me, and I think it made the impact I was hoping for. If nothing else, it left him aware and terrified.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At this point the PA stopped me at ask, "What is your husband's name?" When I told him he asked if he is a police officer and told me he remembered Tim.
I talked about the urinary tract infection that Tim came to him with and how unusual that is in men - how it and the frequent urination were blatant red flags that he chose to ignore. I told him about the multitude of treatments that Tim endured and how he did it with grace, optimism and more concern for others than he had for himself. I explained that our lives were turned upside down by his oversight.
He was shaking when I told him that Tim has died. He swore to me over and over that when he heard about Tim's diagnosis it changed the way he practiced - that he proactively ordered PSA tests for men, no matter what their age. He said I should believe him because he was looking me in the eye.
I told this man - this man who I somehow felt some compassion for in spite of the fact that he stole the most precious thing I've ever held - that my responsibility is now to continue to spread Tim's message of early detection and prostate cancer awareness. That I take that responsibility seriously and I will speak in front of any group or organization that will have me.
I explained that HIS responsibility is to make sure that this NEVER happens again by telling all of his colleagues and anyone who will listen what happened, what he overlooked and what he should have done instead. Swearing to me makes no difference, I said, you are the one who has to live with your actions fore the rest of your life.
I only teared up once while we were talking and I didn't let those tears fall because I didn't want them to distract from what I was saying. Instead, I waited and when I was done, I turned and went back into Grandpa's room where the tears flowed.
With him no longer in private practice, there is no way that I could have ever gotten an appointment with him to confront him on what he did. The only way we would ever meet was by chance, and I have a hard time believing that this meting was pure luck.... Some things do happen for a reason. This was one of those things, and I know it was Tim's level-headedness that guided me and let me say what needed to be said without dramatizing it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At this point the PA stopped me at ask, "What is your husband's name?" When I told him he asked if he is a police officer and told me he remembered Tim.
I talked about the urinary tract infection that Tim came to him with and how unusual that is in men - how it and the frequent urination were blatant red flags that he chose to ignore. I told him about the multitude of treatments that Tim endured and how he did it with grace, optimism and more concern for others than he had for himself. I explained that our lives were turned upside down by his oversight.
He was shaking when I told him that Tim has died. He swore to me over and over that when he heard about Tim's diagnosis it changed the way he practiced - that he proactively ordered PSA tests for men, no matter what their age. He said I should believe him because he was looking me in the eye.
I told this man - this man who I somehow felt some compassion for in spite of the fact that he stole the most precious thing I've ever held - that my responsibility is now to continue to spread Tim's message of early detection and prostate cancer awareness. That I take that responsibility seriously and I will speak in front of any group or organization that will have me.
I explained that HIS responsibility is to make sure that this NEVER happens again by telling all of his colleagues and anyone who will listen what happened, what he overlooked and what he should have done instead. Swearing to me makes no difference, I said, you are the one who has to live with your actions fore the rest of your life.
I only teared up once while we were talking and I didn't let those tears fall because I didn't want them to distract from what I was saying. Instead, I waited and when I was done, I turned and went back into Grandpa's room where the tears flowed.
With him no longer in private practice, there is no way that I could have ever gotten an appointment with him to confront him on what he did. The only way we would ever meet was by chance, and I have a hard time believing that this meting was pure luck.... Some things do happen for a reason. This was one of those things, and I know it was Tim's level-headedness that guided me and let me say what needed to be said without dramatizing it.
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About Me
- Autumn
- Learning to navigate the unpredictable waters of life as a new mom and a young widow.... still with the sweetest puppy imaginable.
