“His Death Shattered Me” — How Spouse Loss Affects Us Physically

When Steve died several years ago, I felt so lost… He’d been diagnosed six month earlier, but for each of those days, I kept expecting (and praying) that a miracle would happen, that he’d bounce back as he’d always done when he’d encountered acute health crises earlier, and that soon we’d be back on our path, living our dreams. His death shattered me - I felt as if I’d been jolted with thousands of amps of electricity, as if all the connections in my brain had been disconnected. My body felt like it was falling apart. I was convinced that my heart really was broken, and even went in to the emergency room because it hurt so much.

Grief manifests itself in so many aspects of our lives - emotionally, socially, spiritually, physically… and in many more ways. Perhaps most initially noticeable are the physical changes that occur when we lose someone we love.

I know grief profoundly affected my sleep (and have to admit that even now, I’m still not sleeping like I wish I was!). Steve was a snorer, and I found it so hard to fall asleep without what used to be so annoying, but what I now so missed. I also missed leaning against him while I slept, the warmth he provided my (always) cold feet, the reassurance of reaching over and feeling him there. I’ve heard others say perhaps the worst part is the waking up, and seeing that empty pillow. I agree.

What I’ve learned: I now turn on the radio to “snooze” (so it will automatically shut itself off) and listen to relaxing music as I fall asleep. It eases my mind out of its endless relays and helps my body relax. I also will admit that I sleep with a doll! She has a very sweet face, goes to bed quite willingly, and lies on the pillow right next to me, so I no longer have to see that empty pillow there. Some friends who have lost their spouses tell me they switched sides of the bed, so they are not looking at “his” or “her” empty place any more.

My appetite was also affected. I lost mine… completely. Although my stomach did experience the sense of hunger, nothing sounded “good.” Perhaps this was because I also completely lost my sense of taste. It wasn’t until about eight months after Steve died that it finally returned, and I still remember feeling what a miracle it was to actually taste something again!

What I’ve learned: With my daughters away at college, I found it depressing to eat at the dinner table by myself, so I pulled up a chair, slid out the little under-the-counter cutting board, added a placemat, and ate right in the kitchen. (And I will admit that yes, I did watch TV when I’m eating… Alex Trebek made a fine dinner companion!) I also discovered that cold cereal makes a quick and tasty dinner. And takeout Chinese isn’t too bad. I still haven’t completely regained my desire to cook big meals, and that’s fine.

A really disconcerting aspect of how grief affected me physically was the loss of hair, vast quantities of it… Yikes! Was I going bald?!? When the rapid loss continued for several months, my doctor assured me that it was a normal after-effect of profound shock. And yes, (thankfully) it grew back in. I wish I could proudly proclaim that all the new hair was gorgeous, naturally blonde, and wavy, but alas, it was my regular color, with a few more grays thrown in for good measure!

What I’ve learned: Even if it was just lipstick, doing little things to take care of myself helped me feel like I was still a human being, still a person who was worthy of living. Even though I didn’t feel like it at all, putting on makeup every day did help me feel more like myself. I also learned that, as with all intense shocks, the body does need to take time to heal, to rebalance, to feel settled again. It’s important to treat ourselves with compassion during that time, to not beat ourselves up because we’re not able to keep the same pace we previously could effortlessly handle. Grief takes a lot of energy, and time, and if we allow ourselves to do the grief work, we will heal.

I think that every person who has survived the death of a spouse wonders, “Will I ever feel like normal again? And what’s normal, anyway?” The best answer I’ve heard is that although things will never be the same, we gradually do grow stronger, and better able to handle the pain, the loneliness, the multi-faceted spectrum of feelings we are experiencing. And with that growth, eventually we do feel like we are “ourselves” again.

How has grief affected you physically? I’ve heard so many stories about the strange and crazy and wonderful and absolutely normal physical aspects of grief, and would love to hear yours.

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Life Is About Adapting to Change

The one thing that certain in this life, aside death and taxes, is change.

Businesses have to change to survive. Markets, attitudes, tastes, and buying habits of customers are constantly in flux. If a business doesn’t adapt to shifting market conditions and offer its customers what they want, it goes out of business.

At halftime, football teams must adapt their offence and defense based on what they’ve seen from the opposing team or else they’ll lose the game.

Our own lives are constantly in flux. Every day brings changes we have to deal with. Most of the changes we deal with on a daily basis are small and we find a way to deal with them. Burn dinner? We make something else or order takeout. Miss the bus to work? We wait for the next one or find another way to work.

Larger life changes, such as losing a spouse, are less common but take more time to adjust. After a husband or wife dies, we don’t show up to work the next day and act like things are normal. Instead we grieve and try and figure out how to rework our lives.

It’s not always easy.

Losing the single most important person in our lives is hard. We’ve become accustomed to their presence, habits, and mannerisms. They may have always been the one to balance the checkbook, read the kids a story at night, or cook dinner. Without that person, we have to learn (or re-learn) skills that we didn’t have to previously worry about.

However, if you don’t successfully adapt to the death of a husband or wife, your life is essentially over.

I’m not speaking literally. Sure, you may live for years or decades after your spouse moves on. But when you’re life is selfishly wrapped in grief and misery, you’re not really living. If you’re not doing things that bring happiness to yourself and others, then you’re simply taking up space.

If you want to be happy again, you need to make the conscious choice to change your life and then take the necessary steps to do that. Break out of your shell. Give of your time, talents, and abilities and make your corner of the world a better place. Forget your sadness and misery.

You’ve only have one life. You can waste it or make the most of the hand you’ve been dealt.

You can be like the business that changes to market conditions or the one that goes out of business.

You can be the football team that comes out stronger in the second half and wins the game or the one that gets crushed.

It’s your choice.

We’ve all been given the same 24 hours in a day. Whether you spend them in misery or happiness is up to you.

A Companion on Your Grief Journey

I became a widow when Steve, my husband of 20 years, died from esophageal cancer. With one daughter in college and the other finishing up high school, along with a new, highly demanding job, I felt so unequipped to deal with all the emotions, feelings, and tangible aspects of grief.

When we lose someone we love, especially a spouse, whether it was expected (for example, after a long illness), or unexpected (such as after a tragic accident or sudden illness), there really doesn’t seem to be much of a roadmap we can follow to negotiate the twists and turns ahead.

I felt like I was dying. I was lost. A few months after he died I found myself wondering how I could go on. I was not equipped to do this by myself. Then, I saw a little announcement in the local paper about a grief support group at a nearby church¹, and called to see if I could attend.

The workshops were established to meet the needs of grieving people who need a safe, caring environment where they feel comfortable; where they aren’t judged, and where they can learn that their feelings of grief are normal. The support group was designed to get people out of isolation and allow them to grieve at their own pace.

Even though the workshop was already at capacity, fortunately for me, a space opened up and attending the workshops saved my life. There, I learned how to deal with all the unexpected and unwelcome feelings I had. I learned that what I was experiencing was normal. I learned that although we cannot compare grief and loss, and that each grief journey is unique, there are some stepping stones along the way that most of us will encounter.

Most importantly, I learned that I was not alone, something extremely important to know when we have lost that one most important person in our lives!

After attending the workshop as a participant, I was asked to consider joining the workshop team as a grief facilitator. Following extensive training and study, I have now been facilitating grief workshops and providing one-on-one counseling for five years, and in the course of this, my own grief journey, I’ve learned quite a bit that I’d love to share with others who have experienced profound loss. I will be on my healing journey for the rest of my life, and I would love to be your companion on your grief journey to healing.

I’ve heard widowhood described as one of those clubs nobody wants to be a member of. We certainly didn’t plan our lives this way… I know that I never dreamed that my 43-year-old husband would die, leaving me a widow. I don’t care what age you are… if you’re at this site and you’ve lost your spouse, you’re way too young to be here. But I hope that now that you are here, you will not feel alone. I hope that here, you will find a safe, caring place to grieve. I hope you’ll share your own grief experiences and I look forward to sharing mine with you.

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

_______________________________________________________

[¹] The “Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey” workshop is offered by the Catholic Community of Pleasanton, California, and held at St. Elizabeth Seton. The non-denominational Grief Support Ministry program is lead by Fr. Padraig Greene, who is the Pastor for the region. Two eight-week workshops are offered each spring and fall, and in between are bi-monthly drop-in grief support sessions. For more info, Click Here

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Grief is a Journey, Not a Destination

By Elaine Williams

There are days you sit in a chair and stare out the window because living seems to take too much energy. Even to think about what to make for dinner is an all-consuming task. It can be daunting, feeling as if there is nothing in this world that will ever hold your interest again. The mail order catalog with the Valentine’s Day gifts is a reminder there won’t be any lover’s keepsakes. No hiding in the cabinet those chocolate and peanut butter eggs my husband, gone two years, used to enjoy. How small and silly a thought, but how big a rip in my heart. Read more

When the Memories Come Without Pain

When the Memories Come Without Pain
By Eaine Williams
My youngest son was eleven when his father died. For the longest time he would cling to me when we were parting company, giving hugs and more hugs. I know this was his way of working through the loss of his father and I knew that eventually this phase would pass. Many times he would talk about things he and his father and brothers had done and this too seemed to help him move through his grief. There were times he just didn’t want to talk to me about anything, but usually this was rare. I remember picking up his wallet one day and inside he had some old driver’s licenses that had belonged to his father. He also kept his father’s old bright orange work shirts and wore those for the longest time. One of them said, “I survived the blizzard of 1993.” This was particularly humorous since my son was born in 1992. Read more

Widows - Honor The Pain, No Need To “Suck It Up”

By Beth Waddel

Today was a bad morning. I spent the morning watching television. Holiday commercials, holiday meals, holiday gifts. Why not a show on tears shed? Why not a commercial about losses experienced?

Yes, I am an advocate for managing emotions, not wallowing in self pity, but HOLY COW, is there room for anyone to experience pain, loss and melancholy? Read more

About This Blog

When I think back to those dark days following the death of my late wife and daughter, I always return to an early January morning a week before my twenty-seventh birthday.

In the months following their deaths, it became routine to awaken at 5:00 a.m. and go for a four mile run.

It wasn’t easy.

I’d awake five minutes before the alarm clock beeped and stare at the dark ceiling and contemplate the two choices I faced every morning: Stay in bed or go running.

Staying in bed was the easy option. Under the covers it was warm and a place where I could pretend that all was right with the world. It was a fortress of solitude that could protect me from the aftermath of my late wife’s suicide and death of my premature daughter nine days later.

Choosing to run was more difficult. It meant committing to another day and the uncertainties that came with it. It meant facing family, friends, and coworkers who I still seemed uncertain what to say or how to act in my presence. It meant dealing with the emotions of a suicide survivor and grieving parent.

In the end, I always ran because I knew that staying in bed would ultimately lead down the dark path of depression - the one place I truly wanted to avoid.

This morning, however, was particularly difficult. The wind was blowing bits of snow against the bedroom window. Morning runs were always cold, but today I was sure the temperature outside was well below zero. To top it off I awoke filled with a cocktail of grief, anger, and guilt. Running was the last thing I wanted to do.

As I lay in bed deciding what path to follow, I realized I had reached a pivotal moment in my life. The choice to run or stay in bed was more than just about what was going to happen today. It was about the future. It was the morning where I would choose to live or die.

If I could run despite the wind and the overwhelming sadness I felt, then I could do it every morning for the rest of my life. Somehow I knew that running this very morning would give me the strength to rebuild a shattered and broken life.

However, staying in bed would mean that I had finally succumbed to the dark void everyone feels when they lose someone they love. It meant giving up and deciding that life wasn’t worth living anymore.

I knew my life would continue if I chose the latter. I wasn’t about to kill myself. But it would be a different life: one spent focused on loss and pain. I would stay places where I felt safe and protected. I would build emotional walls around myself and hide from the rest of the world. It would be a life spent alone.

My alarm clock beeped. It was 5:00 a.m.

I had a choice to make.

I went running.

This is what I want my Open to Hope blog to be about: Getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other - especially on days when that is the last thing we want to do.

It’s a blog about moving forward when it seems there’s no reason to continue.

It’s a blog about learning to live again.

Why We Need to Talk About Grief

By Elaine Williams

According to the U.S Census Bureau, there are approximately 700,000 new widows every year. To me, this is staggering, and I never thought I’d be a statistic.

I’ve been asked many times if I wrote A Journey Well Taken: Life After Loss while my husband was ill. As a caretaker, and even though I have been a writer for as long as I can recall, writing was the last thing on my mind while he was sick. It wasn’t until two and a half years after his death that I decided to put my thoughts down in concrete form, since during this time I was having a hard time emotionally. Loneliness seemed to have engulfed me and was kicking me in the butt. Many days I had a difficult time getting past the grief that enveloped me. Read more