Taking Baby Steps on the Grief Journey

We’re right in the middle of baseball season. One of our family’s favorite pastimes was to attend the Giants games at the old Candlestick Park in San Francisco, where we’d shiver in the bleachers as we cheered on our team. I still picture Steve with his Giants’ cap, Giants’ sweatshirt, and baseball mitt in hand (just in case he was in a position to catch a wild ball that was hit into the stands). Our daughters and I were always more interested in the antics of the other fans, in finding that elusive malt vendor, and in just staying warm as the fog invariably rolled in over the edges of the stadium as the game wore on. The best part of the game was always the Seventh Inning Stretch, where we and the entire stadium would rise to our feet and sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the top of our lungs.

It’s been six years since he died, and it’s been really hard to attend any ballgames without Steve — I think we’ve only been to a couple since then. He was so embedded in our experiences and memories of the games, and we found it extremely difficult to be there without him. In fact, we left well before the seventh inning, because the memories and lack of his presence with us were just too much to take.

Well, as I recently listened to the baseball stats announced on my favorite radio station, I realized that finally, I feel ready to return to the ballpark to enjoy a Giants game. And with that realization came a parallel one:  I’ve come a long way since Steve died, since those early days of grief when I felt that my life had been ripped apart. 

I vividly remember that searing pain I felt during the final stages of his illness and then even more so after he died, when the shock and numbness wore off. At that time, I had the horrifying thought that my life would always be this way, filled with pain, tears, and feelings I’d never even imagined were possible. It was such a dark time and I could believe that I would ever feel better again, that the hole in my heart would ever heal and that I would ever feel whole again.

Healing a broken heart doesn’t (and can’t) (and shouldn’t) happen in an instant. When a spouse dies, all those years of loving someone, sharing a life together, and sharing hopes and dreams for the future is torn away. It would in fact be unnatural if we could simply take a magic pill and feel instantly healed. I’ve discovered that a lot of patience, energy, and time are required to recover. But the good news is “Yes, we can heal.” Despite those initial feelings of hopelessness, as I’ve done my grief work, I’ve found that I can feel whole again. I can feel joy again.

For those who have lost a spouse, the grief journey is not a single event, but rather an ongoing process. It took a long time for me to realize that healing was not about hitting home runs, but rather getting singles.

By this I mean taking “baby steps,” and feeling good about our progress, however slow or tiny it seems at the time. A few years ago one of my friends who is also a widow started walking to relieve stress. This evolved to running, and finally she found herself working up to a half-marathon to raise funds for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. She said her initial goal was just to get outside and experience the sunshine, and as she built up strength and stamina, she gradually added small goals each day, to walk a bit further, then to run a bit longer. When she started, she says she could never have envisioned herself running in a half-marathon, and if she’d had that goal in mind at the outset, she likely would have given up because it seemed so unattainable. She says that goals are a good thing, but a dose of realism when starting out is even better.

I have come to think that the healing journey is like the running or like playing baseball. We survivors of spouse loss should not expect that by starting to jog, we will be ready to run in the next Olympic games, or to go from the minors to the major leagues and win MVP in the next All Star game. It’s all about the healing steps we take, and also about acknowledging our progress along the way.

At some points it feels like I’ve blinked my eyes and Steve disappeared, and in other cases, it feels like decades since he was here. Time is elastic, and calendars can be slippery. The process of healing takes a lot of work over time, but I found that if I began with the relatively easier tasks, starting small with the “low hanging fruit,” I was able to build up my own strength and endurance. At times I am actually quite amazed at how far I’ve come on the healing pathway.

Some of my baby steps that you might want to try:

• Writing in my grief journal. At first it was just some lists, but these evolved into deeper, more revelatory explorations of my evolving feelings. Now, I’ve filled a few journals, and plans to do even more. Amazing to re-read the early stuff!
• Exercising. After Steve died, I felt so stiff, exhausted, and sore all the time. But I started doing some simple yoga stretching. This has evolved to a full hour of high-energy Kundalini yoga each morning.
• Singing. Steve and I used to love to sing together, and after he died, I found my voice had completely dried up. I not only didn’t have the desire to sing, but I really couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, not even with well-loved church hymns. Then, a couple of years after Steve died, Santa delivered a karaoke machine and a few sing-along CDs. Initially only the girls enjoyed it, but they eventually convinced me to join the fun. At this point, I’ve turned into a karaoke junkie, and can sing better than ever, hitting high notes I only dreamed about in the past.
• Making connections. I felt really isolated after Steve died. Although my friends surrounded me with warmth and invitations, I felt so numb and cold inside, and more than anything so exposed and vulnerable. I really didn’t feel strong enough to be out, especially in large groups of people, but I knew it wasn’t healthy to stay holed up at home by myself. So I took a baby step and started by going to a movie with a friend from my grief workshop. Eventually I felt able to join in larger gatherings (hint: call a friend and ask if you can tag along so you’re not arriving alone). Now, I am pleased to say that I can handle most social gatherings. Do I miss Steve at my side? Of course. But at this point, I really do feel comfortable on my own. And - okay this is a news flash - I find myself actually open to the possibility of perhaps having someone new at my side in the future. Six years ago I could never have imagined feeling this way!

What baby steps have you taken on your grief journey? How have you changed since your spouse died? What do you consider the “singles” you’ve gotten in the ballpark? Have you had any home runs? We’d love to hear your experiences!

 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Will I Ever Find Me Again? — New Roles After the Death of a Spouse

In response to “From a Plea for Help,” Julie Z. wrote:  My husband died about 1.5 years ago, I continue to cry daily. He was everything to me. I am so tired of being so alone. I miss him so very much. Why did someone so wonderful need to go? I pray so very much, that the wonderful memories we made together will make me smile, not cry. I miss everything about him. I miss him, the wonderful marriage we shared and I miss, who I was when I was with him. He completed me. Will I ever find me again? How do I go on without him? I wanted to grow old with him.

Beverly McManus, Grief Companion, responds:  Before I answer your questions, please let me offer my most sincere condolences on the death of your dear husband. You have been through one of the hardest things a person can endure, and I hope that you know that just by reaching out, you’re already taking healthy steps to heal from this enormous loss. 

It takes a long time to figure out who we are without our spouses.  Whether we have warning of their death or not, we cannot even remotely comprehend all the losses we’ll experience that accompany our spouse’s death.  In the instant when his or her heart stops beating, we have lost our life companion, we have lost the stability that comes with being in a marriage, in some cases we have lost our financial footing.  But I think one of the most profound of these losses is the loss of our identity-we’re not just losing a wife or husband, but also all those roles that went with it.  For so many years, we have been part of a couple.  And now, the question looms:  Who am I without my spouse? 

Even though I have always thought of myself as quite strong as an individual, internally, I know that my reference point for much of my own self-definition had been Steve.  Since his death, I have had to figure out who I am without him, and to determine what adventures I want to accomplish, how I like to spend my time, what makes me happy, and who I feel happy with.  It’s very tricky to assimilate all the grief and at the same time, figure out the answer to “What next?”  And making it especially tricky is the ambiguous timeline of our healing process. 

Of course, each grief journey has its own timeline and path, but there are a few milestones and stepping stones that are universal, and this very big step of figuring out who we are is one that can’t be rushed. 

What I’ve discovered: 

• For me, one of the toughest new roles to handle was parenting.  Steve had always been so close to our daughters, and was very active in their lives.  Now, I felt I had to step up and be both mom and dad, something I felt so unequipped to do.  We had different parenting styles-Steve had grown up in a much more relaxed and lenient family than mine, and I tended to be more hard line in terms of decisions and rules.  While he was alive, we had been conciliatory influences on each other, mellowing out the extremes and always presenting a united union to our daughters.  I know our daughters missed having their “old softy” dad who could often be convinced by his oh-so-persuasive and charming girls.  Instead, now they had only mom, and many times, I felt I needed to stand firm and make some decisions they didn’t necessarily like at the time.  Then guilt would kick in, and I’d reverse myself, thinking, “If Steve were here, he’d let them do XYZ.”  Over time, I realized I didn’t have to automatically assume Steve’s “Dad” role - I could just be myself, doing the best I knew how. 
• Making decisions on my own was initially extremely hard for me.  I’d always had a partner with whom I could float ideas, hash things out, and reach conclusions.  Without someone to lean against, I felt so alone and vulnerable.  Even though in the business world I felt confident about my decision making, with regard to home, cars, and family, I felt so uncertain.  What if I made a mistake?  What if I made the wrong decision?  Over time, I realized that although I no longer had Steve to turn to, I did have a small group of trustworthy advisors who were generously willing to share their opinions and provide reassurances that even if I did make a mistake, the world wouldn’t come to an end.  I also have learned to trust my own judgment, and to tap into a deep well of experiences, as well as trust my guts as to whether something “felt right.”  I also take heed of Gen. George S. Patton’s remark, “Better a good decision now than a perfect decision 10 minutes too late.”
• Figuring out my new role apart from Steve also meant identifying my own tastes and preferences.  For many years, I’d been searching for a certain unique brass tray table, and a year after Steve died, in a stroke of serendipity, my daughter and I happened to find the exact table I’d been seeking for so long at a Persian Rug store.  I was thrilled to bring it home - it was something uniquely my own taste.  As I set it up in the living room, to my dismay, I realized that it clashed with everything else in the room and, worst of all, did not lend itself to the furniture layout of the room.  At that point, I realized that it was time to make some changes if I wanted the table to work.  Little did I know that that lovely antique table would be the catalyst for a major overhaul of my entire living and dining rooms! 

  And little did I realize that with the purchase of the table, I was embarking on a major exploration of my own tastes and desires.  Because we always conferred about nearly every major decision in our home and family, many of our choices resulted in compromises.  It was quite an adventure, and actually quite a bit of fun to realize that even though there was still some useful life left in our old furniture, I did not have to use it if it didn’t make me happy.  I decided to replace the extra-long sofa with four very comfortable upholstered chairs that gathered in a circle around the new coffee table.  Well, the chairs made the carpet seem dingy, so I decided that we’d replace it, and we were thrilled to discover beautiful hardwood floors underneath the dated wall-to-wall carpeting. 

  But as long as we were taking out the carpet, I realized we should also paint the walls - and it was such a joy to replace the bland “Navajo white” walls with a rich creamy maple sugar hue that picked up tones from the new table and chairs.  Next, I added a new oriental rug to tie all the colors together, and then decided to rip out the old brick hearth and replace it with cool sandstone.  Once the hearth was gone, I decided to paint the “rustic brick” fireplace façade a creamy white to match the baseboard and crown molding trims.  And of course, the windows needed new treatments.  And with those, the old dining room set looked shabby, so was replaced with something that could accommodate the large groups who often gathered at our table.  Basically the only thing that remained from our old layout was my beloved piano, which now had a regal home on the back wall of the living room.  It took almost a year to complete all the redecorating, and most of that time was spent exploring choices, and determining what I really loved.  Even now, every time I walk into the rooms I feel a thrill because of how it all works together so beautifully. 

• Making all the choices was fun, but this endeavor also included getting the work done, something that in the past, Steve would have handled.  I had to figure out that just because Steve would have actually tackled all the tasks himself, because he really loved doing handyman jobs, I did not need to also handle them all myself.  Instead, I brought in a floor refinisher to polish up our hardwood, a professional painter for the walls and ceilings, and a drapery service to help hang the new drapes.  The adventure left me feeling confident that I could handle just about anything around the house. 
• Figuring out how I like to spend my time was something I grappled with for quite some time.  It was so easy to bury myself in work, and by doing so, I didn’t have to address this question for a while.  But I have gradually been exploring options and activities that bring me joy.  In addition to the home decorating, I have rediscovered my passion for music, and these days, on weekends you can find me with my singing companions in front of the microphone singing old favorites at local karaoke venues.  It’s been quite fun to explore new places, and to make new friends along the way.  While we were in Hawaii on our last family vacation together, Steve had become entranced with Hawaiian music and bought a ukulele.  For the longest time, it sat on the shelf in my closet, and I’d earnestly urge Emily and Mary Ella to try to learn to play it.  But after a while, their lack of interest was apparent, and I realized that I could take lessons and learn to play it myself!  (This was quite startling at the time!)  I signed up for lessons with a local teacher, and it was so much fun, so I promised myself that once I mastered the uke, I’d take guitar lessons, since we had several of Steve’s guitars sitting around unused.  I soon concluded that there was no reason to wait - since I had time available, I decided to take both guitar and ukulele lessons, on alternating weeks, and have really enjoyed the satisfaction of learning something new and actually sounding halfway decent! 
• I think that this new sense of self-satisfaction was something I never expected as I explored new roles in my life without Steve.  Even though Steve and I had planned to grow old together, to travel, to be grandparents, and to enjoy life without the day-to-day demands of full-time parenting, entering this stage of my life alone has been a challenge.  Without him at my side, I’ve learned to find pleasure and fulfillment on my own.  I’ve had to revise some plans, discard some, and create some new goals for myself.  It has taken time, and it hasn’t come without the shedding of lots of tears as I have relinquished the dreams we’d had of shared tomorrows.  However, as my children have continued to grow, reach their own milestones, and become successfully “launched” into the adult world, I’ve realized a newfound freedom.  I can continue charting my course, and engaging in the activities that make me happy, with the people I enjoy.  Of course, I miss Steve and I especially miss the lack of ability to live out our dreams.  But in this new life, I’ve realized that I am enjoying figuring out who I am without him. 

Julie, I hope you will feel that you are not alone in your questions - you are facing a totally changed life path, and it can feel daunting.  Please let me assure you that you have made it through the worst.  And since you’ve survived, you should know that you have within you what it takes to keep moving forward and figure out the answers to your questions.  I wish you joy and hope as you explore your new roles without your husband, and hope you’ll stay in touch and let us know how you’re doing.

What new roles have you discovered in your new life without your spouse? How have you negotiated the often conflicting demands of each role? We’d love you to share your stories.

 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

An Egg Today? Or a Hen Tomorrow? Our Choices in Grief

I’m a big believer in fortune cookies.  In fact, I’ve long thought that if read very loudly — so that everyone else in the restaurant can hear — the fortunes will come true!  I don’t know if there is any way to scientifically prove my theory, but I do like to test it each time we go out for Chinese food.  I loudly read the last fortune cookie I opened; however, it offered more of what I’d consider a proverb than an actual fortune:  “It is better to have a hen tomorrow than an egg today.”

Hmmm…  My first thought was to question whether or not this old adage is true, and I realized that the answer had to be “It depends.”  If one is starving and about to expire from hunger, the egg today may be the saving morsel that gives the body strength to carry on, and find more eggs tomorrow.  However, if one has the resources to wait until the egg hatches and the chick matures, it offers the potential for exponentially more eggs in the future (if indeed the chick turns out to be female… but, I’m distracting myself!). 

As I pondered my fortune, I reflected on how this axiom might apply to the grieving process.  Each loss is unique, and each grief journey has its own timeline.  I’ve learned that grieving requires a tremendous amount of energy and time.  Of course, some folks are forced to drastically shorten their grief journey, for reasons for over which they have no control.  However, for me and most others who have survived the death of a spouse, there is no hurrying the grief journey.  It is one we must travel at our own pace, despite the pressure from some of those around us, who in their sincere efforts to be helpful, offer quick-fix solutions to end our grief and make the pain end as well: 

“Just find a new husband/wife!  Then your broken heart will heal!” 

Or, “Hey, you’ve been grieving long enough!  Time to get on with your life.  Close that door and just live in the present!”

Or even better/worse, “When are you going to start acting like yourself again? We’re tired of you being blue all the time!”

Hearing such “advice” makes me surmise that those who offer it are like the writer of my recent fortune.  It’s easy for others to think “Oh, it’s been long enough, he/she should just snap out of it.”  But they have no idea what we are going through, nor can they comprehend all the thousands of emotions we need to experience and process if we are to truly heal.

Honestly, at times, it is tempting to want to short-step all the pain involved and just act like nothing has happened, to simply paste on a happy face and go on with our lives as if there isn’t a gaping hole where the heart used to be. 

But what happens when we do that?  The pain doesn’t just miraculously disappear.  No, it gets buried, where it stays, but will not allow itself to be ignored.  Unfortunately for many of us, when buried and not processed, the pain of grief begins to wreck havoc in other areas of our lives.  Backaches, migraine headaches, shoulder spasms, ulcers, heartburn, depression, insomnia… all are stress related and can be directly caused by the pain of unprocessed grief. 

How do we process grief?  By doing our “grief work.” 

By this, I mean really feeling all the feelings we are experiencing, as painful and unfamiliar as they may be.  By leaning into the pain, and even wallowing in it at times, so that we are giving our broken heart its due respect.  Because the only reason it hurts so much is because we loved so much - there is a direct correlation between the amount of pain experienced in grief and the depth of the love we felt for the person who died.  (Does your heart break when someone you don’t like dies?  Not really.  It is only for those we love that the heart responds in such a profound way.) 

It is a true paradox:  the more we cry and allow ourselves to feel the pain, the faster and more completely we will heal.  Those who say, “You’ve cried enough already,” are mistakenly trying to short-circuit a very necessary healing process.  And only we can determine how long we need to cry.  (We know when it’s time to stop because we no longer feel like crying.)  The tears accompany a cascade of healing hormones that affect every cell in our bodies, and after a good cry, it is amazing how much better we feel. 

So, back to my fortune, which declared that it’s preferable to have a hen tomorrow than an egg today.  Upon further reflection, I realized that if we equate the egg to the momentary relief we find when prematurely end our grief journey and instead paste on the happy face, and relate the hen to our healed selves who have sacrificed the time and energy to do real grief work, then yes, it is true. 

Think about it, the egg offers just one serving.  It is short-lived.  And even though it may be momentarily satisfying, once eaten, that’s that.  On the other hand, the chicken can provide a meal for an entire family, and then the bones can become the stock for the next meal’s soup, and then gravy for chicken pot pie the following night.  In other words, the rewards are manifestly more abundant. 

And, as an added benefit to waiting for the hen tomorrow, as we do our grief work and begin to heal, we notice that those around us - especially our children - begin to heal too.  We can pass on a legacy of overcoming one of the worst things that can happen, and by example, teach them how to not only survive, but thrive.  However, if we sidestep our grief work (and in essence, quickly eat the egg), we transmit an unhealthy coping strategy to our family, which can continue for generations, and the unprocessed pain can manifest itself as physical and mental health problems for the rest of our lives. 

Your choice:  The chicken or the egg?

What have you experienced along your grief journey?  Are there times when you need to “act as if” everything was okay, even though you felt awful inside?  We’d love to hear how you handled this.  And, we’d love to know what you think is preferable:  the egg today, or the hen tomorrow? 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Nature’s Remedy - Allowing the Universe to Embrace Us in Our Pain and Need

Responding to  How Do I Cope After the Death of My Husband?, Annalise wrote:  “When does the pain ease off??  Two months today and getting worse.”

Beverly Chantalle McManus, Grief Companion, responds:  Annalise, first of all, please accept my deepest compassion for your loss.  The death of a spouse is one of the hardest things anyone will have to go through, and only those who have experienced it can really understand the depth of pain and loss you are experiencing.  We’re glad you reached out, and hope that knowing you’re not alone will help ease the pain and loneliness.

I wish I could give you a clever formula that would accurately determine when the pain will ease off.  It would be so nice to have something that figured it all out for us, perhaps by multiplying the length of the relationship by the intensity of love felt, and of course taking into account the type of death - whether a long, drawn-out illness that at least provided a bit of time for preparation, or a sudden, unexpected death like a car accident or heart attack.  Of course, such an equation would also need to consider the survivor’s mental state, financial situation, spiritual background, and physical strength.  In addition, to be accurate it should also include the presence or absence of a support network, and whether they were actually helping or hindering the grieving. 

Yes, such a formula and its solution would be useful when we are feeling such intense pain.  Unfortunately, it would be impossible because of all the variables involved.  And the fact that even after the death of our spouse, things continue to change. 

Each grief journey has its own timeline and follows its own path.  There are a few stepping stones along that path that you and nearly all grievers will encounter, but each of these stepping stones will be approached and accomplished in its own way, according to your background, beliefs, and resources. 

Grief requires time and energy.  It doesn’t just “happen.”  Right now you are feeling intense pain, and I can promise you that at times in the future, you will feel even worse.  But I can also promise you that if you do your grief work, you will gradually feel better.  You will become stronger.  And you will incrementally begin to find joy in your life again. 

How do we do our “grief work?” 

Grief work means feeling all the feelings we are experiencing, as painful and unfamiliar as they may be.  By leaning into the pain, and even wallowing in it at times, we are giving our broken heart its due respect.  The only reason it hurts so much is because we loved so much - there is a direct correlation between the amount of pain experienced in grief and the depth of the love we felt for the person who died. 

It is a true paradox:  the more we cry and allow ourselves to feel the pain, the faster and more completely we will heal.  Those who say, “You’ve cried enough already,” are mistakenly trying to short-circuit a very necessary healing process.  And only we who are on our grief journey can determine how long we need to cry.  (We know when it’s time to stop because we no longer feel like crying.)  The tears accompany a cascade of healing hormones that affect every cell in our bodies, and after a good cry, it is amazing how much better we feel. 

Tears are but one of nature’s many remedies to help those with broken hearts.  As I have done my grief work, something that has really helped is spending time outdoors, and allowing nature’s remedy to embrace me, giving me the strength I need to keep moving forward. 

What I’ve discovered:

• Finding solace under a tree, at the beach, by the lake, in my garden, on a mountain, in a park, or even at my dining room table with a single flower - all of these really helped me reconnect with myself and pull my shattered self back together.
• At times, I felt compelled to simply lie on the grass, and let the earth absorb my pain and at the same time, give me a dose of mother earth’s abundant energy that is there for each of us.
• Walking, whether on a sandy beach or a trail carpeted with pine-needles or even an air-conditioned shopping mall, really helped. The physical act of walking, of putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward, was very healing at times. I would use these walks to reconnect with memories of my life with Steve, and to envision a future where he wasn’t there. The longer I walked, the more I was filled with the assurance that I could go forward without him at my side.
• Pets can be incredibly helpful in providing comfort and love during our dark times. If you don’t have one (and your living situation allows you to), consider getting a dog or cat to be your companion. Since you may not have the energy to train a lively puppy or kitten, consider adopting a more mature animal, who is already trained, and who can provide you with many hours of comfort and friendship.

The most important aspect of your grief journey is to be compassionate with yourself.  Give yourself the time and space you need to really grieve, and you will be giving a gift to your future self - the gift of healing.  Even though you are struggling with what feels like overwhelming pain right now, please believe me when I say you can get through this.  You have within yourself the strength to take it one day (or even one hour or one minute) at a time.  As you do your grief work, you will slowly notice yourself feeling a bit better each day.  Oh, there will always be days that are just downright sad, and nothing anyone says will change that.  But as you move forward, you’ll have a lot more “up” days than “down” days, and you’ll know you are experiencing the gift of healing. 

How have you harnessed nature’s remedies to get through the pain and loneliness after your spouse died?  Your experiences help others trying to figure out what to do next.  We invite you to share your ideas and stories here. 

 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“I Need a Hug” – Coping with Loss of Intimacy After the Death of Your Spouse

Yes, I missed Steve’s voice, his laugh, his footsteps on the stairs, and even his snoring.  But after he died, I was unprepared for the depth of how much I missed his physical intimacy — the simple human touches we shared almost unconsciously through 20 years of marriage: 

…casually brushing against each other as we passed each other in our home. 

…the little pats that said, “I hear you.” 

…friendly nudges and teasing light pinches. 

…ongoing hugs. 

…running my fingers through his hair, and vice versa. 

…dancing around the kitchen as we cooked together. 

…the short good morning kisses, and the longer kisses we shared when we greeted each other after an absence. 

…and, oh, yes, the more private intimacy between husband and wife. 

These were all now a thing of the past.  With one daughter away at college and the other totally involved in her final years of high school, it seemed like sometimes many weeks would pass between me touching someone or having them touch me. 

In my pain and initial numbness, I didn’t even know how much I missed this very human need until I was at my hairdresser’s.  As Ilya gently shampooed my hair, and tenderly rinsed out the suds, tears came to my eyes as I realized it was the first time anyone had really touched me since Steve died.  I realized how shattered I’d been feeling, and how good and human it felt to be touched in a personal way. 

New in bereavement, I was of course no where close to developing a new relationship in which the physical touch I’d once shared with Steve would be shared with another.  At that point, six years ago, I couldn’t even imagine ever being with anyone else, let along wanting the physical closeness and intimacy that is part of a healthy relationship.

But my experience at the hairdresser’s told me that I not only wanted, but actually needed, to build in some opportunities for sharing human touch.  I began to consider some options, and discussed this topic with friends, one of whom jokingly suggested getting a paid escort!  Of course, for me that was out of the question, but it did make me realize that there is an entire profession devoted to therapeutic human touch:  professional massage therapists. 

One of my friends actually treated me to my first session with a lovely massage therapist who seemed to have magic hands, and along with them, a tender, compassionate heart.  After the first session, I realized that this was incredibly beneficial and should not be viewed as a luxury, but rather, as a really good way to take care of myself, just as I viewed my regular visits to the hairdresser or dentist. 

As she massaged my tense and overworked body, Laura really seemed to help me free up some of the energy I’d been holding, that had been causing knee pain and neck aches.  She also very gently encouraged me to open up some of the feelings I’d been holding so tightly, and each week I felt myself getting stronger and more hopeful.  I continued my weekly appointments for more than three years, and treated our time together as a sacred “Sorry, this is an important appointment I can’t reschedule” occasion, because otherwise work pressures would have made me miss many of the sessions. 

As she worked with my muscles and physical body, Laura also tended to my broken heart and soul, listening with care as over the weeks I explored who I was in my new life without Steve.  She helped me process the empty nest I was facing with the high school graduation and departure for college of my youngest daughter.  She held me as I grieved the illness and death of my dear aunt, and then shortly thereafter, the loss of my sweet mother.  The massages and intense physical touch each week gave me energy and made me feel like a human being again. 

What I’ve discovered: 

I realized that I didn’t need to limit myself to weekly massages in order to meet my needs for human touch.  I consciously began to become a “hugger,” you know, those friends who hug you every time you see them.  I found that as I gave a hug, more often than not, I’d receive one too.  Ahhhhhh…  Heaven.  To be held and hugged! 

I’m now famous for my hugs - and as often as I can, I encourage others to reach out and hug someone nearby.  I was thrilled to see an international hugging movement, in which volunteers stood on street corners holding signs offering “Free Hugs”.  What a marvelous gift to give others, one that doesn’t require gift wrap, or to be dusted or stored! 

And after my three-plus years under Laura’s tender ministrations ended, I discovered that I could visit local organic grocery stores for impromptu chair massages, where for a very reasonable fee, a massage therapist would iron out the kinks in my back and neck for 20 or so minutes, leaving me feeling refreshed, and yes, touched. 

At this point, six years since Steve’s death, I’m gradually yet surely transitioning from the label as “widow” into one as “strong woman who is looking forward to being in a relationship again, at some point in the future.”  Yes, for the first time in 26 years, I’m beginning to feel “single” again.  What the future holds is uncertain, yet I am enthusiastically embracing the possibility that once again, I will at some point share my life — and my physical touch — with someone I love, and who loves me.

How have you coped with the loss of physical touch and intimacy after the death of your spouse?  What challenges have you faced?  What solutions can you share with others?  We’d love to hear about your experiences. 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Everything Seems So Unreal — Coping with Unexpected Death

Responding to Ten Things Every New Widow Should Know to Survive, Jean writes:  I just lost my husband on 2/23/09. He passed away at the airport before taking the trip to the East Coast for the new job training. That was his first day of the new job since he was laid off last Christmas. He would have been 40 this month and we have two twin girls. They will be 1 this month as well. I don’t know what to do when I am alone. Everything seems so unreal. His mom blames everything on me. That adds more pain. I miss him terriblely. He was my everything. I know I have to be storng but this is really hard to take. My babies are so young. They will never see him again and probably don’t remember him anymore. He was healthy. They couldn’t find the cause of the death so it makes me more angry and sad. After I read your article, I realized I am not alone and crazy. Thank you.

Beverly Chantalle McManus, Grief Companion, responds:    Dear Jean, first of all, please accept our heartfelt shared sorrow for your loss.  The death of your husband is so recent, and it’s no wonder you are feeling what you are feeling.  You are right:  you are not alone.  We are so glad you reached out. 

It is unfortunate that your mother-in-law is lashing out toward you at this hard time of shared loss.  Please do not internalize her anger, but instead, consider viewing it from the perspective of a mother who has lost her baby and feels helpless and needs to blame someone, anyone.  You are unfortunately bearing the brunt of her pain, but I hope you can somehow realize that you do not have to accept it.  She has the right to feel how she feels, and you have the right to know that her feelings have nothing to do with you.  If she is actively lashing out at you, consider limiting (or even ending) her exposure to you.  The last thing you need at this time is even more burdens to carry, especially unwarranted ones.

All deaths are hard to take, to understand, to accept.  But unexpected deaths, such as your husband’s, are especially hard, because you had no warning that when you kissed him goodbye that morning, you would never see him alive again.  It is a major shock to the system, and it is going to take some time for your system to come to grips with what happened, to deal with the loss and pain, and to begin the healing process.  Please be compassionate with yourself, and allow yourself time to feel what you’re feeling, time to process your emotions and memories, and time to take care of yourself.  As the mother of two babies, I realize it may seem like I’m advising the impossible, but perhaps you could take up the offers of some friends or family and accept their offers to help.  Consider asking them to take the babies for a few hours so you can have time to catch up with all your emotions. 

Your daughters will have very limited memories of their daddy, but you will be able to keep their memories alive with stories you share about him — stories about why you fell in love with him, funny things he did, about how excited he was to welcome twins into his family, about how he loved to take care of them.  Consider jotting down notes while they are fresh, so you can share them with the girls as they grow and begin to ask questions. 

One of the best pieces of advice I received after my husband died was to carve out a space in my home, and a specific time each day to grieve.  Knowing that my time for tears and grieving was “scheduled” enabled me to get through the day without the grief leaking into every aspect of the day.  There are many things you’ll need to do in the days ahead, and it will be hard to get through some of these tasks, but if you know that you have set aside time later to grieve, it will be easier to pull yourself together and get through it. 

Even though your mother-in-law is acting less than admirably, I hope you are feeling surrounded by love and support from other friends and relatives during this hard time.  Please stay in touch and let us know how you’re doing.

 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Writing Thank You Notes After the Funeral - What to Say, How to Get it Done

Over the past six years since Steve’s death, in grief workshops and counseling sessions, I’ve talked with hundreds of other widows and widowers, as well as others whose loved ones have died.  One of the most common hurdles to leap over in the grief and loss process is writing thank you notes acknowledging the thoughtful care, the flowers, the cards, the remembrances, from those who surround us during these tough times.  I know that for me, despite the immense gratitude I felt in my heart for the thoughtfulness of friends and family, the act of writing the thank you notes was all but impossible. 

In some social circles, pre-printed thank you cards are common — these are often supplied by the funeral home, and state something like “The family appreciates your support and care during this hard time.” 

These types of cards would not have been appropriate in my situation and for my circle of friends and loved ones, many of whom went to extraordinary efforts to shower us with care and love during Steve’s illness and after his death.  Each act of service, each beautiful flower arrangement, each tasty dinner that was lovingly provided needed an acknowledgement of a more personal nature. 

But as I sat with the stack of thank you notes and my address book, my mind was a total blank.  I felt so shattered, cognitively, emotionally, spiritually.  It was difficult to even put pen to paper, much less write something that could convey how much their thoughtful acts were appreciated. 

The days passed, and soon it became awkward to have waited so long.  I knew I just needed to get it done.  I finally realized that getting them in the mail was a lot more important than feeling that I had to write the “perfect” thank you card, so I drafted a brief statement that I could use on all the cards, and then filled in the specifics for each card recipient.  Finally I was able to get these done, and remove that heavy guilt load of unfinished business. 

In the time since, many widows and widowers have asked for tips on getting through this difficult task of the grief process. 

What I’ve discovered:

• Buy a lot more cards and stamps than you think you’ll need - as I continued to think through all the thoughtfulness, I found myself going to the store several times for more and wish I’d just stocked up at the outset.
• The notes don’t need to be perfect - just convey your sincere thoughts. 
• Even if they all seem similar, the recipient won’t know that you said basically the same thing to everyone else to whom you sent a card.  They primarily just want confirmation that the flowers did arrive, that you did receive the dinner they sent, that their contribution was recognized. 
• Several friends have asked for specifics of what to say.  I don’t blame them, and wish I’d had such a list when it was time for me to write my thank you notes.  Please feel free to use these, and to make them your own. 

Start with the introduction:  “Dear _______:  We so appreciate the love and support you have given us during this hard time.” 

Then add a note about the specific acts of kindness: 

• Flowers: “The floral arrangement you sent was beautiful, and so thoughtfully conveyed your care. The blossoms and greenery have added a note of cheer to an otherwise very sad part of our lives.”
• Food/Casseroles/etc: “The delicious _____ you brought/sent was so welcomed, and so comforting at such a difficult time. Sharing your kitchen’s bounty and your talents with us was so thoughtful, and something we will long remember.”
• Sympathy/Condolence Cards: “Your personal note about _____ was so welcome, and so very comforting. We hope we will have more time to share more memories in the days ahead.”
• Pall Bearers/Music at the funeral: “Your participation as a pall bearer [singer, flute soloist, etc.] in the funeral/memorial services was so welcome. Thank you for showing your care in this way.”

Then close your note:  “Your kindness has made such a difference in helping us get through this, and we hope you know how much you mean to us.”

Of course, you’ll want to change the notes to reflect you and your family’s situation - if they are coming just from you, and then change “we” and “us” to “me” and “I.”  And if someone did something extraordinary, such as picking up out-of-town relatives at the airport or hosting overnight guests for you, you’ll include these details as well. 

• I think the key is to just carve out some time, sit down and plow through your list, perhaps starting with the easiest ones.  If your list is long, divide it across several days - don’t worry if they don’t all go out on the same day.  And if you are lucky and can recruit some helpers to take portions of the list, all the better!  I know that following my mom’s death, my sister and sister-in-law and I portioned out the list and made pretty fast work of it, because we each had a manageable number of cards to write. 

You may be one of those lovely souls who can effortlessly write a beautiful, personalized card to each person on your list and if that is the case, I salute you!  But if you’re like me and many others, I hope you’ll take solace in knowing that you’re not the only one to face this task with foreboding.  But you can do this… you’ve already been through one of the worst experiences that can happen, so you can get through this task too.  I promise. 

How did you handle writing the thank you notes following the death of your spouse?  Do you have any helpful advice to share with others?  We’d love to hear from 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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“Widow’s Weeds” - Symbols of Mourning and the Profound Effect of Colors on Our Emotions

In the not-so-distant past, when an individual within a family died, there was a prescribed period of mourning, during which expectations of the bereaved family were lightened.  In fact, if the mourners did engage in excessive activities, including entertaining guests or attending social events, it was perceived as being disrespectful to the deceased.  There were also many conventions that symbolically told others that an individual or a family was in mourning, for example, the black wreath on the door, or, during WWII, the gold star in the window.  Clothing also symbolized grief, most notably the Victorian era’s “widow’s weeds,” the all-black wardrobe traditionally worn by a widow for a full year after the death of her husband.  

Many cultures continue with these conventions of grieving, and in some ways, I think that it would make life easier for those in grief if we hung on to a few of them, because it would convey to others that “No, we are not the same; life is profoundly different now.”  And in our hurry-up “just get over it” times, a prescribed period of mourning might be very welcome to some people, who feel rushed through their grieving by others.  ”It’s been six months already, time to move on,” someone told me after Steve died.  As if in just six months I could conceivably experience all the feelings and emotions of loss, let alone feel like I could just put it all behind me and paste a big smile on my face as I moved forward.

During the dark days that followed Steve’s death, I felt physically unable to perceive color.  Because my work wardrobe had always been centered around black as a key motif, I already had plenty of black clothes that I was just naturally drawn to, and it was not until a few months after Steve died, when a friend asked me if I ever intended to wear colors other than black again, that I realized that it had unconsciously become my exclusive wardrobe hue. 

As I did my grief work - deeply feeling all the emotions and pain that accompanied the death of my husband - I gradually began to heal.  And as I began to heal, colors slowly made their way back into my wardrobe. 

About a year after Steve died, I remember looking around my living room and recognizing how tired everything looked.  I felt energized and ready for a change, and it all started when I found an antique Moroccan brass tray table that I’d been seeking for years.  We brought it into the living room and it looked so very wrong… nothing worked with it, most especially the furniture layout. 

So I decided to get rid of our extra-long sofa, and replace it with four upholstered chairs that could be situated around the new coffee table.  Once the chairs arrived, I realized how tired the drapes and carpeting looked.  So we removed the wall-to-wall carpet, only to find gorgeous hardwood floors underneath.  A quick resurface (done by a professional floor guy) made them sparkle, and I decided we needed to paint the walls at the same time, selecting a warm maple tone that brought all the elements together. 

The old white front door looked downright bland next to all the new hues, so it got a vibrant red coat of paint.  And I realized our fireplace, which was faced with “used bricks” just didn’t work, so that received several coats of “moonlight white” paint, which totally transformed a former eyesore, making it almost invisible.  A richly woven Oriental rug tied all the pieces together, and new light fixtures and standing lamps added a rich glow. 

Gone were the placid, peaceful light-green tones of our previous living room, replaced by an exotic, deeply-hued palate that even still makes me happy every time I enter the room. 

What I’ve discovered:  Colors have a profound effect on us humans, even if subconsciously.  Our choice of colors can often indicate how we’re feeling on a given day, and if we are aware and awake to it, we can even alter our mood by selecting colors that bring on different feelings.  In the time since Steve died, I’ve added a lot of new colors to my wardrobe, and take great delight when friends say “I almost didn’t recognize you - I’m not used to seeing you wearing that color!”  As I did when redecorating my house, I’ve experimented with colors that I typically avoided in the past - and I’ve been pleasantly surprised with some of the new additions to my personal color palate.  I’ve also come to realize that there is a certain shade of green that I should never, ever wear! 

What colors make you happy?  Sad?  Defeated?  Radiant?  Please share your experience with colors and grief with us - we’d love to hear how colors have been part of your grief journey.

 

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Journaling My Grief Experience

My birthday took place a week after Steve died.  Although I did not feel like celebrating, my family members thoughtfully brought some gifts over, one of which was a journal.  At the time, I gave it little thought.  I was so consumed with grief, shock and pain, and the idea of sitting down to write couldn’t have been further from my mind.

However, a few months later, as I began to settle into my new life without Steve, I started panicking at times, because given how my entire memory bank now seemed to be completely fragmented, with huge chunks missing completely, as I began recalling memories of Steve I worried that if I didn’t write them down, I might forget them completely.

My first journal entries were lists of things I didn’t want to forget about Steve.  These covered the waterfront, from how he laughed when watching cartoons to the little poem he used to say when he found stray pennies.  I filled several pages of the journal with random entries as they occurred to me, purely stream of consciousness stuff.  I quickly decided this journal was for my eyes only, and thus I could fill it with whatever I chose to.

After the random memories, I began making lists, starting with a list of things I really missed about Steve.  These were sometimes things I didn’t even realize he did, but which were so painfully apparent in his absence.  And sometimes these were things that were private and intimate, and that filled my heart with longing and my eyes with tears.  After doing the list of things I missed, I realized that as painful as it was to admit, there were certain things about Steve that I didn’t miss.  I decided to make a list of those, and in so doing, was able to gain some useful perspective on our life together.  And I realized that there were many things I’d failed to tell Steve, and so decided to make a list of these as well.  This list primarily focused on my gratitude for the wonderful guy Steve was.  But it also included some painful things that I wish I’d been able to discuss with him in person, at the time the incidents occurred.

These lists filled many pages of the journal and even now, several years after his death, I add to the lists.

After making lots of lists, I began writing letters to Steve, voicing my concerns, worries, and thrills, whether with our daughters, over work, concerning our house, or about other matters.  These were pretty rambling, and although sometimes I’d begin very focused on one topic, my thoughts would diverge into many other areas and I’d find that I’d filled many pages before I could stop writing.  These writings were very cathartic, and using them to focus on my inner life helped me retain balance in my outer life.

A few months after Steve’s death, I began attending a grief workshop, and we were asked to write our responses to reflection questions each week, and then to continue writing on that topic once we were home.  I found these topics (on issues like dealing with anger, guilt, loneliness, stress, and more) good jumping-off points for my journal writing, and after writing for a bit, I always felt a sense of release and well being.  Not that the writing was easy, mind you!  It was often accompanied by heart wrenching feelings, and lots of tears.  But the journal provided a forum to collect my thoughts, as well as a compassionate listener who withheld comments as I poured my soul onto the pages.

As my husband, Steve had also filled the role of companion and nursemaid to me during those thankfully rare times when I was under the weather.  As such, he always offered numerous suggestions of remedies or things to do that might help me to swiftly recover.  Following Steve’s death, I began having major anxiety attacks, because for the first time in my adult life, I was completely alone.  I worried about what would happen if I became gravely ill - what would I do?  I no longer had someone to remind me to take my vitamins when I was sick, or to drink extra water when I got a headache, or to meditate and breathe deeply when I was feeling stressed out.  I used some of the journal’s pages to make lists of helpful tips for dealing with certain scenarios, primarily health-related, such as how to handle a migraine, what to do when I felt like my knee was going out, and steps to take when I felt a dark depression descending over me.  I’ve referred to these lists many times over the past few years, and somehow, they help me feel connected to Steve, even though they were written a while after his death.

What I’ve learned:

• Initially I failed to date my entries, but soon realized that I wouldn’t be able to remember when certain things were added, so went back in and loosely dated the early stuff, and now I always date every new entry.
• Writing things down does curtail the squirrelly mind that often wants to take over, with all the “coulda-shoulda-woulda” thinking that accompanies the death of a spouse.  After writing down the scenarios and thinking behind certain decisions, I was able to quiet my mind from its ceaseless looping of speculations and questioning past decisions.  For example, I had been continually berating myself for not insisting that Steve seek out some kind of alternative healthcare regime to treat the cancer.  But then I’d remember, “Oh, but Steve didn’t have one iota of faith in such healthcare systems, and insisted on staying the course with his oncologist and surgeon.”
• I initially felt guilty because I didn’t write more often, but then realized I wrote as often as I needed to.  I also found myself writing little notes to Steve in the journal on the anniversaries of certain dates, as well as around holidays.  Journaling has helped me transition through the loneliness of those special days, feeling less isolated.
• Re-reading my journals, I’ve realized that often it was the very act of writing, of putting pen to paper, that was healing, many times more so than what I actually wrote about.  If you are wondering where or how to begin your grief journal, I’d like you to consider just writing a short piece on something not too emotionally charged.  You don’t need a fancy bound journal, nor one that is published specifically for grief (although these can be helpful).  Just grab some paper and a pen, and write about what the day is like today… and then let your pen be guided by your feelings and your memories and see where it takes you.

Looking back, I have discovered that my journals serve as a very useful benchmark for how much I’ve changed since Steve’s death.  At this point, I sometimes feel like a different person, and as I re-read some of my early entries, I realize that it is true, I AM a completely different person, and have grown enormously in the time since his departure from this life.  Journaling helps me stay close to him, yet also helps me see the tremendous growth and change that has taken place over time.

How has journaling helped you deal with the death of your spouse?  Do you journal at a specific time, or just when the need arises?  What tips do you have for others who are embarking on their grief journals?  We’d love to hear about your journaling experiences!  Do share!

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Without A Mooring – The Waves Never Stop Crashing

Those of us who have survived the death of a spouse receive ongoing reminders that life will never be the same.  Just as we feel we’re finally able to be buoyant again, as we’re coming to grips with this most devastating loss and the profound changes that overtake every aspect of our lives, it often feels like yet another huge wave comes from nowhere, to crash into us, hurling us to the ocean’s rocky floor, leaving our mouths and lungs filled with sand and salt water.

Sometimes these waves are of a financial nature - many widows and widowers face drastic lifestyle changes with the loss of their partner’s income, sometimes forcing them to sell the home in which they’ve lived for years.  Sometimes the waves are in the form of a health crisis, whether our own, or that of a close family member.  (Researchers have noted that a compromised immune system is very common in survivors of spouse loss - the shock of the loss touches every cell in our body, and leaves us more at risk for infections and illnesses.)  Sometimes the waves take the shape of major upheavals in our immediate and extended families: Babies keep being born, children continue to graduate and move on, weddings still take place, and sadly, sometimes other marriages unravel and end.  Each of these events can leave us feeling even more out of control, even less without mooring than before.

Even though the person nearest to our heart has died, that doesn’t mean that other life around us stops.  Except, of course, when it does mean exactly that… I think even more devastating and untethering than the life events I’ve just mentioned are when others in our circle of family and friends reach the end of their lives and die.  We’ve already lost the most important person in our life, and then it starts to seem like everyone around us is dying too.

For me, just a few months after Steve died, one of my closest friends, Harry, sadly died from AIDs, after a courageous struggle against horrific odds.  This was a friend who had lovingly filled the role of uncle to my daughters, who had been at my side through Steve’s illness and death, and who had been such an inspiration of living a life filled with joy.  I regret to say that in the depths of my own grief over Steve’s death, I was not able to be as good a friend to Harry during his final days as I might have been, and I pray he knows how much he meant to me.

Two years after Steve died, my mother was diagnosed with a rare terminal blood disorder and died just two months after her diagnosis.  To say I was shattered would put it far too lightly.  I sometimes feel as if I am still just barely coming to grips with her diagnosis, let alone the fact that she died and is never coming back.

Later that summer, while surfing on a family vacation in Hawaii, Alan, a dear cousin died, leaving six children for his wife to finish raising.  A few months later, the husband of another cousin died unexpectedly of a health malady that has yet to be explained, leaving Ann a widow at age 39 with four young children.

In the time since my mom’s death, three of my aunts and one uncle have died.  Although each of them had been struggling with major health issues for some time, the death of these dear loved ones has meant the loss of beloved mentors and friends.

The deaths don’t stop, nor do they slow down.  In the first three months of last year, I attended five funerals… the first of which was for my beloved niece Rebecca, who was tragically killed by a speeding motorist while crossing the street on her way back to her apartment from campus on the first day of the college semester.  She had been set to graduate a few months later, and marry that summer.  In the blink of an eye, she was gone.  I still get chills down my spine just remembering the call from my sister telling me the horrible news that January evening.

A week after Rebecca’s death, the husband of my best friend Donna died after a very short battle with cancer of the pancreas.  Chris had been a good friend to our entire family, and to our entire community, and his presence is so sorely missed, and it has been hard to see Donna and their children struggle with this monumental loss.  Just this evening I spoke with her and she said, “People who haven’t been through this just don’t get it, do they?” and unfortunately, I had to agree.

Several good friends, the husband of a dear friend, and the nephew of some very close friends have all died in the time since.  And knowing the ages and health situations of many of my older relatives, realistically, I know that there will be yet more funerals and mourning.

What I’ve discovered: Yes, the deaths continue, yet I prefer to focus on something Robert Frost said, “All that I know about life can be summed up in just three words:  It goes on.”  Even though our hearts may be broken, they continue to beat, and we continue to live.  And I have found that for me, what’s important is to focus on the present, to spend time with those I love, to hug the sweet friends and family members who have made such a profound difference in my life, and to let them know I love them as often as I possibly can.  I also take comfort in the words of one of my favorite poets, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in her poem , “The Winds of Fate,” which I’ll share here:

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
‘Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.

Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,
As we voyage along through life:
‘Tis the set of the soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

The ongoing deaths remind us that none of us knows how long we have on this earth, nor do we have much control over very many aspects of our lives or those of our loved ones.  This poem reminds me that despite the winds that seem to buffet me from all directions, I have the power to set the course, set the sails, and determine where I want to go and how I want to feel.

How have you handled the life events and other deaths that happened after you lost your spouse?  I’d love to hear about your experiences.

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.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

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