Let’s All Take Advantage of the Widow! Dealing with Manipulative Family and Friends

Martha from Utah writes:  Your blog comments would have been of immense help the first couple of years after my husband’s death. We had been married for 45 years.  I can relate to all they say.  At this point in my adjustment (not recovery), reading what new widows have to say brings back a lot of the pain.  When it comes down to the nitty gritty, Time is the greatest healer.  It will be 4 years in February.  I have figured out I will either survive or die. 

Do any other widows complain about inheritance issues involving their children or step children?  This was my greatest burden.  Bob left all our money to me.  I had two children by a previous marriage and the two boys by Bob were furious.  After he died, they demanded a huge cut of Bob’s estate.  One even brought me a Power of Attorney form, and raised a ruckus when I wouldn’t sign.  I shook so badly that I couldn’t write-could hardly hold a fork or spoon.   The two kept at me until I thought I had Parkinson’s.  The doctor said it was nerves.  I lived on heavy sedation for almost a year, making only necessary trips to the grocery store and bank, then back to another pill and my recliner.  I don’t know how I managed to get off this hill and back home.  Two friends, one a retried IRS supervisor and the other an attorney, told me the boys would never leave me alone until I gave them each an enormous amount.  To save my sanity, that is what I finally had to do.  I’m glad Bob never knew how greedy his sons were-and are.  I lost 18 months of my life before I was allowed to grieve and recover.

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus, Grief & Loss Companion, responds:  Martha, thanks for sharing your experience.  I’m so sorry for your loss - after 45 years together, you must miss your husband very much.  And how sad that in addition to bearing the grief from losing your Bob, you had to endure the greed and hostility of the sons. 

I’m continually amazed at how often this scenario occurs - in different variations, but always with a common theme of hard-hearted family members or friends who want to exploit your vulnerability, at a time when you’re already feeling shattered and abandoned.  Sometimes these actions create chasms that can never be bridged. 

And it’s not just friends and family members.  Some businesses are low enough to track obituaries and actually target widows and widowers with a wide range of investment schemes, shady purchases, and “deals of a lifetime.”  One of my friends said that shortly after her husband died, a delivery person arrived with a beautiful upholetered chair from a local furniture store, and presented her with the COD invoice, saying her husband had ordered it for her before his death, and wanted it to be delivered as a comfort to her when he was gone.  She was stunned, but knowing how thoughtful her husband had been, wrote a check to pay for the chair and delivery fee.  She later learned in the local paper that this same company was being investigated by the DA’s fraud unit for perpetrating this same stunt on hundreds of unsuspecting widows and widowers. 

What I’ve learned:  Perhaps because they know that some widows and widowers will receive a big lump-sum insurance payout, or just because predators can sense when someone is vulnerable and likely to make a wrong decision, we who are bereaved do in fact need to be aware and cautious whenever anyone, whether friend, family, or stranger, tries to part us from our resources.  And I’m not implying that all of these are fraudulent schemes, nor that our family and friends don’t have the best of intentions for us.  It’s just that losing a spouse makes us uncommonly vulnerable, and hence, we’re wise to be extra cautious.  As mentioned in an earlier blog, I found that some advice from our funeral director has been indispensable.  He said, “It is not a bad thing to walk slowly at this time,” and I frequently remind myself of this counsel when others make demands or strongly suggest I take a course of action that might be risky.  It never hurts to delay a decision until I’ve had time to carefully anaylyze it, and perhaps even get outside perspective from experts.

When I take time to think about the emotions and feelings that the greedy attempts at manipulation bring up, the primary feeling I have is anger.  The last thing we need when our hearts are broken is for others - particularly those who we think we should be able to trust - transform from “loving relative” into “attack mode” and come after us or our resources.  As Martha experienced, sometimes the price for freedom from their snares is simply to pay them off and then realize that they are not the people we assumed they are… giving us yet another thing to grieve.  I hope that Martha can now focus on her feelings and do her grief work unencumbered by the reprehensible behavior of Bob’s sons. 

 

Have you experienced greedy or manipulative others who’ve tried to take advantage of you?  What feelings did this experience bring up in you?  How has it affected your grieving?  I’d love to hear how you’ve handled this sticky but unfortunately not-uncommon scenario. 

 

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

I Just Want this Pain to End … Now! – Carving Out the Time and Energy to Grieve

In response to Widows - Honor The Pain, No Need To “Suck It Up”, Suzy Aguilar writes, “My husband passed away on May 30, 2008 — yes 5 months ago.  I still feel numb and a big empty hole in my heart.  He was also my high school sweetheart.  I am 41, and he was 43 — we had 3 beautiful daughters, including a set of twins!  Reading these posts is making me realize I am not alone and only other widows can truly understand my pain, a pain nobody else will ever understand.  Thank you all for sharing your stories — it is making me see some light and realize that I am not going crazy!  I just wish at times I could be with him but I know my daughters need me - my oldest is 19 and the twins are 13 - they adore me so much, but I adored my husband so, so much!

Beverly Chantalle McManus, Grief Companion, responds:  Suzy, first of all, thank you for sharing your experience with us.  You are not alone - you have entered a world where only those who are already here understand what you’re going through.  My own husband Steve died five years ago, also at age 43, and I want to let you know that it does get better.  Your daughters are fortunate to have such a brave woman as their mom, and how you walk your grief journey will help them as they grieve the loss of their beloved dad. 

Sometimes for those suffering the intense pain that results when a spouse has died, it is helpful to know that what we are experiencing is normal, albeit extremely painful.  Especially initially, it is hard to believe, but it does help to know that ever so gradually, your memory and thought processes will return.  That the hole that is where your heart once resided will eventually heal.  And that, yes, you will be able to get through this. 

After Steve died, I felt like my brain was Swiss cheese for the longest time.  There were big holes in my memories, and total disconnects between memories and ideas, but gradually (and far more slowly that I wanted!), I began to feel like myself again.

There are of course unexpected tidal waves of emotion that wash away all else, but then eventually subside.  I have been told that these will continue throughout the rest of my life, although their frequency will diminish somewhat.  Looking back over the past few years, I can attest that it is true.  The memories remain, the loss remains, the tears remain, but the pain becomes easier to bear and gradually diminishes.   

Something that isn’t really mentioned often is that grief work requires a substantial output of time and energy.  Grief doesn’t just “happen” on its own. 

Sure, we can try to go about our lives, living as if there is not a gaping hole where our heart used to be, but eventually, the grief spills over, and can sometimes invade every corner of our lives.  Some of us try to avoid the grief, whether by being stoic, or, in some cases, by numbing the pain with alcohol, prescription medications or other substances, or even by becoming consumed by work or busy-ness. 

What I’ve learned: 

Something that has really helped my healing process and that I continue to find very helpful is to schedule time every day to grieve — I know it sounds odd, but the grief takes place regardless of whether we schedule it or not, and this helps to keep it from leaking into every minute of every day. If I suddenly have a lump in my throat or feel like falling apart at an inopportune time, I can deal with it if I know that I’ll have some quiet time to think about Steve later.  In the grief workshops I attended, it was suggested that I designate a special, private, comfy chair in our house as the Grief Space - a  dedicated place to think about the loss, look through photo albums, write in my grief journal, re-read the sympathy cards, listen to music.  I have learned to really lean into the grief, the tears, and the loss, and to embrace all those feelings that are brought forward, rather than trying to dismiss them or shut them away because they are arising at inappropriate times.  It also really helps to talk about it, to acknowledge the empty chair at the table, the empty space in my life.

Last fall, I attended a creativity retreat up in the California wine country.  One of the exercises was to decide what we were willing to give up in order to welcome new energy and ideas into our lives.  I decided I was ready to give up the pain I’d been carrying.  I stretched out on the grass and let all the pain I’d been holding flow out of me and back into the earth, where we were told it could be transformed into something else.  In that instant, I felt immense relief, and felt more like myself than I had for months and months.  Of course the losses still hurt, but by releasing that burden of pain, it freed up so much energy for me to channel into more productive areas.  The joy I experienced with that new-found freedom made me decide to repeat the exercise on a regular basis.  

If you, like most of us, are just wishing the pain would end, please know that you are not alone — you will pull through.  Surround yourself with people you love, read poems and listen to music you enjoy, watch funny movies, walk in nature to restore your energies.  Consider writing a letter to yourself, expressing your well deserved pride in the progress you have made in the time since your spouse’s death.  Think about how much you have changed since that time.  It is amazing.

How are you carving out time and energy to deal with your grief work?  Do you run into any obstacles on the pathway?  I’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.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“(Not So) Happy Birthday!” Dealing with Birthdays, Anniversaries and Other Traumatic Dates

Whether it is the birthday of your spouse who has died, your wedding anniversary, or even the anniversary of the death, traumatic dates bring back so many memories, and also bring up so many feelings of loss and sadness.  But, they can also give us a chance to mark our progress of healing.

These events mark not just another date on the calendar but they are significant milestones within our personal healing journey. Our lives are put on pause, at any stage of our grief journey; in order to honor our lost loved ones. Birthdays, anniversaries and those other traumatic dates each carry their own significance and weight within our hearts.

I’ve noticed that healing a broken heart goes in fits and starts — I’m miserable, then for a few days, all feels well, then a stray melody or memory triggers immense grief that feels almost like the original pain.  Even now, several years later, there is a part of me that can’t believe Steve is gone, or that just two years after he died, my own sweet Mama died.

My mom’s birthday is this week, and Steve’s birthday is coming up in October.  Unfortunately, scientists haven’t yet figured out a way for us to alter the calendar so we can just skip over these painful times.  The anniversaries inevitably take place.  The wrinkle is that the person we wish we were celebrating with is no longer here.

Especially for that first year after the death, the entire month of October was almost impossible to get through.  However, over time, I have learned that rather than feeling shell-shocked during the time surrounding these special dates, we can still celebrate.  My daughters and I have been discussing what we will do to mark the occasions this year.

For my mom’s birthday this year, my dad and siblings and their families are joining together for a birthday dinner to honor this special woman.  In the past, we’ve all met up at an apple farm for a picnic, something we know would have pleased our mom, whose one goal in life was to bring her children together as often as possible.

For Steve’s birthday, over the past couple of years, my daughters and I would go to Rudy’s, his favorite donut shop, and select the same assortment of favorites he used to pick up every morning on his way to work.  We then took them to the cemetery, and even though it sounds slightly morbid, we left the donuts on his grave, knowing they’d soon be enjoyed by the deer and birds that make the space their own.  So this year, since Steve really loved the theater, we’ve purchased tickets to a lively musical that we will enjoy, even though the joy is somewhat bittersweet knowing that he is not there to share it with us.

Sometimes it’s not our spouse’s special days that deliver an emotional blow.  Steve died the week before my own birthday, and that year he died, I wanted no part of any birthday festivities.  My extended family insisted on celebrating despite my protests, and it only made me angry.  How could they think I could even contemplate my own birthday when there was a giant crater where my heart used to be?  Even now, with the anniversary of his death and all the feelings it arouses so close to my birthday, I decided to just stop completely, and instead told folks to celebrate it if they so desired on my half-birthday, six months later.  I totally forgot about this until this August, when my sweet daughters surprised me with a wonderful birthday celebration at our favorite karaoke club, and serenaded me with a song they had been practicing, “The Wind Beneath My Wings.”  For the first time since Steve’s death, I felt like I had a happy birthday.

What I’ve Learned: These traumatic dates come whether we want them to or not.  The key to getting through them, and with hope, at some point transforming them into days of celebration and joy, is to plan ahead.  Thinking through how I might feel on that upcoming day prepares me for the emotional blast.  I’ve come up with some creative ways to celebrate the special days, such as baking his favorite cake, spritzing the room with his cologne, spending time with the photo albums while listening to “our songs,” writing about my feelings in my grief journal, and even buying an anniversary card for him.  These activities help me remember that even though he is not here physically, his memory will always be held in my heart, and I can cherish those special times we had together.

I think the anniversary of the death is far more traumatic and harder to cope with than any birthdays or anniversaries, because it marks a finality of life and the relationship you shared.  In some cases, it is the day that marks the last day you ever shared with this person.  In other cases, it marks the last day your loved one took the final breath, and perhaps you were not at his or her side when this happened.  Unlike the birthdays and anniversaries, for which during life there is an expectation that each year will be celebrated with an optimistic looking forward in life, the death day is for many of us the hardest because it invokes memories of the saddest times.  On the days that commemorate happy occasions, we wish we could all be together again.  But we don’t wish to share death days.  We just wish they had never taken place.

What I’ve Learned: The death day happens once in a lifetime for each person who walks this earth, and is harder for we survivors - it is a matter of what is shared and what we have left to hold on to.  On this day, I usually take the day off from work, knowing that I might be flooded with emotions.  When possible, I visit the cemetery, and always write a letter to Steve, letting him know how I’m doing, and how much I miss him.  After the first year, I realized that yes, I can get through this day.  And it is just one day.  I keep breathing, keep walking, and 24 hours later, I’m once again a survivor.

 

How do you deal with the “harder days”? Have the happier days become easier to cope with?  How do we cope with letting go and sharing these memories or feelings rather than holding them in?  Please share your experiences with me.

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

“He Loved those Slippers” – Dealing with the Belongings of Your Departed Spouse

The closet full of his shirts, ties, jackets and slacks.  His well worn slippers next to his side of the bed.  His wallet and eyeglasses.  His razor and toothbrush.  The tool chest in the garage.  His tennis racket.  His harmonica collection and guitars.  His treasured complete set of vintage Beatles imports on vinyl.  All those science fiction books that fill more than half of our bookcases.

What do we do with all the “stuff” that belonged to our spouse who has died?

So many people stand ready to quickly offer glib advice on this topic:  “Donate it all to charity.”  “Find a good home for each thing.”  “Just clear it away as soon as you can and move on.”  “Don’t do anything with it for one year.”

 Just as the grief for each loss has its own pathway and timeline, so too does the answer to the question “What am I going to do with his or her belongs?”

Dealing with Steve’s belongings was really hard for me.

Immediately after his death, perhaps the most pressing for me was dealing with all of his “durable medical goods,” including the hospital bed, the oxygen apparatus, the walker, the feeding tube pacer, and all the related items.  These were dismal reminders that he was gone and was not coming back, that all the treatments he so bravely underwent didn’t work.  Hospice had so kindly arranged to have all the stuff delivered, and it truly was a lifesaver during Steve’s final days.  However, after he died, it was left to me to figure out how to get it back.  We’d set up the hospital bed down in the den, so Steve could be comfortable watching TV, with easy access to a bathroom.  For days after he died, the now-empty bed lurked in the middle of the den, awaiting pick-up by the supplier, despite my many phone calls.  After several days fruitlessly awaiting their missed appointments, it was so depressing to see it that my daughters and I hoisted it out through the patio door and put it on our garden lawn.  I then called the supplier and said, “I think it’s supposed to rain tonight… ummm… if you want the bed, you might want to arrange to get it picked up this afternoon.”  One hour later they were there.

Steve had been on heavy-duty medications, and we’d just received a full month’s delivery shortly before he died.  These were really expensive items, some of them close to $600 per dose.  I called the pharmacy to see if they wanted the unopened packages back, and they said they couldn’t accept them, that I should just toss them.  I was reluctant to throw away medications that might possibly be of use to someone else, and called several free medical clinics.  Nobody was interested, and in the end, I tossed them.

The rest of Steve’s things remained where they had been left for several months.  I was unable to do anything.  The slippers sat next to the bed.  His toothbrush nestled next to mine.  I loved seeing his ties, so precisely arranged, in his closet.  I think it all gave me hope:  Maybe this was a bad dream, from which I’d soon awake and find all right with the world again!  On a more pragmatic level, I honestly didn’t have a clue what to do with all his stuff.

And I felt guilty that I had let so much time lapse without even touching it.  I just couldn’t.  One of my bereavement facilitators from the Grief Workshop advised me not to worry, that I’d know when to deal with it.  “How?” I asked.  Her answer was simple:  “When you are ready, you’ll be able to deal with it!”

She was right.  About six months after Steve died, I realized I was beginning to be ready.  I still could not do it all at once… every item seemed to be emotionally charged, like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to make me shatter into a long crying jag.  One of my friends told me to try drinking a glass of wine prior to dealing with it, to relax.  This wasn’t my style.  Instead my daughters blended me a frosty and potent strawberry daiquiri.  Liquid courage?  You bet!  I needed all the help I could get!

I started with just his socks.  He seemed to have thousands of pairs… I never realized one guy could own so many!  He literally had three big drawers, crammed with socks, all organized according to color and type.  I filled up a large Hefty bag with them, and took them to the local thrift shop.

This was a big step for me.  One of the things that had been holding me back was the idea that I had to find the “perfect home” for each of Steve’s belongings.  I’d think, “Oh, my brother Ernest would love that jacket.”  “Bud would fit these pants.”  “Ben might enjoy those boots.”  But I just couldn’t seem to part with anything given that train of thought. 

Fortunately, at one point, an inspiration flashed into my mind:  I didn’t have to find the perfect owners; the new owners could find his stuff themselves, at the local thrift shop.  This may seem pretty basic, however, for those who are dealing with the broken heart of spouse loss, even basic decisions like these can be challenging!

After the socks, it became a little easier with each category I dealt with.  I next did the underwear.  Then his t-shirts.  (I kept all his vintage rock & roll t-shirts from the concerts he’d attended through the years - our daughters wanted them as keepsakes.)  (And I’ll add here, that prior to giving anything away, I let our daughters know that if they wanted to keep anything at all, they could.)  One of my friends actually had her husband’s t-shirts made into a patchwork quilt.  Another found a person who transforms golf shirts into teddy bears, and had one made for each of their children.

Steve had a mighty tie collection - he had received many of the ties as gifts from me or our daughters, and they held special memories of events he’d attended while wearing them.  I actually saved most of them, but gave several away to family and friends who I knew would appreciate them.

Of his personal items, I decided to keep his top left drawer intact, where he’d always stored his wallet and pocket stuff.  It’s still nice to occasionally poke through the contents, savoring the feeling of his well worn leather wallet, listening to the ticking of his wristwatch, trying on his eyeglasses.  I also couldn’t let go of his shaving kit.  I loved the smell of his aftershave and the way he’d so precisely arranged its contents.

For some reason, I got highly emotional dealing with Steve’s shoes - remembering his characteristic gait, how he’d dance, him running all over the tennis court, hiking in Yosemite, his wingtips running up the escalator to the BART platform, the cowboy boots he’d found on his cross-country odyssey with his best friend at age 18…. I tried to sort through all the shoes several times, but each brought a downpour of tears, so I decided to save these until the last.

Now, five years later, there are still many of Steve’s belongings throughout the house.  His vinyl record collection stands tall, intact, in the corner of the den.  His tennis racket hangs on its peg in the garage, ready for friends who are making up a foursome.  The tools have migrated from where he carefully stored them to their new homes, scattered around the house, as we’ve used them and neglected to follow his strict rules of rapidly returning them to their rightful place.  (We chuckle, knowing he’d be flipping out now about this, were he here!)  We’ve adopted his guitars, and actually even took lessons so we could learn to play them!  And Steve’s hundreds of books still fill the bookcases, even though I doubt that I or our daughters will ever read most of them.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to deal with them.

How will I know when?  When I can!

How are you dealing with all the belongings of your spouse? What feelings come up for you as you sift through what remains of this person you so loved?  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.

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“Doesn’t God Listen?” — Coming To Grips With The Spiritual Aspects Of Spouse Loss

My prayers started the moment Steve was diagnosed with esophageal cancer:  “Please God, please, send a miracle.  Let him be in the 15% of those who statistically beat this cancer.  God, I beg you to restore Steve to health, please heal him completely, as you have so many times in the past.”   This and similar fervently issued prayers were to continue even up to the day Steve died, exactly six months later.

Those of us who have lost our spouses despite prayers such as these have experienced first-hand one part of how grief and loss affects us spiritually.  We can be left wondering, “Why him or her?”  “Why not me?”  “Doesn’t God listen?”  “Does this mean God doesn’t care?” 

Grief and loss affects us profoundly on a spiritual level, whether we are affiliated with any one religious organization, or if we are those who walk our own spiritual paths.  The loss of our spouse can leave us feeling isolated and disconnected from the larger universe, from the web in which humankind exists. 

I know that after Steve died, I doubted that there could even be a God who would permit such a thing to happen.  I’d grown up being taught that we have a Heavenly Father who loves us.  But if he loves us so much, why would he let Steve die?  And how could he let me experience so much pain?  

During the time of loss, some people feel immense satisfaction and comfort from the words of their scriptures or from their pastors, rabbis or ministers.  I didn’t.  I felt like I’d scream if even one more person told me, “Take comfort — he’s now in a better place.”  Or, worse, “Well at least you know you have an eternal family… it must feel good to know your family will always be together forever.” 

Put my head in a blender.  Press “Whirl.” 

I couldn’t even come up with a response when I was offered such bromides.  I’d just paste a benign smile on my face and nod.  And inside, seethe. 

But I couldn’t seethe too much, because I was also extremely thankful to be encircled by such a loving community of kind souls who surrounded us with love and support throughout Steve’s illness and after his death.  I realized they were simply trying to offer comfort in the only way they knew how. 

At that point, I didn’t really care about anything that might or might not happen after we were all gone from this earth… I missed Steve NOW.  I wanted him to still be ALIVE.  My daughters needed their Daddy to support them as they transitioned from their teens into adulthood.  I missed the presence of my best friend.  That person I could lean against.  My sounding board.  The other half of my memory bank! 

I felt abandoned by my God, and felt angry that my trust had been betrayed, and that I was forced to discover this at the lowest point in my life!  And because I was still in shock and so numb at that point, I couldn’t even recognize what I was feeling.  I just knew that I had never felt so alone in my life. 

What I’ve learned:  For many months, I carried enormous guilt that my faith had so totally disappeared, and when I learned while attending the grief workshops that this spiritual disconnection I felt is a very normal aspect of grief, I felt immense relief.  

I also have come to realize that the numbness that envelopes us upon the death of a spouse is actually a gift.  I think of it as a protective buffer that allows us to gradually come to terms with the loss, because if we fragile humans were forced to endure the full measure and enormity of the pain all at once, it would kill us.  Instead, I think God has provided us with a period where we feel the pain incrementally as we gradually awaken to the reality of the death.  For this, I am thankful. 

One thing that I heard in the workshop gives me a lot of comfort (and makes me smile):  “It’s okay to be mad at God.  He’s a big God.  He can take it!” 

As I continue walking my grief pathway, I can see how much I have grown spiritually since Steve’s death.  I began my journey as a person who had the unshaken faith of a child and had put 100% of my hope into God sending a miracle to heal Steve.  I transitioned through a period of seeming lack of faith to one where I can now see the miracles that surround me every day.  I have been slowly rebuilding my relationship with God, and now, five years since Steve’s death, feel confident that I can once again put my trust there.  I guess that I now understand that our prayers are always listened to, but that we just don’t always receive the answers we desire. 

And, in addition to feeling a reconnection with God, I also have experienced a sense of spiritual connection with Steve.  Just as I pray silently to God, I often find myself speaking silently (and sometimes even aloud) to Steve, asking questions, seeking affirmation for hard decisions, wanting him to know how much I miss him and how much I’ll always love him. 

I have felt his presence at my side, I have benefited from his support when feeling lost, and have been comforted knowing that even though his heart stopped beating physically, we are still connected on a heart level and I know he still loves me. 

How has the death of your spouse affected your spiritual life?  For some people, grief strengthens their faith.  For others, questions arise.  I’d love to hear how you’ve been doing in this area. 

 

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

“The Pain Was So Intense” — Dealing with the Emotions of Spouse Loss

My entry into widowhood began in 2002 when our family was enjoying a long-awaited summer vacation in Hawaii and my husband Steve noticed he was having trouble swallowing.  It wasn’t just that it was hard to swallow, but it actually hurt.  He promised to get it checked out when we returned home.  But neither of us expected the first two words that came out of the doctor’s mouth when he returned for his lab results:  “It’s cancer.” 

What?  How could this be?  Just a few weeks earlier Steve had been surfing, snorkeling, hiking all over Kauai.  Now the doctor was telling us that Steve had a relatively rare form of cancer, but that there were treatments they’d start immediately and we’d hope for the best. 

Unfortunately, despite intense chemo and the most advanced radiation treatment available, three months after the diagnosis, when they went in for surgery to just clean up any remaining cancer cells, the surgeon discovered that it had spread throughout his entire abdominal cavity, wrapped itself around his heart, and was inoperable.  Instead of trying to remove the cancer, the surgeon then spent the next nine hours crafting an alternative esophagus, so that during Steve’s remaining time on earth he’d at least be able to swallow, something he hadn’t been able to do for the last few months. 

By the time the surgeon finally walked into the waiting room, I was the only person remaining.  He slowly shook his head… and answered my unasked question:  “Three to six months.” 

Up until that point, I’d remained steadfastly optimistic, knowing deep in my bones that Steve was strong, that he was going to beat this.  Yes, he was very sick but he was going to bounce back, just as he had done when he’d had a detached retina, a collapsed lung, a shattered elbow, or any number of other acute crises that took him to the emergency room at least once a year. 

I never could have imagined the staggering pain I’d feel when I heard that doctor announce the results of the surgery:  I felt as if someone had plunged a dagger deep into my heart. 

From that point, the pain only got worse.  As Steve began his slow recovery from surgery, I tried to remain upbeat for him, but my heart was weeping.  I’d drive back and forth to the hospital, and my route took me past a long series of cemeteries, which would further remind me of Steve’s impending fate.  After being with him all day at the hospital, I would drive home, trying to figure out how to go on, how to stay focused on the present, while my beautiful husband was still here, rather than jumping into all the uncertainties of the future. 

I felt so alone during that time, and the pain — of knowing that I’d soon be losing my best friend, my companion for more than half my life, my sweetheart — was tearing me up inside.  I couldn’t allow myself to believe it, even though my heart knew otherwise.  One night, the tears wouldn’t stop, and I found myself 20 miles north of my freeway exit before I even realized where I was…

Through it all, I tried to hold it together for our daughters, who were 16 and 18 at the time, so that even though their Daddy was sick, they’d have someone strong they could still lean against. 

Exactly three months after the surgery, on February 19, 2003, Steve died, at home, with me and our two daughters at his side. 

I thought I’d experienced pain before.  Wrong.  It was just a light precursor to what I felt after he died.  The pain was so intense, I thought I would die too. 

But I had a problem:  I had no idea how to deal with all the feelings I was having…  I’d grown up in a wonderful, tight-knit family.  Like many Americans, the only permissible feelings were “Don’t make a scene” and “Do you want something to cry about?”  If we had a sour face, we were to turn that frown upside down, into a smile.  And if we really did have something to cry about, we were to do it in private, so as not to disturb anyone.

But I felt like crying all the time.  And even though, yes, there was an initial period of numbness, as that rapidly wore off, the pain threatened to overwhelm me: 

I felt lonely. 

I felt bereft. 

I felt abandoned. 

I felt angry (at Steve, for leaving me; at the doctors, for not curing him; at God, for letting this all happen… the list goes on!). 

I felt sad. 

I felt guilty (why hadn’t I insisted on alternative therapies?  why hadn’t I let Steve know how much I appreciated him? ).

I felt exhausted.

I felt isolated. 

Oh, the list of feelings I experienced so intensely could go on and on.  (And I’m sure yours could too!)  The reality is that even five years later, I continue to experience these feelings at times, sometimes with the same ferocious intensity as if Steve had just died moments earlier, and sometimes through a layer of healing that takes the sting out. 

What I’ve learned:  All these (and many more) feelings are normal when we have suffered a profound loss.  The key to healing is to not deny what we’re feeling, nor try to hide it in privacy.  I’ve found that I needed (and still need) to embrace those feelings as they arise, to really acknowledge them, give them the respect they are due.  I was feeling that way because I loved so deeply.  And to honor that love, I needed to really feel what was coming up, even if those feelings were incredibly uncomfortable. 

What feelings did you experience when your spouse died?  How are you dealing with those feelings?  And, how have those feelings changed in the time since the death?  I’d like 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.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“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

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.

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[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