posted by Abigail on August 31st, 2010

Soul Sisters

I have just received word that my cousin and soul sister has joined ranks with those of us who are bereaved. My heart aches for her. She had finally met someone with whom she admired and adored. We all know how precious that is.

I do not know details other than that they were in Greece and he drowned and she is in the hospital but getting out tomorrow. I know very little about him, other than they called him “Pep,” and based on Facebook comments, seemed to be a gentleman, an artist, a man with a sense of humour. I wish I had met him, because she is the kind of person that attracts the genuine article. She is the girl that rescues ravens from the side of the road, or giant turtles. I envied her her very own horse when we were growing up. In her sweet house near Heathrow airport in London, were I have spent many hours, there is always a menagerie – dogs, cats, goats, bunnies. She works as an art therapist at the prison near the airport. She is loved by all. But it has not been an easy road that she has traveled. And now she has fallen into that deep ravine we all know so well.

I am surprised to be sitting here wondering why? Why her? Why him? Things I have thought only in glimpses about my own situation, questions I rarely linger upon. I don’t suggest we are soul sisters lightly. We both felt it since we first me as kids. Arron adored her as she adored him. She was Harley’s beloved for a few months while we were renovating our house in London, and honestly I don’t think Harley ever forgave me for taking her back. And now our sisterhood delves another notch deeper.

I don’t know this man Pep, but like to think that Arron is helping him, in some small way. I think Arron guards over Kirsty as he does me. Silly perhaps. Or not. I wonder again. Why? What is this secret conspiracy of taking so many great people at such young ages, leaving those of us left behind to soldier on, be admired for strength we often don’t feel.

My cousin will survive, as we all have. She will marvel at this awful, wonderful journey and the gifts it provides, gifts she will learn to curse and cherish at once. My hand is already out, ready to begin pulling her up the steep ravine walls, whenever she is ready.

But today, my tears are for my soul sister, in so many ways.

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posted by Abigail on August 24th, 2010

This 9/11 Widow’s Take on a Mosque at Ground Zero

I’m likely to get myself into trouble in the form of nasty emails with this post, but it seems important to respond to the Mosque at Ground Zero furor. I suppose I should not be surprised that the media has bit down on this one, and politicians are using the issue for political gain. What else is new? Where is that so-called tolerance than Americans pride themselves on? Polls have found most Americans are AGAINST the mosque at G.Z. Are the media and politicians feeding the flames of this one, for their own ratings and political gain? Gee. Ya think?

When I first heard of the Mosque I thought “Good. What better way to teach tolerance on both sides of the coin?” Thoughts of it being “insensitive” to 9/11 family members did not enter my mind. I began to hear rumblings of how Muslims build mosques at the sites of their victories, but have discovered there are various interpretations of that understanding, one being that they build mosques at sites within crying distance of Muslims. Muslims were killed in the buildings too. Muslims have suffered from post 9/11 racism. So yes, building in a place of tears makes sense to me. Building within crying distance for all Americans makes sense to me. We are all finding ways of healing.

On NPR today, a woman spoke of being at Pearl Harbor recently when several Japanese warships cruised by. The crowd of hundreds were awed by the sight. There was no protest. Would we protest if a Shinto Shrine were built near Pearl Harbour? Oklahoma bombing was also mentioned, whereby Timothy McVeigh pronounced his act was in the name of Christianity. Is there a Christian church near that site?

Surely by allowing a Mosque to be built near Ground Zero, we are sending an even more powerful message to Muslims worldwide than one of submission in response to their cowardly act of terror. Surely this gives us a chance to teach the world the true meanings of freedom, tolerance, and forgiveness. Traits I thought Americans valued, but lessons, clearly we all need to be reminded of.

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posted by Abigail on August 23rd, 2010

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of The Year!

I blew up at my kids last week when I found myself cleaning out the dishwasher, cleaning up breakfast and lunch dishes, making dinner, and then after dinner, cleaning up those dishes as well.

“Why aren’t you guys following the chore chart!” I screamed up the stairs to where each were sequestered in their rooms, slouched over computers.

“Its summer! We don’t have our normal routines!” Was my daughter’s response.

“But its still Tuesday!” I retaliated.

“That’s it!” I grabbed the chore chart off of the fridge where it had been taped for over two years. “We are going to try something new! I will now pay for each job instead of giving you one lump-sum allowance at the beginning of each month!”

There was panic and tears and lots of “But that’s not fair!”

I plunked down and opened Excel and plotted a chart with chores giving them each a price. How much for clearing the dishwasher? $5? I wish I could get paid that much for clearing out a dishwasher! I’d be a millionaire by now! I finished the chart and printed it out and went to discuss it with the rulers of my kingdom. There were more tears. More of “that’s not fair!” Me trying to reason, “let’s just try it for a week.” But my reason got angry and I turned into a four year old, something I seem to do sometimes, something I am not proud of. I crumpled the new form and threw it on the ground and stormed downstairs to seethe.

The next day I noticed the new, now crumpled chart taped to the fridge, a check mark by Olivia’s name. One more has been added in the week since, but that is all. The new system has failed.

WARNING: I am about to whine…

I want summer to end! The demands for rides, money, the draping oneself across my lap like a cat as I work at my computer, with the inevitable “I’m BORED!” I find myself with strange 45 minutes blocks of time to do the variety of chores I must do like pay bills and map out websites and do homework for my writing class and apply for new passports. Never mind writing my book….

OK, I think I’m done whining now.

There is a Staples TV commercial that I love with a dad pushing a cart full of school supplies down the aisle of a Staples store. As he skips along (to the tune of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”), the kids sulk behind him walking as if they are on death row. I laugh every time I see it.

When you are a 24/7 single mother, summers are dreaded. They wear you down. There are no breaks. I have yet to figure out a way of getting my kids to go to overnight camp at the same time, something that I had dreamed would be a given by now. I dreamed of CIT and then being paid to have fun every summer being a camp counselor. I assumed that by this age my summers would be almost completely free of children.

I talked to my friend whose kids are with their father for the week. “I’m kind of depressed,” she admitted. “I don’t know what to do without my kids here.”

“Ohmygosh!” I said. “I can’t even imagine a whole week without either of my kids around. That must be wonderful! All the things you can do!”

“What would you do?” She asked. The list was easy:

- See a movie on my own
- dinner/lunches out with friends
- Plan a trip/writing conference (maybe in Hawaii?? haha.)
- Spend an entire day reading
- Write all day

… and then I started to slow down with the ideas.

“Yeah, I’ve already done most of those things,” she said. I still have five days to go.

The grass is always greener…

And then I remembered that Olivia has only 3 more years of high school and that the years of having them home will be short.

And so, last night I cleaned out the dishwasher and made a nice dinner, and even drove Olivia to her friend’s house and bought Carter a pack of gum on the way home (without one whine on my part).

There are only 14 days left before school starts. I better make the best of them. But I think its time to make a new chore chart.

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posted by Abigail on August 13th, 2010

Ambassadors of Grief

There has been a tiny ripple of backlash that’s fallen out from the Widow’s conference that has been unexpected, at least to me. Like any such event, not everyone is going to come away with a positive experience. Widowhood leaves many open wounds, not easily healed in a weekend of extreme cheer. Sure, some of that cheer is manufactured – a sort of laughing in the face of adversity, knee-jerk reaction to so much loss. And like any gathering of predominately women, groups form. Quickly, and more easily possibly given the extreme nature of our conversations. And I will admit to being in what others might have dubbed the “popular” group – the authors, speakers, ambassadors. But I too felt alone at times. I know we all did at one point or another. Imagining that somehow the others were having more fun, were “further along” with their grief, were more media saavy, were more of something we were not. After one is widowed, social situations are just hard. There is not a social situation that I am in anymore where I don’t feel these thoughts, at least to a certain extent. I make myself feel better by knowing deep down that I am not alone in feeling this way.

As an “Ambassador” at the conference (granted, an untagged one, since I hadn’t actually been asked), I worked harder to approach new widows and hear their stories. This is not something that comes easily to me. I am terrible at remembering names and stories and putting the right names with the right stories. I am easily distracted in social situations, because I am used to watching from the sidelines. I know I didn’t do a great job at times of nurturing. I forget a name, mix up a story, get tongue-tied. But I did make some new friends that I might not have made otherwise.

Not sure where this is going other than to say that we were all nervous and alone and trying to make the best of a very emotionally charged weekend. We drank too much, laughed too loud, made friends easily. Unless we didn’t. I know some of us hid. Plan never to return. Felt alienated.

Anniegirl’s post today got me thinking, as it has to do with putting your story out there. I am hopeless at tucking a person under my wing the way I desperately would love to do. Comfort them, make them feel at home. I have always had to write my emotions down. My father and I used to communicate our emotions through letters. He is similar to me. Not great at the emotional stuff in person, but a mush at heart. And so I wrote my book. It was my outlet, my small way of helping others, the only way I knew how.

I wrote in my comment on Anniegirl’s post:

“There is no one size fits all “solution” to grief. We are all finding our way in the dark. Each story that gets put out there helps others to see that. Memoir takes a tough skin, there is no doubt. You put yourself on the line, open yourself to emotion, criticism, perhaps jealousy and at times I think, you risk getting stuck living a cliché or living in widowhood for longer than might be healthy. You don’t have to write a book to “do widowhood right,” but if my story can help even one person, then to me all that risk has been worth it.”

We are all finding our way, messily sometimes. We do what we can do.

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posted by Abigail on August 10th, 2010

Camp Widow – Post Mordem

Who's that crazy widow signing a book?

Only a widow would find that title funny…

Boats bobbing in the perfect water against a perfect sky was the unexpected backdrop to what looked like an ordinary hotel conference reception. The mashed potato bar, reminiscent of a kid’s birthday party ice cream sundae station, defied the depth of the conversations that were occurring in small clusters all around the room.

“Is this your first time?”

“It was sudden.”

“He was sick for a long time.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I see you are a newbie, I’m sorry that you have had to join our club, but we’re glad you’re here.”

Conversations amongst strangers are normally about the weather or sports or funny kid antics. These conversations were about trying not to cry, angry kids and bad hospital experiences. Friendships were made in a matter of minutes, and not just the kind of friendships that last for a night or for the duration of the conference, but for a lifetime.

A little parched the next morning (how many glasses of wine did I drink?), I faced a group of people slowing taking seats in the conference room of my sold out (!) workshop, exchanging nervous smiles, and I made animated conversation with three women in the front row who quickly put me at ease when they asked me to sign my book, the copy they had already bought and started reading the previous night. As I spoke and read from my book, my words induced smiles, and tears and laughter. I suddenly remembered being in that place of not being able to stop the tears that came, but happy when they did, feeling cleansed. I hoped that my words helped people feel cleansed, if even just a little. I hope I offered them that lifeline that it would someday be better, that the hard stuff wouldn’t always be quite so hard. One man asked if it was OK to feel good sometimes, that he felt guilty when he felt happy. I knew just how he felt and told him that living life was exactly what Arron would have wanted for me, what his wife would have wanted for him.

I stepped in and out of conferences all day, trying to hear everyone, see friends, support speakers. The messages were all positive, inspiring, each speaker providing to their audiences  the magic ability to laugh and cry, sometimes at the same time. I spent lunch with a Canadian woman who I had been emailing with for over a year since she emailed me after reading my book. Another face to a name, another friend. Another reassurance that widowhood does not equate with CRAZY, except in all the best possible ways.

I hung around the bookstore, signing my book, which sold out and I laughed when someone told me she almost knocked someone out of the way trying to get the last one. If I thought for one minute that my book was no longer relevant, I was reminded in the most life-affirming way that I was dead wrong (sorry, more widow humour).

That evening was proof of this, as some of those good, crazy people were awarded with plaques that made them cry and giant checks that will get them through another month. We were all glad that Matt was able to knock another item  off his bucket list (i.e. to present someone with a giant check – I would love to see the other items on Matt’s list). There was a dance floor full of people dancing to “I Will Survive,” and line dancing to “Brick House” – songs that suddenly took on new meanings for us all. The dim room sparkled with flashes as people lined up in grinning groups for photos, proof that we had all really been there, that this magic had really happened, that it was possible to smile and still grieve.

Get Life Insurance

Get Life Insurance

A group of us changed and wandered into the teeming downtown streets of San Diego on a temperate August night, finding a bar called “Rock Bottom,” the irony lost on no one. A drunken bachelor handed one of the widows a hat to sign, and she wrote “Get Life Insurance” and he left looking confused as we laughed at yet another black widow joke. We danced as an 80s cover band gyrated onstage and some of us flirted with the guy with the DEVO hat, laughed when they played Journey and songs like “You Spin Me Round (Like A Record),” reminding some of us of another era, one of University dances in sweaty dining halls.

The conference ended on Sunday morning with many refills of coffee and tea, boats bobbing in the morning light, back in the same room where we had begun as strangers, now hugging and exchanging cards and promises to get in touch, visit soon, call anytime, day or night. Everyone lingered, not wanting to say goodbye, not wanting the magic to end.

I flew back sitting next to one of my new widower friends, a man who had lost his wife a year ago. We talked through his ideas for regaining a semblance of order back into his life, a household that had once been the domain of his wife. I threw him my lifeline, assurances that he was doing a great job, that he might even be able to relax a little. Reminders to let go sometimes and feel the wind in his hair.

That is, after all, what Camp Widow is all about.

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posted by Abigail on August 3rd, 2010

Embrace Grief!

I head to San Diego on Friday to attend Camp Widow, to do my talk about finding those amazing nuggets of gold within that swampy mire that we call grief. I have adopted a well known behavioral label, Post Traumatic Growth, which I like for its play on words and its immediate message. It’s has a positive spin and puts to bed some well known grief myths:

- Grief doesn’t always suck (OK, I made that one up)
- Marriage ends with the loss of a child
- There is a set time frame for grieving
- There are linear stages of grief
- That grieving is a mental illness
- The goal of grieving is to recover from it
- Bonds to the deceased are broken when the griever laughs, smiles, loves, makes love, ______(add your own).

I love dispelling myths. In fact, the conference is all about dispelling myths. Camp Widow is about having fun. About learning that there is more to grief than Hallmark and Kleenex and its a place that safe enough to be laughing one minute and crying the next. But honestly there is way more laughing than crying. I look forward to catching up with my fellow widda bloggers (and one widderer – sorry Matt).

In my workshop I’ll be talking about people who are resilient:

These people have emerged from their trials fundamentally changed and enriched – spiritually enlightened, wiser, more compassionate and confident in their abilities to withstand whatever hardships and heartbreaks life will deliver.

Sound like anybody you know? See you all in San Diego!

Embrace Grief people!

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posted by Abigail on July 29th, 2010

That Bully, The Sun

I have spent my summer driving to places that I myself have no interest in going. The horse barn. Downtown to drop kids off for a movie or a shopping spree. Across town to an art camp. To Eastlake for a kid’s therapy appointment. Airports. Its amazing when I think how much time I spend in the car, hours lost listening to b. o b feat for the 900th time. With kids home, the things I need to do must be crammed into strange half hour slots of waiting between picking one kid up and dropping off another. Ah, the life of a summer parent.

Its lovely to see everyone out, smiles on faces thanking the sun who always manages to bring out the best in us all. And yet, that same sun also seems to stoke that tiny little ember of loneliness in me. Every year, I think I am past seeing the dads riding bikes with their kids, families in a car packed to explosive on their way to some remote trail, couples strolling a beach hand-in-hand. I think “damn,” another summer of warmth and smiles without him, without anyone, (besides my near perfect children of course) to share it. And I think, after all these years, really? I’m still at this place? That’s when that bully sh-sh-should creeps up behind me and boxes me on the ears. I hate that guy.

I shake him off, kick sand in his eyes, but he’s like that one tiny mosquito that finds your ear in the middle of the night. Persistent. I should be over it. I should be with someone. Arron should be raising his kids. I should be a better mother, as if I even knew what that meant.

I know all the advice. I am actually falling asleep every night to meditation podcasts. How 2010! Calming my mind. Getting in touch with the source. And yes, OK, its helping. But damn it if I don’t wake up at 6:30 every morning with that damn sun in my eyes.

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posted by Abigail on July 17th, 2010

The wisdom of Steve

The shiny black tables were smooth, the light dim, the group from LA beside us grew rowdier so we moved to a table near an open window overlooking the alley below, wondering why we hadn’t moved sooner since the cool breeze relieved us of the bar’s stuffiness. We watched the girls-night-outs in their tiny black shirts and laced up corsets and tried to remember the appeal of the youthful’s penchant for tartiness.

He was a another match match. Another first date. A handsome geologist, never married, no kids. We shared jokes over text leading up to the day and I was looking forward to the date. He quickly had me in tears laughing about his cat Steve’s terrible battle with IBS (kitty style), a result of losing a piece of his bowel from swallowing a length of rope among other assorted bits. Turns out Steve is not very discriminating at meal time.

His detective-like probing had me break my first date rule of dropping the 9/11 bomb and I found myself telling him my ghost stories – mysterious and timely CD players and lights turning on, which he took in stride. The bar began filling with more pretty young things in Jersey Shore hair and so we paid and moved to another quieter bar around the corner, for one last drink.

Sitting on stools at a tall salmon coloured marble bar, I began to hear his own stories, the difficult ones, a painful childhood. I spoke more of Arron. Our tales were cutting closer to bone. Behind us, a man and his girlfriend suddenly appeared. The man was small with wide blue eyes, and a gappy toothed smile and inexplicably he thrust toward me a single tall red flower, a dahlia.

“Has someone you know died?” He asked. I nodded dumbly.

“Then this is for you.” I took the flower, dumbfounded.

“Was it a woman? A mother or grandmother?” I shook my head.

“This is unbeleiveable!” Geologist said. “Why now?”

The man just shrugged his shoulders.

“He does this sometimes. He’s kind of psychic,” his girlfriend said. “Come on, Anthony.”

Anthony gave us both a hug. “I don’t know why I do this sometimes. I just get a message that I should do something, so I do it,” he said sheepishly and then they turned and walked out of the bar.

Geo looked at me, incredulous.

“I’m sorry. Stuff like this just sort of happens to me sometimes.”

“He is really looking out for you. I can sense him. He is amazing, and powerful.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” I said, still holding the flower but putting into my glass of ice water. The colour of blood, punctuated by a yellow eye. the flower seemed otherworldly on its tall stalk, with its sharp, pointy petals,

“I kind of feel a little intimidated,” he said quietly.

“You shouldn’t. He’s giving us both a sign. Geo sat quietly trying to take it in, clearly moved beyond words.

“Just look at that flower! The two buds. One is just about to open, about to bloom and the other is still in a tight bud. It’s like they represent your children.”

“Yeah, I thought that too,” I said amazed that he was articulating something that I too had noticed.

A few minutes later, we got up to go. I handed him the flower.

“This is for you.”

“No, no. It’s yours.”

“No,” I said. “I’m quite certain its for you.”

“I wish we could find that guy again. I want to ask him.” At the corner where I was going to catch my cab, we saw Anthony and his girlfriend trying to hail a taxi.

“It’s you!” Geo said as we approached. “Who was the flower for?” At the same time, me, Anthony and his girlfriend all pointed to Geo.

“See?” I said. Anthony took the flower that was still in Geo’s hand and held it across Geo’s chest, over his heart. He have Geo a big hug.

“Green!” Anthony said, still embracing Geo. “Green grass.” At that moment, a cab pulled up, and Anthony’s girlfriend began pulling him towards the open cab door. “Green grass!” he said again, as he fell in beside her.

“He does this,” his girlfriend said through the open window before they drove off.

Another cab pulled up and I hugged Geo goodnight.

“I’m so moved!” he said.

“An amazing night,” I agreed.

Later as I was getting ready for bed, he wrote in a text, “That was the most profound spiritual experience. I am in tears. He is beautiful. He is pure. Wants to make sure you are OK. It blows my mind.”

I refuse to read anything into all of this given my track record and penchant for premonitions. I proceed with extreme caution. Still, his final message for the night:

“Steve respects the flower. Not eating it.”

I think I’m gonna like Steve.

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posted by Abigail on July 13th, 2010

Lessons of Loss from Rwanda

Olivia with little boy from town near Lake Kivu

Olivia with little boy from town near Lake Kivu

Summer has taken over and alas this blog is being sorely neglected. I thought I would share an experience that really belongs to Olivia who has just returned from an amazing experience in Rwanda. When Olivia was in 6th grade, a friend of hers came to school following a visit to her home from a man named Richard who was the overseer of some rural schools in Rwanda. She was so moved by his stories about the kids and what they had survived during the genocide in 1994 that she went to her own school and convinced some of her friends to have a bake sale to raise money for the schools in Rwanda. They raised $200 and sent it to Richard. The bake sales continued, as did car washes and the sale of sweatshirts and hats, all the money going to support orphaned kids. The organization had to step it up this year when Paul Allen donated a whopping $25K sending us parents – who up until that point had been making the odd loaf of banana bread – to suddenly spring into action and turn this into a real non-profit company. I have been helping with the website, while other parents have been helping to educate the girls in various ways.

When the girls were in 6th grade they made the decision that they would all travel together to Rwanda when they were in 9th grade to visit the schools they were supporting. This was the year. Olivia was extremely nervous to be going, worried about the emotional toll it might take on her, but deep down we both knew she would be able to handle it, and that it would ultimately change her life. And it has. Olivia agreed to allow me to share a part of her journal, as her lesson has a far reaching value:

“…we met up and walked to the Memorial Church (a church where over 10,000 people were massacred). I was holding Clementine and Blanche’s small hands. We were warned that it would be graphic, however I felt slightly unprepared because when you first walked in you see hundreds of rows of benches piled with gross clothes from the victims. I cringed knowing innocent people were brutally stabbed and shot in those shirts and pants. When you looked up you saw thousands of small bullet holes that had been fired through the ceiling. I could not believe that I was standing in the very room that 10,000 people were murdered. We walked down a flight of stairs where at the bottom was a glass case filled with hundreds of bones and skulls. On the very bottom was a coffin. I couldn’t handle it and began to tear up. Blanche and Clementine stood with blank looks on their faces. we got out and came around the back where we stood over a tiled floor. There was another flight of stairs that I felt very uncertain about as I began walking down there, I noticed coffins stacked up on top of one another, hundreds of coffins filled with the remains of the victims. There were also more skulls. I quickly walked back up the stairs and stood silent clenching my teeth. I got really dizzy but I still stood there regardless. The teachers and moms noticed my tenseness and stroked my arm. I knew their intentions were fine but I didn’t want to be touched. It made me want to cry even more. We walked back out to the front of the church. I was still dizzy and blank ad two of the FAWE girls started to talk. I walked down to the end and sat. I didn’t listen to the girls, partly because I couldn’t hear them and partly because I didn’t want to. As I sat there staring at the church I noticed the amount of butterflies that were fluttering around the yard. There were a lot. For me, butterflies symbolize transformation. Maybe that means that Rwanda has transformed into a better place. As I sat there contemplating that thought, a little girl walked over and sat next to me and took my hand into her lap. It was comforting as she played with my fingers. I realized this situation was switched around. I should have been the one holding her hand. She was almost happy. Maybe it made her feel better that she was comforting me. Although I was still upset, I noticed that this girl had forgiven. She forgave the cruel people who had slaughtered her parents and relatives. I don’t know how she did it. How anyone can forgive such a crime. I knew that if this girl could forgive the people who crushed her the most, that I could too. I learned that day that forgiving is the key to accepting loss. These young Rwandan girls have given me more than I will ever be able to give them.”

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posted by Abigail on June 28th, 2010

Stood up

I guess it had to happen some time, but its a first. It was strange though, because I think it was a set up. Tall, dark and handsome, too-good-to-be-true with Villa in Italy, winks, makes a last minute suggestion for a drink. I decline. A few days pass, another invite. So I go, suspicion sirens blaring, and arrive early. No one matching his description is there. I sit at the bar and order a glass of wine. And still he doesn’t show. All is not lost. I have an excellent glass of Chardonnay, I spend an hour chatting with a sweet guy at the bar who gives me his card and have a Bill and Melinda Gates sighting. I laugh with my new friend at things I could write in an email to make Mr. NoShow regret his no show. I leave and come home to a message sent from Mr. NoShow Italian Villa at the exact time we were supposed to meet, “You stood me up.”

WTF?

So I was played. I took the bait. Perhaps someone felt avenged for some terrible injustice I did them.

Bad dating juju for him.

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