How it is, how it was.

There is something about connecting with others who stand in similar shoes that is both comforting and heartbreaking. Over the last couple of weeks I've been loosely communicating with a few other young widowed parents in the NYC area and when I heard from the first one, it was as though the initial wound was reopened. Somehow, despite the relief of knowing that there are others out there that are living through the loss, hearing that others have suffered as I have is devastating. I was at once sobbing, overcome with relief that there were others nearby who understood, but yet it's heartbreak all over again - as though I've lost yet another dear friend. And when I was told yesterday about a site, Young Cancer Spouses, I flew to it as though my life depended on it. Sadly, its content is unfinished and minimal, but what is there brought me back to last Spring and I instantly found myself weeping inconsolably. The site is geared towards those enduring the struggle right now, and had I known about it or ever been able to find the time for it last year, I would have clung to it with all my might. What was so jarring was that it described every situation, scenario and relationship dynamic so accurately for couples affected at such a young age. Had I known it was there, I wouldn't have felt so alone. Because your world becomes so intensely complicated, it's just not possible to explain to others - you have neither the time, nor the energy. And it is then that you recognize how precious time truly is. You do not want phone calls, you cannot afford walks, and the breaks you're encouraged to take - do just that. They take. They take away the time you have with your other half. And you are consumed with the fight; the regimens you must adhere to, the emergencies you have to navigate, the risks you're forced to take when you have no professional medical advice right then and there, the precautions you adhere to diligently, the unexpected problems you plan for in advance. The desperation and love that goes into every single move, every recipe, every everything. Love is so wonderful that the thought of losing that beautiful, special person fuels you with a devotion so intense it's indescribable. So as I near my one year anniversary of Alan no longer holding my hand, I find myself in moments reliving and feeling as raw as I did last Winter and Spring. In a way it's a comfort, as it turns back the clock, but then the grief swells and I'm reminded of where I am, and what day it is.

It has been observed that when elephants grieve, the mourning is widespread. Friends and family and fellow elephants from other herds, with no connection to the one who has passed, come to comfort the dying and visit remains. They often stand over the sick and rub them with their feet, feed them, rock back and forth above them. When the sick one dies, they mourn, some so saddened they refuse food themselves and die shortly after. When they pass a carcass months or years later, they still stroke the bones with their trunks as though to comfort or perhaps to remember to whom those remnants belonged. That is what I feel when I hear of others who have experienced similar loss - even if I don't know them, I mourn for them as well. And I sense that they too, share a similar compassion.

We Love You. (The Susie)

If Alan was here this Father's Day I'd say let's go for a sail. Let's bundle up Lily in ten life jackets and go out on the water. I'll make gourmet sandwiches (Alan always laughed at me because I called everything I made gourmet), we'll go to City Island and take out a boat. Lily would love the water...
Today we had lunch overlooking the Hudson and between smiles and standing with wobbly legs in my lap, she'd stare out over the river. Alan loved everything about sailing and I knew that on days when he'd go out he'd be crashed in bed sound asleep by 8pm that night. The fresh air and the peacefulness he experienced in the waves quieted all of his thoughts - I think he loved being able to look ahead of the boat and relished in the luxury of being able to see what was coming. Because being able to navigate amid all of the river's obstacles was nothing to him, and I'm sure he took comfort in being able to control something. That was what was so wonderful about watching him guide the boat; the elements, of all things, had no hold on him. I, on the other hand, was always perched at the bow - on the lookout for tankers that I was convinced would be our doom. They approached so quickly and it was a test for me to trust that Alan knew just what to do. And he handled the maneuvers with grace. Lily would have watched his every move with awe. She has his quiet, observant stare and when she sees something that interests her, she watches, glued, with a fixation that tunes out the rest of the world. Not even a blink from her paintbrush eyes. That is how she would have been with him. And she'd watch him and watch him and somehow his soft expressions would coax her into one of her beautiful grins.
I miss him so, so much.
Alan loved children and was great with them. It is painful not having him for so many reasons - we'd introduce him to Banana, Little Black and White Dog and Sophie the Giraffe, we'd show him how good Lily is at rolling over to the right, how she loves the photo over the changing table of us at Yankee Stadium, how she likes to kick and splash in the tub, and she'd show him how she can make an impressive B sound as she blows impressive bubbles.
And she could experience how good it felt to be held in his arms.
How good he smelled.
Feel his warmth.
And when I'd show off how she has embraced sleeping through the night, he would whisper in my ear with his usual playful, mischievous humor, "Let's wake her up". He could never get enough time with a cute baby.
Alan had always said that, one day, he'd get a sailboat and name it "The Susie". If he were here today, I'd get him one. It would be our second home. Alan could lead, I'd be on the lookout, and Lily would pitter patter back and forth between us, barefooted but bundled.

Shaky Ground. Still.

I called home the other day to hear Alan's voice on the answering machine. I could have played it from home but I needed to hear him on the other end. And I left a message for him. I had to. I knew I wasn't fooling myself but it felt good to feel for a split second that we were in close proximity, to suspend my disbelief and pretend for a fleeting moment that we still shared a life together. For months after Alan passed away I still came through the front door and said "Hi Babe" to him as though he were in the other room. There are some habits that you must ween yourself from and I'm not sure when I stopped that particular one. But I have many antics that linger: expressions, gestures, signals, jokes - and I'm not sure I'll ever let go of them. In fact, some I've passed on to Lily, and when she looks at me with Alan's eyes, I sense that she understands them.
Tonight a friend sent me pictures of us that I had never seen. It took my breath away to see him again, looking good, despite what he had been going through, and we both were so happy side by side. When I see new images of Alan, or hear a story about him that I had never known, I feel as though I've gotten him back for a moment - learning new things about him, or revisiting a moment that we shared. But these gifts, as well, catch me off guard. For that matter, pouring myself a glass of water this evening brought me to tears. It's not only specific memories that evoke such emotion, but the mundane moments as well that remind me of what has happened. Everything has become so very sobering. I broke down tonight after hearing from another widowed mom that when reading of my experiences she nodded all the way through. How tragic and comforting that someone else can relate to all of this... In all of this loneliness I'm not so alone. But that, too, for the very reasons I am writing, is a difficult reality to digest.
When I put Lily to bed tonight, she promptly rolled on to her stomach, her sleeping position of choice, but for fifteen minutes I heard her from the other room, babbling away. When I peered in quietly through the doorway, there she was, head looking up in full cobra position, at a photo of Alan placed over her crib, jabbering away. At times I'm convinced she knows him as well as I - I do believe that babies and the very elderly are connected to the spirits of those who have passed on - and I hope that with every image and anecdote she'll feel the bond that links us all together.

Night Moves and Early Hours.

Lily is rolling over. And sleeping through the night. And a chatterbox. She is a pro at getting four fingers into her mouth. And she loves her lower lip. Often even in her talkative moments the sounds are loud but muffled, mouth still closed as she doesn't want to let it go. It's her pacifier of choice, with two thumbs at once a close second. Now that she rolls over, preferring to sleep on her stomach, my nights of water ballet are over. I used to love it when her coos and noises woke me up at 2am to find that even though the lights were off and it was the middle of the night, Lily had an entire performance choreographed for me. With mesh bumpers now in place - all I could make out in moonlight shadows were her legs surfacing in the air. Kicking in fits and then subsiding... Next, a leg, pointed in the air floating quietly as though she were pondering it from below. Sometimes a pause and then a burst. Elegant, suspenseful and funny. Often I'd go over to the crib and there she'd be, looking up at me, bright eyed and smiling as though it were the middle of the day.
Sometimes when I used to stir at night, Alan would be up, and as I'd turn over he'd say "Hi Sus". I loved it. Just like that, as though I'd just entered the room, or picked up the phone. Every moment with him I savored and even at 2am foggy with sleep, he could make me smile like no one else. Until now. Now Lily Alan has inherited that role though I won't wake her up to do so. But sleeping always with one ear alert, I love to hear her funky breathing noises, and her sighs as she readjusts her positioning. In the morning when she's first awake, I listen to her talking and can see her looking around - contemplating the distance she has covered during the night. Usually her head is where the feet were the night before. Sometimes she drifts back to sleep, and despite my exhaustion, I look forward to her waking up again. The mornings are my favorite time of day with her as they were with Alan. The day is new, there are fresh kisses to give and receive, it's daylight again and the odds of it being a good day seem to be leaning in our favor.

Nearing twelve.

ELEVEN months for me today and it's as grey outside as I feel within. It scares me to think how I might be doing if I didn't have Lily. And then that thought makes me wonder how I am really doing. Because I read posts on a widows board that are loaded with anger and rage and while I get it, I don't generally feel it. Generally. The anger I've experienced is not directed toward Alan, or even my circumstances. My anger has always stemmed from the insensitivities that surround the circumstances. People who couldn't understand my need for distance shortly after Alan passed away, people to whom I'd explain my situation and they'd hardly bat an eye (perhaps they didn't hear correctly?), and most commonly, people that are just sour on life who are rude to you for no reason and don't realize how good they've got it. But perhaps they've been through something awful as well. Thankfully Lily has given me new love and smiles and a reason for living. She is a wondrous distraction for which I am eternally grateful.
But at night when she's down, the silence creeps in and my mind begins to spin. Memories of the darkest moments, when things were terrifying, replay in my mind - and they're difficult to shake. They are memories with a perpetual echo. Voices, faces, sounds - torturous. My heart aches for those who do not have a child or a pet to cling to because the trauma feels like it was yesterday and the loneliness is shattering. What I feel is profound, deep, sadness. But the anger at him "leaving"? Not at all. Alan didn't leave, he was carried away by something well beyond his control, and I still bask in the love that we shared for one-another. In fact, despite the tragedy, I feel incredibly fortunate to have found such love. A few of the notes I received when Alan passed away mentioned that some spend a lifetime never finding the love that we had. And I do feel lucky to have found Alan. A couple of times, when people heard of Alan's passing, they'd casually asked if I knew he was ill when we met. Ugh. Not sure what they were getting at- or actually, I do. It felt like an underhanded jab, maybe unintentional, but I think it was their way of saying "you knew this was a possibility" or "why would you ever?..."
Yes.
And?
I did know Alan had had a brush with tumors. They were under control, in a form of 'remission' - and they were not cancerous at the time. But regardless of knowing or not knowing, I fell in love with Alan, period. True love is unconditional. I have no regrets. Maybe that is why the anger isn't raging. I took a chance, embraced it and lived on the edge with a beautiful human being. We suffered immeasurable loss but it was worth every minute. Both of our lives were richer and truer because of each other. And to this day I think "Yes! I had it. Maybe for a heartbeat, but I had IT. And that IT, gave us Lily."
So now my life has a huge void and a new joy. A turbulent and blissful combination. But Lily smiles and laughs and raises her shoulders to her ears with glee - so I remain hopeful that the grey I experience within won't permeate her wonderful world. And when the torment sets in at night, I have only to peek at her sleeping peacefully, her little chest puffing up and down to remember that there is light and hope. She's already proven herself a risk taker; she insisted on enduring a pregnancy fraught with grief. So I think - like her dad, and her mom - she is resilient and one who embraces life.

Love is everywhere.

Years ago, I went with a friend to her cousin's estate sale. I was in the bedroom, looking at belongings. A little girl came in and went over to one of the women with whom she had come. She was holding up a beaded necklace, which she clearly had decided she wanted to take, but said as a question, "So and so says this is just junk". The woman took her onto her lap and said quietly, "It is not junk. It is a memory."

I'll never forget that, and it's always helped me rationalize my pack-rat inclinations. Because I am a sentimentalist. I find there is a story that accompanies just about everything. Alan was always anxious to clear stuff out, get rid of old items that were just accumulating dust, yet he too, held on to many trinkets and toys and photos - all memories. And I still find myself surrounded by many of his possessions and I'm not sure when they'll be relocated. On a widows website one woman was wondering what she should do with her husbands underwear. For many that sounds absurd, but I could relate all too well to her quandary. I found (and continue to find) that even the seemingly mundane articles from Alan's life (that he would have been so bothered to hear I had held on to), were beyond difficult to dispose of. In fact thus far, the only way I have been able to eliminate, store or pass on any of his belongings has been by doing the same with some of my things. Hence, anything of Alan's that has been packed away for safe-keeping, has been nested among items of my own. If clothes were set aside for Goodwill, I contributed to the pile as well. In essence I couldn't and cannot let go of his belongings without them being accompanied by something of mine. It's a way of continuing our journey together. If some of Alan goes, parts of me go with him. I don't want him ever to be alone. So much still rests where it has always been, unmoved by me. Not untouched, or unsmelled but still left in it's "place". Because with everything there is a memory. With the items of a coat pocket I can reconstruct a cold winter evening. A matchbook - a dinner at the bar of one of our favorite restaurants, a plastic figurine was an early dating memento, a candy wrapper was his breath, a pill - part of a regimen, a book - a love, a passion, a pursuit, something that had been held by his hands. A grocery store receipt - his special recipe with our favorite dessert, a leash, a connection for him to the dog he had cherished. And so on. The only way I am able to separate myself from anything is because I can hear Alan dismissing the item without a care or story attached. And if his spirit has given me permission, then I can physically and emotionally let that something go. And when I can, I have to do it quickly and efficiently, without lingering on how it was a part of Alan's life. The obsession can make you crazy.
I remember when the house that I grew up in was lost in a fire, we lost so many personal belongings. Yet it was such a freeing experience because my parents had escaped, alive - and that truly was all that mattered. Everything else paled in comparison. I just didn't care deeply about anything lost. Yet now that Alan's passed on, I cannot bear to part with his belongings. I know that I have everything I need in my heart and in my mind - but the belongings keep him close and fresh as though he was just here. And he was just here. On the widows website, the board I follow is the "6-12 Months. Reality sets in". section. Perhaps it's all just too soon for me.

Lily Alan

Today when I was holding Lily I thought I saw Alan looking up at me. It was such a serene moment and such a contemplative look. It lasted only a few moments but it felt so good to see him in her eyes. She's her own little person and I find myself looking at her and seeing bits of Alan and bits of me but mostly Lily ~ I still marvel at the fact that she came out of me and that she is the product of the two of us and yet, this morning, her gaze into my eyes was almost like seeing Alan in a dream. I believe in signs and I'd like to think that that was one of them. Because when you lose someone so special to you, you ache to see them again and the longing is torturous. I think that's where the suicidal thoughts that some have, come from. It's not necessarily that you want to end your life, but the desire to see them again is a force that's ever present and a powerful draw. And one hopes that in death, you'll see those you miss so much - once again. You'll be together again. Together. And until then, I do believe that people no longer here can send signals to those who are.
When I'm outdoors with Lily I tell her that her dad is everywhere - in all the nature that surrounds her. And when we were lying together in the grass last weekend, looking up at the trees, a leaf floated down and landed on her face. She didn't flinch or seem surprised - she just let it happen. It was Alan kissing her - I know it was. And I think she knew too. What she felt on her cheek wasn't scratchy or dry, it was soft, it was graceful, it was a gentle nudge from him.
My widowed friends and I sometimes talk about dreams and we're all hungry to see our "other halves" in them. It was so long before Alan appeared to me in my dreams - months went by and friends would share with me that he had been in theirs. I was desperate to know how he seemed, what he was doing. He was always fine, he was joking, he was Alan in the truest sense. It was good to hear that. But his absence from my dreams was frustrating, in fact, that's often where I felt most abandoned. The few times he first appeared, months ago, he wasn't well. They were almost flashbacks. But in recent months I have seen him. And he is beautiful. He looks healthy, tanned, toned and happy. In the last dream he was even laughing at me, and that felt good. He could always make me smile, his humor was unparalleled, his temperament even-keeled, his presence calm. I think that's what I saw in Lily this morning - there was an openness in her eyes, an understanding and not an ounce of sadness - it was just an all-knowing connection that the two of us shared. And Alan was right there with us.

The Two of Us

Now that it's warm out, Lily and I head to the parks as frequently as possible. It is liberating for me to get out, and special for us both to enjoy the outdoors together. I love to watch her look up at the trees, see her fall asleep on a blanket, and sleep soundly after a day in the open air. But yet another hurdle for me now is seeing the many families out doing the very same thing. And by that I mean moms and dads - dads running along side their kids still shaky on their bicycles, families spread out on the grass with bats and gloves and a pizza, parents zigzagging behind a wobbly toddler as they discover all that's around them. Unfortunately for me, the beauty of our experiences together serves as a constant reminder of who's not here. At Whole Foods today I found myself looking at "new baby" cards and of course gravitated to one that said on the cover "Two's Company" - I immediately thought, how perfect for the single parent - and was so comforted that someone had actually thought to create a card with that sentiment. And then I opened it up and it said "Three's a family". I felt like an idiot having fallen for the thought. Yesterday a woman was commenting on how beautiful Lily is and she said to her, "Yes, you're so pretty, you have to go home and tell your dad that!" And that's what I encounter on a daily basis. The reality that our family is different. Having each other is enough, and we are our own family - but seeing conventional, nuclear families, everywhere I turn, and hearing first hand how friends are spending the weekend with their families or planning excursions for the summer months is painful. It's natural to hear it and if Alan were here, we'd be doing the same thing - planning an outing, a getaway or just relishing in parenthood at home in the city. But without him here on days like this, the loneliness feels even more profound. When I walk along the Hudson River, pushing a stroller with the most amazing little being kicking and cooing below, the guilt I feel is gut wrenching, and Alan's absence, still shocking. He should be here, with us. Sailboats glide by, and I hear and see Alan scanning the water for sails belonging to his club. Everywhere is a memory. And Lily, for now, is oblivious to it all.

Not By Choice

Desperate to meet other single moms/parents (I've just about given up on the widowed faction) a few have mentioned "Single Mothers by Choice", a group formed by women who started families just that way - by choice. I cannot articulate how envious I am of their network. I discovered them on line months ago, early on in my pregnancy, but factored them out as an option as that just wasn't my situation. Yet recently I almost attended a group meeting with the hope of just connecting with "mothers who happen to be single". But I didn't, as it was obvious that it wasn't the club for me. And I get it. Their issues are different. And my situation is different. And that, too, is isolating.
What was beyond hard to endure when I told people that I was pregnant, were the responses that expressed joy for me - but in an off-putting way - because many of the congratulatory statements neglected to acknowledge the circumstance. "How wonderful that you now have a part of him", "at least you'll have a new life to love" - those comments are all true and I was equally grateful. But it was hard for me to relish in the news and I feared that to others I appeared unappreciative or even resentful of the blessing. Yet I wasn't. What I longed for was the acknowledgement that yes it was the ultimate blessing but it wasn't bestowed upon me as we had planned. And that was all I really wanted to hear. I remember in my birth class the instructor warned us of what we might experience if we had to have a C-Section when we had hoped for a "normal delivery". "People will say 'who cares how it was delivered - you had a healthy baby' but what you'll want people to understand is 'yes, I have a healthy baby, I had always only wanted a healthy baby - but having the C-Section was not as we had planned' ". When I heard her offer up that response to help us articulate the disappointment we might feel, a light went on inside my head. That was it - that was all I had wanted people to understand - that I was never not appreciative to have this being, this... legacy, inside of me, but that the wish was manifesting itself in a very different way. . I was overjoyed at the thought of this combination of the two of us – to have this dream we so longed for, but it was and is difficult to embrace the joy without the one who so deserves to be here with me to embrace it. And many on the outside, the periphery of our lives, could not grasp that. They felt that a baby carried Alan’s presence on, and that I will ‘get him back’ in one way and have happiness to replace the sorrow in another way. Yes those were/are both true, but people failed to recognize that this was not the way either of us had planned it. We planned and dreamt of a baby of our own – and then we fantasized about what it would be like once we had one – how we would be as parents, how it would look, walk, what it’s movements and mannerisms would be. How it would waddle and peer in at us from a doorway, how it would greet us coming home at the end of the day. How it would wake up from a nap, rosy cheeked and sweaty. It was a shared experience that we looked so forward to as we brought someone new into the world. And it is that loss that I mourn so. And the guilt I feel for witnessing this without Alan here to experience it washes over me in an endless torrent. Not only do I have my own life, but I have a bit of our lives in a new person to love and to cherish ~ I devour every moment, every move, every expression, every sound that Lily initiates - but it is a struggle to keep the darkness at bay, that nagging voice in the back of my mind that says over and over and over again, "He should be here".

Forward, and back.

I now have someone to live for. Lily has turned the volume of life back up. She is music and color and unadulterated happiness to me. She has brought light back into my life and provided distraction from grief that once dominated my days and nights. But I'm not really sure what it means to heal. And we live in a culture where most cannot stand to see others endure sadness and pain. I get it, - it is tough to see the ones you love in distress and so they choose to shortcut seeing others mourn to protect their own emotional well being. OK. But then they should stop there. Because when they don't, you get the comments, the cliches many feel reluctant to offer yet they do anyway, and then that becomes yet another burden to the one who's suffering. I was told early on in my pregnancy – “come on, you had a choice, you made a choice, this should be the happiest time of your life!” – ugh – such ignorance it leaves me dumbfounded at times. People cannot stand to see grief so they gloss over it and dismiss it having never faced it before themselves. And my being pregnant was supposed to compensate for the loss. They say time heals – and I want to say – and? What? What does that mean to one who is heartbroken right now?! Time crept along for me in the months after Alan's passing, and they would still if it wasn't for Lily Alan, so that idea meant nothing to me. It was a test to get from morning to day to night and then day again. I looked forward to getting to tomorrow just so that I could say that I had lived another day. I couldn't read the paper, I cared nothing for the news. I still at ten months cannot read the front pages nor listen to news shows. I lived for our pregnancy and that was it. Days went by where I didn't go outside, or even get dressed. People are desperate to see you “heal” or “recover” and they are uncomfortable acknowledging profound loss. So they look for signs that “you’re better” “you seem perkier today… sometimes I find you just have to consciously change your mood/outlook” – You become the receptor of boundless unsolicited advice. They ask how you are and then tell you how you should be. They want to measure your “progress” rather than just letting you be where you are. You become self-conscious of your response when others ask how you are. You know they want to hear that you're doing "a bit better", so to look at them, being true to yourself and bluntly responding, "not so good" or "shitty" begins your journey of self-criticism where you are constantly evaluating where you are in the survival/healing process. It's taken me months to be OK with where I am. And that was because of my support group. I was surrounded by others who had also suffered profound loss and realized that "where I was" was the norm. It was a horrifying comfort to hear others had been out of work for a year, hadn't gotten out of bed for three days, had contemplated suicide, attempted suicide. It was the one place I felt normal. Because when you lose your other half everything around you is silenced. And life, as you knew it, really did end. You're in a bubble, watching a world of which you're no longer a part, float by. And no one notices. No one knows what you're enduring. No one gets it. Bank tellers, postal workers, store clerks - none of them know how hard it was for you just to step up to the counter. Getting out the door was one step forward, the spontaneous tears on the subway seems to move you back. And then you realize there is no where to get - forward means nothing because the distance is infinite, the loss will always be there, you just learn how to navigate and adjust to the loss. The best friends and family comfort the most when they acknowledge the shittiness - and let you be where you are. That is the truest form of respect and compassion. And I am grateful to have those people, so real and open to unchartered territory, that are comfortable seeing me through the days.

I'm a widow.

I love that one of the ads that Google has temporarily placed in the sidebar of my blog is for Senior Dating. Their web crawler has clearly picked up the word widow on my blog title and it automatically associates "widow" with age. How I wish I was in my 80s or 90s or even 70s and had truly lived a long life with Alan. That is the misconception with widowhood... People are shocked to hear my story, as I would be had it been someone else - and that is one of my greatest challenges on a daily basis. I was two months pregnant when Alan passed away and all throughout the pregnancy, medical technicians referred to my brother-in-law as my husband, and even when he wasn't with me people still referred to my "husband". At prenatal yoga I was asked if "my husband was ready", in my birth class info packets were "one per couple", "here's an opportunity for you, dad, to massage mom". Trying on maternity bras the fitter tried to sell me "sexy" lingerie for the pregnant and breastfeeding woman - "he'll love this", she said. Even on the day of my daughter's birth when nurses couldn't be bothered to read the first THREE lines of my birth plan explaining my situation, they were asking me if I wanted them to get my husband. SURE. I'd love you to go get my husband. Jesus, if they can do that they're in the wrong profession. At the pediatrician, the nurse asked for "dad's occupation" and there's nothing more challenging than having to bring a death certificate to the hospital to verify your child's birth certificate information. I just celebrated Mother's Day and I took my daughter to a local place so we could have our picture taken together and it was at a scrap-booking store. The gentleman there said to me "Maybe now you'll do a scrapbook with all the photos". I smiled, not able to share the truth on a day where I was desperately trying to focus on the joy in my arms, and said "not so sure I'll have much time" to which he replied - "well that's when you hand her over to dad and say 'I'm going to work on this for awhile'". I nodded and lowered my eyes.
I'm actually surprised, - rather, disappointed that in this day-in-age with so many differently structured modern families where there are two moms, single moms who did it "by choice" (that's another entry...), two dads, etc... that people aren't more sensitive to those dynamics. "But you wear a ring" my friends protest - Yep, I still wear my ring. But who's to say what or who it represents. So many assumptions people make - we're a much more old-fashioned society than we care to admit. So when it comes to becoming a widow at age 39 you're an oddity. I was discussing with my other "widowed friends" the awkwardness of laying the news on the ignorant soul who put their foot in their mouth and it's uncomfortable all around. You feel bad for the person who's made the comment and yet it's never going to be as tough for them as it is for the person who must deliver the news. One of my friends said, "so what - let em feel awkward - it's the truth". And it is. The awful, horrifying truth. And you face it day in and day out, and every moment, around every corner, every encounter with someone on the street or on the phone feels unexpected and heightens your anxiety – because we are beyond vulnerable. I get sideswiped with memories, hormones, emotions, smells, someone’s gait from behind, a profile out of the corner of my eye. Alan is everywhere. My heart is swollen with longing and even now, the reality has to be digested over and over and over again. It is an exercise, and one that I am reluctant to practice, though I know I must for my own well being. And it's tougher to do when you get the ignorant comments. And yet, the flipside is that moving forward, away from the tragedy, threatens the loss of memory. And the memories are the ties that bind. There is not a single thing that I wish to forget about my life with Alan, even the horrors we endured and his final days. Those moments were our life together and they were filled with depth that is impossible to put into words. Thankfully, even for me married only ten months, I do feel like the eighty year old widow. Because when I met Alan I felt like I had known him forever.

Where are they?

So tonight I had dinner with widows and widowers I met at Gilda's Club. I am grateful I met them and have them to relate to, to laugh with, to cry with, and to share thoughts, dreams, experiences with. We are, as many sadly joke, 'the club no one wants to be a member of'. Despite the fact I have them in my life I still long to know more. More young spouses who lost their loved ones, or single widowed women with babies - I've seen online that women widowed while pregnant are out there, but they are states and countries apart. Having a child is the most instantly rewarding relationship I think one could have - and yet the beauty and happiness makes the loneliness and longing for your other half that much more excruciating. When you lose someone you love, every moment following is a "first". The seasons change and you're alone. A new President is sworn in and you're alone. holidays come, mail comes for them, phone calls come, unknowing emails float in and estate sale vultures send postcards. And those "firsts" are never-ending. And now with a child, those firsts are beautiful and heart-wrenching. They should be here to witness it. All of it. I do believe Alan is watching closely, always by my side, but I want to touch him. And him to touch our girl. Our creation. I am so truly happy that few are in my shoes, but just as AA, NA, OA or 9/11 groups exist, the new foundation you must build to survive is facilitated by the support from others who are also living through the tragedy. And yet in NYC, not much exists for YOUNG widowed spouses...

An excerpt from last Fall: I cannot believe in a city of this magnitude it is as hard as it is to find others, meet others who have endured similar losses. And by that I mean young spouses who have lost their partners to cancer. Surely I am not alone. I saw a few young people at MSK that were there with their partners. And I am sadly sure that some of them face a similar predicament – if not now, soon they will. Because that is what makes it different for those who battle a life threatening illness. You fear even when you deny it or defy it that sooner or later it’s going to get you. Maybe not. .. That’s the hope, the dream and source of strength. There is and always was hope. But when you’re in a cancer hospital surrounded by terminal illness you know the fight is worth it but you also are acutely aware of the odds. And you share corridors and rooms and elevators and doctors with others who are similarly affected. Teary family members, comforting each other in the halls, the pediatric patients you see so tired in such new lives, compassionate yet removed doctors, nurses who must feel it’s groundhog day, people who in passing say they’ll pray for you - everywhere you look it’s almost a mirror reflection. Either it’s you now, or will be soon. There are moments when you get lucky and things seem to be on the upswing. But the fear you keep at bay is haunting. That is the difference. Yes a heart attack or the flu or a fluky illness is no less unfair, cruel and devastating. But I believe that the suffering that one feels when enduring a serious illness or an illness of a loved one is a torturous journey – where because of your awareness, every day you celebrate what you have - and mourn what you have to lose. And it is the mourning, the inescapable end that looms in the immeasurable distance that makes this experience different. You are witnessing and enduring the end of a life that is yours and someone else’s. And you have no control. And your hopes diminish and fears turn to reality, and you are aware, somewhat, of what the outcome ultimately will be. It is unbearable.

Rewind (an excerpt). This was us.

Everyone says time will heal. But this week, three weeks past, feels more awful than the last two. Alan was my world. We were intricately woven together. Newlyweds still madly in love. I was so crazy about him that at times I would physically run to him when I saw him. When I met Alan it was such a relief. And I believe it was for him too – We had both found peace at last in each other. A deep, soulful connection – there was so much I grew to know and love about Alan – we shared so many thoughts and dreams and we were similarly dark and sad on certain levels too. Much of Alan’s sadness came from his illness – the threat – the everpresent looming of some force, ready to take away whatever happiness and goodness he embraced. He was all too aware of the harder lessons in life – mainly that all things good never lasted. And in Alan’s case, he suspected it would be sooner rather than later. And he was right.
We recently saw a young child lose her balloon to the sky above and she was devastated. “Gotta learn the lesson” Alan said… I was so resentful sometimes of Alan’s pessimistic moments and yet, deep down I knew he was right. Sure the balloon doesn’t leave everyone’s grasp but for many it does. It slips away and you’re left with nothing. I had found the love of my life – and deep down I shared his worries – now that we both had found “It” how would we, how could we ever endure the fear of what might happen, if Alan’s life were jeopardized, if it was to be threatened by the worst thought imaginable. Our inner temperament was not unlike the look on Dustin Hoffman and Kate Ross’ faces in the last shot of The Graduate when they’re in the back of the bus, escaping the wedding, looking fearful, shocked and contemplative of what they had just done, and of what might lie ahead. That was the two of us. Embracing the future and scared shitless of the underlying circumstances. What was to become of us.

Here I go...

Over the last year and a half I married the love of my life, lost him to a rare form of cancer and had our first child.  There is much to endure when you've lost someone you loved and continue to love with all your heart.  The purpose of writing this down, is mostly for me, yet I'm posting it with others in mind who may or may not find it helpful ~ I've been writing for several months, so I may back-track and start off where I was when I lost Alan.