Last year, the theme for  Camp Widow was ‘Hope Matters’.  I wrote a blog post with my feelings on the subject, and thought the support of friends and family was lucky enough to attend.  I hope to make it this summer too – only time will tell.

This last Christmas, there was talk on the ‘internets’ of a fair number of widows finding ornaments with the word ‘Hope’ on them.  Around the same time, I entered a contest – last minute – at a local kitchen store that had been one of Elias’ favourites, The Seasoned Kitchen.

A few days later, I was surprised to hear that I had won a gift certificate to the store!  I tried to shop before Christmas, but didn’t have much time and it was tough with the girls (we went in once for 5mins when they decided to set off all the egg timers at once . . . ), so I decided I would wait until Elias’ brother was visiting over New Years with his family so we could go together (I know Anthony would like the store too).

As we were shopping around, I spotted a rack of discounted ornaments.  Very few left, and they each had a small amount of damage on them (apparently the rack had gotten knocked to the ground at some point over the holidays) – and there was one that read ‘Hope’.

At first I was sad of the fact that there was a small chip off the corner of the star at the bottom (and almost decided against getting it for that reason), but then I realized it was actually kinda perfect that way.

Perfectly imperfect.

My star is chipped, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have Hope.

There will always be that part of me missing.  I can still reflect light and shine.

~Chelsea

P.S.  I Love You

I’m pretty sure it was there that I heard this song for the first time.  Originally written about a break up – but this video and version of the song was done specifically for SU2C.  They wanted the video to convey the feeling of being supported by those around you, and I think they did a great job.  The people in the video were simply fans of a relatively unknown artist at the time, and I was immediately a fan of the song, and of the artist.  Elias too.

Ingrid Michaelson became a regular on our playlist.

I played one of her songs at his funeral.

I’ve posted them here before, but I don’t believe I had posted this one yet.

I was watching the video again yesterday, and it caught me in a different way.

Before I watched it from the ‘cancer’ perspective.  We were supported by people around us – friends, strangers, family, other cancer patients – all putting positive energy towards Elias’ health and survival.

After he died and the initial rush of supporters had faded (not at all long after) I was left with a few friends and family close to me helping me along the way – but I felt very much alone.  So. Very. Alone.

With some distance now I can see a bit more clearly – going from that huge sea of people to only a few, and of those almost no one knew what I was feeling – it’s no wonder I felt that way.

In time, however, I found a new community of support.  My widdas.

Who would’a thunk it?

All these other men and women who were suffering their own gut-wrenching pain, barely finding the ability to breathe, were there to support me?!  And (hopefully) I to support them?!  But somehow it works.

So, I post this today for all of those widdas (and my other friends and family) who have helped to hold me up the past (almost) three years.  Helping me know that I will Be Ok (broken parts and all).

And so will you.

~Chelsea

P.S.  I Love You

(this was mostly written last night – but I fell asleep before posting it . . . there is one demonstration of growth, I suppose.  Though I still struggle with sleep now and then, 2yrs ago I would have stayed up all night to finish it.  I’m still not convinced I have finished it as I would like, but so it goes….)

Last spring, we learned that the year end performance for the dance studio the girls are with was to be based on the book, ‘The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe’.  One book of seven that make up The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis.

I knew we had one book which held all seven around the house somewhere . . . it was Elias’.  The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Myst, and Narnia – he was a fan of fantasy novels.  I thought it would be nice to read the story before the dance show so the girls could understand it a little better, and I figured they would enjoy the story as well.

The book wasn’t on the bookshelf.  I wasn’t sure where to find it.  I was about to go to the library to take it out when, one day for some reason, I had gone to look in Elias’ nightstand.  I don’t recall why – I wasn’t looking for the book, but there it was.

The girls both loved the story, and so much that, once done, we decided to go back to the beginning (The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is not the first of the 7 books) and read them all.

Over the months we read it – roughly a chapter a night.  Sometimes more, sometimes taking a break from it for a bit when other books took up more interest.  But recently we started the final book in the series of seven – The Last Battle.

It was exciting to know we were going to find out how it all ended.  As one of the chapters was titled, the pace quickened and the last couple of nights I read a chapter or two at the dinner table as the girls ate as well (a nice change from me dozing off at the table waiting for Caia to finish eating…).

Eibhlin has been fascinated by the book.  She wrote a letter to Aslan once.  Role plays the characters all the time.  Talks of her wish to go to Narnia one day.  This was a common recurrence.  She was excited to finish the book so we could start it all over again.

As we got closer to the end I started to piece together some of what I thought the ending may be like.  What Narnia and Aslan represented in some sense, though I still loved various twists and surprises and questions along the way.  I don’t wish to spoil it for anyone who may want to read it (or see the movie as I believe there’s one coming out soon?) but it’s difficult to write without giving much away so please stop here if you don’t want to know any more …

Tonight we reached the final chapter.  Farewell to Shadowlands.  The final 8 pages of 767.  As I reached the top of the final page, I  could feel the tears coming.  I continued to choke out the words as best as I could.  It was, basically, as I had suspected, but it still got me.

I could see Eibhlin trying to figure it out, and Caia in her compassion simply put her arm around me and leant in to give me a kiss as she always does when I cry.  I paused to assure them that I was happy with the ending and that it was beautiful.  It was sad too, but it was ok.  A mix of happy and sad tears.

When I finally managed to finish, I spoke to the girls a bit about my thoughts on what it all meant, and how it could relate to our lives.  Another opportunity to talk about soul, spirit.  That our bodies do not make us who we are, only what’s inside us, and that never dies.  How Daddy is all around us, that we’ll see him again one day.  I could see Eibhlin’s wheels turning.  Trying to put her own (almost) 7yr old thoughts and emotions to it all.

She went to sleep thinking of the book, and of her Daddy.  And I will do the same.  So, terribly sad that his story here has ended, but every day I will continue doing what I can to at least keep it alive.  Hopeful that the new story he’s started is – as in the book – too beautiful to write.  That he’s happy watching us figure out the rest of ours here without him.

As it is in Narnia, so it is in life, or well, death  ”For us, it is the end of all the stories . . . For them it was only the beginning of the real story.  All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page:  now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read:  which goes on for ever:  in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

~Chelsea

P.S.  I Love You

The girls got their rings tonight.  I am beyond happy with them, but it’s still bittersweet.  Photos to come soon, but I should ‘try’ to get some sleep before the girls wake to open presents.

Merry Christmas, My Love

~Chelsea

P.S.  I Love You

Not only were they alive for all my life, they were a part of it.  Living a stone’s throw away most of the time.  Holidays, birthdays, big events – they have there for it all.

In recent years both of my Grandfathers have had declining health, memories.  In time, they each moved into the same care facility.  My Grandmothers have spent their days going to and from their homes and the care facility to see their husbands.  And I would visit them every time I made a trip into town – perhaps not as often as I’d like, but at least a number of times a year.  Birthdays, events, and just because.

Not just a part of my life – a big part.  As such, I knew that once they were here no longer it would be extremely difficult.  Somehow I almost got to believe that they would just always be there as they always had been.

But for one, as of last night, that time has come.

I try to take some comfort in knowing that he’s got some good company with Elias now (and go back to my dream with him offering me comfort), but – regardless of the length and quality of his life – I love him.  I miss him.  I’m sad.

And my Nana’s heart is breaking.  Death still sucks.

I saw my Nana today.  A little over 12hrs from the time he died.  I saw myself, 2yrs 7mos and 3(ish) weeks ago.  Not entirely, but in many ways.  I know that pain well.  Too well.  And, I must admit that it’s brought up some of mine that has been untouched for a while.  Widowed at 32 or 88, it’s deep, deep pain.  To the core of your being.  And, having lost a son over 30yrs ago at Christmas, December was already a difficult time of the year for Nana – now even more so.

I heard platitudes said to her (and me) that I’ve grown to dislike so strongly, and I wanted to whisper (ok, shout) that doesn’t help! but, I know the intent is good (and that some people actually do feel comfort in some of them) so I let it be.  I took in scene in the room and watched my Nana, with blurred remembrance of my ‘first day’, and my heart broke for her.  I heard her words, not unlike many I had spoken.  Feelings that there is no fix for – thinking that if things had gone different that day, maybe he would still be here.  Nothing I could say would change how she felt about that right now.  I know that.  I’ve come a long way from that point, but it still haunts me from time to time.  All I could offer was an ear, understanding, love, and reminders to be gentle with herself.  It took me so long to understand what that meant.  I hope she figures it out faster than I did.

And, my Grandpa.  He was a lovely, lovely man.  Quiet.  Sweet.  Funny.  Cheeky.  His bright, cheery eyes and laugh solid in my memory (along with his loud sneezes!)  It’s little known Canadian history, but his father and uncles created Canada’s first flying machine in 1907 – people often seem to think I’m making that up, but it’s true:

A member of the Canadian Air Force – earning the nickname ‘CB’, standing for Confined to Barracks, as he was a bit of a trouble maker (can I say shit disturber?)  Married to my Nana for just shy of 67yrs (and I’m likely remembering it wrong at this point but I believe there was a story about their marriage starting with a ‘bang’ as an airplane hangar they were in had an explosion on the day they were married . . . ).  A loving husband, father, grandfather, great grandfather.

I’m glad the girls had time to spend with him now and then.  Even on days when I couldn’t make it, my parents would often try to take the girls when they would go and visit.  Last night Caia said, “Papa Howard brought us happiness, but now he died” and they both have offered up that now he’s with Daddy and we have decided that Daddy would be taking good care of him.

I know we have a lot to look forward to with Elias’ brother and family coming in from Norway for a few weeks over the holidays – and I don’t want to take anything away from that – but I really do wish I could just ignore Christmas.  Just before the phone rang last night with the news, I was staring at photos of Elias on the fridge, amazed at the fact that this will be our third without him.

I wish I had a better way to close this off, but it’s been a long day.  A tiring day.  A sad day.

I love you, Grandpa.  I’ll miss you.

~C~

P.S.  I Love You

I wish beyond words it was in person, but it’s still nice to know that – when needed – he knows it, and lets me know he’s there.

Is it enough?  I’m not there yet, but it’s something and it gives me comfort.

It has been a rough couple of days.  I went to town this past weekend (perhaps I’ll write more on the rest of that another time) to visit some friends and family, including my Grandparents.  My Mom had called me the day before and let me know that Grandpa (her Dad) was not doing well, and that perhaps it may be too difficult for myself or the girls to see him that way.  Maybe we didn’t want to go.  My aunt had suggested that he may not make it to Christmas.

As much as I think of death as ‘less scary’ than before, it’s still hard – but I knew that it was important for the girls and I to see him, and especially so if things were not great.  Unfortunately, life has taught us how to handle things like this.

We did go, and though both my Grandmothers were not there, we went with hopes to see both my Grandfathers.  My Dad’s Dad was fast asleep – looking so peaceful in his bed with his hands clasped together, not unlike how Caia often sleeps.

We went off to see my Mom’s Dad (they are in the same home), and as we entered the common area he was in his wheelchair, but the attendants advised us he was just falling asleep.  I said hello and he responded – seemed to know who I was.  The girls excitedly tried to show him their new stuffed dogs a friend of their Oma’s had given them, but he was clearly very drowsy.  We exchanged ‘I love yous’ a few times, and I just spent a few moments kneeling beside his chair, holding his hand and rubbing his back as he dozed off.

The visits were brief, and as the girls and I left, though I didn’t expect it would be the last time I saw him, I couldn’t be sure.

Yesterday morning came a call from my Mom.  Grandpa had been taken to the hospital and was unresponsive.  After a few arrangements were made, my Mom headed off to town and when I heard news later in the day things were not looking positive.  Last night I spoke with my sister, and a cousin as well – but as I headed off to bed, rather late as usual, it was yet another of those moments where missing Elias was felt more acutely.  I felt uneasy in my home, going to bed alone.  Just wishing I could melt into him and feel safe and loved with his arms around me – and though he wouldn’t have been able to stop what was happening with my Grandpa, I know it would have felt better to have him here to help me through it, and I spoke this into the darkness of my hallway as I forced myself to bed.

I didn’t go to sleep expecting to dream of him.  The thought hadn’t crossed my mind at all.  I did feel perhaps I may see a ‘sign’ of him at some point, and knowing he would be ‘there’ to greet my Grandpa when the time came did give me some comfort.  I tried to go to sleep feeling this.

The dream started out just as odd and random as any other.  I think I was a designated driver for some friends, and some of their friends, and I think there was some tension/frustration/anger as to where we were going.  The dream was becoming quite uncomfortable (with other things happening I can’t fully recall at the moment), but seemingly out of nowhere I remember a door opening up, and there he was.  Smiling at me with his arms outstretched.

I ran into him. Hugged him and felt his arms hold me.  Safe.  Loved.  I cried – tears of joy, and just a release of how much I needed that.  He just held me tighter, told me he loved me, and that he was always there for me.

I know he was in the dream in other ways – I remember walking with him hand-in-hand and just feeling as happy as I’ve felt in a long while, but I just kept going back to him over again to be held and to feel his arms around me.

It used to be, when I had dreams like this, it would make my heart race so much it would wake me up too soon and I’d be frustrated at the dream coming to an abrupt end.  I don’t recall much else of the dream, but thankfully it wasn’t rushed, and I just woke up feeling his love and comfort.  And I smiled.

When I got to work, I turned on the lights with the ceiling fan and shortly after one of them turned itself off without me noticing.  I only noticed when, a few minutes later, it turned itself back on (I heard the ‘click’ sound it makes and saw the room brighten a bit).  I had to look up and laugh, only to see the light go off again a few minutes later.  I turned it on, it turned itself back off.  This happened a few more times before it finally decided to stay on for the day.   This particular light has been known to behave oddly in the past, but nothing quite like that.  It will often turn itself back on (or just the fan will turn on) after I turn it off at the end of the day, but I don’t recall it shutting itself off before.  I know it runs on remote, and I know it could be on the same frequency as something nearby, but I also know that a medium once told me that Elias would communicate with me through lights and electricity, and I can’t help but smile when something like this happens – even if there is a scientific/rational explanation.

As for my Grandpa – only the next few days will tell.  It does not look good at all – he is one tough cookie, so I’m not counting him out just yet, but I’m also trying to prepare myself.  Christmas has not proven to be the best time of year for my family, and this year is shaping up to be no different.  It’s hard enough without Elias here at this time of year . . . and though it’s not the same and I don’t know that it will ever feel enough, I’ll take the comfort he gives me in my dreams.

(here are a few photos from visits with Grandpa earlier in the year)

~C~

P.S.  I Love You

Then, as I was clearing through some old photos (none with you I could remove from my computer, even though they are stored in a few other locations as well), I saw a series of short videos.

Christmas 2005.  Eibhlin’s first Christmas.

On the screen all you could see was my sister and Mira (along with the remnants from a busy Christmas morning).  I’m certain I noticed your knee in the background, but didn’t put 2&2 together of what I may see/hear once I hit play.

An 8 second video.  You were talking to John about printer ink.

But, the subject was irrelevant and so was the length.  I heard your voice.  I heard you.  Instant tears.  Instant.

I watched the other two – a 13 second video also talking about he printer, and the final one 50 seconds long talking about someone your age, and then talking to Duffy.

You were not visible (aside from your knee) in any of the videos, but didn’t matter.  It’s rocked me.

It’s been so, very long since I’ve heard your voice.  I miss it beyond words.  I played the videos a number of times over, just to hear you ask Duffy where is toy was, to say how old your friend was.  How the quality something you printed wasn’t that great.  How expensive the ink was.  Just to hear your inflections, pauses, mannerisms.

A phone call interrupted the teary downfall, thankfully from Caroline who understood once I choked out to her why I sounded as I did.  But the physical pain that pierced my heart once again resides there now as I write this.  Missing you, so terribly.

I know this could be seen as a hidden treasure too.  I do love to hear your voice, regardless of what it’s about and I am glad to have these to be able to go back to when ready (now that I know they are there).

Some of these treasures are just easier to take than others, especially when you’re caught off guard.

~Chelsea

P.S.  I Love You

I’m feeling somewhat stuck these days.

Life never stops moving between work, school, dance, house, yard, blah, blah, blah – but, I feel as though I have.

I don’t feel like I’m ‘that’ much busier than last year, but I certainly don’t feel like I’m keeping up with it all as well.  I think before I used that feeling of being overwhelmed as my motivator.  But, sometimes, it’s all just too much.  Then, I shut down and just do the minimum.

And this is where I get stuck.

Because it’s easy to just say how hard it is and let it all continue to pile up.  Then I end up missing Elias around more than usual, and I get stuck deeper.

I feel like I make attempts at ‘moving forward’, and when roadblocks are hit, it throws me back and gets harder to pick myself back up.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been working too much and not sleeping enough this past couple of weeks.  Walking around in a bit of a fogged over glaze.

I’m not even really sure where I’m going with this post . . . . sigh.

I know I’ve snapped out of these ‘lurches’ and ‘slumps’ before.  Maybe it’s time to read ‘Oh the Places You’ll Go’ again for a little more inspiration (I’ve written about my feelings on how this book relates to widowhood in the past . . . )

And, the thing I know now, that I didn’t know 2 1/2yrs ago, is that I ‘will’ move forward.  No matter what.  I get stuck, but it won’t be permanent.  Just as it says in the book – “Unslumping yourself is not easily done”

I’m so thankful for the widda friends in my life – along with a few of those who aren’t widowed but I have met because of it.  I’m continually amazed by the value of the connections I’ve made.  Having those who will drop a note, even just to say nothing more than ‘Hi’ and letting you know you are thought of at a time when loneliness is at it’s peak and getting through the day is more of a struggle then you could begin to let anyone know.  Being able to send off a huge vent of an email and knowing it will be met with an open heart, listening ears, understanding, and knowledge you are not alone.  It would be amazing to live a little closer – one day we’ll get that commune going….

Slowly but surely, this helps me feel a little less ‘stuck’.

~C~

P.S.  I Love You

I looked over at her – it was dark but our twilight ladybug was shining the constellations on the walls, and it was just enough light to see her.  She had a hand a few inches in front of her mouth and was breathing on it.  I asked her why, and she said she wanted to feel how far her breath went.  Of course I asked again why, and she said,

“Because that’s how far away Daddy is.”

After the happy shock wore off, I smiled and let the warmth, sincerity, and truth of her beautiful words sink in.

She said she remembered it from a song lyric I had played for her once.  I told her I was so glad she understood it, and asked her what song it was.  She couldn’t remember much other than “A breath away” maybe with “from you” or “from where you are”?

I spent about the next hour or so googling song lyrics with those words, and the closest I could find was the Josh Groban song, ‘To Where You Are’.  I don’t doubt she’s heard it as her Nana is a big fan.  I’ve been known to like a few of his songs and likely listened to this one before, but as the lyrics are quite a trigger for me I know I haven’t listened to it in ages.  I played it for her, but she said that wasn’t it.

I can’t seem to find any others (though there is an Enya song with a lyric about being a ‘heartbeat away’ . . . I’ll have to play her that one and see)

She struggles with her loss, though she tries to hide it.  It’s not constant, but it’s there.  She has expressed interest in talking to someone about it, so plans are in place.  Even though it will never be the same as having her Daddy here, I hope she believes her words as much as I do . . .

And, here is the Josh Groban song (ironically someone made a video to it with scenes from the movie P.S. I Love You)

~Chelsea

P.S.  I Love You

Blessings to the grandmothers and the grandfathers who had been looking forward to so much joy, and who then had to witness the pain of their children in addition to loss. We lean on you, we look to you.

Blessings to the big brothers and the big sisters, and to the nieces, nephews, and cousins. Please know that even though we’re all grown-ups – and we’re supposed to know the why of things – we don’t understand either. Let’s just keep getting muddy together because somehow, I think that helps.

Blessings to the friends who felt like there couldn’t possibly be the right words, but who just sat with us anyway, abiding. Just being there. We won’t forget.

Blessings to all those who couldn’t – or wouldn’t – abide with us. Who turned away from the spectacle of our sadness because it made them uncomfortable. What happened to us served to illustrate how we all walk along the edge of a precipice. Some people don’t want to be reminded. This turning-away was not because they didn’t care, but because their own histories and fears were, for the moment, overwhelming. Forgiveness.

Finally, blessings to the babies. I don’t know what to say of them… I wish I did.

For a while I felt watched-over, close to the fantastic. He is with kind gypsies in a tent, I’d say. They feed him chocolates and they let him stay up all night long on sheepskins, until he drifts off to laughter and woodsmoke. Or if I were feeling uncertain I’d just say He is safe, I hope. Somewhere, safe. 

For a while, I was able to hypothesize, to dream. I felt exquisitely aware of every beautiful and every tragic thing. And now I feel kind of tired and plain. We must concede how ordinary we are in the extraordinary experience of loss. Some people have missing babies. Some have missing parents, lovers, friends.

And there it is again – we’d be wise to stitch a few Buddhist threads into whatever we believe. All of us wish for more peace, more certainty, and more faith – and for less emptiness.

The human baseline is to not be as grateful as we should for how our lungs just … work. For our eyes showing us things; our kidneys cleaning our blood; our arteries and capillaries, ribbons that move our life around; our ears, for giving us whispers and bluegrass music; our skin for sheltering us, our muscles for holding us up, and our brain for being uninjured, despite all its illusions and ego.

Here we all are, working. Functioning. Miraculous with every breath, with every sneeze. But a lack of gratitude is just as human as suffering, and so we tend to forget.

Blessings to you and to all your longings, all your imagined faults, all your nightmares. Deep breath, and forgiveness.

You don’t have to be good at grief.

You don’t have to be good at grace.

You don’t have to be good at recovery.

Anais Nin wrote, “Most human beings acquire the truth fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. There are very few who receive it, complete and staggering, by instant illumination.”

Bereaved mothers and fathers are among the very few. You have been illuminated.

Right and wrong, fair and unfair. Love, fortune, time. Parenthood. I thought I knew what all those things were. And then he died and I realized that all my life, I’ve never known anything at all.

And so now I devote the rest of it to learning, because I have a humility now that I didn’t have before.

When you’re humble, that’s when you learn.

Thank you, sweet love. 

+++

You might say, My Baby is gone, and I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to breathe, I don’t know how to walk, I don’t know how to exist when my baby doesn’t. I don’t know what to do.

Four years into this, I don’t know either, to most of it.

But I can tell you what to do.

In the last moments, you looked at your baby and you thought the same thing I did.

Please live. I don’t mind if you dye your hair kool-aid blue. I don’t mind if everything you believe turns out to be different from what I believe. I don’t care who you love or how you love, as long as find some and give some. I don’t mind what you’re into, as long as you’re safe. I just want to support you. I want to witness you. I want to see the things that make you smile. I want you to have the chance to be. To be happy.

Please live.

And then your baby died, like mine, and unconditional love was illuminated for you. You might have thought you knew what it was before, but you probably didn’t. Now you do.

Carry it with you. Every single day, turn that into compassion for other people, all of whom started out as somebody’s baby.

When you’re moving through the world, you’ll come across people with blue hair, who live differently and love differently and speak and think differently, who are perhaps in every way — aesthetically, spiritually, culturally — the opposite of you. Or maybe they’re not sure what they are yet. Maybe they’re struggling. Maybe they have nightmares too.

Extend them the same compassion that you would have given your baby, had you been given the chance. Regardless of how they align — or don’t align — with you.

It’s one of the only things you can do, after a loss like this. To treat others the way you would have liked to treat your child. With care, with hospitality, with humility.

It’s a daily practice, and it does bring some peace, to look at every person and think, There goes somebody’s baby. Could have been mine.

And before you’re finished, extend some of that compassion to yourself.

That’s what you can do.