Body Language, Lost in Translation

Trying to find tonight's inspiration. I think it is the lack of sleep, for several days now, that has hindered my creativity, any clear thought process. Last night I had every intent on getting caught up on my sleep. I got into bed by 11:30pm, turned out the light, then remembered one thing that I wanted to take care of on this computer. That was all it took, like an addict who takes that one sip, my thoughts were racing a mile a minute, and before I knew it, I was up until 1:30am.

Of course the real reason that I constantly find myself wide awake throughout the night, is there is a longing that will not be satisfied. Last night was not a significantly emotional night, yet present was my deep longing to have Michael resting there beside me. My mind tells my body he is gone, that I must learn to find comfort in this bed without him. My mind tells my body to envision him there beside me. It gives me ideas such as laying his pillows all around me, put on one of his t-shirts, spray a bit of his cologne, stare up at his picture, etc.

Sometimes my body is able to take temporary satisfaction, or make due, with one or two of these attempts at comfort. Other times, like that past few days, my body is not buying it. My body is still waiting for Michael to return. Maybe he is off traveling, but will soon return. My arms and legs have changed over the years. They have learned to shift and bend to make room for his. My torso took on the outer shape of a spoon, which fit perfectly around Michael's back. My skin became the most vocal part of my body, as it would communicate throughout the night with that of his. Always alert to temperature changes, muscle spasms, slight tremors, or calm movement. My face was often at ease as Michael's warm breath gently travelled across it and down to the nape of my neck, where it spoke of love, passion and comfort. My right arm was always charged with the care of cradling Michael's head. My left arm was responsible for creating a drape that reached around him often settling on his chest, or held by Michael's free hand.

My body is a creature of habit. It is completely non-verbal. The messages that my mind keep sending, "he is gone," appear to be getting lost in the translation. They end up circling around the room, finding no place to rest. Throughout this process my heart weighs heavy, I breathe a deep sigh, at times tears begin forming, at other times they are pushed back. I look up at Michael's picture which brightens the room from it's electronic frame. I get out of bed, light a candle, caress the urn which holds his remains, look out the window at the garden, then return my gaze to our bed. I slip back under the covers, tell Michael how much I love and miss him. I say goodnight to his picture, I ask God to help me get through the night, or to wake me up from this two month unpleasant dream.

I take a big deep breath in, hold it, then slowly release it. I turn out the light, my body once again tries to find it's place. It is lost once again. It shifts, it turns. I breathe deep into my pillow, run my fingers across the sheets, allow my hand to trace what I remember as the outline of Michael's body. I know his dimensions well. I adjust his pillows to best fit his proportions, close my eyes, and attempt sleep once again.

The Gay Agenda

I was pleased to find out that my blog was featured on the Gay Agenda recently. You can find it here.

My Big UnFabulous Gay Life

Yawning Raccoon,
originally uploaded by Alan Vernon..

Last night I attempted to get some sleep, but I was surrounded by domesticated, and undomesticated critters. Up on my bed was our cat, and underneath the covers to my right was our dog. This is not a common occurrence, and why they thought I would let them sleep there the whole night I don't know. But, since they were there, and both looking so cozy, I thought...how bad could it be?

I live in the city of San Francisco, in a small row house on a hill. For many years we have been visited each winter by a very large raccoon. My suspicion is that he lives under our back deck by day, and causes complete pandemonium among the many feral cats fed by my next door neighbor by night. Our raccoon visitor is mostly harmless, yet I remember one night coming home from dinner out with Michael and the kids. As we approached the stairs leading to our front door, we realized the raccoon was on the roof, glaring down at us. As we would take a step forward, he would lean forward. Once we were on to his game we all stopped in our tracks, looked at each other, and somehow decided Michael would be the guy for the job. With with fear tossed by the way side, and to look like the big tough guy in front of the kids, Michael stormed up the stairs. It was a classic game of chicken, and this time Michael won.

Anyway, back to the present, the raccoon has been back for a couple of weeks now. Last night he kept trying to get into our basement by way of the back door. When he couldn't get in he would try to peer into my bedroom window. Of course our "huge" 10 lb. poodle-mix dog was barking up a storm. Our resident squatter, the raccoon, would make a horrible squealing sound, then return to his pestering of the nearby cats. This went on about every hour on the hour last night. Not exactly what you would expect here in the big city, but kind of funny none the less.

By dawn's early light, I'm sure I was looking a bit worse for the wear as I emerged from my bedroom. But, today was the last day of the kids' five day holiday. I had put off cooking for several days now, and had a refrigerator full of the makings for a Thanksgiving meal. Since we ended up at a friends house on Thursday, I was able to put off cooking this meal until now. Today was the last possible day to devote so much time to creating our feast. In between cooking the various dishes I managed to wash, dry and fold 5 loads of laundry, give my 15 year old lessons in how to fold his clothes, and help my youngest son with a large homework assignment that we forgot was due on Monday. Well, at least I forgot. It's now 9:30pm, the boys are asleep, I think, and I'm keeping watch to be sure all is well. My 11 year old's bedtime feedback tonight was that I am in serious need of a shave. "Sure son, I'll get right to it."

As I walked across the living room, through the dining area, on my way to the kitchen, I look across the room to the large wall mirror. My vision is not that clear, given my lack of sleep, and my ever decreasing with age night vision. I strain to see an image staring back at me with two very dark circled eyes, a head of brassy salt and pepper hair, and increasingly white facial whiskers.

Is that damn raccoon back already?

Grief of Seismic Proportions

There is nothing like a good disaster movie to put your life in perspective.

Today I decided that the boys and I were going to get out of this house to see a film, and knowing my boys, it had to be about crashing cars, martial arts or cosmic sized disaster. Well, we went to see 2012. This is not a review of the film, just using it as a metaphor for the past 24 hours of my life.

Yesterday started out okay, actually it started out very nicely. Nobody was arguing, nobody was making unrealistic demands, and I was able to take my time in waking up for a change. Yet as the day moved forward I began to feel a familiar pull of the gravitational forces known as grief. I began preparing for the onslaught of symptoms so as to try and gage what my needs would be. And as in every disaster movie, what I didn't prepare for was the unexpected.

Grief can sometimes hit us in small waves. While these waves can throw us off course at times, we can at least see the shore ahead, and ride it out. Yet at other times grief can build up like a tsunami due to the many unforeseen undercurrents. It is times like this, for me last night, that we need to properly gage what we are feeling, and responding to. Sometimes we are grieving more than the physical loss of our loved one. Sometimes we are grieving the lack of progress in longstanding concerns for our family. Sometimes we are grieving for other people's pain. Sometimes we are grieving due to the ongoing challenges of parenthood without our spouse beside us.

In today's disaster movie, the loss and destruction was beyond the scope of earth's inhabitants to appropriately respond. As one would expect, they were left with more casualties than survivors. And so was my evening. I thought I was prepared for the grief that I somehow kept at bay on Thanksgiving. I it would be difficult to weather, but that I could get through it. Yet as the sun went down, many of my life's undercurrents began to rattle within me. Most of these undercurrents are ongoing concerns I have with my children. Before I knew what hit me I was engulfed with anger and grief. Like a volcano, I erupted with torrents of misery's venom. The victims, initially my children. The culprits, okay maybe they had something to do with it. The epicenter, me. It was my response to all the undercurrents that was seismically out of proportion. And in turn, the tsunami of emotion was more than I felt equipped for.

There are times when life feels like one disaster after another. There are times when the difficult reality of our life comes crashing down all around us. There are nights when grief gets it's grip on us so deeply that we fear that we may not survive. Sometimes we feel like we may not want to survive. Sometimes getting through it takes more than what we think we have.

As formula as it is, in all disaster movies we are left with an image of the sun rising once the storm du jour has ended. Peace and calm settles in around us. Peace and calm is what I awoke to as well. As the day continued on I needed to make sure I tended to each of the kid's needs. I needed to give some explanations, and I needed to make some repairs. Tonight I am once again reminded that even when I think my heart and soul can take no more, something is there to make sure I can. In the course of grief we can't always divert these difficult experiences, but remembering our individual history with grief, we can help ourselves get through it. And while we may not get through it unscathed, we will get through it.

The Next Day

The day after / El dia después,
originally uploaded by Manuel Atienzar.

I'm finding that what has been recommended as a survival plan for significant anniversary days works. You must look ahead, plan ahead and incorporate your loved one in the day. This "technique" has worked both on our one year wedding anniversary, which was one month after Michael's death. And has also been very effective on Thanksgiving Day. By anticipating my emotions, and needs, ahead of time, I was able to plan each day with quiet time to honor Michael, to sit with him, and then proceed through the day without a major break down. What I haven't been able to plan well is the day after!

I've been wisely told by many that the first year of grief will be the "year of firsts." There will be many occasions that will be the "first time" without Michael. In a short span of two months, I have already had the first wedding anniversary without...the first Halloween without...and now the first Thanksgiving without Michael. And while it helps to get through each of these occasions easier, I'm feeling like I'm only doing it for the benefit of others. In my situation it is clearly for the benefit of my children. While they are now used to seeing their dad sitting on the couch in tears, in his bedroom in tears, or driving the car in tears, they shouldn't have to spend each holiday seeing me in tears. I think it is hard enough on kids who are grieving, so for this reason I am making a concerted effort. Yet it is not without a cost. There are many days that I wake up to that to others would not recognize as a significant anniversary. Sometimes I don't even register why I am feeling as I am until I reach for my Blackberry and look back to the previous year.

In this year of firsts, part of me desires to fully indulge in my grief. In a way I am envious of those whose children are already grown up, so they are less restricted, or apprehensive, about expressing themselves. It may just be me, my personality, codependency, or whatever you want to call it. I feel that I have a responsibility to not bring the room down, especially for my kids. Yet there is definitely a learning curve with any new experience, and grief is no different. So far my experience is telling me that what I put off today, I will experience tomorrow, sometimes two-fold. I use the word "balance" quite often, as it is something I strive for. By my attempts to over plan, over control, these significant days, I am waking up the next day with migraines, deep depression and more tears. I suppose I wanted so badly to survive these days with less fall-out, that I didn't fully understand what I was supposed to be doing. The benefit is not to get through these emotional mine fields unscathed, the benefit is to be mindful of what I am feeling.

It will continue to be a challenge to balance my own emotional needs with those of my children. I won't always get it right, but I will attempt to do this with less of a personal toll. Perhaps with practice I will suffer less by this Next Day syndrome.

Thankful

originally uploaded by newlywoodwards.


For a peaceful day.

For my family and friends.

For the love of Michael.

For each of my kids, and their unique ways.

For the richness of life.

For having this forum to express myself.

For people reaching out each other for support.

For new life.

For the honor of caring for my beloved.

For hospice and all oncology staff.

For artists, and the creative process.

For words.

For knowing true love and passion.

For new friends.

For the beauty of flowers.

For rainy days.

For music.

For dark chocolate.

For blue irises.

For the love of my children.

For happy memories.

For the opportunity to live my life free and open.

For tight embraces.

For Michael's smile.

For tears of joy and sorrow.

For God's love.

Appreciation & Comfort

I'm not quite sure how to approach my post today. I started out with a Thanksgiving list, then nixed the idea. Perhaps I'll go back to the list later in the day, as in a concerto, this day will have many movements.

I got up somewhat early today, made a pot of coffee, then returned to our bedroom. I put on some instrumental music that Michael loved to hear. It is what I played for him over and over in his last days. I hadn't been able to listen to it since then, but felt like today would be the right time. As I read others' posts, and begin writing my own, I am comforted by the soothing music.

I love being in our bedroom. It is something that Michael and I planned, and created together. The colors are very monochromatic gray, and the furniture a dark espresso brown. Our windows look out over the garden filled with quite a variety of flowering plants. Taking center stage is our Buddha, and off to the side is the fountain that provides relaxing sound of gurgling water. Our bedroom is in what is considered the basement, so it is cool and calm. On our walls are inspiring images, a drawing of Jesus as shepherd, a strong masculine angel, black and white photos of walkways in cities around the world, and an engagement picture of me holding Michael with a very pensive look on our faces. On the bookshelves are the books we read, binders filled with the business of our lives, CD's, photo albums with our memories together, and others of his life before. In the upper shelves are mementos from our wedding, and the pocket watch he gave me for my 50th birthday. In the middle shelf, which feels cradled by all of this richness, is Michael's urn, where his ashes sit in testament to the the life he lived.

Our bedroom feels like church to me. It invites me in. It contains a richness of history, yet gives the promise of new life. There is a presence in church that it undeniable. I can go there to be comforted when in pain, and I can also be there is celebration. Within those walls, within these walls, I know that I am never alone.

Appreciation.

Comfort.





Here is a beautiful song that touched my heart today.

James Blunt- "Cry"

Message to Michael

Kingdom of God, Shambhala, Pure Land,
originally uploaded by Fe 108Aums.

Dear Michael,

Tomorrow is another Thanksgiving, but my first without you. Today was a busy one, taking Remy to the orthodontist, going into the office for a few hours, grocery shopping, coming home to hang with the boys, dropping Remy off at a friend's house, grocery shopping again, then home with Dante. During my first shopping trip I bought you some beautiful fuchsia orchids. They are in a vase on our window sill. Later at Trader Joe's I found what I really was looking for, your blue irises. I hope you don't mind that I combined them with a bouquet of white calla lilies. I know that calla lilies are not your favorite, but I do love them for their simple elegance. Your irises have not yet opened, but I expect them to fully reveal themselves by morning.

There is a votive candle, actually two, providing a warm glow next to your urn. I initially put on some soft music for us tonight, but quickly found it was disrupting my thoughts. As soon as I finish here I will play one of your favorite CD's.

I have been racking my brain trying to remember how we spent Thanksgiving last year. I looked at the calendar as saw the we had gone for your MRI appointment on this day. The news was concerning, but we were optimistic that about a positive change due to your returned treatments. We chose not to mention it to anyone until we had more information. Now I remember, Remy spent the night at Max's house. Well, tonight he is spending the night with Sterling, who flew into SF to stay with his grandparents for the holiday. Remy is quite the social butterfly, isn't he? Anyway, Dante and I will be joining them tomorrow for dinner. Sterling's mother and grandmother kindly invited us to join them, and they didn't take my initial "thanks, but no thanks" for an answer. I'm glad they persisted with the request, I'm actually looking forward to spending the holiday meal with a neutral crowd. Okay, so it's all coming back to me now. We had your mother, brother and his kids over for Thanksgiving last year. I remember we made way to much food. I remember looking across the table at your mother, and having an unspoken understanding between us that this could likely be the last Thanksgiving meal shared with you whole family.

I won't be with you mother, and the rest of your clan, tomorrow. The distance is just too far, and since I still don't sleep much, I don't think it would be safe to make the drive. I remember two years ago when we all gathered at your cousin's home for the holiday. It was so nice to be with all of your relatives. They are all so loving and special. I will certainly miss them this year. Your mother came by for a visit this past Saturday. She brought me some harvest colored flowers, and I also had bought her a vase filled with beautiful flowers. I will give your mother a call tomorrow, and wish her a happy holiday from both of us. I'm going to tell her how wonderful it was having her by our side this summer, and taking such loving care of you. I'm going to thank her for the gift you were to me. I think she needs to hear this often, as she is hurting so much due to your having to leave us.

I also called in an order of flowers for my parents. I won't be seeing them during the holiday, as they live too far from here. When I called to order the flowers I struggled with the details of the message card. I used the same florist I have used for over twenty years, and the ladies there know my voice. When she asked how I want the card to read, I half expected her to ask if it should say from Danny, Mike and kids, as usual. Instead I just took a deep breath, and said "love Danny and kids." It hurt so much to omit your name to the card. It took me back to the numerous years prior to meeting you, and how I had been single for so long. I know that my parents will likely shed a tear when they read the card and are reminded that you are no longer here.

Michael, I can feel that these days ahead are going to be very difficult for me. I am going to do my best to bring some joy into the holidays. I have discussed this with the kids, and they have agreed that we would do something special to include you in each celebration. They also understand that I need to make these holidays very low key, quiet, yet joyous. Okay, so I'll be crying a lot, but I promise to let joy into my heart at times. On Monday I was shopping at Target, running in quickly to get some of the staples that allow our home to function correctly. Of course the store was filled with Christmas decorations, and the music was a bit stifling. I wanted to politely ask if they could turn it down, but of course didn't. As I walked by all the Christmas ornaments and things I told myself to just get in their and buy something. It felt like speed shopping, but that is what I did. I figured that the kids deserve some holiday spirit at home, but I knew I don't want to get out all of our usual decorations. So I started grabbing new lights, ornaments, ribbons and paper. Everything is in white and gray. I hope you like it, as I'm thinking it will be beautiful, yet calming. Arianne hasn't been home for several days now, but I'm sure she will turn up soon. I also know that she will be the one who will ask where are all our usual decorations. This weekend I also plan to get on this computer and get most of our gift shopping done. The kids agree to make it simple, which the boys interpret as one big-ticket item. You know, I would buy them the moon this year if it could bring us all some happiness.

Of course what I want is you. Right now I'm being very selfish, and unrealistic, and saying that I want you here, physically here with me. I know that's not going to happen, but it's what I want. I also want to keep moving forward so that I can feel like I am handling my life better. I need you to help me find the balance. I keep telling myself this mantra, "be open, be open, be open." I know that for me to continue healing through this grieving process, I need to be open to the unexpected. It is so hard to imagine not feeling the way I do today, for the rest of my life. And yet I counsel people on this almost every day. I hear myself telling them to take it one day at a time.

One day at a time. This is such a simple concept. I just reached over to a book on my night stand to look at the Serenity Prayer. When I opened the book a photo dropped out. It was the picture taken of us when we bought our wedding rings in Provincetown. Remy had gone with us on that trip, and he is standing there between us. We all look so happy. I remember how we both were so pleased with the selection we made. I also remember us hiking through the sand dunes the next day, and how I ended up covered in welts from all the insect bites. It serves as a reminder, that you take the good with the bad. And in the end, I have to say, it was all good.

Well Michael, I'll close this message. Two candles continue to burn next to your ashes. The urn I chose for you is called "A walk through the Woods." It has such earthy texture. Each time I walk by it I find my hands naturally gravitate toward it. It helps me feel like I am holding part of you. I never realized how comforting it would be to have your ashes here in our bedroom, and I thank you for requesting it. You knew ahead of time what I would need, and I love you so much for that.

Michael, I think of you in God's kingdom. I have no idea what that looks like, or what it really means. I won't truly understand where you are at until I get there myself. But whenever God/the universe decides it's my time, I will rejoice in being back with you.

I love you with all my heart.

Your husband, Dan


The Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

Give and Take

Give&take,
originally uploaded by Sin92.

On my mind today is the old saying "it is better to give, than to receive." I couple this phrase with another familiar one, "there is always give and take."

I have never been in the position to be given the diagnosis of a terminal illness. Yet in walking the journey with my husband Michael, I was clearly able to observe that being on the receiving end of this news is definitely not where you want to be. I think all of us understand that when someone is given such bad news a typical question to ask is "why me?" For a couple having to face such challenges the logical question is "why us?" I know that for Michael it was difficult to not personalize that he was somehow chosen to have this cancer. Some people believe that there are no accidents. Some say God doesn't give us more than we can handle, or that there is some kind of blue print for our lives, in which case nothing is random. For Michael this came down to feeling that somehow he didn't always appreciate what life had to offer, so his life was being taken away. No matter how many times I tried to persuade him that this couldn't be true, that we are not punished for our uncensored thoughts and feelings, I'm not quite sure he believed me.

When I think of my own personal response to Michael's illness, and ultimately his death, I too ask "why me." Today my therapist commented on how agreeable I always am to his requests to try out various ways to illicit feelings. My thought was well, I am always trying to do what I believe is best for me, best for my kids, best for Michael, best for my friends and family, best for humanity. If there is a best way to handle a tough situation, then that is what I should be doing. I feel like I am the type of person that tries very hard to do what is right, to be a good person, and to take the lemons that life gives me, and make lemonade. Well, I feel like I have had to make more than my share of lemonade. Where is the balance in life? I keep on giving, so why does feel like life keeps on taking?

I'm not going to try to answer my own questions. I don't know the true answers, only the common catch phrases to such questions. What I do know is that I will keep on asking these questions, and will be open to the answers. They may never come to me directly, but hopefully they will come to me through my experience of life.

Lessons From My Children

Family walk,
originally uploaded by Jos Mecklenfeld.

Sometimes we find renewed strength, or encouragement, from those who are wise from experience. Sometimes we find it from those who have walked, or who are walking, a similar path. And sometimes we find it in our children.

Today's strength to keep moving forward comes from my two sons. They are 11 and 15 years of age. I started out the day with a therapy session with my older son, and ended the afternoon with one with my youngest. Each exhibited a remarkable effort to face their, and our, challenges with a new found self-awareness. Each were able to express their needs with honesty, and their feelings with vulnerability. And each were able to individually engage me in discussions about what they need and want from our relationship.

It did not so much surprise me, as much as confirm, that as a family, we are in the midst of a transformative time. Throughout this past weekend I was feeling very depressed, and having trouble lifting myself up to remain present to my children. Even though we were often in the same room, I felt so distant. By last night I wondered how I, or we, would get through all of this. Losing my husband, Michael, was a big blow to our sense of stability as a family. For many years I was a single parent to my three children. I often worried that not only was I not missing out on experiencing the joy of a loving relationship, my children were missing out on the lessons that this type of relationship could provide. When I met Michael all this began to change.

Initially my children were so happy that their dad finally found someone to love, and was loved in return. What they didn't expect was that they would also be loved by, and reciprocate their love to, him. This process was not a simple matter. For children to attach, they must build trust. This takes time. They must trust that this person will accept them with all of their blemishes. For children who are adopted, as are my own, they often struggle to trust this acceptance due to a fear of rejection. They want to know if this person will always be there for them, unconditionally.

In the evolution of our family, Michael had just been a part of our lives for a year and a half when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. My kids, and Michael, had just hit their stride in this developing relationship. With Michael's diagnosis their fear of rejection likely morphed into a fear of abandonment. For all of us are faced with the likelihood of losing someone, there is an inclination to disengage. I believe this is a natural response for many people as a way to protect their heart. In time we were all able to work through this, and the kids were able to continue engaging in a parent-child relationship with Michael. He began referring to them as his children, and they to him as their other dad. This was beautifully reinforced during our wedding. Before Michael and I exchanged our vows of commitment to each other, we each exchanged vows of commitment to our newly formed family.

The past two years of Michael's illness was filled with unconditional love and commitment. When the time came for treatment to end, we chose hospice as our plan of care. Michael remained here at home throughout his journey. In the last weeks of his life the kids were able to participate in his care, and be present with him. Michael died here at home. And while painful to see, my children were able to participate in something very special and beautiful. We had to say goodbye to Michael. They had to say goodbye to daddy Mike. For now we are sharing in our grief, each trying to make sense of it all. I know that they, and I, will be changed by this experience.

When I look in the mirror I see an aged, and suffering, person staring back at me. It is hard for me to believe that I will ever know joy again. It is hard for me to see how I could possibly be transformed by this. When I look my children, I also see grief, yet already I see a developing compassion and transformation. It is so clear to me. Maybe it is because they are young that they are able to look ahead differently. Maybe it's because they found in Michael's love, that they would not be abandoned, even in death. I believe it is clear to them that his love for us continues. Perhaps they are comforted by this understanding.

Now I haven't mentioned my eldest child, my beautiful daughter. My daughter is struggling at the moment. I believe she experiences her emotions very deeply. Life is not easy when your emotions feel stronger than you can manage. I now understand what that feels like, as I am struggling too. All I can do is trust that she will find her way. Actually, I know that she will. I just need to let her do that, find her way.

As a parent we expect to impart many lessons to our children. What we are surprised by is how much they teach us. Today I offer my thanks to my three children. I am thankful for their willingness to fully engage in love, life and grief. I will take inspiration from their transformation.

Until Death Do Us Part?

separation,
originally uploaded by barbera*.

My head hurts tonight. Tension has been building all day. I can't seem to relax or find comfort in anything I do. I wrote a post earlier about comfort in the familiar, then somehow lost half of what I wrote. I thought of rewriting it, but didn't feel that connected to what I had written. It is so indicative on how I am doing these days.

Not too much is pleasurable. Not too much seems all that important, and not too much connects me to this earth. I don't mean to discount all that I do have. I love my children, am grateful for my family and friends, and I suppose there are other things I could add to this list. But the invisible man that I am, continues to haunt me.

I feel as though I have lost a complete sense of myself. Without that what am I? Who am I? And how am I connected to the life I once had? In the marriage vows we are told that the two shall be as one. Then just as we are becoming familiar with this concept, we are reminded that this until death do us part. Easier said than done.

I really bought into the concept of unity. When Michael was dealt the heavy blow of his illness, I too was hit. But we got up, we continued forward. We fought with all our might to beat this disease, and we cherished every moment that we had. What ever came our way, good or bad, we faced it together.

What now? Death did us part, but I still long to be as one! How does that change? How does my heart make sense of it all? If two heart beat as one, what the hell happens when the one stops beating? Half of my life source is gone.

I am a mere shadow of my former self. I am a ghost, one foot in this world, one foot in next. Does Michael feel this way too?

How will I...

When will I..

Will I ever feel whole again?

The Invisible Man

I walk around most days feeling utterly cut off from this world, like an outsider who doesn't fit in.

A simple task like shopping for groceries becomes a painful and depressing chore. Not that I loved shopping before, but then it was about rushing home to prepare meals together with my husband, Mike. We would occasionally invite friends over on the weekend. The whole day Saturday Michael would be in the kitchen creating some beautiful and delicious dessert. He would have me cutting up vegetables, setting the table, anything to assist him creating something fabulous. But my main contribution was to run out to buy all that we needed for these meals. What was then also a chore, was done with love. It was done in anticipation of evening hosting a gathering with the man I loved. These days the shopping carts weigh a ton. I am made to push it through a maze of couples doing their shopping together. I am made to see the smiles on their faces, or hear the conversations with their spouse on the other end of their phones. This experience causes my heart to sink further into my chest. This experience causes my spirit to fade away.

As a widower I go through my day with a significant piece of me missing. I can pass by people with little notice. I feel invisible. Some may sense that a person is there, some might even catch a glimpse of the former me. On occasion someone will speak to me, but it is in a language I don't easily communicate in. They may not realize that I only truly recognize the language of grief. Everything else sounds very foreign to me. I may nod, or return a vague smile, but it is only my way of being polite. For me to really feel recognized I need for my reality to be recognized.

I think we are not taught to recognize grief. When someone has lost a significant loved one, for me my husband, the grieving does not end at the memorial. It continues on through the night, and stays for months and years. It's hue colors all that we see. Our rose colored glasses are forever lost. We are astonished then when other's are unable to recognize it. How can this be? How is it that others are not concerned that our vision of the world is now so diminished? Don't they see that the sun has lost much of it's shine? People may think they see me, but they don't. I am an invisible man. To see me is to recognize my grief. To recognize my grief is to take a step toward my darkness. How scary is that? What if you should step on one of my feelings, causing my healing wound to reopen and bleed?

We are not very well versed in the language which the grieving hear and understand. Before losing Michael I had a limited understanding of the language. I had lost relatives who meant a lot to me, whose lives were significant. But I didn't quite understand how the loss was felt by those who expected them home for dinner, or by those who now had someone missing from their bed. The language of the grieving speaks in the present, but is at it's core, tied to the past. None of our words escape the nuance of loss and pain. Although my outer shell appears unchanged, or looks familiar, it is not. I am forever a changed man. If you can't see that I am still grieving then what you see is a one dimensional illusion. This illusion works to get me, and you, through the day. Yet when spoken to by those truly versed in grief, the illusion goes away. Standing before you, I will become present, no longer far away.

We have all had the experience of travel, with the challenge of being in an place where a different language is spoken. We might attempt to learn the language, or just remind ourselves of our general knowledge from past experiences. What we often find is a welcoming response to our feeble attempts. The people being visited usually appreciate that we are trying to communicate, and don't worry about mistakes. The grieving are the same.

Don't worry about making me feel bad, it can't get any worse. If you see tears in my eyes, you didn't cause them. Don't try to cheer me up, I need to feel this. Don't be afraid to mention Michael's name, I still need to hear and say it more than you know. Our life together ended, but it hasn't disappeared. It is worth a few tears to be able to walk through it with you. Sometimes the best way to convey your concern is through a gentle touch or a hug. You don't have to invest a lot of time. Sometimes a quick sound-bite like "love you," or "thinking of you," is all I need.

Remember, if you are thinking of my loss, then likely so am I. If you want to help me along, to make me visible, an attempt to speak my language will pull me out of where ever I am. What the grieving are familiar with is isolation. While life must go on for everyone else, recognize that the life I had did not.

For now, I am the invisible man.

Desire

IRIS DETAIL

originally uploaded by jon fobes.


Can't sleep, missing him.

His skin is smooth, his chest full of hair.

The broadness of his shoulders, I trace with my hand.

The curve of his back, sturdy and strong.

I reach for his face, cradle it with care.


He smiles so gently, his breath fills the air.

I brush against his lips, as they curve with desire.

He looks at me, pulls me close,

Michael, you make me feel so alive.


His eyes are alluring, gentle, yet bright.

His voice like poetry, "I love you too my dear."

The warmth of his body, it fits against mine.

Such joy, such beauty,

I surrender control.


His fragrance fresh, like the ocean breeze.

I sensed it just now.


You're here Michael, I feel you with me.

Thank you honey, you know what I need.

Giving Our Memories New Life

This heart of mine,
originally uploaded by SalaBoli.

The Gay Widower or The not so Widowed Gay

widower,
originally uploaded by koderitsch.
Facebook does not want to make me a Widower. I tell them I won't hold them accountable for what ever transpires as a result. Hey, I'm already crying a river each night, sometimes enough for three rivers. Recently I learned that Facebook had responded to an avalanche of request from widows about the availability of this designation. Their point being that they have a new identity that has been either placed upon them by circumstance, or one that they prefer which best clearly identifies them. I can see their point. As I move along in my short journey with widowhood, I am beginning to take on this identity myself.

When your husband, wife, partner, lover, etc. has died, you suddenly find yourself quite alone. There will be good friends to come to your aid with support, but at some point, sooner than later, you have to face being alone. You will find that the least complicated way of introducing yourself is as a widow, or widower. Other responses bring on more questions, one's you may not feel like responding to at that given moment. Our relationships didn't end by choice. Our relationship didn't go sour, although there is definitely some bitterness that comes along with this. I have chosen to not go with the traditional black attire during this period, so there is little else that would tip off a new acquaintance to my current state of being...grief stricken me.

For now, I don't want to be thought of as suddenly single. I wasn't a big fan of single hood, I did that scene for far too long. Meeting Michael was the best thing to come my way in a long time. I found him utterly adorable, funny, playful, and sweet on my eyes. He was smart, politically correct in all the right ways. He was well intentioned, and a bit adventurous with his affections. He was the total package for me, and I fell hard. I believe I was the first one who made that awkward initial statement, Love's proclamation. It is rarely a moment that is thought out, and with Michael it burst forth from me in a moment of humor and laughter. I just couldn't keep it in any longer, and like the ol' song says "and then I go and spoiled it all by saying something stupid like I love you." (our song)

So, yes, I loved being in a relationship with Michael. We had our ups, we had our downs, we had some drama (me), and we had some stubborn silence (him). It was a full and happy relationship that eventually led to marriage, with the story book wedding. Oh, and yes, we are also gay!

Any way...I digress. I was talking about Facebook. I recently went to the personal details page, and thought I would test drive what it felt like to select 'widowed' as best describing me. But for some reason it kept defaulting to 'single.' This began to frustrate me to no end. I tried again, selected 'widowed,' it said 'single.' I decided I would see what it thought of me as 'In an Open Relationship,' it said fine. I tried 'it's complicated,' and once again it said fine. I even tried 'divorced,' Facebook said okay already, commit to one!

Then it had me wondering, is Facebook telling me that I cannot possibly be widowed because I am gay? Or is Facebook telling me that I cannot possibly be widowed because I am a young man of 50, who was married to a young man of 47, who thought their future together was limitless, with many wonderful adventures ahead, who pictured themselves in the future as old men sitting on the porch enjoying the late afternoon sun.

We had many dreams, he filled many of those in our short time together. I loved being married to Michael. So in defiance of his being taken from me too soon. I will take Facebook's suggestion, and stick to 'married' for now. I stuck to married in good times and in bad. I stuck to married in sickness and in health. And I stuck to married with Michael until death us did part. I am sticking to married.

'widow married me!'

Sun/Son breaks through the clouds.

Father and Son on the hillside,
originally uploaded by Dragon Weaver.