A Talk of Death

I just returned from visiting with my parents and aunt. I take the two hour drive every other weekend, as I know that my folks, and their generation of family members, won't be around forever. Of course none of us will be around forever, will we? It's just that my parents are in their late 70's, and with many health problems. My aunt is in the final stage of her cancer, and I'm all too aware of how precious time becomes when you know someone is leaving sooner rather than later.

Each time I take this trip, my car is loaded with my kids, my daughter's boyfriend, and on a few occasions, Abel, my new boyfriend. Today's trip felt quite intense. We visited with my folks first, then had them join us for a visit with my aunt. While at the visit my cousins were sharing with me that my aunt has chosen to end her chemotherapy. She has decided that her last days will be healthier and happier days without the misery that chemo can bring. It was kind of a sobering occasion.

On the long drive home Abel and I had a long conversation about health, death and aging. We talked about the various diseases that have affected our family's of origin, and how illness and death have touched each of our lives. At one point there was a pause, and Abel turned to me to ask, have you had a physical lately?

Funny timing. I do have a physical scheduled for this Monday. My health is definitely not something I take for granted. Although my kids are now teenagers, and young adults, I know that they still need me. I know that I still have much more parenting to do, and want to be sure that I am around for a long time. Remember, I will become a grandfather in less than two months. Last time that I met with my doctor, he told me that he was concerned about my blood pressure. It has always been borderline high, but now it is looking problematic. He reviewed my medical chart, and asked how long I have been on my anti-depressant.

Too long.

Like Janine, I have struggled with depression for many years. My depression has not been helped by the mental health problems that my two sons suffer from, nor has it been aided by the death of my husband. In the past two years I have tried twice to go off my medication, each time without much success. I usually do well for a couple months, then find myself sinking deeper and deeper.

I told my doctor that while I was not sure about going completely off the medication, I preferred to try going off the anti-depressant rather than adding another medication for high blood pressure. I'm worried, because I'm not sure I am making the right decision, but once again I feel that it is worth a try. I suppose that if there was an optimum time to try it would be when I am happily in a new relationship and looking forward to the arrival of new life. Is that enough? Is anything enough?

All I know is that I do feel a deep sense of responsibility to not die. Well, just not right now at least. One pill? Two pills? I will make that decision on Monday. Suddenly I have someone holding my hand, reminding me that he is quite invested in my being around for quite some time.

Alive and, well...

...I wish I could say that I'm well, or that I have been so busy out having fun, dating, and moving forward with my life, but that would be a bold face lie.

Truth be told, I am stuck. I am stuck in the damned mud, and have put little effort to get myself out of it. Where am I stuck? In the land of the non-living. In the land of the morbidly lonely.

I was thinking about this a lot today at work. I feel so isolated at the office. (More on that later.) I came home tonight and found that a reader, Jimmy, had left a message on my blog, basically wondering where the hell I was, or more apt, how I was. It made me smile, and laugh a bit as well.

Where I am is lost. Where I am is disconnected. Where I am is alone.

I was thinking about this at work, as I feel so "not" connected to anyone in the office. Part of the problem is that I am a floater, no not a fluffer, at least that job would have me interacting with others. Just as soon as I was developing friendships, and enjoying lots of laughs at the office, they up and moved me. Currently I'm in a unit, and floor, that is a bit more reserved. The women I work with are friendly enough, but everyone seems to keep to themselves most of the time. Also, they have worked with each other for quite some time, so they have developed strong friendships. I get the feeling that when people see me walking by, they wonder who I am, or perhaps realize that I'm just floating through the floor, so don't get too invested.

One of the things I really long for is friendships, relationships, with other men. For a social service agency, there are a significant amount of men who work there. The problem is, they don't seem too friendly. I take that back, there are a few very nice guys, who do go out of their way to say hi when we cross paths, but most don't say anything to me. Even when I say hi, or smile, I don't get much in return. What am I, the plague? The kiss of death?

It made me start to wonder why this is happening. Of course the easiest thing to turn toward is my being gay. One thing that I have realized in moving to San Diego, is that it is much more conservative than I am used to. Not that this is a surprise, but I guess I expected different. You know, when you work in a field that is filled predominately by women, you would think that the guys would reach out to each other. Not the case with me. I can't seem to get those connections made.

Driving home I was doing my usual combination of trying to sort out my life, and fight back tears. If I look at my life, and who has been there for me, it's the ladies. When Michael was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and I went looking for online support groups I turned to a brain tumor caregivers group. Now I can't say I was the only guy, there were a few that popped in and out, but I was the only one who became a regular in the group. It was me, and the hundreds of ladies. I remember searching online for a men's caregiver group, but it didn't exist. When one guy in the brain tumor online group asked about starting an off-shoot men's group, I said that I was interested, but wanted him to know that the person I was caring for was another man, not a women. I never heard back from him.

After Michael died I found myself in the same situation. I searched, and searched, trying to find a gay widowers group, which for a short time I had in San Francisco, but it ended after only eight weeks. In turning to the Internet, I came up empty handed. When I looked for a basic widowers group, no such deal. So I ventured out into cyberspace on my own, by way of this blog. Now, one of the first to embrace me was another widower blogger, turns out there are maybe three of us. But who are the ones that welcomed me into their lives, the ladies once again. God love them. I do.

This all really makes me wonder, what the fuck is wrong with me. Am I not acting like a true man? Obviously not. Now I know there are guys out there who lose their spouse, or guys at the workplace who could use a new friend, but are guys not supposed to express such needs? Once again, obviously not.

If I am honest, I need to take some responsibility here. I know that I have many insecurities. You can't grow up as a gay kid, especially a Latino (meaning male of Hispanic origin) and not feel like you don't measure up. When I think back to the Camp Widow that I attended last summer, I can share with you many great conversations I had with many of the women there, but can only recall one conversation with one of the guys. I just wonder where exactly am I supposed to fit in? If I join a widower's (meaning male) support group, they will be talking about losing their wife (meaning female.) If I try to join in on a widow's (meaning female) group, we are all talking about losing our husband (meaning male,) except I am not a woman.

This is depressing. Let's move on to dating.

Recently I have put a lot of effort into joining some online dating services. I have posted pictures and filled out every detail requested in the profile. Some guys have stopped to read my profile, but nobody is writing to me. Is it that ugly word, widower, that may be sending them running? I know that I am not an unattractive guy, so really, what could it be?

Okay, by now you are all sufficiently tired of all my moaning and complaining. I am too. If you are really frustrated with me, blame it on Jimmy, he's the one that begged me to write. Here is something I am working on. I need to stop being such a passive guy, and go out there, hit some guy over the head with my club, and drag him back to my man cave.

I recently bought myself a Kindle. Yes, yet another electronic toy. Further proof that yes, I am a man. I really needed it, as I can increase the font size so that I can actually read what is in front of me. Get some glasses you say? Fuck no. I paid a lot of money years ago for Lasik surgery, and I'll be damned if I will wear glasses again. Anyway, that wasn't the point. I have been reading a book called The Manly Art of Seduction: How to Meet, Talk To, and Become Intimate with Anyone It is written primarily for gay men, but it's a great book for men in general. At first glance, you would think the book is about how to get someone into your bed. Now maybe that is the ultimate goal for many of us, but it takes this much deeper. It is really making me look at myself, and own up to my own insecurities and fear of rejection. The book is written in a workbook fashion, and it tries to help you understand how to get a date and move it forward into intimacy, both emotional and sexual. Who doesn't want that?

Anyway, this is my current attempt to pull myself up by my bootstraps. And speaking of straps, have I shared with you how much fun a leather whip can be?

The Sound of Hope

Today at work a very odd thing occurred. I heard the sound of hope.

I have been in a training all week at work. This afternoon the focus was on various disabilities, and how it feels to have different type of disabilities. We had various stations that we would go to, and someone would lead us through an activity. One of these was the experience of being blind. We wore black-out glasses, and were led by another worker through the courtyard. After the exercise we sat and discussed what it was like to maneuver the space without our vision. We talked about how difficult it was for parents of disabled children, and how they managed, given their child's disability.

I shared that my husband Michael had been diagnosed years prior with a brain tumor, and how there were times when we would awake to a completely new disability. Some days he couldn't walk, some days he couldn't talk, and other days he had no awareness of what was going on. As his spouse, and caretaker, I never knew what I was waking up to. I would have to just figure out how to care for him each day based on what abilities he had. It was very difficult, as I was never really prepared for any of this.

Now earlier in the training I mentioned to the group that I was a widower, but people can forget some of the details. Just before this conversation, I had been talking to one of the women, who shared that the tattoo on the base of her head symbolized her being a survivor of cancer. I shared that I had similar tattoos on my back in honor of my husband.

Well, after the discussion about the challenges of being faced with Michael's daily manifestation of his tumor, the woman who survived cancer turned to me, and with so much hope in her voice, asked how my husband was doing now. I paused, and looked into her face, it broke my heart to have to tell her that he had died. My heart didn't break for me, as this is something I have learned to discuss without as much pain. My heart broke for her. I know how fragile a survivor still feels. I know how they so want to always hear stories of survival. I saw it in her eyes. They looked sad, met mine, and she offered her condolence.

I thanked the group, who all joined in saying how sorry they were to hear of my loss. I then quickly moved the subject forward, allowing us to return to the original discussion.

In my drive home tonight, I realized that I was somehow carrying that feeling of hope with me. I was doing this unconsciously since the discussion earlier in the afternoon. It felt so good, and at the same time, it felt so odd. I haven't felt this type of hope in such a long time. The hope I felt was specifically tied to Michael. I was feeling hope for Michael.

So odd, yet so familiar. Even writing, and thinking, about this makes me smile. I remember this feeling. I have it symbolized in Kanji on my back.

What strikes me right now, is how powerful the sound of hope is in the human voice. It has a spirit to it that feels amazing. It is so uplifting. It carries you just slightly off the ground.

What I am recognizing is, that I want to maintain some of that hope. Yes, it sounds strange, but I want to maintain some of my hope for Michael. It was so empowering, and it carried me through such dark and difficult days. I know that in the past, my hope was meant to hold out for the best, for recovery, or for extended time. Perhaps I can tap into that hope again, and allow it, still tied up in Michael, to carry me through my days ahead.

I want to hear the sound of hope.

I want to recognize the sound of hope.

I want to feel the spirit of hope.

A Painful Day

A couple of days ago I had my yearly physical. While there my doctor had the brilliant thought that I should have a tetanus shot, especially since I work with infants and toddlers. While they are cute and cuddly, apparently they harbor deadly germs and viruses. What do I know?

Anyway, whenever we get these helpful shots, like the flu shot of the moment, there is always the chance of possible side effects. My doc said not to worry, as my flu shot from last month went without a hitch. Well, last night I got deadly sick. Aching muscles and bones. Shaken nerves, headache and nausea.

Lovely.

I ended up going to bed early, choosing to just sleep through it. I had some crazy dreams, but mostly slept well, and felt enormously better this morning. In fact, I decided to get out the vacuum, and do some light house cleaning.

Bad decision.

While moving the very light vacuum, I pulled a muscle in my back. I let out a very loud scream, and found myself, tears in the eyes, descending toward the floor. I had all the animals around me looking traumatized, and my youngest son running out from his bedroom to see what had happened.

Well, that pretty much stopped me in my tracks. Nothing much was getting done today. Fortunately for me, I had stored up quite an arsenal of past prescribed medication, and found myself popping some expired Vicodin, and some helpful Motrin. Within a couple of hours I was beginning to feel better, yet had to make every move with caution.

It's quite scary when you become so sick, and you realize how alone you are. Now, I did have my son, but a 12 year old can only do so much. I also didn't want him to worry too much, so I told him I was much better than I actually was.

I took a seat on the couch, and tried to entertain myself with the television and computer. I read each email as soon as it arrived throughout the afternoon. At one vulnerable point in the day I received an email from the Musella Foundation, which does research on brain tumors. I don't know how to unsubscribe from their mailing list, so I always take a deep breath when these messages arrive. Today's message annouced a lecture titled "Practical Suggestions For Brain Tumor Families" which was to be held on January 18th, Michael's birthday.

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Punched real hard. I sat here, and began to sobbed.

As the day has gone on that deep emotional response to this email has stayed with me. Each time I think about it, the sobbing returns.

My body, and soul, certainly knows pain. Pain such as this has the powerful ability to lodge itself deep into my memory bank. With each of these painful deposits, I suppose I could be considered quite wealthy.

No worry. This will pass. As each of us has learned, while pain doesn't always completely go away, it does become less intense with time. We become familiar with it, and we come to have our individual ways of getting through it.

I will get through it.

You will too.

A Familiar Face

This morning I volunteered at the San Diego Brain Tumor Walk. I volunteered to do this several weeks ago, but had not heard from them until just a few days ago. Believe it or not I was actually looking forward to this. I still feel a strong affinity to the National Brain Tumor Society, and all that they do. And even though their efforts couldn't keep Michael alive, their work does help fund the research that gave him almost two wonderful years post surgery.

During the two years of fighting Michael's cancer I became very involved in the NBTS, participating in a few of their conferences, and attending some of their support groups with Michael. The people in the West Coast office, located in San Francisco, became a part of our journey. They were always so welcoming when ever we saw them. After Michael died they sent me a lovely card with messages personally written to me that made it clear that they knew who we were as a couple. This meant a lot to me. I last saw them this past spring when I helped raise funds at their San Francisco Brain Tumor Walk. Back then they were excited to see me back, and a couple of them mentioned that they were reading my blog.

Today I was hoping to see a familiar face, as that doesn't happen much now that I am in a new city. Other than the few friends that I have in the area, none of the people that I see know of my loss, or of the connection I have to the brain tumor community.

I arrived at the designated park in the Mission Bay promptly at 7 am this morning. The first thing I saw was a group of tents and tables being constructed around the park. I started walking toward the National Brain Tumor Society's table, and sure enough, one of the wonderfully sweet women from their organization was standing there. Her smiling face, and look of surprise truly lifted my spirits. "Dan, what are you doing here?" Well, I moved here recently. "How are you? And, how are the kids?" And so the conversation went. This was a great way to start the day. Recognition, and connection. I felt validated for who I was, and what I have been through.

I then went to straight to work in the registration area. I was assigned to record all the funds coming in during the fundraiser. It was a very busy job, and the woman I was assigned to work with was very nice. Most of our morning was so busy we barely had time to introduce ourselves to each other. Finally there was a lull, which gave her the opportunity to ask how I came to find out about this event. Without skipping a beat I explained that my husband died from a brain tumor. I could see the shock that went across her face. She offered her condolence, and then I quickly shifted the question right back to her. Turns out she works at an oncology clinic.

This acknowledgement of Michael dying from a brain tumor went easier than in the past. I recognized that these acknowledgments don't have to incite deep emotions, or at least outward emotion. I am becoming better at integrating the past with the present. I am learning that I can do this, feel pain, take a breath, and keep moving forward. This is a significant development.

When I was done with my volunteer assignment I realized that I needed to leave. I had done as much as I could, and felt that staying for some of the victory speeches would not be good for me. I got into my car, and had a good cry. I tried to not get too caught up in crying, so I eventually pulled myself together and called Michael's mother. We had a really good conversation, which made me realize how much I have missed not seeing and talking to her. She doesn't understand how I can continue to raise money for the NBTS when "they failed Michael," but I just let her speak her truth. We all need to get through this in our own way.

I am back at home, and busy planning a meal for my parents' first visit to my home tomorrow. My older brother and sister in law are bringing my parents here. I'm planning on sharing some of the foods that Michael and I enjoyed. Nothing special, but it's a way for me to feel like we had our own family traditions, and way of living, that I can now share with my own extended family.

Michael is alive and well in my heart. Exactly where I will carry him the rest of my life.

Slept like a baby.

There are truly generous people in this world. Some are generous of spirit. Some are generous of time. My friend wNs is one of those people. Somewhere in the past ten months I have come to know a wonderful group of people online. One of those people is wNs. I'm not sure when our paths crossed through cyber space, but I am glad we did. It has been a relationship of mutual care and support.

In the recent past I shared how I had commissioned her to make a beautiful quilt for my mother in law, made with the clothing of my husband, Michael. When the quilt was completed, she sent it to me so that I could then present it as a birthday gift to my mother in law. I opened the box, and laid it out on my bed,and quite quickly, it took my breath away. I was amazed. Not surprised, as I already knew how talented wNs was. I was amazed at how she was able to tell a story of love, and capture Michael's essence in it's pattern. When my children came down to my bedroom to see the quilt there were three full gasps in unison. They then looked to me with concern. Finally my daughter was brave enough to say what they were all thinking. "How are you going to part with that Daddy?"

I began to panic, and quickly my hands began to gently brush across every stitch. My fingers picked up the love that these pieces of cloth contained. Each piece had specific memories of Michael for me. Some pieces of clothing were very difficult for me to part with. I told myself that I would benefit further by being selfless, and giving it to Michael's mother. I am younger, and I have the good fortune of having many friends that can offer me support. I have contact with many of Michael's friends, who can always share more of their Michael stories with me. And I have all of our things, which each also contain pieces of his DNA, with happy memories coded into each of them.

I will be honest in saying that I cried when I carefully folded the quilt and placed it back in the box for mailing. I know this pleased Michael, as he was very worried about how his mother would manage after he was gone. I love Michael very much, and so his wishes, his concerns, are now mine.

I do have a quilt that is often on our bed. It isn't made with his things, but is a prayer quilt that was sent to him by some women I met through an online brain tumor caregiver support group. It meant a lot to Michael, and brought me peace whenever I laid it across him. Yet the quilt wNs made, it reached me on a far deeper level.

This weekend I was blessed to meet my friend wNs. I was able to sit with her, hug her, and look into her eyes as she spoke. She is a shy person, yet one that conveys such sincere appreciation and love. When I went to check in with her at one point this weekend she reached in front of her and handed me a pillow case quilted out of Michael's clothing. It contained parts of a light blue Polo shirt that Michael wore when we first met. It touched me beyond belief. I wish I wasn't so guarded with me feelings, as what I wanted to do was cry with joy. I have learned to harness my tears during the day, as they can bring me down so deep that I begin to fear not getting back up. By the end of the night though, when I returned to my room, I had no reason to hold back, and let them fall into the beautiful quilted pillow case.

Yesterday I went out to buy a fresh new pillow to place in the case. I placed in on our bed, and as you can see, it matched our bedding perfectly. Michael was the perfect match for me. We truly complimented each other. These small swatches of fabric, made up of Michael's history, also compliment each other.

Now many of my readers know that I suffer greatly from insomnia. I have come to expect it each night, and just lay there, waiting for sleep to arrive patiently. Last night I laid my head on the soft quilted pillow case, and gently allowed my fingers to feel the various textures that each possessed. I could feel their differences, and quickly I appreciated all the complexities that Michael possessed. Just as I was thinking about these, I fell fast asleep.

Thank you.

Bay Area Brain Tumor Walk:

Bay Area Brain Tumor Walk:

I have decided to join Michael's friends and colleagues in the fundraising efforts of the National Brain Tumor Society. Anyone interested in donating can do so at my home fundraising home page. As you can see, this is a last minute decision on my part. I previously didn't feel ready to return for my third year of this event, as it will be my first since Michael died, but I decided to give myself a bit of a nudge.

Fight Club

Fight Club Soap
Originally uploaded by joe_sciglitano

Yesterday I received a message from one of Michael's prior coworkers. She was letting me know that a group of people in the office have decided to participate in this years Brain Tumor Walk. She was wanting to know if I was putting together a team, as I had done that past two years. She said they would be happy to join my team, or I could join theirs if I decided not to organize a group this year.

I was glad that I had been so busy at work Friday, otherwise I would have had time to pick up the call, and be forced to deal with something I have been avoiding for some time. The Brain Tumor Walk in our area is a very nice event. They hold in Golden Gate Park, and have lots of activities and food throughout the day. Both times we participated, we were able to raise a good amount of money, and it brought our family together to show Michael how supported and loved he was. There is always so much great energy with the group of people participating. I always see many of the people I have come to be familiar with from various support groups and hospital waiting rooms. There are many doctors and nurses from all cities that make up the Bay Area.

What makes this difficult, of course, is that like many others I have come to know, Michael succumbed to his brain tumor. During the past two years of our participation I have looked on at the families that make t-shirts in memory of the lost family member. They always seem to have such a wonderful and caring appeal to them. I have watched them carefully of course, as I wondered when that would be me.

I remember last years walk, and how we were able to have Michael's mother, brother, and his kids, join us. After the walk everyone came over to our house for a snack, and to rest a bit. We all talked about how much fun we had, and that we should do it again next year. At one point Michael's mother turned to her young grand-daughter, and asked if she wanted to participate again next year. And as child often speaks, without filtering anything out, she responded "sure, if Uncle Michael is still alive."

Well, of course this brought the room to a complete silence. Michael's mother quickly admonished our niece for saying what she said, and everyone else quickly changed the subject. So, here we are. I is the next year, and Michael is not here. I'm afraid of asking my mother in law if she wants to join his coworkers, as she will be put into the same situation I fear. I feel that I need to make a decision on my own, then present to her what I have decided for myself. This might make the question easier on her.

In the months since Michael died, I have thought a lot of how I was previously immersed in the 'brain tumor community,' and now completely not. In the two years that Michael battled his tumor, I have become a bit of a lay expert on brain tumors and care giving. During those two years I thought I would continue to a part of this community in some way, but in my grief I have chosen to apply some distance.

Now, I know that I should only do what I feel emotionally ready to do, but this feels like the time to make a decision. Ideally, I would like to see myself as one of those family members who continue the fight for the lives of others, but I also do not want to do it at my own expense. It is so hard to know what I am ready for. I don't always know until I am actually doing whatever it is. At the same time, I also don't want to think of myself as someone who became so defeated by this type of cancer, and who ran off away from the fight.

I'm also not very good about asking people for donations. Rather than asking everyone around me, I would usually just hit up my family members, and write my own check. It was hard enough asking people when I felt strong, and was fighting for my husband's life. I'm not so sure I can do the same as a widower who lost the fight. Yet, I am very aware that without us widows and widowers, the only people fighting this fight are the newest victims of this terrible disease. Brain tumors, at least in my experience, are a disease with a high turn over of casualties. Every time I went to a group, or a conference, sure enough, half of those in attendance were missing the next year. Michael, and I, are now counted in those previously involved in the fight against brain tumors.

Now I am a widower. Most of my free time is spent addressing my family's loss, or writing about my experience as a widower. It is my new identification, and I am becoming more comfortable wearing the label. In a way, choosing to participate in this fundraiser will push me to start refilling some of the gaps. I just need to decide if filling the gaps is what I want to do.

Family Welfare

mom and me
Originally uploaded by Sara Heinrichs (awfulsara)

These past few days at work have been significantly busier than in recent past. I spend a lot of my time in the Family Courts, working to help put families back together after a significant trauma or circumstance which caused their children to be removed from their custody. It really hit me strong today just how personally invested I can get when a parent is really working hard to make things right. Sometimes making things right involves asking the other offending parent to leave the home so the children may return with less risk of harm.

I have been doing this work for over 20 years now, and I am still not the least bit jaded. I like to joke around with my peers about being that well tenured worker who is gathering dust and cob-webs in the corner, and who is so jaded it is pathetic. But in truth, I take the responsibility given to me by the courts to assess each family and to give a well thought out recommendation for successful reunification very seriously. For me, the work is very personal.

My own children were adopted from the very county program for which I work. In their case the recommendation was for no reunification to the parent. In cases like this there is a great loss for the children. We like to think that children in these circumstances are being spared some great hardship of neglect, and being given a chance with a much healthier, higher functioning, and loving family. These things are true, yet we cannot turn away from the fact that these same children will be forever grieving the loss of separation from their biological families.

In the cases that I am working on recently, one parent emerges as the stronger, healthier primary care provider. In order for the children to return, or stay, in the home, the other parent cannot be with the family. Often this is due to substance abuse, and the other parent is directed toward treatment programs with the hope that they will be able to rejoin the family at a later time. Which ever the case may be, these children will mourn the loss of that parent being involved in their day to day care. The remaining spouse will grieve the loss of the other parent, yet must continue to focus solely on their children.

Today in meeting with a couple in court, they were sharing with me the multiple losses they had experienced in the past month. They had lost a step son, a friend and a godmother, all in a 30 day period. And through this they are being reminded of the classes they must attend, the programs that must not miss, and to continue to be involved with their children as much as possible. What a challenge this presents if they are also trying to recover from substance abuse.

Today I stood there listening to my clients talk of their loss. I listened as the mother was moved to tears in communicating her mourning process. I tried my best to provide her assurance that she will get through this, and to acknowledge how difficult the task at hand is for them.

When my husband Michael died in September 2009, I had not worked but a few months in the past year. I had spent so much time caring for him, that work was put on hold. I was a complete emotional mess at that time. I felt like I was walking through a battlefield, stepping over the many casualties as I moved forward. I was in no condition to adequately care for my children. I was in no condition to adequately care for myself. I was also very fortunate to have loving friends and family members calling on me, and helping out with the responsibilities of parenting my kids. The pain I went through during those initial few months were so intense that I often prayed that God would take me too. I didn't want to live without Michael, and I didn't want to live through the pain. I felt as though the person I was as a parent, no longer existed. I didn't know how I could go on adequately meeting their needs.

In time the intensity of my grief began to change. I started having days when I could emerge from my home with some emotional success. I slowly began taking back some of the responsibilities that my friends had taken on. This was not an easy process. There were days when I would arrive at the school to pick up my youngest son, and couldn't get out of the car. I would feel completely unable to move. I would just sit there and cry. Eventually the teacher would notice my car and call out if I was able to come in. I would just shake my head, and he would then go get my son for me.

These days I have taken on more and more responsibilities in my work and home life. I feel good about my abilities to function at this point, but I also know that I am not the same person I was before all of this. I now suffer from significant attention problems at work. I still find myself sitting for long periods of time just staring into space. I have told my supervisor and coworkers to double check my work, and to question me more often. This is the only way I can feel that I am adequately serving my clients.

At home I am no longer the same person as well. The loss of my husband feels is as if my heart was cut out of my body. I don't always know how to function with this great loss. In everything I do I am so aware that I am doing it without Michael. When I am having fun with the kids, laughing and being silly, a sudden wave of reality hits me, and I realize that there are no longer two of us experiencing this. When I am having challenging times with one of the kids, I feel so alone. The weight of parenting without my spouse is so significant. There is no longer that buffer that a second parent provides. When the days finally comes to an end, there is no one there to process my thoughts and feelings. There is no one their to put their arms around me. There is no one their to give me pleasure as a distraction. There is just me. I am learning that I must accept this is my new reality. I have to talk to myself about my day, or talk it out in prayer. In the end, I must let go, and try to get some sleep. The next day will arrive, and once again, it is only me.

The point of all this is that my experience is not unique. Across this world are parents who are struggling to provide a good and loving home for their children. They feel broken, and unequipped for the task at hand. They feel judged by the standards of others, or of themselves. They are being asked to take on an enormous responsibility irregardless of the loss in their life. Where do they turn? If they pick up the phone, is there someone they can call on?

I am assuming that the majority of my readers are living through a very similar circumstance as I find myself. If that is the case then you know clearly the challenges. If you are reading this, and are fortunate to not know the pain of losing a spouse, then you are in a position to reach out to that family you know that has been touched by death. Reach out to them. Support can come in many forms. You can be that person they can call on. You can surprise them with a cooked dinner. You can take the kids on a play-date with your kids. You can ask the parent if they would like to join you for a dinner out. And, please be aware that the time they have spent grieving is not an indication of how much better things are for that family. Grief is not linear. It brings many highs and lows, it is cyclical. You would be surprised how intensely that family is still grieving months, years later. In this way, any of us can be agents of change. Any of us can be that one person that help keep that family together. A little attention now can mean a world of difference tomorrow.

Faking It

Fake it
Originally uploaded by Mariss Balodis

My thought today is this, how do we create joy in the midst of grieving?

This morning I awoke to rain and dark skies. And while I tend to love the rain, the change in weather has mirrored my mood. I have not fallen into despair, but my mood has come down from where it has been these past few days. It is always very telling when the kids are putting in so much effort to engage me in conversations, or activities, with only minimal success. I'm sure they see it, and without thinking, begin preventive measures to save me from sliding downward.

I sometimes feel like my grieving is similar to what a manic-depressive person goes through. Without much cause, my mood can shift dramatically, or subtly. Today has been more subtle. My voice has a monotone quality to it. My movement in minimal. I have a calmness about me that walks a fine line with numbness.

When I am like this I tend to make choices that don't necessarily help me counter my downward shift. Earlier I was searching for a movie to watch. I saw that there was a Patrick Swayze film on, City of Joy, that I have never really completely watched. I selected it, then settled onto the couch. The kids were in and out, but eventually settled into the living room as well, watching the film with me. Of course they were not aware that this film choice, or actually it's lead actor, was not going to help my mood.

Patrick Swayze died the day after Michael did. During the past couple of years I have been very aware of some of the stars who were battling cancer, such as Patrick, or Farrah Fawcett. Somehow seeing their pictures in all the magazines these past couple of years were an ongoing reminder of my reality with Michael. Every time I went into the grocery store, every time I turned on the television, there might be something about the stars conditions. It was a reminder of how frail we all are, no matter our position in life. Even watching a favorite sit-com on television reminded me of our reality. One of our favorites was Ugly Betty. Last year the character Daniel fell in love with Molly, who ended up with cancer, and who died at the end of the season. In the middle of the season, the storyline got too close to home, and I stopped watching.

Now I look back over the past year, and all those that I was following, be it actors in the news, characters on t.v., people in my previous brain tumor support group, or my Michael, have all died. Now I no longer view the world through the eyes of hope. Now my vision is clouded by grief. On a more clearer day, I no longer can see forever. I feel like there was once an innocence of life that is no longer.

I would like to think that I had more power, or persuasion, in creating joy in my life. Sometimes I wish I was better at faking it. I used to do a bit of acting when I was a kid. I enjoyed it. These days it is part of my survival. I act everyday. When I step outside my home each morning I begin playing a character. The role is that of an optimistic widower. I try to wear a smile, and to look upbeat. It can help me get through the day, creating the illusion of joy. Maybe it's not exactly joy that I am projecting, but at least it is a bit of optimism.

I don't really want to be faking my emotions, but sometimes you have to fake it until you make it. And as far as feeling joyful, I would like to feel it more than I currently do. I look out my window, the rain has stopped. The air is very still, not one leaf on the tree is moving. Darkness is setting in.

My youngest just walked into the room. "What's wrong Dad, you look tired, or, something."

The Men of Michael

three men and a tree
Originally uploaded by yuliang11

Yesterday I added some music to my blog. I gave it a great deal of thought prior to posting it, as it has significant meaning. The group whose music I have on the play list is Secret Garden. They are a Norwegian Duo who won the 1995 Euro Vision Song Contest. So how did I come to know of them? Michael.

When I met Michael he had recently moved back to the states after many years of living over seas. For 7 of those years Michael lived in Norway with his previous husband. This was a very significant relationship for him. Part of his reason for moving back to California was that his mother needed some help, as she was raising her raising her grandchildren. Michael needed a break from the relationship, his mother needed some support, and he eventually decided not to return to Norway. Even though he felt good about his decision, he had many happy memories of his time in Norway. He maintained contact with many friends there, one being his ex.

When Michael and I first got together I felt a bit intimidated by the way he described his life with his ex. They enjoyed a lifestyle that I could never compete with. His ex was a well paid doctor, I was a social worker with three kids. In time I became more comfortable with the fact that he still had loving feelings for his ex and the life they had. I realized this was nothing to feel threatened by, as I knew Michael was in love with me.

The day that we learned of Michael's brain tumor it became my responsibility to contact his friends and family. I knew that Michael would want his ex to know. He and I had never spoken to each other, but he knew of me. That day I called a woke him up from his sleep. I introduced myself, then quickly shared what was happening. His ex obviously cared very much for Michael, and he began sobbing. There I was, consoling Michael ex husband.

I later got to me the ex, as he, and a few of their friends came to visit us a few months later. He was very nice, yet we were obviously a bit nervous around each other. On the last night of their visit I asked to speak to him alone. I told him to please call me anytime for updates about Michael, and that he is welcome to visit again. He was very sweet, and wanted to be sure that he was not invading our space by visiting.

The week before Michael died he suddenly became unable to communicate. He was able to understand what we were saying, but none of his speech made any sense. One morning I was looking on his cell phone and saw that his ex had called. I called his number, and explained that Michael's tumor had progressed to the point of his being unable to speak. I asked the ex to speak to Michael as I held the phone to his ear. After a period of time, I brought the phone back to my ear to let him know that Michael heard what he had shared with him. The ex asked if I needed any help with Michael. I thanked him for asking, and let him know that I had Michael's mother, and I had the hospice nurse helping out. After I hung up I realized that what he was really saying was that he wanted to be here. I called him back and invited him to come visit. He got on a plane the next day.

When the ex arrived he walked in with a bouquet of Michael's favorite flowers, Irises. I took him down to our bedroom and gave him the chair next to Michael's bed. He sat there with Michael speaking to him in Norwegian. It was wonderful to hear him speak his native language, and he was so please when he realized that Michael clearly understood him. I wanted to complete the mood, so I put on the CD by Secret Garden. Michael had played it many times in the past for me. I knew that it was a favorite of his from that time. I now understood that we shared Michael. We both loved him. We both knew what made him happy.

Later that day Michael's best friend arrived. Michael's best friend was his best man at our wedding. Michael's best friend was also Michael's first lover. There we were, the men of Michael. We all held a special part of Michael in our hearts, and we all had a part of Michael's history. Together we were a testament of a lifetime of love, Michael's love.

The music playing is the music that played throughout Michael's last days. It is the music that guided him peacefully from this world. It is only recently that I have felt strong enough to hear it once again. And, although I say strong enough, it still reduces me to tears. Tears of love.

Letting Go

Let them go away (el novio ingles de chu)
Originally uploaded by PoorSailor

Last night I had a conversation with my husband, Michael. I was talking to him about loss, and about all the plans we made when we first met. We were like any other young couple, young in the way that this was a new relationship, not necessarily in age. We had many hopes and dreams. We both talked about our idea of the ideal relationship. We each shared our ideas of what the rest of our life would look like. We then started talking about which of our individual thoughts shared commonalities, and which we would need to compromise.

Any new relationship is full of compromise. This seems even more so when you meet later in life, as there are more aspects of your life that have been set in place for awhile. For me, that aspect that was set in place was the fact that I had three children, and I was a home owner. With this, Michael was the one who had to initially compromise, by making the decision to join my household. There were many other areas that we both made decisions of compromise about, but they were happy compromises, as they meant we were merging our lives.

Part of the merging of lives within a new relationship entails future plans together. Ours was pretty specifically laid out, as we wanted to move ahead sooner, rather than later. We planned to sell my house after the first year, so that we could move away from the city, and have more space, a yard for gardening, and a place to retire to.

Now by the fact that you, the reader, are here, you are aware that my husband died. Michael was diagnosed with a brain tumor after we had been together only 1 1/2 years. He had surgery within days of his diagnosis, and his prognosis was fatal. The doctors gave him anywhere from 6 to 12 months to live. We were told that only 5 % of people with his type of tumor survive beyond the first year. With this news our need to compromise began again. This time the compromise came in the form of letting go. We had to look at our life together, and re-examine our plans for the future.

The letting go began very soon after his diagnosis, and continued throughout the time he survived. Michael died just a month short of two years post surgery. During that period of time, we decided that making any big moves or changes would not work for us. When we said us, we really meant me. We never allowed our self to pretend that he would be here for the long haul. We always spoke about the ability to increase his time, and how that could potentially give him an extended life measured in quality. Quantity was not part of our vocabulary.

I remember during the first 6 months of his living with the brain tumor, we would spend quality time talking about our love for each other, and how we could make the most of what we had. I always made sure he knew that how ever long we had, I would be there for him. I wanted him to be reassured that I could handle anything that came our way. I wanted him to sleep every night knowing that he would never have to face anything alone. Once he was asleep, I would quietly step outside our bedroom, and go sit in our window seat, where I would cry under the watchful eye of the moon. I was grieving. I was acknowledging all that I needed to let go of. I was allowing myself to feel each step, each awareness of letting go. Once I was all cried out, I would slip back into bed, put my arms around him, and go to sleep.

We did many wonderful things during the two years that Michael was sick. We travelled quite a bit, and most importantly, we were married. I saw the window of opportunity as a blessing from God. Here we were, a fairly new gay couple, both kind old fashion in our approach to our relationship, and dealing with a life and death situation. I remember the day that the California Supreme Court approved marriage for Lesbians and Gays. Michael and I stood in the living room with our daughter, amazed at what we were hearing on the news. We would have the privilege of sealing our relationship in front of our family and friends. Something we had long ago let go of, was suddenly placed lovingly before us.

Once we got over the excitement of marriage, we began the next phase of letting go. Michael worried about what he was doing to me by getting married, then dying. He worried that making me a widower would only compound the pain in the future. He was right to worry about this, but I couldn't cut off this new dream because of my future impending pain. I loved Michael, and wanted to be his husband. Our family and friends marvelled at our decision to go forward with this.

On October 19, 2008, Michael and I stood before our loved ones, proclaimed our love and commitment, and became one. In addressing our guests, I acknowledged the reality, as is my way. I said that yes, we had the audacity to stand up to this harsh reality that had become our life, and continued forward with our plan. Our plan was to love each other. Our plan was to commit to each other. Our plan was to take each day as a gift, and let go of those things we had no control of.

After Michael died, September 13, 2009, I learned that I had more letting go to do. My initial few months were spent in the darkest of places, and it was a time that I wanted to let go of everything in my life. I was in such overwhelming pain, and life just didn't seem worth it. I learned to hate the phrase that "time heals," but I have learned that it is true. Time heals, because you become familiar with the pain of loss. It doesn't go away, you just begin to see it as a life companion.

I have now lived for 5 months as a widower. In these 5 months I have been learning once again about letting go. I have needed to let go of how I saw myself. I am now a changed person. I have needed to let go of what grounds me, what feeds me and what brings me joy. All of these aspects of my life have changed. There are in fact many aspects of my life that are different. It is a hard lesson to learn when you lose someone so central to your life. There is that part of you that refuses to accept the reality. You cling to what you had with all your might. Yet, in time you begin to see that this is getting you no where. I can cling to Michael all I want, but that doesn't change the fact that he is gone. I can refuse to like what life has given me, but that will not change what I wake up to tomorrow.

Not so long ago Michael's mother and I began the process of sorting through Michael's things. In my grieving, I have had to sort out that which feeds me, and that which hold me back. I have to decide what I am ready to let go of, and what I plan to always keep. This is not a simple process. There is no set time table that all the widowed can follow. We each deal with our loss individually. For myself, I need to begin the next phase of letting go. I need to acknowledge that which is difficult to let go of, and that which I am ready for. I need to push myself, but gently. I don't want to get stuck, but I don't want to move too fast.

Sometimes I feel that others around me are surprised at how life changing this has been for me. Sometimes I feel that they would be more comfortable knowing that I was moving forward with my life. I am keenly aware that I am likely projecting some of my own fears and worries to those around me. What I can say to them, or myself, is that change is happening. Sometimes the changes are very subtle, and sometimes they are announced right here in this blog. Some days I may appear to be doing well, but am secretly drowning in my grief. There are times when I feel the need to present better than I am. Sometimes, I have no control over how I present to others.

In my talk with Michael this weekend, I was asking him if he is still aware of me. I was asking if he could see my pain. I needed to know if I was truly alone, or just alone in the physical sense. I would love to report that he spoke to me, but if that is possible, it is not really an experience I am open to. I know what is best for me. I need to feel this pain, and I need to express it. I don't allow myself to mask what I am feeling, as it wouldn't serve me in the end. I have to feel what it is that I am letting go of. I have to constantly be searching within so as to understand what it is that I am grieving in that moment. This past weekend I was not so much grieving that I was alone without Michael on Valentine's Day, more that I was having to once again feel the letting go of a future I previously had a good grasp on.

Letting go is never easy. Letting go was easier when I was experiencing it with Michael. Now is my time to continue letting go on my own.

Multi-tasking

Koda Kumi: Multi-tasking
Originally uploaded by lutykuh

Today has been a day of multi-tasking. I suppose most of my days are filled with multi-tasking, but I usually expect that on a work day, not the weekend. I got to sleep in this morning, which was good since I was up until 3am last night. It was another one of those nights where sleep just does not interest me. It's not like I was doing anything worth staying up for, just staring at this computer.

I got up this morning, and immediately heard my boys being very loud. I wasn't sure if they were arguing, or playing. It turned out to the former of course. When I got to the kitchen it was a complete mess. It's funny, as while I was sleeping I was dreaming about making scrambled eggs for my son Remy. In my dream I kept trying to make them in new ways, and burning them each time. I remember thinking to myself, "why don't you just make them the way you usually do?" Anyway, when I got to the kitchen this morning I realized why I was dreaming this. My son had cooked scrambled eggs himself. There were a couple of big frying pans, with egg all over them. There were broken egg shells all over the counter tops, several plates that he had eaten off of, and sticky stuff everywhere. Looking across the room I could tell that Remy had not taken his ADHD medication, as he was flying around the room.

My daughter had obviously gotten out of bed a moment before me. I could hear her in the next room, yelling at her brothers, "who made the mess in the kitchen?" I helped Remy clean the kitchen, then tried to gather the troops for a family game plan. The older two wanted to get out of the house, yet Remy had lots of homework to get done. We decided that once Remy finished his work, we would go to a movie. This took patience on every one's part, as Remy's medication needed to take effect before we could make any progress. He's really quite a different animal with or without the medication. It's just how he is wired.

A little more house cleaning, showers, lunch, lots of arguing about what movie to see, and off to the theatre. After returning home it was time for cooking dinner and helping Remy with a school project. Foam board, cutting blade, hinges, and hot stick-glue. The design, an earthquake safe building.

What's my point here, where am I going with all this? I'm not quite sure. What I do know is that today my mind was sufficiently occupied. Having a day of multi-tasking allows me to get things done, and not fall too deep into despair. By the time Remy and I sat down for dinner, the other two had already eaten and had moved on. Remy asked me to sit near him while we ate. He looked across the table and said, "so, Dad, what's on your mind?" We both knew clearly what was on my mind, as he tends to be the more tuned in of the three. I responded with some kind of funny remark, as I didn't want to go there during dinner. Remy played along, but he knows that Michael occupies my thoughts all day, especially as night draws near.

The kids all seem to understand. If Dad suddenly gets quiet, or retreats to his room, he is having some Michael time. They usually check to see if I'm okay. My Michael time is either in reflection, or in tears. I've noticed that I am recently trying to keep my tears more private. I'm not sure what this means. Maybe it simply means that I have more control these days. I don't feel like I am a slave to my grief right now. As long as I recognize it each day, I can choose how and when I experience it. Having my evening rituals, such as the lighting of candles, or writing these posts, allows me to frame my emotions within comfortable boundaries.

Oh how I wish this wasn't my reality. It's such a tough reality. Last week another husband from my prior caregivers group died from his brain tumor. Today I learned that the adult son of another caregiver has entered the hospice stage. I know that death is part of life. I just never expected it to be such a major part of my life.

Time to get busy again. I don't want to feel those feelings right now. I'll save them for later tonight when I can fully indulge the pain. Let's see, there must be some laundry to do, bills to pay, kitchen to clean, school week to plan for...and off I go.

The Book of Job

Broken Theme: Introduction to Job
Originally uploaded by JasonWick

Today I'm feeling a bit better than the last week. As my readers know, grief definitely has it's ups and downs. For me the past week I was in the downward slope, falling into a pit of self-pity. It's so easy to go there. What widow(er) doesn't feel like they didn't deserve what life (read God) served them with.

In my social circles (read workplace) I am what is commonly known as a nice guy. I'm polite, I'm optimistic, I help people, I was a single parent for many years, I was married to an equally nice guy...So what went wrong? Anyway back to my train of thought. My adult life has not been easy. Someone who knows of my life once said she thought of me as the biblical character 'Job.'

The Book of Job (the very unabridged, with little historic reference, version)

Job was a man of great faith in God. He had an unflinching ability to see God's presence in all people, and in all things. Job was also a man of great respect and admiration from those around him. To others, Job was seen as a man of great wealth. He owned lots of land, where he grew many plants, and which cared for all his animals. Job had a big house and a big family. He had a loving wife, who he adored, and many children of whom he was quite devoted to. With all the good things that God had provided him Job gave thanks. In spite of all this wealth Job was humble, and praised God for everything in life.

enter stage left: SATAN

Satan was angered that Job had so much faith in God, and decided that he would challenge him. Satan told God that he could get Job to turn away from him, that he could lose his faith. God knew this could not be true, but agreed to let Satan put him to the test. Satan caused terrible storms, fires and swarms of insects, that in effect took all of Jobs precious land from him. With this Job was very worried and dismayed, but he raised his hands up high and praised God for always being so generous, and thanked him for all that he had. Now this was not exactly the type of response that Satan was looking for. He was beginning to feel a bit spiteful, and needed to chart the next course of action. Satan looked to what Job had such love and devotion for, his children. Satan brought for horrific illness and disease that took the life of all of Jobs offspring. Job's heart was broken, his spirit felt beyond repair in his despair, and Satan felt for sure that he would now see Job turn away from God. To his surprise, Job got down on his knees and prayed to God for strength to continue (at least that's how I imagine it happening.). With that Satan struck down at the wife of Job, and she fell to her death. Job, who thought that life couldn't get much worse, had now found himself beyond his imagined limit, and learned that there was no limit to the depths of pain. Yet once again, Job could not be swayed away from his faith in God. With nothing left to take from Job but his own health, Satan bestowed upon him open sores and boils (okay, I'll stop with this).

So. This is what my life has been compared to?


"old and full of days"
Originally uploaded by Jenni Simmons

I have often thought of myself as a humble man. I enjoy life, have worked hard for the comforts I have, and tried to be of generous heart and spirit. As a boy I was affectionately known as "the choir boy" by my friends. I sang in the choir at church, and sang in the choir at school. I taught religion to children during my teens, and tried to be a good kid. Of course, I was working a bit overtime, trying to make up for the fact that I was a budding homosexual, but I somehow thought God understood. After being in college for a few years I decided to enter a Catholic seminary, and began my studies to become a priest. Yes, it's true. I was there only a few years, as I eventually fell in love with a fellow seminarian, and decided I needed to change the course of my life. I returned home, continued my education, worked some jobs, met nice people, was a good son, brother, friend, etc. I eventually found my way up to San Francisco for graduate studies in marriage and family therapy, did a lot of volunteer work, and started working as a child welfare social worker. A few years later I decided to adopt a child, then another child, then one more. My children ended up having significant emotional challenges due to family history (goes with the territory). I went through school programs, therapies, hospitalizations, in-home support services, taking leaves from work to attend school with my kids, and so on. Each phase of my life, in these parenting years, felt like more than I could, or should have to, handle. Yet I persevered. These were my children, I loved them, and I was going to do what ever I needed to do for them. In spite of these challenges I continued to attend church, send my kids for religious studies, continue to be a nice guy, treat clients with respect, and manage to always have a smile on my face.

So what was missing from my life? Come on people, not a hard question! Yes, that's it. I was missing another adult to share my life and love with.

enter stage right: Michael

Through out all of the above, I longed to be in a healthy, loving and committed relationship. Yet, who was going to love me with all my baggage? Who was going to see all of my baggage, and praise God?

Michael. To make a long story short, Michael. He was everything that I wanted, he was everything that I needed, and he was some of what I thought I could do without frankly. I loved him, and he loved me. Life was far from perfect, the kids made sure of that, but we were all very happy. We were a family. In good times and in bad.


So where does Job come in? Throughout each of these ordeals I have been able to maintain my faith in God. I have been able to feel one with the universe. I have been able to walk the path of Buddha. Seriously, I have continuously thanked God for all my blessings, and continued to ask for the strength to get through another of life's challenges. I have tried to look to the positive, and let the negatives fall by the wayside.

enter stage left: cancer

Again, life presents me with an unimaginable challenge. Michael and I face this together. He is diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor, and we are told that without a doubt this is what he will die from. I do everything I can to keep Michael alive, but in the end, modern science and my strong will, are no match for this disease. Michael dies.

Job

This post is not really about faith. It is about my spirit.

Is my spirit broken?

I feel like this is the million dollar question. And, it's a question that I need to sit with awhile, so I won't be answering it right now. What I will say is that life is always a challenge. Life sometimes give us what we want. Life sometimes gives us what we need. And, life sometimes takes it away.


The Book of Job
Originally uploaded by ninja IX

As an aside. About a year ago I was having a very difficult time. My daughter was presenting me with yet another of her challenging moments. Michael didn't respond the way I wanted, or needed at the time. I was also dealing with the fact that his tests were revealing further tumor growth. I felt that it was one of those moments in life when it can get no worse. Funny that I could still be so naive. But it was one of those Book of Job moments. I went down to my bedroom, cried, prayed, and bargained. In the end, I realized that the only change I could really effect was me. I needed to somehow find a sense of renewal. I needed to take a deep breath and get back up there and continue forward. Before I could do that I needed some kind of visual reminder of where I was at. As I looked around the bathroom I saw the electric shears, and that was it. I shaved my head. I decided that I needed the simplicity of mind and spirit in order to move forward. By shaving my hair off I would be telling the world, and reminding myself, that I was going through something significant. It would remove all vanity from my day to day life. I would put that energy into making things right, here at home.

That night, after shocking everyone in the house, I crawled into bed with Michael. I couldn't fall asleep, so for some odd reason I thought of the Book of Job. At that time I wasn't very familiar with the story, only knowing that a friend from work had made reference to my life and that of Job. I found the chapter, and began reading the story shared with you above. When I got to the end of the story, I was amazed.

Job, in utter pain, shaved his head, washed himself clean, and donned a new white robe, and lifting his hands up to the sky, sang God's praises and gave thanks for his life.

There was my answer. I needed to give thanks for what I had, and to once again ask for the grace to continue on.

The day after Michael's memorial, after the crowd left, and the kids were sent off to school, I once again found myself staring into the bathroom mirror with the shears in my hand.

This is me. 'Dan, in real time.'

Yesterday's post was meant to be humorous, but of course had a message to relate. I find myself in an emotional state that feels like it is here to stay for awhile. The initial three months of my grieving process were quite difficult. I spent many days throughout that time in tears, and feeling like my world was at an end. There were times that I wished my life to be over. Yes, it was that painful. For those who might be new visitors to my blog, I have been a widower for the past four months.

In the last few weeks my experience has begun to change. I find that I am in a less acute state, but definitely still feeling that my mourning, sadness, is chronic. It feels like a deeper sense of depression. I do have some happy times, and can laugh with friends and the kids, but in between I can honestly say that I am definitely feeling very sad.

I think about Michael continuously. I miss him in a very significant way. I know that he is gone, and I accept that I cannot change that. What I also can't change is my love for him. That love didn't die with him. It lives on, and until enough time passes, my feelings will remain the same. I know that eventually I will learn to love him in a different way, but for now I would rather just say that I still actively love him. I still look for him instinctively. When something happens with the kids I immediately think that I should tell Mike. It is still difficult to sleep alone, something that will take a long time to get used to.


I am becoming a bit comfortable with the state of my emotions. Sadness feels right. I don't expect that to change for quite some time. I love(d) my husband/partner very much. I talk to him at night, and keep a candle lit for him whenever I am in our bedroom. I miss his touch, both sexually and non-sexually. Grief is an odd experience for me as a sexual person. There are periods where sex is the last thing from my mind, and there are times when I feel compelled by it. Mostly I miss making love to Michael. I miss the intimacy that two lovers share, and the joy that it provides.

If you visited our bedroom you would think that Michael was still here. His bathrobe is where he left it, his toothbrush next to mine. I find much comfort in seeing his things next to mine. I wear one of his t-shirts to bed each night, and cling to his pillow. I have started to stack some of my books on his bedside table, which tells me that I am slowly taking up some of his space. I don't think he would mind.

I keep Michael's ashes on the book shelf in our room. Around the urn I have a collection of various small treasures that were important to us, and several small gifts that my son Remy brings home from the local flea market.

I occasionally spray some of Michael's favorite cologne into the closet or bedroom, and give it time to settle. It's just another way of soothing my senses. At times when I can't fall asleep I may get out of bed and begin going through his things for the hundredth time. I like to hold his things in my hand, especially things like his watch, a pen he used or his Sudoku book. I have an electronic frame that contains many images of us and our friends and family. Most of the time I have the frame set to an image of him that I took in Puerto Vallarta during our honeymoon. I love looking at this image. It makes me smile and feel loved. I see his eyes sparkling with delight, knowing he was looking directly at me.

I have many happy memories of Michael. The memories are of both pre-cancer, and post-cancer. Michael had a brain tumor, which in the end caused him problems with memory and movement. I love all those times. There was joy from the moment I met him at Badlands, a gay dance club, to the early morning that he died. I know this sounds strange. The moment that his life ended I began howling in pain. But up until that moment, I was consumed by love. It was such an honor to take care of him. He depended so much on me, and gave me so much trust. I love him for that. The way I see it, he gave me so much. So much love, so much joy.

Michael fully embraced being a parent. I loved when he started referring to 'my kids' as 'our kids.' Having been a single parent for so many years was difficult. I never imagined that being a parent was going to be as much work as it has been. I loved being able to share the experience with Michael, and the kids loved having two parents, two fathers to turn to. Michael and I were a nice balance to each other, and the kids benefited greatly from his influence.

I'm finding that I don't enjoy the things I used to enjoy with Michael. Maybe in time I will return to them. For now, I don't really find too much enjoyment in anything. I suppose it is part of still feeling numb from this whole experience. I tend to do a lot of sitting, thinking, writing and reading. Time can go by, hours at times, and I don't feel bored. I just sit with my feelings, and it feels right. Time moves very slowly for me. I like it this way. I haven't been spending too much time with meditation in a formal way, but I am being very mindful of what I am experiencing.

The best gift that Michael gave me was this computer. It is constantly before me. It has given me the opportunity to express myself in ways I knew were there, but needed the right time or outlet. I come home from work each day, and the first thing I want to do is write a new post for this blog. I never know what I am going to write about, and I try not to put too much thought into it before I sit down to write. I truly enjoy reading the comments left here, or on Facebook, from those that read my blog. And while I enjoy reading the comments, I try to not let the comments influence what I write. I also don't give too much thought about who is reading my blog. This is the best way for me to feel complete freedom of expression.

When you read my blog, keep in mind that it is what I am thinking, or feeling in the moment. Sometimes I write specifically about what my day to day life is like, as in today's post. Other times I may use creative license to express the tone of my experience rather than the specifics. To get a true sense of me, you would need to step back, read many posts, then reflect on the tone of my words. I very much look at my writing as my art form. It is open to interpretation. I like when people mention that they read it, and offer their perspective, or their own experience. What I may not want to discuss is the specifics of what I wrote about. I would rather not focus on small details, rather look at the themes.

Try not to feel offended if my thoughts or experiences don't match your own, or what you think of as your experience of me doesn't match what you read. When I sit down to write, I write for me. I write what I need to express. It may makes sense to you, or it may not. I also write for those, like me, who are grieving. Unless you have lost your husband, wife, partner or spouse, please don't tell me you know what I am going through. While you may have experienced a similar loss, or you may feel that you understand my loss, you don't. This is not meant to sound rude, it is just meant to clarify how I experience my loss. Before losing Michael I thought I understood what this would feel like. I now know that I only understood a small part of it. If you think I am grieving the wrong way, or getting stuck, then please keep those thoughts to yourself. I appreciate your concern, but trying to put your perceived understanding onto my experience, is not helpful.

Remember the name given to my blog, Dan, in real time. It is about me, written by me, for me. I write in the present. This is what is really happening for me. I try to keep it real. I don't want to hide what I am going through. I don't want to sugar coat it, and I don't want to over dramatize it. I do, however, take creative license in the way I express myself at times.

I now identify as a widower. It best describes how I now experience myself. I don't feel single, and I am slowly losing my previous feeling of being married. This doesn't mean that I won't change this in the future, it is just where I find myself at this time. I know a lot of people don't like labels, but for me they sometimes help us cut to the chase. If I tell you that I am a gay widower, it spares me from having to go into more detail than I want to at the time.

In many ways I am now an open book. I like living my life this way. I know that it is not for everyone, but it is the experience I wish to have at this time. I am walking through this experience for all to see. It is my hope that my experience will offer others just that, hope, and for others, understanding.

There, I have said a lot. This is me. I offer myself for your observation.

Scattered Thoughts

In looking for the photos of my last visit to Big Sur with Michael, I found that we had gone on March 24, 2009. It was a little later than I originally remembered. But how we spent the day itself, I remember so clearly. We drove down in Michael's convertible, and put the top down. Michael loved his car, and really enjoyed when we took short trips by ourselves, as we could leave the larger family car at home. On this day we drove straight to Big Sur after getting the kids off to school.

Once we got to Big Sur, we stopped at a small deli, and bought sandwiches, and bottles of water. We drove over to Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park. We parked the car, then walked over to the McWay Falls Overlook trail. We walked along this trail that provides the most beautiful view of the ocean. The trail takes you along the edge of the cliffs, and ends with a couple of benches, where you can sit and enjoy the view of the coast line. There we sat, and had our lunch. I remember feeling happy, eating, holding Michael's hand, and listening to him retell his stories of past times in Big Sur. Michael was a wonderful story teller. He was horrible at jokes, which the kids said were never funny, and became fondly known as "Mike Jokes." Let me just say, I loved the "Mike Jokes." He would always have the biggest grin when telling them. Then look so disappointed when the kids would just stare straight at him and say, "I don't get it." We would all break into laughter, including Michael. I got them, but then the kids would say, "oh Dad, you just laugh because you love Mike so much."

Yes, I did love him so much.

As you see, Michael, was actually known to all as Mike. He was a guys guy. When the kids first met Michael they looked at me confused. "He's gay?" Michael would come to the house for dinner, and we would then settle in to watch a movie. We would always end up watching some science fiction or action flick. Again, the kids would look at me strangely, and then say to Michael, "you know, my Dad would never watch that kind of movie if you were not here." He would just laugh, as he kind of knew that I was indulging him.

Anyway, back to Big Sur. We finished up our lunch, and Michael began to talk about spreading his ashes there in Big Sur. He said he would love to have a memorial bench somewhere in the park so that people could stop and enjoy the natural environment. I listened to him talk, and fought back tears.

We walked back to our car, and headed over to Nepenthe Restaurant. They have the most beautiful view. We sat outside in the sun, drank coffee, and shared a dessert. When we got back to the car Michael again began talking about wanting his ashes scattered in Big Sur. With that I lost all control, and just began sobbing. I couldn't handle the idea that there would really be a time that he was not around. Michael came around the car, saying "Honey. Don't be upset," and he held me there in the parking lot for quite some time. We then got into the car, and began the long journey back home.

A couple of months later Michael was busy typing something on the computer. When he was done, he printed out a document, and brought it over to me. It was instructions about what he wanted done with his body when he died. He said after looking into the idea of a bench, he learned that the state parks no longer have benches available as memorials. They are now trying to get people to make donations to provide picnic tables in the parks. As I have said before, Michael wasn't sure he liked the idea of random people eating, and dropping food, all over a table inscribed with his name on it. Instead, he had written a new plan of what he wanted. Michael's new plan was that he was to be cremated, but that he wanted his ashes to stay with me in our bedroom. He said that he hoped that when I died, the kids could have our ashes combined, then placed or scattered somewhere together.

Michael really knew what I would need. I have been so comforted by having his ashes here with me. The urn I selected is called "A Walk in the Woods." Every night I light tea lights in front of it, and their soft glow provides the perfect warmth for him. After Michael's death I decided to share some of his ashes with his mother and best friend Craig. The three of us had become such a solid team of support to Michael, especially along his journey with his cancer. I wanted his mother and Craig to always have a part of him with them. This weekend, Craig will share some of the ashes with Michael's friends as we celebrate his life.

In looking at the photos from our visit to Big Sur in March of last year, I found the two you see in this post. The first is of Michael posing along the picket fence which overlooks the ocean. The second is the same spot, sans Michael. These are both photos I took with my Blackberry on that March afternoon. I'm not sure why I took a photo of the fence alone. Perhaps I was preparing myself for the day that I would return to the McWay Falls Overlook trail, knowing that he would not likely be with me. I am likely there as you are reading this post. It is here that some of Michael's ashes will be scattered by me. It is a place where I plan to return each year.

Undertow

Undertow
Originally uploaded by ParanoidMonk

Today I'm experiencing a real craving for Michael, physically. His mother and I spent a bit more time this morning going through Michael's things. It wasn't a day of saying goodbye to much of his belongings, more of just looking at some of his clothing, and talking about what we will later do with the majority of his things.

Where Michael's mother lives, she has been actively participating in a grief group. She tells me that the group is sponsored by a local hospice, who has a couple of stores that sells second hand items. This is one of their ways of creating extra revenue for the clients they serve. Michael's mother asked me to decide which items of clothing I want to keep, and put aside the rest for her. She plans to then see what Michael's brother and nephew might be able to use, and donate the rest to the hospice organization. I think this is an excellent idea, and told her I would work on more of the sorting at a later time. She reminded me that there is no hurry.

I'm not sure if I mentioned yesterday, but the reason we did the sorting this weekend, is that it is Michael's birthday tomorrow. This gave his mother and I the opportunity to spend time together. It helped me feel like part of Michael was here, because his mother was here. I had bought a birthday sheet cake from the local grocery store, complete with his name written in icing. Yesterday, after dinner, the kids, his mother, and I sang happy birthday to Michael. I know it was two days early, but Michael's birthday celebrations always lasted a few days. Every year he and I would go away for the weekend to celebrate. Then on his actual birthday we would have dinner and cake with his, and our, family.

After Michael's mother left this afternoon I began missing him terribly. I can feel the gloom coming on. I went down to our bedroom to retrieve one of his sweaters, as it is a cold rainy day out. I settled into the large arm chair in the living room, to watch a bit of t.v. with the kids. I quickly became very tired, and was falling asleep. My daughter finally intervened, asking if this might be a good time for a nap. Back down to our bedroom, I lit a few candles, and covered myself with Michael's prayer quilt. Last year I was active in an online caregivers group. One of the women in the group previously lost her mother to the same type of brain tumor. She wrote me a letter asking if her church could make Michael a prayer quilt. The quilt is designed with fabric depicting ocean and beach scenes, as Michael loved the ocean. I climbed into bed, and covered myself with the quilt. Holding the quilt batting together are these many ties. Each of the ties have been knotted many times by the women who made the quilt, by myself, and others who visited with Michael last year. We said prayers for him every time we tied a knot. As you might guess, the quilt has a lot of sentimental value for me.

A short bit ago I woke up from my nap. In the course of my sleeping, the sun has gone down. As I opened my eyes the room was lit solely by the soft glow of the candles. It felt both soothing and romantic. Almost immediately, I began to feel a craving, a craving for Michael. Before the nap I was thinking about the place I currently find myself with my grief. I realized that I am becoming more comfortable with the fact that Michael is not here. It is sinking further into my psyche that he is permanently gone.

While I have only been a widower for four months, I now know the signs and symptoms of sorrow. My craving tells me that I will be in much emotional pain tonight. I already feel it coming on, and I am trying with all my might to keep it at bay.

My daughter came down to my room to check on me. She says a friend dropped off some food, as they had a part yesterday, and there was a lot of food left over. My daughter asked if she could fix me a plate, and if I was feeling okay. I said I would come up later to eat. I'm feeling a bit queasy while looking at this computer screen. I know this symptom too well. It is usually the first warning of a migraine. I need to go take something to stop the migraine from fully developing.

Knowing what's ahead for me tonight, I wonder if I am ready, or do I have the strength to endure it. I know that I do, and that I have no other choice. They waves of grief are beginning to break through as I write. Tears are beginning to well up, and my breathing is becoming shorter. I can feel myself chocking back my emotions, trying in desperation to not let them rise beyond my throat. It is far too early in the evening to begin this process. I have learned in these past four months that once the water works begin, they will carry on for quite some time. Better to fight it off for a couple of hours so that I don't become all consumed by it so early in the evening. I know that if I do the kids will become very worried, and their laughter will quickly turn to sorrow as well.

This process is horrible. I know that it serves it's purpose, and that I must mourn. I have to embrace it at times, otherwise I will get stuck. Better to let the tears come tonight, then to get lost in them tomorrow.

There is only one thing that will stop all of this. One thing that makes me feel safe in the world. One thing that fills me with so much joy, that all the rest pales in comparison. And so I crave. I crave for Michael. I know he is gone. He cannot be here to hold me. I can't hear his voice. I can't smell his scent.

I am being pulled under. This current has me, not I it. I give in to it. I concede to it's power. I give up my strength, better to stop fighting.

I relax.

It is here.