Dan, in real time.: heart broken

Showing posts with label heart broken. Show all posts

Monday, February 14, 2011

All Dressed in Red.

Hackett Designer Menswear - Tartan Pyjamas in Red

It's Monday night, Valentine's Day night, I'm all dressed in red, and no where to go.

Today was a very busy day at work. I spent the morning filling out documents, and entering data on the computer. My afternoon was spent meeting with families in their homes. And while the day was moving along fairly fast, my mind seemed occupied with other thoughts, and I never really felt appropriately focused on what I was doing.

It wasn't until moving along in very slow traffic at the end of the day that I realized how sad I was feeling. Lately I have either been more removed from my feelings, or leaning toward the more peaceful side. I don't ever really know what I am feeling, or thinking, as everything in my life still feels a bit complicated, and cloudy at best. Today, in traffic, I began to visualize Michael on a good day. I was feeling his smile, his touch, and his humor. It all felt so good, and so familiar. Then just as quickly, I felt stabbed in the heart with the reality of him no longer being on this earth.

It all just didn't make sense to my heart. My thinking self is always a realist, but I suppose my heart isn't. It was that feeling of "this can't be." How can there no longer be a Michael Lowrie? He can he be permanently out of my life?

These same thoughts and feelings are still lingering within me tonight as I move about my evening routine at home. I keep stopping in my tracks, and quietly start to cry. It's just me and my son Remy here, and he has been in such a good mood, so I don't want to worry him with my sad 'ol self. I took some time for myself in my bedroom, and let the tears flow. It brought me some relief. I then took off my work clothes, and just laid on the bed, not wanting anything to touch me. I think I was feeling overwhelmed with emotion, and didn't want to add any outward physical stimulation to my body. I wanted a pure moment with as little connection to this world as possible. If it were possible, it would have been most satisfying to just float there in mid air, no clothing on, no wind to distract me from my inner stirrings. When I felt aptly satisfied with giving into my emotions, I reached into my top drawer, and took out my comfort clothing.

I have never been much for pajamas. In the evenings I had always been more of a boxers and t-shirt kind of guy. Michael was very much a pajamas kind of guy. He had pajamas for almost every occasion. Some were fancy ones from Japan, others were nerdy ones like Star Wars, and others were seasonal. But my favorite were just an old pair of red plaid pajama bottoms that he would wear with an old t-shirt of the same colors. They came to symbolize comfort to me. Whenever I would see Michael in these I would just want to wrap my arms around him and smother him in kisses. He was just adorable.

Now, whenever I need that extra layer of comfort, I don his apparel. At first my kids thought I was nuts, as clearly they are way too big for me. But in time they began to see how much comfort they provided me. Some people eat comfort food. I wear my comfort. I suppose it's the closest thing I have to Michael wrapping his arms around me. It allows me to move about my evening with only his touch directly on my body.

Tonight I can wear my red, and make like I'm celebrating Valentine's Day. A couple of months ago I could wear it and look like I was celebrating the coming of Christmas. I know that I don't need a reason, nor do I need to justify it. I'm sure that everyone that comes across me will know that I am doing the best I can, taking care of myself, and feeling close to the man I love.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Tin Man

I'm feeling just like I did a little over a year ago when Michael died. I don't know what to say, or what to do, or even what to think. I have basically spent the whole day sitting here in a fog. I have tried to entertain myself with this computer, and busy myself with laundry, gardening and making dinner, but these things didn't change my frame of mind. I found that each of these activities busied my body, and allowed some needed things to get done, but I did them almost mechanically.

I sometimes look at myself when I am in this state, and think of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. I have to be careful to not develop a hard exterior, and I can get rusty and stuck at times. Every movement on days such as this feel so deliberate. It reminds me of how Michael's mobility had changed in his last month of life. Each day his brain was disconnecting the hard wiring necessary for his movable parts to work. A simple step forward required extreme concentration, and often needed personal coaching as well. Because he could only walk if I was there to stabilize him, and to tell him what his brain no longer could.

Lift up your left leg, yes, this one. Move it forward, and put your foot back down on the floor. Now shift your weight and lift your right leg, yes this one, and put that foot down on the floor.

His movements had taken on the characteristics of a robot, or mechanical Tin Man. His biggest fear was also coming true, as his mind was slowly fading away. At times when he looked straight ahead his eyes would have a hollow quality to them. I would then engage him, verbally telling him what I thought he would want to hear, and would want to say.

You are doing fine Michael. You don't need to worry, because I am here. I won't let you fall, and I won't let you lose your pride. You look handsome, and I can see that you love me. I love you so much, and I want you to know that you continue to give me so much love. I am a very lucky man. I am going to be here every minute, and I won't let anything hurt you. You are safe, and you are loved.

About then his right hand would reach out for me. It would tug slightly at me. I would help it guide me toward his face.

Yes, Michael. What do you want me to know?

He would be saying something, but the sounds didn't always form words.

I have to guess what you are saying Michael. Your words are sounding different than my words right now. If you are saying that you love me, then I am saying thank you.

I would then reach down and firmly kiss him. His right arm would try to reach around me, so I would guide it once again. I would let his hand feel my face, then lay it on my lap, or move it across my back. His stare would become more intense, and I would once again remind him of my love.

At the time he was being pulled away from me, and I was giving him permission to go if he needed to. My focus was solely on him, and making sure his attempts at communication were met with some kind of acknowledgement by me. Inside I was breaking apart, but on the outside I was holding firm. Together we made up a whole man. There was no separation at that point. There was no him without me. And, there was no me without him.

When Michael died he took part of me with him, just as I kept part of him with me. His last breath is still within me, and I can sometimes hear it whistling, whirring, or moaning just like the sound of air moving through a large deep metal container. It reminds me that I am still a bit hollow, and that my broken heart is capturing some of the vibrations of Michael's breath. At times I feel empty, and at other times the sound resonating within me can sound like the music of a wind instrument.

I know that I need to spend this time in tears, and that I need to also carry an oil can so that I don't get so rusty that I am no longer able to move. Each day, and each movement within it, will take considerable effort and purposeful steps forward. Eventually the sun will again begin to shine, and I will be less at risk of becoming completely overcome by a rusty exterior.

"When a man's an empty kettle he should be on his mettle,

And yet I'm torn apart.

Just because I'm presumin' that I could be kind-a-human,

If I only had heart."

Friday, February 26, 2010

Message to Michael

skinskape
Originally uploaded by Mitsus

Dearest Michael,

I sit here not knowing where to begin. It has been one of the days of feeling very disconnected from my world. It's not a particularly difficult day. I'm just finding myself retreating to that quiet place. But don't worry, I'm not secluding myself.

Tonight I stayed in the living room with the kids instead of retreating to our bedroom. At different times tonight each of the kids tried to engage me in staying in the room with them. I told them that I was needing the room to remain calm tonight. If they wanted needed a different kind of energy, then I could go sit in my room. They each chose to honor my request. We watched a movie together, which was quite touching. It helped me remain connected to the kids, and animals. It felt good.

Life without you tends to be very subdued in many ways. I don't always feel like I accomplish, or do, much. Not that I am terribly bothered by this. I only feel challenged when someone asks what are my plans for the weekend, or what have I been up to lately. I spoke briefly to your mother last night. We talked a bit about Tessa's birthday that's coming up in a couple of weeks. We agreed that the kids and I would drive up for a visit the weekend that follows her birthday. You mother asked how I was doing of course. I said I was doing fine, then took a deep breath, questioning if I should elaborate, but chose not to. Of course she understands, she is going through the same thing. We both miss you terribly, and are having a tough time conceptualizing our world without you. I just worry about depressing her further if I go into how painful this all continues to be, and that all I want is for her son to be back.

You know Michael, my world moves very slowly since you left. At times I feel like a ghost that walks the earth completely unnoticed by those around him. Sometimes I like it. It allows me to just be, without any explanation. At other times I wonder if anyone truly sees me, or recognizes the enormous amount of grief that I carry. You know, I carry you around with me like a cloak of invisibility. I thought you would like that reference to Harry Potter.

I have been looking back on some of my prior posts, and recognize that while I seem to understand what I could be doing to help myself, such as getting to the gym, or trying to make new friends, I don't feel quite ready. I'm not sure if I'll ever be completely ready. I also know that I will eventually take a step forward. I think that for now, I like things the way they are. Meaning that I like the quiet. I feel closest to you when I am not distracted by the noise and chaos of the world around me.

As I sit here writing this, I can feel you pressing against me. It's a new, and comforting sensation. I can feel your body pressed against mine, almost as if I have a second layer of skin which is you. I can almost sense your scent, which is somehow combined with your smile. I know that this makes little sense, but little else does in my life at the moment. I like this sensation. Is it you, or am I just desperately needing to create such a connection? I suppose it doesn't really matter which it is. Any comfort these days is a blessing. I choose to take it in as you being present to me. I'm holding on to you Michael. I don't want to let go.

Now I'm in tears. Why does this move me so. Honey, I need you so much.

I'm going to end this now. I don't want to overly analyze this, or try to put words on something that is indescribable. Just know that I love you. Thank you for choosing me, and for giving me so many wonderful days with you.

Yours.

Dan

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Winter Showers

rain drops on my window...
Originally uploaded by *Mandana

Well, last night turned into a night of heavy rainfall, both outside my window, and inside my bedroom. I don't always see these big emotional outpourings coming on, and I don't always find a reason why one night is more difficult than the next. All I know is that last night my sitting quietly led to heavy tears.

This morning I dropped off my youngest son at the Church, where he takes a religion class. I did some grocery shopping, then walked around a bit to get a cup of coffee. I found my time out a bit heartbreaking. I don't like to sound bitter, or to express my mourning in a way that sounds like whining, but here goes. I just can't be around people these days. I see so many happy couples enjoying a sunny Saturday morning. There are very young couples, and there are quite old couples. They seem oblivious to the possibility of loss. I'm sure many of them have experienced a loss of a loved one, but when that loved one is your spouse, you lose that significant person that stands by you through all the tough times. I don't like the way I feel when I am in the mix. It feels bitter, and I end up feeling bad about myself. It's not like I'm wishing anyone harm, I just get caught up in feeling sorry for myself. I get a bad case of the why Me's.

I know that this will pass, and that I will soon re channel my thoughts in a more positive way. I also know that these type of thoughts will return, and when I least suspect them. This is a process that I don't always think others around me get. There is nothing linear about the grieving process. When we say it gets easier with time, it's not as simple as we want to think. I think of it more like a roller coaster ride, only it's not exciting, and in no way fun.

Tears
Originally uploaded by TimOve

Last night I kind of indulged myself. This will explain why the tears filled my room. I was missing Michael terribly. I had my candles lit by his urn, but last night that didn't seem to offer me the comfort it usually does. So I sprayed the air with some of his cologne. I went through the room and started touching his things. I needed to see him, so I then moved onto my photos. I have parts of our wedding ceremony on this computer, but for some reason it would not play the video. I tried over and over, but I couldn't get it to work. This became so frustrating. I wanted so badly to see Michael in motion, and to hear his voice. Surprisingly, with this modern age, this is the only video I have of Michael. No where else do I find his image in movement, or hear him speak.

I finally gave up my feeble attempts. I told myself it was probably not what I needed to hear. I'm a bit stubborn, but after walking into a wall a few times I do finally realize there is no current entry. Maybe I was meant to not dip into the familiar waters. I often think that another force is at work, telling me that I need to not go there tonight. I try to honor the message, as perhaps it is part of the letting go, the healing process.

I realize that reading my experience may sound as though I am not willing to let go, or to accept what life has dealt me. All I can say is that it is too soon to fully accept, and keep walking. I would rather go through this process, and learn from it. If you have been reading my posts from the beginning I hope you see that I am continuing to walk. But what I am learning, and want others to understand, is that the road I am on is long and winding.

In an online exchange with another widowed friend this week, we discuss how our emotional response to grief can take us right back to where we started. The difference now is that we know that we will get through it. That is how I know I am on the right track. In the prior months my reaction to missing and losing Michael would take me to a very dark and lonely hole. I felt as though I would never come out of it, and at times I wished I would just sink in forever. These days the pain can be just as gut wrenching, but I know that it will pass. I have to remind myself that I can't always control how much it will hurt, but I can reassure myself that I am surviving.

This is what progress look like. This is what healing feels like.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

BLUE

Under Control
Originally uploaded by *MSM*

In the English language, blue may refer to the feeling of sadness. "He was feeling blue". This is because blue was related to rain, or storms, and in Greek mythology, the god Zeus would make rain when he was sad (crying), and a storm when he was angry.

Blue is how I would describe my mood today. It's not a deep dark blue, like how you would imagine down deep in a well of despair. I have had many days like that in the past. It is hard to know if those days are now behind me. I certainly hope so.

Today's blue is calm, cool, but not collected. I actually feel a bit scattered in my thoughts. Earlier I was looking out my bedroom window, and could feel the coolness of the air permeate through the glass. When I looked up at the sky I saw that it's color was becoming deeper the longer I sat.

Deep Blue Dreams
Originally uploaded by harikrishnanbhaskaran

One thing that I have noticed, and I don't know if this is primarily a male thing, but when I am feeling sad, or blue, I can easily get angered. The kids might say something to me, and without warning I erupt. So much for the calm and cool. I don't like when this happens, as then I am suddenly seeing red. At least I have some awareness of this, and am trying to work on this. (Note to self, "cool it")

I really feel for my kids. This cannot be an easy time for them. They also lost someone. They too tried to prepare for his loss, but as we adults know, all the preparation in the world is not going to necessarily make it any easier. What I worry about is not only did they lose their step dad, but for the past four months they have lost a big part of me.

I am just not as present as I used to. I go through the motions each day, waking them, reminding them to be prepared for their day, and making sure they have homework done, and something to eat before the end of the night. What is lost is the parts in between. I suppose it is what we consider the joy of living. I tend to take a lackluster approach to life these days. I am trying to work on it, and some days I have a better handle on it than others. My kids need more, probably more than I can give at the moment.

I'm aware that I am in a much better place psychologically these past few weeks. The kids don't find me completely falling apart. They see more of the quiet side of me. I am often lost in my thoughts or teary eyed. That part seems okay with them. And, I suppose it could always be worse, right?

I tell myself that what I am doing is enough. This is a message that a previous therapist used to tell me. When your kids need so much, it often feels like you are always falling short. My 16 year old son just called to talk to me on the phone. During the week he lives in a residential program for boys with emotional challenges. I am currently looking for a new school for him here in San Francisco. The idea that he will be back at home full time has him very excited, yet also quite anxious. Tonight he called to talk about his feelings, and to let me know that his day didn't go very well. As he was speaking I found myself feeling anxious as well. He then stopped and asked how my day went. I told him it went fine, and that his younger brother had a couple of appointments I needed to get him to, so I was only able to work half a day. He said that I sounded sad, which I confirmed that he was very perceptive. I assured him that I would be fine, and that this was just part of what my days are like. He seemed to understand.

Just thinking about that conversation makes me appreciate my son. Even with all his challenges, he offers me so much. I know that we will have some difficult times ahead as a family. We are all grieving, and we are all needing to keep moving forward.

Blue Heaven
Originally uploaded by ARTeTǝTЯA

My mood appears to be picking up. Taking the time to write is such a powerful medium for me. The process always helps me to better identify what I am feeling. Once I can identify it, then is doesn't feel so burdensome or overwhelming. I am then better able to just sit with my sadness, sit in shades of blue.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Moaning

Moan: a. A low, sustained, mournful cry, usually indicative of sorrow or pain.
b. A similar sound: the eerie moan of the night wind.

Pain, Outake.
Originally uploaded by flightlessXbird

I am so miserable today. I haven't had a full nights sleep in so long. My head is either pounding with pain, or filled with the ever present sensation of static auditory auras. It is all driving me fucking nuts. I hate life today. All I can do is moan, moan, moan.

I hate trying to be strong. I hate trying to maintain sanity. I hate smiling in public. I hate pretending that I am any better than....yesterday, last month, two months ago, three months ago. fuck!

I just want this all to be over. What is the point of all this suffering? I'm not going to be rewarded for it. There will be no fucking break on my taxes. I'm not going to be a better person because of all of this. I am going to be bitter. I am going to grow old alone. I'm not going to know any joy. That is such bullshit.

I think everyone who tells me that it will be okay, is lying to me. I think that everyone who tells me this, doesn't know my pain.

LOOK PEOPLE!! If you turn to your left, or to your right, and your partner, spouse, husband or wife is sitting there next to you, then do me a favor, don't tell me you know my pain. Don't give me kind words right now. I'm so damn mad right now.

Don't want to hear this? then don't call me. Don't want to see my pain? slam the door in my face. Don't want to catch this? then send me off to some lonely island.

I don't want to hear about your parties. I don't want to hear about your fun times. I don't want to hear about how annoying your spouse was today. Mine could be a royal pain in the ass sometimes, and I want him back!

Am I angry? Yes. Am I angry? YES.

See how much I hate my life right now? What did I do? Why did this happen to me?

I want Michael back. I promise to do whatever God wants me to do. I promise to be a good boy. I promise to smile at strangers. I promise to walk old ladies across the street. I promise to do all my homework. I promise to eat all my vegetables.

I promise to work hard. I promise to study hard. I promise to sing in the choir. I promise to be there for everyone. I promise to play nice, be nice, look nice, smell nice, feel nice. sound nice, speak nice.

What do you want me to do?

I know it's too late. But I asked you for this before. I asked for you mercy so long ago. I asked you to give me this one thing. And I asked you so nicely.

What happened? Didn't I ask correctly? Did I forget to say please?

Michael was a good boy. He did all the right things. He was a wonderful man. He was a wonderful lover, partner, husband, son, brother, uncle, step-dad, worker, friend. What else did you want from him? I'm sure he did it? Maybe you weren't looking? Maybe you missed it?

I feel like I had the wrong owner's manual all this time. I thought I had done all that I was supposed to. I wasn't asking for something other people didn't have. I just wanted the same, to be happy.

Fine. This is my life. I get it. No, don't worry. I said I'll be just fine. I'm always fine, right?

No, don't tell anyone about this. Don't worry about me. I'm calming down now. I'm sure it was just a moment of weakness. I'll be fine. No, really.

I've calmed down. Oh, yes, perfectly fine. What? Oh, yes, your right, I am blessed. What? Of course, I am happy that I had him for that short time. No. I said I'll be fine. Listen, it is what it is. Right?

Don't worry. No need to bother. No, no, no.

You're right, you're right. Time does heal. Look at me.

I'm healed already.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

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.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Giving Our Memories New Life

This heart of mine,
originally uploaded by SalaBoli.

When you have lost someone very close to you, someone you loved without limits, a darkness moves in around your heart. It feels like the color of your blood suddenly becomes a much deeper color, and as it moves through your body, everything becomes tainted with pain. Grief then becomes a process circulating the blood so that it continuously passes through your heart. With each cycle the blood flows through your liver, your kidneys and up through your brain. Throughout this process your body is absorbing and disposing of toxins.

The pain of my loss has made my heart at times feel tough and dark, yet at the same time raw and tender. Throughout the day my blood flows through this cycle, at times I can feel the toxins building up in one particular area of my body. Perhaps it is a tightness in my chest or a strain in my upper back. Most days it has my head in a vice grip, then later it settles in my abdomen. It can be a slight annoyance, or it can be a gut wrenching experience.

In these early days, for me two months, the darkness that surrounds and infects my heart has created a barrier between it and my brain. Where I used to think about a pleasant or loving memory, and be filled with joy, these days there is a disconnect. My mind keeps telling my heart that there were so many wonderful times, and please remember the feelings and sensations that use to flow so easily. But the darkness that engulfs my heart prevents it from seeing these truths. The experience ends up being like a silent picture, with so soundtrack to move me.

I know that with each cycle there will begin to be some clarity. I know that at times the toxicity levels of pain will vary. I don't expect that my heart and mind will ever be completely healed, or ever the same. But perhaps in time my memories will be given new life. Perhaps as they flow through the blood in my body, I will begin to experience them in new ways. That will be the time when my memories become an agent of comfort. That is when I will begin to feel a warmth in my heart. The blood that flows through my body will begin to feel a lighter, or brighter, shade of red.

What currently feels cold, dark or broken, will one day feel renewed.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Sun/Son breaks through the clouds.

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

Last night a storm swept through San Francisco. Out my window it poured rain. Inside my home, just the same.

Some days grief hits me like a ton of bricks. Yesterday was one of them. There were so many facets to my day that just kept prodding me like a dagger into my heart. These were not necessarily negative things, most were actually positive. I could spend some time here describing them in detail, but when I think it through I realize that in some ways the events or interactions are not that significant. On days like yesterday I am just completely vulnerable, like a warrior sent into battle without a shield. In times like that I am finding that it is best to just surrender to the grief. It is only with gut wrenching sobbing do I feel relief.

Today the sun came out. With the day came a knowing that grief could be a more tolerable companion.

This evening my 11 year old son and I attending a grief support group for children. The kids meet to process, to share, their experience with other kids. There is an equal ratio of adult facilitators who guide the kids through activities that help them express their grief. During this time, we parents meet in a separate room to offer each other support through our own process. I must say, it was a good evening. What comfort it gave me knowing that as I am feeling supported in one room, my son was being given the same in another. At the end of the evening both groups came back together so that we end with a sense of connectedness.

Once in our car I was able to check in with my son. He said, "you know dad, I think this group is going to be very good for me." What a joy to hear. My son had such a beautiful peacefulness about him while he expressed himself. One of the biggest challenges in my grieving process so far has been how to meet my kids needs while I am struggling to stay afloat. The loss of Michael has been significant to our children. I can only imagine that this is magnified when they see their other parent falling apart. This has been my worry, as while I'm keenly aware of this dynamic, I have at times felt unable to address it. Having this group is a wonderful way to meet each of our needs.

Today was a gift.

Today I felt held by Michael's loving arms.

Today I didn't feel so alone.

Today the sun broke through the clouds.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Message to Michael

love letter,
originally uploaded by Negar Daneshfar.
Dear Michael.

I had lunch with a new friend today. It was sunny out, so it gave us the opportunity to walk and chat in this beautiful city of ours. You would have enjoyed the restaurant, Italian cuisine. We shared a nice bottle of red wine, and had pasta with clams. What a nice treat. All through our meal I had the opportunity to introduce my friend to you, and I got introduced to his husband as well. We talked about how we met each of you, and the things we enjoyed doing as a couple. Funny, we both met our partner/husband in a gay bar. We shared with each other our stories of meeting each of you, was it love at first sight, and were there hurdles to overcome. We talked about how soon we moved in together, how we all became home-bodies, and where we vacationed as a couple.

I think we would have enjoyed knowing this couple. You and my friend's husband were both bright, and very computer savvy. We talked about how we were in awe of our husband's intelligence, open heart and ability to love.

It felt so good to spend an afternoon that included you. I felt so happy to be saying your name out loud. It felt great to have someone asking questions about you, about us. It felt equally satisfying to ask questions about his husband, to hear of their many years together, and to picture the life they created as a couple.

After lunch I stopped in for a cup of coffee, and to see the beautiful view they have from their balcony. Again, you would have loved this. Once in their home I recognized something very familiar to ours. I recognized a home filled with memories, filled with love, and filled with mementos collected from their life together. I also recognized a quiet stillness.

What I didn't find there was my friend's husband, as he also recently left this world. Maybe wherever you are, you can look for him and introduce yourself. Maybe you can share with him that you were both terribly missed today. When you meet him, both of you can smile, and share your stories. Both of you can say that you had husbands who totally adored you. Both of you can say how good it is to find support with other's that have had similar experiences. Maybe both of you can reach out to us, and remind us that we wouldn't be experiencing such grief unless we had experienced such love.

Remind me Michael. Remind me of the happy times. Remind me what joy feels like. Remind me that you will somehow always be there for me. Remind me that I won't always feel like this.

You said that if there was a way to come back and tell me these things, that you would. I know that. I know that you meant it when you said these words. I am waiting. I am waiting to hear these words whispered into my ear. This must be why I lie awake each night. I am waiting.

I love you Michael.

You still have my heart.

-Dan

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Longing

without you
Originally uploaded by *Aemaeth*

It's Saturday night, and I'm sitting here watching "Nights in Rodanthe." This is exactly the type of movie that Michael would quickly lose interest in. He would try to appear interested, but would soon be getting out a Sudoku puzzle, or wander downstairs to see what was on the Sci-Fi Channel. It's one of the things the kids caught onto very early in our relationship. They would walk into the room, where I would be sitting next to Michael "enjoying" an action or science fiction movie. The first thing out of their mouths would be, "obviously you picked this movie Mike, my dad would never watch this on his own."

Funny the things we do for love.

These days I don't watch too much television at all. Or, if I do, it's on without the sound. My mind is always too occupied with thoughts of absence, Michael's absence. During these past two months this laptop has become a permanent fixture on my lap. It's like a part of my body. I sometimes worry that it is becoming my surrogate for Michael. I can talk to it, talk through it. It gives me an immediate tactile response as I type my thoughts and feelings. If only it could grow arms, put them around me at night, and breathe softly against my face.

Some nights my 11 year old can't sleep, and comes down to crawl into my bed. He asked me one night why I have pillows stretched out beside me at night. Before I could respond he answered his own question. "It's to help you sleep without Mike, isn't it." Yes, I've tried everything. I've sprayed his cologne in the room, put on his favorite music, worn his favorite t-shirts, held the pocket-watch he gave me next to my ear, re-read cards and notes, lit votive candles by his urn, breathed deep into our comforter and stroked his side of the bed. Like this laptop, each of these give me minimal sensory responses.

I know that as I sit here with this movie playing in the background, that I am going to be left with a sense of longing. The storyline is centered around romance, pain and loss. The alternative is a "Mike" movie, which will distract me for the same period of time, but will also leave me longing for him. This is what keeps me up at night. No matter what I do, no matter how I occupy my day, I end each night the same.

I end each night without Michael.

I brush my teeth without Michael. I get into bed without Michael. I warm the sheets without Michael. I lie awake without Michael. I eventually fall asleep without Michael. I wake up without Michael. I eat breakfast without Michael. I parent the kids without Michael. I take out the trash without Michael. I play with the dog and cat without Michael. I go through the mail without Michael. I cook dinner without Michael. I eat at the table without Michael. I watch television without Michael. I eat ice-cream without Michael, I brush my teeth without Michael.

I get into bed without Michael.

I end the night without Michael.

I just remembered how this movie is going to end. I should have picked a Mike movie.

Friday, November 13, 2009

A Mother's Love

Mother and Son,
originally uploaded by INTVGene.

Today I am having a difficult time concentrating at work. My thoughts have been on Michael, his final days, and his final hours. Michael had not only my devotion, but that of his mother.

Michael's mother lives almost three hours north of our home, yet she was there whenever he was in need. This summer she spent every other week in our home, carefully balancing Michael's needs with those of her grandchildren. As Michael's condition became more complicated, she was there full time.

During the past 60 days Michael's mother and I have shared in our grief for him. Our grief is not the same, we both loved him, but I understand that she has loved and supported him for 47 years. She had dreams for him, many of which he has certainly surpassed. Yet I also know there are many dreams that she has had to let go, and take flight along with him.

In reflecting back on the adventurous life of Michael, I can see that his mother had to say goodbye to him many times. In high school he applied to the foreign exchange program, and went to live with family in France. After college Michael left for two years with the Peace Corp in Senegal. From there was Washington DC, Latvia, Estonia, and Norway. I'm sure it was a point of pride for his mother to see him achieving his dreams of being part of that larger world. As a parent myself, I know it wasn't easy to see him off, knowing that it would be a considerable amount of time until she saw him again.

I don't know if Michael completely understood that his earthly life was coming to an end, or that his new journey was about to begin. What I do know is that he was comforted to know that his mother was once again there to see him off. This was a very difficult thing for her to do. This was her baby boy, and he wouldn't be coming back from this journey.

I believe she will one day see him again. I believe Michael will welcome her when that day comes. Until that day I hope she will hold Michael's love and gratitude close to her heart. I hope that he is able to reach out and comfort her along the way. I know that he loved her very much.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Two Months

University College, Oxford (Shelley Memorial),
originally uploaded by Martin Beek.

Tomorrow will be the two-month anniversary of my husband Michael's death.

Why does it feel like it has been so much longer?

Why does it feel like it was just yesterday?

I believe that these questions are understood by all of us who grieve. I don't claim to be an authority on grief and loss. I can only speak from my own authentic experience. My experience is from losing my spouse.

The pain, the emptiness that is left by losing Michael, has been enormous. Each day, each hour, I experience intense loss. I carry my grief as if walking up a very steep mountain. At times I can stop and take a breather. At times I can put on a smile. But this kind of loss is all consuming. I am constantly reminded that "time will heal," and while I believe this is true, times like this move very slowly. The aching for Michael does not end when the sun goes down. It is with me all through the night. I have yet to have a full night's sleep. Some nights I don't sleep at all. What makes matters worse, is that this early period of grief has cast a shadow on the years of happiness with Michael. The time I had with him feels like the blink of an eye at the moment. Yes, "time" will change this. In time I will feel comforted by my memories, but don't expect me to feel comforted by them quite yet.

When I think of the time I had with Michael, if you think of the time you have had with your loved one, two months is a significantly short period. I loved this man for three and a half years. Throughout those years he laid right here beside me. Throughout those years he wrapped his arms around me. Throughout those years he kissed me each day and told me how much he loved me. Throughout those years I did the same. To expect that I could possibly not wake up and want, need, or expect the same is beyond my heart's understanding.

I feel as though I am caught in a time warp. I know that we don't like to see each other in pain. I know that we cannot fully comprehend someone else's grief unless we have experienced the same loss. I look back on those I have known who have lost their partner or spouse. I now understand the loneliness that they experience. I now understand that while the rest of the world must continue on, their experience of loss remains ever present.

I write these thoughts, these feelings, for all of us who sit alone in our homes or bedrooms tonight. I will be present with you, and you can be present with me. Our grief is not within our control. My grief is not within my control. I don't want to control it. Rather, I choose to be present to it. I choose to experience it, to share it, and to not apologize for it. I know this may be uncomfortable to some, or even worrisome for those who care about me. Just know, this is what I must do, this is what I must say, this is what I must feel.

....a few minutes ago my 11 year old son woke up and was calling out to me. I could hear him through the heating vents even though his bedroom and mine are on separate floors. When I entered his room he sat up, reached out with his arms and said I miss you dad. He then held me tight, and said "I really miss Mike."

Two months,

an eternity,

just yesterday.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Missing Michael

Tonight I am missing Michael terribly. I yearn for his touch, to hear his voice, to see his eyes sparkle when he smiles. I miss his humor, I miss his annoying habits, I miss him sitting here next to me working on his Sudoku.

Michael was my husband. I loved being married to him. I knew the night I met him that he would steal my heart. He was sweet, charming, cute and insecure. I had not been in a long term relationship for many years, yet always knew that it was what I desired most. Michael gave me the opportunity to lean on another man. A man I could share my love with, and share my life with. He rounded out my family in such a positive way. He supported me and the kids through many challenges, and gave us the opportunity to give back.

I always felt like I was missing out on one of life's most cherished blessings, which was to be committed in mind, heart and body to another individual. He fed my passion. I loved finding that right blend of sexual desire and deep emotional intimacy. He was an intellect with a heart of gold. Together we continuously worked on finding compromise in our relationship. We had different ways of dealing with conflict, and yet we learned to respect our differences. Michael liked to "sleep on it," and I liked to process things all night long.

I loved sleeping beside this man every night. I loved the comfort of his warmth, and the tenderness of his touch. I loved watching him sleep, and waking up with my legs tangled with his.

We had a marriage, we had a family.

We had our community, we had our life.

I miss Michael every day.

I miss him terribly tonight.

Dan

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A Year of Mourning

Young Man Mourning #1

originally uploaded by just.Luc (just.Censored).

What ever happened to the various traditions around mourning. In many cultures there is a mourning period that usually extends out to a year. During that time the widows would primarily wear black to symbolized their grief. It was an outward symbol to the community of their loss, and of their new station in life. By witnessing this, others would automatically know that the individual was in mourning. I sometimes wish that this was still part of our tradition.

As I returned to work many people knew of my loss. Many extended their condolences, yet others probably wondered why they hadn't seen me around the office for several months. Also, when out shopping, or participating in day to day life, I often feel like I am walking around with a dark cloud over me. A dark cloud that only I can see. Other's may wonder why I look so down, hey, "did someone die?" Well, yes, someone did die.

For awhile I was wearing Michael's wedding ring, but it kept slipping off my finger, as his hands were bigger than mine. There are times that I would like people to know that I have been through such a significant trauma. I would like to be asked once in awhile about Michael. I don't want him to just fade away. I want people to notice that I wear a wedding ring. I want to be able to tell them of what a godsend he was, and how my life is forever changed because of him. I want people to see that I am different because he is gone.

As I move about my day I feel changed, sad, lost and empty. There is a sense of disinterest in everything I do. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I see sorrow in the dark circles around my eyes. I see less animation in my facial expressions. I feel less strength in my posture. There is no spring in my step.

Are each of these adequate indicators to the outside world that I am in mourning? I doubt it. In fact, I believe most of these indicators go unnoticed. I suppose I could wear all black, yet in San Francisco it would be considered either urban chic, or middle age goth.

As you may have noticed in my recent pictures I do have my tattoos. They are an outward symbol of my grief. They are a committed symbol of my grief. My most recent, and largest tattoo is the Tree of Life. This was done less than two weeks after Michael's death. I have tattoos of my most important commitments in life. I have tattoos with symbols, and names, of each of my children. I have a tattoo that is the symbol of "My Body" to remind me to take care of this vessel. I have a mixed tattoo of my birth month in the Mayan Calendar, with am Aztec design overlay. This is to remind me of my ancestral history. I have my lotus flower and symbol of hope, complete with Michael's initials which I got a couple of Valentine's Days ago.

My Tree of Life was done on a large scale as a visual commitment to growing through this grieving process. The Tree of Life has roots that go deep underground, where life can get dark and murky. Yet it's branches can reach high up to the heavens. And is it only in bitter waters can we find that the Tree of Life is of value to us. In bitter times faith will spring eternal. I was raised to believe this. And even though I am too deep into the bitterness of life at this time, I will remain steadfast in my commitment to make this a time of faith and growth.

Above my Tree of Life is a beautiful bird, which has just fed off the tree, and is flying high into the heavens. The bird flies up high into the sky without a second thought, for he now understands his destiny. He is headed off to somewhere bigger, and better, than this world. His faith is no longer being tested, for he now knows his truth.

My experiences are permanently drawn on my body. I wear them proudly. On my back I wear these symbols of love and mourning. They tell the story of these past few years, and are an outward sign that I am forever changed. I am in mourning.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Mindful Evolution

Yesterday I spent a good part of the afternoon putting together a video of images and pictures I have taken to express my grief. I decided that I should delve into other ways to express myself, beyond words. I was pleased with the outcome, but for some reason have been unable to upload it to this blog. Hopefully I will be able to share it with all of you at some point.

What I can do is describe the process, and what it meant to me. I wanted to see what my body language looked like when I grieve. I set the camera on a timer, then put myself in positions that I find myself in when alone and feeling the intensity of my grief. It was a very interesting experience. Usually I am lost in emotion, then find myself lying on my bed in a pattern of positions. For this experience, I was calm, but put my body into the positions for the camera. By looking at the pictures I am able to tap into these emotions quickly. I can see how my body responds to feelings of loneliness, sorrow, pain, and mindfulness.

I hope that this experience will help me in better identifying what I am feeling, by observing my body language. Too often I feel as though I have but one emotion left, which is pain. But looking at the images I can see nuance. I can see how at times I am in a fetal position, needing to be nurtured by Michael's spirit, or perhaps by God. At times I flat on my back, experiencing the full weight of my sorrow upon my body. This position causes me to see, and experience, my grief head on, without turning away from it. Some images were of me meditating in my garden. For these I chose to disrobe, so that I could better observe my body, my muscles, my skin, every detail when I am in mindful meditation.

What I see is raw emotion. What I see is a peacefulness that comes over me when I am unburdened by physical and emotional influence. I am reminded of what I need during this time. I need more quiet, stillness and serenity. I need to listen to my body. I need to get out of my head, and fully experience my raw emotions without the burden of making judgements about how I "should be doing."

Sometimes we need to be willing to stand naked in front of ourselves. We need to observe ourselves without judgement. Observe and learn. This period of grief is so profound and life-altering. We are changed by our loss. I will never be the same, so I must be mindful of my own evolution. It is only then that I can benefit from this painful process.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

No sleep for me

So tired, but too restless to sleep. Most nights I sit here, busy myself on this computer, or find other things to occupy my mind. I have always suffered from insomnia, but this is different. With my insomnia it's about having trouble falling asleep, or staying asleep. With grief it feels more like a subconscious unwillingness to sleep. I know that if I lay down, turn out the lights, and relax, I will have to face my loneliness, being alone, without Michael.

Everything around me reminds me that he isn't here. I find myself getting out of bed, looking for something that will temporarily ease my loss. Sometimes it is reading a card he gave to me. Some days it is listening to music that he loved, wearing one of his shirts, piling pillows on his side of the bed. Most nights it leads me to the urn that holds his ashes, reaching out to caress it with my hands. A candle to keep vigil, glowing in the dark, giving me a sense of his presence. Some nights it is spraying the air with his cologne, keeping his scent floating around me.

I know that what I yearn for, I will not find.
He is gone.
My mind knows what my heart will not accept.
He is gone.
Logic does not factor in.

He is gone.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Heavy Heart

heart of stone,
originally uploaded by _McConnell_.

Heavy heart.

I know my heart has been changed, as it weighs heavier in my body. I sometimes struggle to carry it. I imagine it darker in color, hardened, occupying more space. It pushes against my chest, bruising me from within.

I know it is hurt. I know that it has been stretched beyond belief.

In time it will heal. I don't picture my heart ever looking, or feeling, the same. I pray that it will one day soften in texture, that it will warm to the touch of others.

I need to believe that my heart will have a greater capacity to love. That new life will flow through it.

For now I will hold it, listen to it, learn to accept it's change.

It now beats for two.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Acute Grief

I'm not okay (I promise),
originally uploaded by Lacking Focus.
Today I felt my grief bubbling up within in me. Throughout my work day I was having to take deep breaths, as if there was not enough oxygen getting into my lungs. I suppose what I was feeling was a bit of a panic attack. At times I was able to shed a few tears, knowing that they would help lessen the pain in my chest. Once getting into my car I was able to give in, to succumb to the flood.

Grief can be so acute at times. I don't always see it coming, and I don't always know why this moment is different from the last. There was no desire on my part to fight it. The pain within becomes far stronger than I, and it can be such a relief to unleash it. I arrived at my son's school, to pick him up, complete with sunglasses. I know it made no sense, it was already getting dark, and the school yard was being engulfed by fog. Yet I didn't want to solicit too much concern with my red and swollen eyes. My son, and his teacher, quickly saw that I was having a tough time, and gave me some supportive words.

Tonight has been much the same. Michael's best friend, Craig, came over for an "Ugly Betty" marathon. We had a fun evening, yet before he arrived, and immediately afterward, I once again found myself sobbing. I guess it is just "one of those days." These intense type of days happen less frequently, yet they are so familiar.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Walk a mile in my shoes.

originally uploaded by flint knits.
Tonight was week four of my LGBT Bereavement Group. We are building quite a camaraderie, as we continue to gather, and share with each other our common experiences with grief. We are each at somewhat different places along this journey, yet each knows the pain of losing that primary person in our lives.

There is so much comfort in just being in room with this group of people. In this one area of life, we have all walked a mile in each other's shoes. I look around the room as see the knowing nods from others as I speak. When one cries, we all seem to get quiet, and allow that person to feel held by us collectively. Sometimes I derive so much healing from the silent pauses, which eventually lead to our taking a deep breath before moving to the next subject.

There are also tender moments where we share a memory that is humorous in retrospect. I love these moments. I see them as hope inspiring. They show me that with the right person/group of people I can find fleeting moments of joy, and laughter, that needs to rise out from under all the gloom.

I've walked a mile in you shoes.

You've walked a mile in my shoes.

Let's to walk together.