I sat in a dark basement unsure how to operate a complex power tool when Mike approaches and I ask him why he bought so many complex things. He knows what I really mean,

"Why did you die and leave me with so many complex things to figure out?"

For once we aren't rushing into each other's arms, we aren't clasping to the wisps of each other that still linger in our subconscious. We just stand and talk, face to face. Like the soul mates we once were.

"When I had the choice to die, I couldn't resist. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities".

I huff a little air out of my nose. My mind goes back, almost 3 years back. To the morning he lay on the couch, between this world and the next. He had survived before: I had revived him, others had revived him. But this time he chose to float further down the stream of nothingness. Losing his full consciousness to the void.

I tell him I understand. I can't hide the pain, but it doesn't boil on the surface like fresh blisters anymore. He leans down and looks me in the eye, "I am sorry I don't get to visit like I'd wanted, I don't get to see you grow up. I left a lot of pain, you and Mark took the brunt of it."

I remember last year at the cemetery - 2 years after. The only person who seemed to ache like I did was his closest brother. The sight of each other was almost too much for either of us to bear. The only other person his little brother Mikey loved as much as him, was me - and vice versa.

One last thing strikes me as my alarm starts robbing my time with Mike short: he isn't magically better. I am not talking to the Mike I fell in love with at 17, or the Mike that sits atop the pedestal in my memories: the one carved of the good times and not the bad. I am talking, albeit rationally, to the Mike that left.

There is no illusion that the mental illness and brain injuries that sold our time short would have reversed and graciously re-instituted our marriage.

Regardless of his decision to float away, we would never have lived the life we had planned. Those dreams were not meant for us. Even if he had chose to live, our marriage and love story had already died.





Thank you for joining June's Widowed Blog Hop. I hope you'll stop by the other widowed bloggers and send them some love. 

http://samanthalightgallagher.wordpress.com/widowed-blog-hop/


Samantha of the Crazy Courage blog
Janine of One Breath At A Time
Red’s The M3 Blog
Christine of Widow Island
Tim’s Diary of a Widower
Running Forward: Abel Keogh’s Blog
Tamara of Artful Living After Loss
Jessica at Buttons to Beans
Missing Bobby: A Widow’s Journey
The Grief Toolbox
The Widow’s Mite: Encouragement for Widows
Widowed Yogi
Choosing Grace Today

Lately I have noticed a change in myself. Something shifted. I no longer automatically refer to Mike as "my late husband". There are a lot of people who don't even know that I was once married. When he comes up in anticdote I sometimes refer to him as "my first husband". But always with a smile.

A year ago, I couldn't imagine not speaking about Mike. Not making sure that EVERYONE knew that I was once married, he had left and now I was a widow. Doctors, grocers who inquired about my crying over the produce, mechanics who questioned my inability to make a decision without staring at my phone - wanting to call Mike but not knowing the number to heaven: all of them heard that I USED to have my act together, and death ripped it apart.

Maybe its because I'm less "apart" these days. I don't feel conflicted, or even guilty about living. I don't feel mad at Mike the way I used to. And I don't feel like I need to justify his absence with the shock word "widowed".

This doesn't mean that I feel any less widowed, I guess I don't feel just widowed anymore. I've been married to Mike in death longer than I was in life. We spent 8 (mostly) happy years of our lives intertwined. That may be a lie. We probably spent 6 1/2 (mostly) happy years and 1 1/2 insanely hellish (with blotches of joy) years.

I believe that being with Mike was the most revolutionary force in my life to date. But that doesn't mean he, or even his death, has been the only force. The sands of the desert are scarred by wind, sun and water. Etching deep samskara or scars/grooves that show the next rounds of breath and tears the paths that have already been carved.

via

There will be more pain, there will be more loss. There are more arguments, more relationships. Though each is affected by the existing scars, the new experiences shape the scenery and are constantly changing it into something new.

My landscape has now been shaped by so much since the loss of Mike, that though the chasms of his death remain, the lines are no longer sharp and the edges not so steep. They have been weathered and worn with time and patience.

via

Here's a song that I heard that completely expresses how I feel about Mike and our marriage. It brings happy, contented tears to my eyes every time. No Regrets.

 Darling, no regrets
I'm so glad we met
Even though we made a mess
I'm glad we said yes
Darling, no regrets

You know I love you still
and I always will.
Love is not a test,
I know we did our best.
darling, no regrets

oh darling,
no regrets
oh darling,
no regrets

Darling, no regrets
Here's to your success
may all you do be blessed
i wish you every happiness
darling, no regrets

oh darling,
no regrets
oh darling,
no regrets

- "No Regrets"  Forest Sun

With Love and Light,
Jess

Complicated Love - used by Creative Commons

"When I saw how much pain love could bring I felt sorry for those in love, when I saw how much joy love could bring I envied those in love." - Unknown


Many widow/ers have a beautiful love story of the man/woman who passed long before their love could ever run dry. Of kissing someone and not knowing it was going to be the last time. 

I knew I'd kissed Mike for the last time. 
Not because he was physically ill. 
But because we filed for divorce. 
The day we decided that we could not continue to hold each other back, 
we both left work early, curled up in bed together and cried. 
Cried and cried 
and held each other as if there was a death in the family. 
It was the death of our "family".

We cried for the hopes and dreams that would never be, 
we mourned the relationship that never reached the potential that we dreamed so vividly.
We hated that we were giving up, 
but neither of us had the strength to carry ourselves 
and the gimping, bleeding, festering relationship any longer. 

We praised each other for the accomplishments and goals we set for our new lives. 
I was going to continue doing yoga, 
Mike was going to finish school. 
We would find our true selves again,
then remarry someone new.

The plan:
Learn from the mistakes of our marriage, 
and find our friendship again.
We always were best friends. 
We were good at that. 

I was so excited for him to find his path. 
I could see it vividly....
he would finish school, find a pretty young woman, 
more in-line with his parent's expectations - 
and they would raise a family and be happy. 
I wanted this for him. 
I loved him so much that I wanted him to find his peace, his family and his future - even if that meant without me.

That may have been my plan, 
may even have been Mike's plan, 
But that wasn't fate's plan. 

Turns out, 
I wasn't the one holding Mike back.
I was the one treading his water.
I was the one fighting the demons.

Sometimes when you let the baby bird out of the nest, 
they fly right into the window.
But you still had to let them fly. 

I don't regret filing for divorce.
Mike and I agreed it was the right thing to do. 
But he never signed the papers before he took his last breath. 
A breath filled with desperation, escape and inhalants.

Filing for divorce doesn't take away the pain of death,
Death doesn't take away the pain of a failed marriage. 
Both are ranked as the most stressful events of your life
Having both together... 
if you haven't experienced it....
just be kind to those who have...
you can never understand...
how deep the betrayal, 
how tangible the regrets
how abandoning the loss
and how isolated you feel. 

Being a divorcing widow is a unique form of solitary confinement. 
You feel
isolated from your family, 
hated by your in-laws,
distanced by your friends,
and (sometimes) chastised by other widows. 

To all of the other separated, divorced, or 
just-plain-complicated widows out there. 
You aren't alone, 
You aren't a horrible person.
You are loved.
You did the best you could.

Try to love the man you married, 
and forgive the man who died.
In time, that combination of love and forgiveness will give you peace. 
Nothing removes the pain, 
But the ever-elusive peace can be attained, even for only moments. 


*Author's note: If you like this post, please share it. Let the "complicated widows" know that they are not alone, that you stand next to them and realize that their pain is just as real. 



With Love and Light, 
Jess

You can also check out this, and other blog posts at http://www.thewiddahood.com/2012/08/27/divorcingwidow/