Widowed at 41

On Tuesday, May 19th, I came home from work and found my 37-yr-old husband dead.

Let that sink in. Really, let it sink in.

The initial shock and trauma have passed. The memorial service was beautiful and arranged to a T as Kelly had requested. His parents have now become part of the group of bereaved parents that I never wanted to be in. I am a widow at 41. My child is fatherless at 2.

In the past 8 days, I have seen sides of people that are surprising, shocking even, to me. My friends have been amazing, as they always are. Three core members of my posse dropped everything and came to my side the night I found him. They stayed with me for hours as my house was combed by police and my husband taken from here for the last time.

There are others. Others who believe they knew him better than anyone else. Others, who, believe that they have "rights" to him. I have spoken to people individually. I have tried to be reasonable. It hasn't been successful. This is why I write today.

We have been married a little over three years. We have been together for five. We have lived together for four years. So, during the past five years, I saw him almost every day. It was I who held Kelly when he was scared, crying, or sick. Were you there when we lost two pregnancies? Were you there when I threw up for hours on end, day after day, for 22 weeks of my pregnancy with Emory? No, but he was.

Were you here when we bickered? Were you here when the ugly sides of both of us came out? No. You may have heard from one or both of us, but you didn't see what really happened. My friend, Julie, saw more than most. She had the unfortunate knack of being here on a couple of days when ugliness was spewing. I believe she would answer questions if you really want to argue what you think you know.

There are people who have started social media pages and events using my husband's name without my knowledge. When I asked for that to be stopped, not only was my request not honored, I was criticized and disrespected.

My heart is broken. It breaks over and over. I come in my door and see the place where I last saw Kelly and it wasn't pretty. My beautiful, wise child asks in different ways every day for his daddy. I am the sole party able to handle the legal aspects of his death. I am out of work, so there are financial concerns.

My funny, sweet, imperfect husband has been dead for 8 days. People, you need to back off. Things I may be happy to see occur in the future are not appropriate now. I cannot believe that I am being pushed about festivals! For the love of God and the memory of the man you say you love, please stop. Please let me grieve and try to get my life in some kind of new order. I should be doing nothing except necessities and taking care of Emory.

Thank you to all of the family, friends, coworkers, and strangers who have shown me love and compassion. You are greatly appreciated and cherished.

Support, Not In a D-cup Way

I am struggling to do something to help others that is not in my day-to-day work.  I am a codependent to the core!  Having identified that in recent weeks, I'm breaking out of it and learning to redirect my tendencies.

Before Olivia was terminally ill, I wanted to work with a hospice organization.  I wrote my graduate school essay on it.  In my personal life and work life, I have gained a tremendous amount of intimate knowledge of the dying person and process.  I am not a licensed professional.  I am a bereaved daughter and mother and peer support person.

I am wondering about starting a peer support group for bereaved parents.  In discussion a few years ago, there was interest to have one locally.  A few of us met for coffee once.  But, the actual committee that met determined that a structured program led by a therapist was more in line.  The other moms I knew then and I disagreed.  We wanted people who had walked our walk to talk to.

I find myself doing this all the time anyway.  I am wondering if there is interest in the triad/Piedmont area* for such a thing?  If you will, let me know either publicly or privately.  I have another mom who is interested in helping get it off the ground as well.

Gifts our loved ones have given us can't be measured by the years they lived.  These gifts are measured by the love we shared with them. ~ Pat Loder



*Mt. Airy, Pilot Mountain, Winston-Salem, Greensboro, High Point, etc.

Orphaned at 32, Adopted at 37

There are parts of my life that seem like fiction.  Let's face it, for those of us who believe in God, why would God let any single, decent human being suffer the magnitude of loss I had by the time I was 34?  I still wonder that on my really bad days and it has nothing to do with being ungrateful for the very good things in my life now.

My parents were divorced.  I never lived with my father in my memory.  My sister and I saw him often until I was about 11.  Now, we didn't have the kind of arrangement that is common today.  We never went to his house to visit over a weekend or even a night.  He came to us on Saturdays.  His visits diminished rapidly, then stopped.  I don't remember what brought about the knowledge that he was sick.  We found out he had ALS, Lou Gherig's disease.  I think I was sheltered from it.  My older sister was in nursing school, so I believe she knew more.  It seems to me that the whole process went so very quickly.  We were able to visit him a few times and then he died.  It was awful.  I feel like I barely knew him.  I had just turned 13 and was never going to know him.

My mom was a pistol!  She was the epitome of the independent, single mother.  She did it when it wasn't the norm.  She was on her own in the mid-70s.  She carpooled an hour to  and from work, then came home and helped on the tobacco farm where we lived.  She had grown up as one of 10 children.  The majority of the brothers kept up the farm.  Their impact is a whole other blog.  She was a very involved member of her church and we were there every time the doors opened.

My mom smoked.  She worked for a major tobacco company for 31 years and smoked for double that.  Five months before she died, she was diagnosed with lung cancer.  It's an ugly thing to watch.  I highly recommend quitting smoking if it's something you do.

Two days after her 75th birthday, just after I turned 32, as my sister and I held her, our mother died.  That early morning, I became an adult orphan.

Fast forward to 2010.  Kelly and I met 23 years ago when his sister and I were friends in high school.  In 2010, we reconnected and the rest is history.  One of the best things about our relationship, for me, is feeling so loved and accepted by his family.  His parents and mother, particularly, treats me like her own.  Maybe I just feel more connected because that's what I know; having a mother.  It's as if the day I married him I was adopted and am no longer an orphan.  October 29, 2011 is very special to me for more than one reason.

The Day My World Ended

I know technically my world is still rotating.  I am still breathing.  But, my axis, my center is gone.  Four years ago today - at 4:58pm to be exact - Olivia left this world cradled in my arms.

If you read my earlier post about her entry into this world, you might see something familiar.  Olivia was born at 4:58 am and died at 4:58pm.  She was born on February 5th and died on February 10th.  She died in 2008 at the age of 8.  My diva was all about symmetry, apparently.  She was amazing in every way.

I know I grew her.  I know I birthed her.  I know she looked like me.  I know she was mine.  BUT, I have heard for years, from many people that she was special.  There was just something about her.  She grabbed people.  There were people from around the world praying for her (thanks to the blog and list-serve in which I was involved at that time).  Each day, I could log onto my email and there would be digests or individual emails from Israel or China or Australia.  Some were worded in ways that were unusual to me.  That didn't matter.  It was the true love and caring that came through.  When she died, there were hundreds that poured into the church over two days to pay respects, some driving for hours to get there.  I was shocked and amazed and so proud of the way my tiny, wise, loving daughter had touched so many lives.

I know it may surprise you to hear that I did things differently.  Many are too personal for public consumption.  The easy parts to share are that I tried to keep some part of her life normal.  Olivia didn't die in a hospital.  She was home.  We enlisted hospice services.  There had been too many surgeries.  There were too many brushes with death.  There was nothing else to do to stop the demon that was the seizure monster.  So, we stayed home where she was happiest.  She was with her cats that she loved and who loved her.  Albert and Snooks stayed on her person or by her side as if they were fierce protectors.

She stayed on her Mommy as much as possible until my friends, or the Posse as they became known, forced me to shower and eat.  Although, toward the last weeks, people even fed me so I didn't have to put her down.  I didn't want to miss a single minute.  I cherished every second.  My God, there could never be enough of them!

From January 2 until February 10th, it was a waiting game.  It was gut wrenching.  I felt like my heart was ripped out, shredded and put back in a million times.  The last time, four years ago today, only part of it was put back in.  I haven't been whole since.  I am thankful for the love and devotion of those Posse members who have held on to me and kept me from tipping over the edge.  I am thankful for new ones who have come into my life to strengthen the rope.  Kelly is doing his part to be patient and tolerant of my lashing out.  I can only imagine what it's like to experience it when you didn't experience the event.

I lie here covered in my quilt made from her clothes.  It's been washed many times, but they still covered her at some point.  It's my way of holding her today.  There is nothing I wouldn't give to have Olivia Nicole in my arms again.  The only solace is knowing she doesn't have those damnable seizures anymore.

Thanks to one of the original Posse members, there is an actual star named Princess Olivia.  I've never taken the coordinates to a planetarium and looked, so I just look at the night sky and assume the brightest thing I see is it.  When you look up tonight, wave and say "Happy Angelversary, Princess O".  It's happy because there is no more pain and there are no more tubes.  That is how I keep breathing and standing on solid ground.